Haunting Jordan (21 page)

She paused, arms over her head, frowning. Actually, her sleep hadn’t been deep
or
relaxed. She’d dreamt of the incidents leading up to Hattie’s murder, one of those god-awful frustration dreams in which the more she’d learned, the further she’d been from discovering the killer’s identity. She’d watched herself pace through the deep gloom of the library, pausing to read excerpts from diaries and memoirs, then wearing new tracks in the Aubusson carpet as she puzzled over the clues to the writers’ psyches she found hidden in every line of text.

Sighing, she pushed back the edges of the sleeping bag. She had a busy day planned—the movers were due to arrive by midmorning, she’d made an appointment with the local vet to take the dog in for a wellness check and grooming, and Tom and Jase were dropping by to help her assess the work needed on the house.

And she couldn’t forget she’d promised Ted a tour. Though he was a distraction she didn’t need, she couldn’t beg off without upsetting him. He was still fragile and, when thwarted, prone to act inappropriately. As his ex-therapist, she had a responsibility to support his efforts to put his life back on track. She sincerely hoped, though, that he left Didi at home.

She tugged harder on the sleeping bag in an attempt to free herself. The dog took her struggles as a sign that it was time to get up. Rolling over, he slapped a paw across her midsection, almost knocking the breath from her lungs, and reached his head up to lick her face. She laughed and pulled the edge of the sleeping bag over her face, which he took as a sign that it was time to play.

The next thing she knew, she was being dragged—inside the sleeping bag—toward the bedroom door. She wrestled, and he growled and refused to let go, all the while wagging his tail. She managed to crawl out just before he pulled her down the stairs.

Heading for the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face, then glanced out the window to gauge the weather. No rain, no clouds—a perfect day to escape for an hour before the rush began. Pulling on jeans, a sweatshirt, and high-tops, she ran a comb through her hair,
securing the most unruly strands with clips, creating an overall effect that was vaguely—but not quite—stylish. Story of her life.

Hoping to avoid the ghosts, she tiptoed down the stairs, then halted at the library door. She took a tentative step inside, half expecting to see the people from her dream still lurking in the shadows not yet dispelled by the early morning sun. But the room stood silent, refusing to reveal its secrets.

All the men in Hattie’s life—the ones who’d had reason to murder her—had at one time stood in this very room. As she peered into the gloom, it took only a quick blink of her eyes to imagine their presence.

Frank Lewis stood to one side, a shoulder insolently propped against a tall bookcase, while Michael Seavey reclined in stylish elegance in the wingback chair. John Greeley, impatient and grim, stood next to the desk, clenching his huge fists. Clive Johnson lurked by the French doors, a feral light in his eyes, waiting for an opportunity to exact his own personal form of brutal retribution.

To a man, their expressions were at once enigmatic and threatening. Yet whenever Jordan came close to understanding their true motivations, she’d discover some new tidbit in a memoir or diary that had her altering her opinion.

Without a doubt, Clive Johnson made her skin crawl. Though it was callous of her, she sincerely hoped to discover that the man had died a horrible, painful death.
And though Tom had a point about his ancestor being a hard man out of necessity, Jordan still couldn’t warm to Chief Greeley any more than Hattie had. He reminded her of the sheriff in the movie
Unforgiven
, she
realized
, whose ethics had been situational at best.

Frank Lewis, on the other hand, was classic alpha male in a literary-bad-boy sort of way, with hints of anger alternating with glimpses of genuine warmth and concern for Hattie. Clearly, he’d been driven to improve the rights of sailors. But had he eventually allowed the reins to slip on his temper? Jordan didn’t yet know—but she was keeping her eye on him, not nearly as besotted with him as Hattie seemed to be.

