Haunting Jordan pcm-1

by P. J. Alderman

  Michael loosened his grip slightly. He turned her so that her back was to the wall, his hand still firmly pressed against her mouth. From the look in her eyes, she would have spit at him if he’d given her the chance.

  He said quietly, “If you promise not to scream for help, I’ll remove my hand.”

  She nodded her head fractionally, and he lessened the pressure of his glove, waiting to see whether she’d keep her end of the bargain. When no sound other than her harsh breathing was forthcoming, he took a step back but kept hold of her upper arms.

  “Unhand me!” she spat in a harsh whisper.

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible. Though I suspect you’ve already ruined an expensive pair of kid gloves,” he added wryly, “and I’ll probably have a sore hand for days.”

  “How dare you follow me, attack me!” One cheek was already reddening where it had scraped against the brick wall, and her eyes shone with unshed tears.

  He shook his head. “Your plan to rescue Charlotte was foolhardy and doomed to fail—my bodyguards can’t be bribed. However, I will take you to her now.”

  Hattie’s breath hitched, her expression turning wary. “There is a condition—I must know it.”

  “Yes, very astute of you. I need your promise that you will tell no one of the events leading to Charlotte’s rescue.” He noted her confusion, but he added to forestall any further questions, “On this I am unyielding, Hattie. I will not explain myself, nor will I tolerate any prevarication on your part. I won’t risk arrest on kidnapping charges.”

  “But—”

  He felt her jolt when he once again placed gloved fingers against her lips. “Do I have your promise? Yes or no.”

  She hesitated, then nodded. However, once he removed his hand, she added, her voice cold, “But never my forgiveness.”

  He sighed. “I don’t expect it, though trust me when I say you don’t know the entire story of what has transpired.” He dragged her farther down the alley to the corner of the courthouse, peering into the adjoining street. “Come,” he said, motioning with his head for his bodyguards to follow.

  They walked the two blocks to his hotel in minutes, no one save his bodyguards bearing witness. The building comprised two parts—the original structure, still frequented by a well-heeled clientele, and a newer annex used to house sailors and provide access to the tunnels. The customers intermingled only in the saloon, located on the ground floor of the older hotel. Seavey bypassed the lobby, forcing Hattie to climb an outside set of stairs at the back of the annex.

  Once inside, he pushed her ahead of him, up another half flight and down a dim hallway to the room to where he’d had his men transfer Charlotte. At their approach, a third bodyguard at the door nodded deferentially, moving aside.

  Seavey opened the door and Hattie flew over to the bed where her sister lay. Though the girl’s clothes were soiled and her hair disheveled, he knew Hattie could see for herself that Charlotte was unharmed by her ordeal.

  “Satisfied?” he asked.

  Hattie laid a hand on Charlotte’s forehead. “She sleeps deeply.”

  “I had my men give her a drug earlier—she will awaken by morning. It has no lasting effects.” He crossed his arms. “And now I think it’s time you and I discussed business.”

  Hattie’s fists clenched. “I have money—I can pay you.” She reached into her skirt pocket and removed the roll of money, holding it out.

  He took it, quickly assessing the amount, his mouth twisting as he realized its probable source. There was a certain sense of poetic justice, he mused, in receiving cash Charles and Clive Johnson had no doubt acquired through the transport of prostitutes to the Far East, given that they’d spread rumors intimating his own involvement in the scheme.

  “This is a start,” he agreed smoothly, pocketing the cash. “I’ll reluctantly drop my earlier proposition, but I’ll also need your assurance that you won’t alter the arrangement I have with Longren Shipping.”

  She said nothing, her eyes filling with anger.

  “May I remind you,” he said, hardening his tone, “that you and Charlotte aren’t safe. I can give an order, and the two of you will disappear this night, your bodies never to be found. And I can get to you and your sister anytime, anywhere.”

  Her shoulders sagged, her tone bitter. “I won’t interfere with the running of Longren Shipping in the future.”

  He nodded, straightening. “Then we are agreed. I will arrange for the two of you to be taken home.”

