Haunting Jordan (3 page)

So he owned a pub. “I met him a bit ago, I think. Dark, wavy hair, killer blue eyes—”

“—and sexy as all hell? Yep, that’s Jase.” She flashed a grin, and Jordan relented, smiling back. “Seeing as how you don’t strike me as a black widow in training,” Darcy added, “I’ll also mention that Jase is unattached.”

Jordan held up a hand like a traffic cop. “Not on the agenda anytime soon.”

“Good thing you’ve adopted a dog to keep you company, then.” Darcy opened the door of the police cruiser. “Hey, do you like to hike? I’m always looking for new blood, and there’s a great trek out on Dungeness Spit if we time the tides right.”

Jordan had a sudden vision of being dragged, breathless, along a boulder-strewn promontory. “We’ll see.”

“Wise to be cautious.” Darcy’s grin broadened. “Talk to Jase—he’ll tell you I don’t lose too many of my hiking buddies. Well, just the uncoordinated ones.”

Jordan shook her head, amused in spite of herself. “Thanks for the help unpacking the car.”

“No problem. We tend to do for each other around here. Give it a couple of days and you’ll be buried in food from the various welcoming committees.”

“You live here in the neighborhood?”

“Two streets over—the Gothic Revival in the middle of the block.”

Jordan must have looked perplexed.

“Blue with white trim, clean, symmetrical lines, a couple of Adirondacks on the porch,” Darcy elaborated. “None of those frilly cottage garden flowers. You can’t miss it.”

She started to climb into the driver’s seat, then paused, angling her head to look up at the second floor of Longren House. “So which bedroom are you planning to commandeer?”

“The front one. It’s the largest, and the window seat in the turret is pretty hard to resist.”

“You might want to rethink that if you plan on getting a good night’s sleep.”

“Why?”

“You mean Sandy didn’t tell you?” Darcy shook her head in apparent disgust. “Back around the turn of the last century, Hattie Longren was bludgeoned to death in that very room.”

Chapter 2

AS the police cruiser disappeared around the corner, Jordan squeezed her eyes shut.

“Okay,” she muttered. “Murder definitely constitutes a giant checkmark in the buyer’s remorse column.”

But now that she thought about it, she’d been able to buy Longren House for a lot less than other homes for sale in town. Not that writing the amount on the check hadn’t caused her serious heartburn at the time, but still, she remembered having one of those niggling feelings …

Abruptly, she sat down on the curb and scrubbed her face with both hands. When it came to dealing with the unintended consequences of impulsive acts, murder—even one a century old—bumped the thirteen colors of paint and sagging porch all the way down to the white noise level. She was a therapist, for chrissakes. She strongly believed in, and practiced, Rational Therapy. So how in God’s name had she considered it
rational
to act so impulsively?

A small, hysterical laugh escaped. And what were the damn odds that she would buy a house tainted by murder? No one would believe it was mere coincidence. She had no problem envisioning
that
headline:

Suspected Black Widow Fascinated by Murder Buys Longren House

No wonder the police chief had shown up on her doorstep twenty minutes after she’d hit town.

She really needed to work on the gullibility issue. Not that this would be the first time she’d fallen prey—witness her seven-year marriage to one of L.A.’s smoothest operators. She’d had no clue of the double life he’d led; she’d actually believed him when he’d said he had to work late all those evenings.

She sighed. No matter what Ryland’s faults had been—and they’d turned out to be legion—he hadn’t deserved to die. And though she might’ve fantasized a time or two about wringing his neck, she hadn’t actually given in to impulse, regardless of what the L.A. cops believed.

The dog sat next to her, whining, and licked her cheek. She threw an arm around his neck and hugged him. “I’m okay,” she reassured him. “But thanks for asking.”

Then she rolled her eyes. “Great,” she muttered. “I’m thanking a dog.”

Definitely time to take charge. She couldn’t do anything about the past, but the future … well, she’d keep a low profile, work on the house, and pray the LAPD would look at other suspects. As far as they knew, she
didn’t have a strong motive to kill Ryland, what with the divorce almost final. They’d bought her reasoning.

At least, she thought they had.