Then again, Jordan found herself unwillingly charmed by Michael Seavey, even though she knew he had to have been a dangerous man. If Hattie was correct, he’d cold-bloodedly kidnapped Charlotte and allowed his thugs to terrorize her. And yet he seemed perfectly comfortable with himself. He exuded confidence and self-knowledge, both of which were attractive traits. Jordan had always had a soft spot for strong, confident men, and she could’ve sworn he truly cared for Hattie, no matter how much Hattie denied it …

Jordan blinked.
Holy God
. Seavey reminded her of Ryland—handsome, elegant, and polished, with just a hint of amused self-deprecation, yet capable of ruthless calculation in his dealings with others. She shuddered.
Just great
. She was allowing her personal blind spot for charming psychopaths to affect her ability to solve Hattie’s murder.

Disgusted and more than a little spooked by what had morphed from fleeting glimpses into a full-blown, vivid daydream populated by people from another century, she headed down the hall, slipping out the back door … and immediately slid to a halt as the dog lunged, barking. Someone had pitched a bright orange single-person expedition tent in her backyard.

Shushing the dog, she walked over and tentatively rapped on one of the tent’s aluminum supports. “Hello?”

“Be with you in a minute,” a sleepy feminine voice called out.

Jordan heard fabric rustling, then a young woman with pale brown hair caught in a ponytail stuck her head out. Dressed in gray sweats and thick wool socks, she crawled through the low opening, then straightened and stretched on a yawn.

Blinking sleepy brown eyes at Jordan, she said, “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Jordan replied, keeping her tone friendly, then waited.

The girl yawned. “I’m Amanda?”

The neighbor’s daughter, Jordan remembered. Landscaper.

“I restore the gardens of haunted houses,” Amanda added helpfully.

Jordan couldn’t help herself—she had to ask. “Doesn’t that limit your potential client base?”

“Not in this town.”

Okay
. She
cleared
her throat. “Did you pitch your tent in the wrong yard?”

Amanda looked confused.
“Oh
. No, I like to get a
spiritual sense of the garden I’ll be working on. It’s all part of my process.”

“I see.” Jordan didn’t, but she was beginning to suspect that the inhabitants of Port Chatham had their own unique approach to life. “I’m headed out for breakfast. Perhaps we should talk when I get back?”

“No problem.” Amanda yawned again. “You’ve got an espresso maker in the kitchen, right? I’ll just grab my beans, if that’s all right with you.”

“Knock yourself out.”

The girl retrieved a plastic bag containing coffee beans and some sort of cereal mix from inside the tent, then headed into the house. Shaking her head, Jordan turned in the direction of the alley.

The dog stayed where he was, his head cocked toward the house, his expression dismayed.

“Don’t start with me,” she warned. “I’m currently without caffeine.”

He heaved a sigh, then stood and trotted in front of her through the backyard, leading the way.

They walked a few blocks to a French café she’d noticed the other night just down from the grocery. When she’d spied the small sign for the restaurant, she’d noticed that they served European-style coffee with breakfast and had been intrigued enough to make a mental note to try out the place the first chance she got.

The owner, a plump, cheerful woman in her fifties, showed Jordan to a table in the restaurant’s small courtyard where the dog could sit with her. Despite the early hour, the other tables were filled with patrons, some of
whom were eating or drinking coffee, others who were reading the newspaper. She smiled at a few of them and received nods, then set the books she’d brought with her on the table, settling back in her chair to peruse the menu.

Clearly, her next order of business needed to be to join a health club. Espresso infused with cream and served in a bowl, lemon pancakes topped with raspberry puree, French toast soaked in vanilla, cinnamon, and orange custard, then grilled—she could
feel
the pounds leaping off the page and onto her hips. Then again, she had a long day ahead of her, unpacking and moving furniture, right?

Rationalization in place, she ordered espresso and French toast. The dog propped his chin on her shoulder, his tail sweeping the flagstones.

“How about Marley? You know, after Bob Marley?” she asked, rubbing his ears while she waited for her coffee to arrive. “You seem like you’d be more into reggae than jazz, am I right?”

“Raaooomph!”
He closed his eyes, obviously expecting her to continue her ministrations.

The owner returned with the steaming bowl of coffee adorned with a decorative pattern in the cream and mocha-colored foam floating on top, and set it before her. “You’re trying too hard,” she advised. “He’ll eventually tell you what name he wants.”