  “I only have one question, Mr. Seavey.” He paused and turned to meet her cold gaze. “How does a man like you sleep through the night?”

  “More easily than you would imagine, my dear. Much more easily.”

  * * *

  HATTIE didn’t break down until Seavey’s men had safely delivered Charlotte to her bed and departed from the house. After assuring herself that Charlotte was indeed sleeping comfortably and well cared for, she let herself into the second-floor parlor, collapsing into a chair by the fire.

  She shook uncontrollably from head to toe. At least they were safe—for now. And as long as she did as Seavey bid her regarding the business, they could remain safe. She had to cling to that thought.

  Frank entered the room, concern etched into his features. “Those were Seavey’s thugs.”

  “Yes.” She quickly wiped the tears from her eyes and stood. “They brought the two of us home. Sara and Tabitha are tending to Charlotte.”

  Frank said nothing, his sharp eyes searching hers, then held open his arms. She knew she shouldn’t, that etiquette dictated an extended period of mourning for good reason. She shouldn’t crave the touch of another man so soon after Charles’s death. She walked into Frank’s arms, taking care to avoid his ribs. And for the first time all night, as she laid her head on his shoulder, she felt a moment’s peace.

  “You’re safe … you’ll be fine,” he murmured, one hand coming up to cup the back of her neck, his fingers massaging.

  She shivered at his touch.

  After a long moment, she forced herself to pull away, incapable of meeting his eyes. She clasped her hands in front of her skirt. “I had to agree to conditions that will make it impossible for Longren Shipping to unionize. And I suspect I’ve put you in further jeopardy.”

  “We’ll deal with that eventuality. For now, you’re both safe.”

  She turned to the fire, feeling oddly melancholy. “Yes.”

  He walked over to a side table and poured her a small glass of brandy, bringing it to her. “Drink this—you need it.”

  She did as he requested, grimacing. “I much prefer the taste of sherry.”

  “Brandy has more medicinal benefit in situations such as these.” He studied her, frowning. “You should go to bed, get what rest you can before Charlotte awakens. I suspect you’ll have your hands full tomorrow morning, dealing with the aftereffects of her imprisonment.”

  “Who’s the patient in this house?” she asked lightly, smiling for the first time in two days.

  “At the moment, you are,” he said firmly. “I must admit, it feels good to order you around for a change.” He smiled. “I’ve no doubt you’ll revert to your position of authority once you’re rested.”

  “I trust you are on your way to bed as well?” she asked, blushing when she realized the boldness of her question. He smiled. “Though I would like nothing better than to come to bed,” he said in a soft tone that had her coloring further, “I have some reading I want to finish in the library. I’ve had all the sleep I can stand for the moment. I plan to help myself to a cup of your tea and retire a bit later.”

  “Very well,” she said, more disappointed than she would admit. “Good night.”

  For a moment, he looked as if he would block her exit, but in the end, he inclined his head, standing aside.

  * * *

  AN hour later, Hattie sat at her dressing table in her bedroom, brushing her hair. She was still too anxious to sleep, yet too exhausted to even raise h
er arms to braid her hair. The night was silent and still, the Canbys’ party having finally wound down and the guests departed.

  She dropped the brush and buried her face in both hands. She’d been so utterly foolish, thinking she could go up against men the likes of Seavey and Johnson. She’d failed, and she’d almost lost Charlotte altogether. It was doubtful Charlotte’s reputation would ever recover from the incident—she might never make a good match.

  Hattie stood and walked over to the window seat that looked out over the street below. Earlier, she’d sent Sara down to the Green Light with a short note of explanation so that Mona wouldn’t continue to worry about her. But what to do about Frank’s situation? About Clive Johnson?

  A slight sound came from behind her. She smiled and started to turn. “So you’ve changed your mind—”

  The pain was crushing. In less than a heartbeat, her world went black.

  She never felt her fall, never felt the blood flowing from her, soaking the floorboards beneath her.

  Chapter 16

  THE kitchen was filled with the sounds of sobbing. Hattie held Charlotte, comforting her, and even Jordan found herself blinking rapidly.