And as for the murder that had taken place in Longren House, she’d simply ignore it. It had nothing to do with her.

As she used to tell her patients,
Focus on today, and tomorrow will take care of itself. Ignore that little voice inside your head whispering they’re out to get you. Avoid the urge to put foil on your windows
.

Unpack. Review the Four-Point Plan. In light of the day’s events, consider modification of the FPP. Make a list for the hardware store.

“An ancient murder will
not
stop me from loving this place,” she told the dog, “and it will
not
make me start obsessing again.”

“Raaooooow.”

“After all, it was a really long time ago, right?”

“Rooooo.”

“Precisely.”

She dragged a bucket of cleaning supplies from the backseat of the car and headed inside.

* * *

I
T
took her an hour, crawling among the lethal brambles along the back kitchen wall, to locate the water main and turn it on, then flip the circuit breaker on the electric panel. While she waited for hot water, she grabbed a
packet of dust cloths and a bottle of lemon oil and headed back upstairs.

She hesitated at the door to the front bedroom. Then she scolded herself for being ridiculous. The fantasy of whiling away the hours in the window seat with a good book definitely trumped an old homicide.

First thing in the morning, though, she’d head over to the county offices, maybe even check the local newspaper archives. She had to admit, she was curious about what had happened to Hattie Longren.

Had the murder been a random act by a drifter? Or committed in a moment of passion by someone close to her? Had she known she would die beforehand? For that matter, had Ryland known—in those last seconds as his car plunged into the ravine—that
he
would die?

Jordan halted halfway across the room, shuddering at the morbid direction of her thoughts. Forcing herself to focus on the present, she waited to see whether she felt anything from the room, like old, malevolent vibes. People always swore they could feel the remnants of the violence—even decades later—in a room where a crime had occurred.

She cocked her head … Nope, nothing. All she felt was that she’d finally come home, that
this
was the house she belonged in, not in the ultramodern condominium in Malibu that Ryland had talked her into buying.

After securing her shoulder-length hair with claw clips, she grabbed a dust cloth and got down to work, chasing away personal demons along with the cobwebs. The dog lay down in the doorway to watch her.

It took her a while to notice that he wasn’t coming into the room. She paused while unrolling her sleeping bag in front of the window seat and, bending over, slapped her hands on her knees. “C’mere, sweetie.”

He lowered his ears and thumped his tail on the floor.

She injected a firm note into her voice.
“Come.”

He stood and disappeared down the hall.

“Clearly I have a bright future ahead of me as a dog trainer,” she muttered, rising to follow.

She found him sitting in the middle of the bedroom at the back of the house. When she entered, he barked and grinned, his tongue lolling.

The room was full of light and charming with its angled ceilings and faded floral wallpaper, some of it even still hanging. The dormer window that looked down on the overgrown backyard opened without much protest.

In the winter when the leaves had fallen from the trees, the view of Admiralty Inlet and the shipping lanes would be stunning. She couldn’t help but wonder if Hattie Longren had stood in this very spot more than a century ago, watching for her husband’s ship on the horizon.

Directly below, through the boughs of a magnolia tree, she could still see the faint outline of the garden’s original beds, which would’ve been filled with herbs and flowers and vegetables. The debris-covered remains of a flagstone path led around to the side, probably to the patio off the library. Once restored to its original design …

The dog whined, capturing her attention. He stood at a closet door, scratching. Walking over, she opened it,
revealing a funky, oddly shaped triangle built into the corner of the room. After sniffing excitedly, the dog started scratching the inside back wall, so she dropped to her knees to see what had captured his interest. Prying away a loose board, she spied a tattered edge of lace and reached for it. The lace was attached to an old porcelain doll.

“Well, well,” she murmured, carefully removing the doll from its hiding place. “How did you know it was there, fella?”

Sitting on the floor, she smoothed its dress, yellowed by time, using her thumb to wipe a smudge off the doll’s chipped, rosy cheek. Had this been Hattie’s daughter’s room? If so, what had happened to her after Hattie’s death?

“Yoooo-hoooooooo?”

The trill came from downstairs, startling Jordan, and she scowled. Where was that peace and quiet she’d moved to a small town to find?