“Rooooo.”
He yawned in agreement, then closed his eyes again.

The woman chuckled, giving his head a pat before she headed back inside.

Jordan took her first gulp, letting the caffeine reach her
brain, then picked up the book she’d brought on renovation. The introduction, which went into mind-numbing detail about the National Register of Historic Homes, had her eyes immediately glazing over. Leafing through a few more chapters, she skimmed enough to determine that the entire book was written in the same manner, so she flipped it shut. This morning wasn’t the time for complex subjects.

Succumbing to temptation, she pulled out the smaller book she’d brought with her, John Greeley’s memoir. She’d perused enough of it yesterday to note it contained a discussion of Hattie’s murder investigation by the Port Chatham Police Department. Evidently, Greeley had headed up the investigation himself, which made sense. Back then, they would’ve had a small police department—there wouldn’t have been homicide detectives.

Flipping to the table of contents, she located the chapter on the murder investigation and hunted for the page. After another fortifying sip of espresso, she started to read.

Though I am a man whose work exemplifies sobriety and industry, I feel it necessary to record the investigation that resulted in the arrest of the individual who was responsible for the terrible murder of Mrs. Charles Longren on that tragic night of June 6, 1890. It is my intent by recording the details of this horrendous crime that others may learn from the straightforward and
thorough work of the Port Chatham Police Department, and that this learning will influence future investigations, providing a good example for generations to come
.

The victim, Mrs. Charles Longren, had been recently widowed from one of Port Chatham’s most respected businessmen, who was rumored to have perished at sea at the hands of a mutinous crew. This unfortunate incident marked the beginning of a period of extreme mental instability for his widow, who it can be said then made several ill-advised decisions, resulting in her reckless and inappropriate behavior on more than one occasion, and ultimately leading to her own murder, as well as the ruination of her younger, innocent sister, Miss Charlotte Walker. Be that as it may, the Port Chatham Police Department did not shirk in its duties, as you, dear reader, will soon surmise
.

Jordan rolled her eyes. The man’s gargantuan sense of self-importance was enough to almost, but not quite, trigger her gag reflex. She refrained from speculating about the borderline personality required to write such pompous drivel and continued to read.

At twelve minutes before midnight on that fatal night, this author was called upon
to examine the body of Hattie Longren, whom it appeared had been bludgeoned with an auger. Within hours of the commission of the crime, I had vigorously pursued and arrested Mrs. Longren’s murderer, one Frank Lewis, a union representative with a history of violence who also may have been her illicit lover …

The restaurant owner set Jordan’s breakfast before her, the aromas of warm citrus and maple syrup jerking her back to the present. She marked her place with a torn corner of her napkin and shut the book, thinking about what she’d learned as she dug in.

According to Greeley’s version of events, Hattie had been hit from behind with an iron hand auger, described as a vise with long handles on either side, weighing approximately eight pounds. Greeley had found it lying next to her body, one handle smeared with blood. Given Greeley’s description of the tool, it was obviously heavy enough to have split open Hattie’s skull when wielded with sufficient force. Using recently imported European techniques in the science of fingerprinting, Greeley had identified a bloody print on the master bedroom door as Frank Lewis’s.

Frank claimed to have been drugged and unconscious in the library at the time of the murder. When he’d regained consciousness, he’d immediately looked for Hattie, concerned for her safety. He’d discovered her body, tried to revive her, then contacted Greeley. Frank had
admitted he was woozy from the effects of whatever drug someone had slipped into his tea and was not thinking clearly—he thought he might’ve left the bloody print on the door handle as he ran out of the room to contact the police.

Greeley had written that he hadn’t believed Frank’s version of events. Based on Frank’s presence at the crime scene and the bloody print, Greeley had immediately arrested him.

Though Frank had vehemently denied killing Hattie and claimed that Greeley should investigate Clive Johnson, the police chief had dismissed his arguments. In the weeks before the trial, Greeley had gone on to establish Frank’s motive by interviewing witnesses from the neighborhood who claimed to have heard frequent arguments between Hattie and Frank, though the substance of those arguments was unknown.