  A handful of Kleenex flew at her, which she used to swipe at tears. She blew her nose, then gave a mental eye roll.

  Great. She was crying over the death of the person who was sitting across the table from her. Her life couldn’t get any more Twilight Zone–like unless she invited the ghost of Rod Serling to dinner.

  “I still don’t think Seavey murdered you,” she said for what felt like the twentieth time.

  “How can you say that?” Hattie glared through eyes swimming in tears. “He kidnapped Charlotte, he threatened me—”

  “He loved you,” Charlotte countered, sniffling. “If you’d simply looked, you would’ve seen it. I don’t care what kind of man he was, he fell for you the moment he set eyes on you, the night of the fire.”

  Jordan agreed. “He tried to tell you he was innocent—you just didn’t want to believe him.”

  “Right after he took me to the hotel room where his men were holding Charlotte,” Hattie pointed out.

  “Okay, true. But what about Clive Johnson? If you unionized, Johnson had as much to lose as Seavey. Johnson easily could have murdered you and framed Frank. Did you have any contact with Johnson again after you tried to fire him?”

  “No,” Hattie replied. “But remember, Timothy was coming to the house with daily reports, so I had no reason to visit the office. And once Charlotte had been kidnapped, Johnson could’ve burned Longren Shipping to the ground—all I cared about was bringing her home safe. But I’m certain Timothy would’ve informed me if Johnson were up to something.”

  “Only if he witnessed it, and I doubt Johnson would’ve allowed that to happen.” Jordan propped her elbows on the table, resting her chin in her hands while she thought. “No, it’s all wrong—Seavey’s profile doesn’t match that of a murderer.”

  Hattie gave her a look of sheer incredulity.

  “Okay, what I meant was, he didn’t have the psychological profile of a man who would’ve murdered you. I’m betting anyone who got a visit from Seavey’s thugs knew exactly what they’d done to deserve it. Seavey didn’t kill in anger—he killed for cold-blooded convenience, for business reasons.” Hattie opened her mouth to argue and Jordan raised her hand. “And let’s not forget that you agreed to his conditions that night. So really, he had no reason to kill you—at least, not unless you failed to live up to your end of the bargain.”

  “He could’ve worried I’d go behind his back and tell Greeley who had kidnapped Charlotte.”

  Jordan shook her head. “Seavey had warned you of the consequences. He knew you were too smart to risk Charlotte a second time. No, if he had anyone to fear, it was Frank. And it would’ve been far easier to kill Frank—Seavey would’ve had to get past him to get to you. Why not simply kill him?”

  “Because Seavey needed someone convenient to take the blame,” Hattie said. “I doubt Chief Greeley could’ve overlooked murder, even if Seavey did have him on his payroll.”

  She had a point. Jordan rubbed her face with both hands. Outside, the sky was lightening to the east. She’d actually stayed up all night, trying to solve a century-old murder. She ought to have her head examined. “I know I’m missing something, but I’m too tired to figure out what it is.”

  “Who do you think killed Hattie?” Charlotte asked, speaking up for the first time.

  “Good question,” Jordan admitted. “And at this point, I don’t even know where to look for the answer.”

  “What about Seavey’s personal papers? If he loved Hattie as much as I believe he did, then he would’ve written about her death. He would’ve been devastated by it.”

  “Well, of course he would’ve.” Jordan stared at her, amazed that she hadn’t thought of it herself. “Not only that, he had the resources to hunt down the killer himself. Brilliant!”

  Charlotte preened, then her smile slid a little. “Maybe not. You’re assuming Seavey didn’t believe that Frank murdered Hattie.”

  Jordan started to tell them she knew Seavey had visited Frank after the trial, then realized she’d have to explain how she knew that. It was getting damned confusing, trying to keep straight what information she could tell which ghost. She stood to leave. “It’s worth a shot, anyway.”

  They gave her blank looks.

  “It’s worth the time it will take me to at least check out the theory.”

  “Oh. Where’re you going?” Hattie asked as Jordan jogged toward the front hall, the dog on her heels.

  “Upstairs to find Seavey’s papers. Charlotte’s right—the clues have to be in his personal journal entries between the time of the murder and Frank’s trial, because he wouldn’t have been able to sleep until he knew who’d killed you.” She grabbed the kitchen door frame, halting her progress long enough to ask, “What was the date of the soirée?”

  “June 6, 1890,” Charlotte said.

  “Do you want us to make you an espresso?” Hattie called after her. “We’ve been watching how you—”

  “Do not touch my espresso machine!”

  * * *

  JORDAN located Michael Seavey’s papers, then sorted through them until she found a packet of loose, yellowed pages in handwritten script, bounded by a rubber band. The minute she tried to pull the rubber band off, it disintegrated. Pages fanned out, dropping onto the bed and the floor. Gathering them up and stacking them in their original order, Jordan sat down on the edge of the bed and began to read the entries around the date of the soirée.

  June 3rd —I’ve come to the unfortunate conclusion I must take action to halt the rapidly escalating situation with regard to Clive Johnson. Sadly, the man has become more of a liability than an asset. I’ve always felt his unhealthy predilections regarding young girls would cause him trouble one day. To kidnap girls to appease his appetites, then once tired of them, to smuggle them overseas, is certainly distasteful. However, since being barred from the local brothels following the incident with the prostitute Isobel, his activities have begun to affect his business judgment. Still, I remained uninvolved, though increasingly concerned—that is, until I discovered he had decided to spread the rumor that I am behind the kidnappings. This, of course, is unacceptable and has to be dealt with.

  Jordan resisted the urge to scream, because of course Seavey hadn’t felt the need to explain how he had dealt with the situation. If Seavey had pressured or beaten Johnson, he’d actually increased the man’s motivation to murder Hattie, whom he would’ve considered the source of his problems. Jordan started flipping through pages, looking for another reference to Clive Johnson.

  June 5th —Today saw a disturbing development. Hattie Longren, whom I’ve come to admire, accused me of kidnapping young Charlotte. Though it will no doubt take me a period of time to recover from learning Hattie could think me capable of such an act, I am determined to get to the bottom of what has happened. To this
end, I have ordered my men to bring Clive Johnson to the hotel. Clearly, my procrastination in dealing with him has jeopardized the sister of someone I care for. I can only hope I’m not too late to save the lovely Charlotte from Johnson’s disgusting proclivities.

  With regard to Hattie, I find myself tormented by a personal dilemma most unusual … I’m deeply angry that she could suspect me of such a heinous crime, and yet, when I would typically strike back in kind, I find myself unable to. My instinct is to help her and to keep her safe, not to destroy her. I must overcome this new weakness in my character.

  Jordan laid the papers on her nightstand. So she’d been correct about Michael Seavey all along—he’d loved Hattie, whether or not he understood the emotion well enough to recognize it. Her faith in charming psychopaths was entirely restored.

  After thinking about what she’d read for a few minutes, she picked up the rest of Holt Stilwell’s package, sifting through its contents and looking at the dates. There were none beyond June 5—the day before Eleanor’s soireé. And that meant there were possibly pages still missing.

  Jordan took the stairs two at a time, leaping down the last three to land in the front entry. “Hattie!”

  No answer.

  “Hattie! Charlotte!”

  The ghosts materialized in the hallway, their hair now tied with strips of fabric that stuck out all over their heads.

  “What?” Hattie’s arms were crossed over the bodice of her nightdress, and she was glaring.

  Jordan took in their appearance without a blink. “When did Seavey die?”

  “He was murdered a few years later, in August of 1893,” Charlotte replied.

  “Someone finally gave him what he deserved, in my opinion,” Hattie added.

  Jordan waved that aside. “So we should find personal diary entries from him up to that date, right?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Yeah, well, the ones I have stop the night before the soirée, so I’m missing a chunk of pages.”

  Jordan glanced at her watch—8 A.M. Late enough that Jase should be up and about, and she needed a favor. She headed back upstairs to grab a clean pair of jeans, only to find all her clothing rearranged. “Dammit! Did you have to reorganize my closet, too?” she yelled.