“Anybody home?” The voice was closer and more insistent now, at the foot of the stairs.

Sighing, she set the doll on the lower shelf and stood. Heading for the hall, she looked back for the dog, but he’d disappeared. “Smart,” she muttered under her breath.

At the top of the stairs she skidded to a halt, gaping.

Two women stood in the lower hall, dressed in vintage clothing. One, in her forties, wore a full-length, forest-green silk dress with a fitted velvet bodice that dropped into a curved vee over her slim hips. Her narrow shoulders were covered by a cape of the same velvet trimmed in
black, and she’d pinned her brown hair up in an elaborately coiffed style that Jordan figured had to be historically accurate. The second woman, fair-haired and younger by perhaps a decade, was dressed less sedately. Her pale blue silk gown sported a small bustle and a daring neckline.

“There you are.” The older of the two smiled up at her. “I hope we’re not disturbing?” When Jordan continued to stare, slack-jawed, the woman laughed self-consciously. “I’m Nora. And this is my sister, Delia. We’re docents at the Port Chatham Historical Society. We must have given you quite a shock.”

“Ah. Um, no. Sorry.” Jordan loped down the stairs. “Your costumes are fabulous.”

They glanced at each other, smiling.

“Thank you.” Nora smoothed her skirts with slender, pale hands. “It’s best to look the part, we always say. Don’t we, Delia?”

Delia turned in a circle to show off her gown. “What do you think?” Her eyes, which were a perfect match for her dress, gleamed with mischief. “I’m trying to convince Nora that fashion had nothing to do with comfort in those days. She’s been reading about the rational dress movement that was touted back then by a few radical old stick-in-the-muds.”

“Hmmph.” Nora looked down her nose. “The rational dress movement was very forward thinking. Women actually damaged their internal organs by wearing corsets and carrying around so much weight in all those bustles and petticoats.”

“Most women were looking for a husband and wanted to display their assets to best advantage. Just because a few old biddies were lecturing on the dangers of corsets—”

“The new, less restrictive styles were just as flattering—”

“Bull!”

Jordan, fearing the onset of whiplash, cleared her throat. “Um, I’d offer you ladies some refreshments, but I’m afraid all I have is—”

“Who would want to look
that
straitlaced?” Delia snapped, rolling right over her. “Men weren’t looking for
sedate
.” She sniffed, turning her attention to Jordan. “You don’t happen to have any
Vanity Fair
magazines, do you?”

Jordan hesitated, baffled by the question.

“Can’t you see she hasn’t even moved in yet?” Nora chided her sister. “Magazines would be the very last thing she’d unpack.”

“Nonsense. Anyone who keeps up on fashion would have one or two magazines with them for the long trip up here, now, wouldn’t they? And she did travel all the way from California.”

“Ah, well—”

“Delia.” Nora ignored Jordan’s attempted reply. “Quit harassing the poor girl.”

Delia pouted.

Jordan couldn’t remember the last time anyone had referred to her as a “girl,” but she had to admit that it beat “black widow” hands down. She pasted an apologetic smile on her face. “I’m afraid I really don’t pay much attention to fashion,” she said, gesturing at her jeans, which
looked “vintage” only because of the number of washings they’d endured. “About those refreshments—”

“We brought treats!” Delia lit up, her moods fluctuating at the speed of a teenager’s. “A chocolate cake! We put it in the kitchen.”

“How kind of you. Let me find some paper plates. But first, would you like a tour of the house?”

“Don’t go to the trouble,” Nora told her firmly. “We’ve seen it many times.”

“That makes sense.” Jordan led the way toward the kitchen. “I suppose Port Chatham has a historic homes tour, right? And the prior owners would’ve had the place on the tour, what with the murder and all.”

She heard a gasp behind her; she turned to find Delia halted, tears in her eyes.

“There, there.” Nora rushed to put an arm around her sister’s shoulders. “She’s extremely sensitive,” she confided to Jordan. “She cries over the sad stories associated with some of the homes here in town.”

“I’m so sorry. Can I get anything? Perhaps some water?”

“No, we’re fine. Your comment took us by surprise, that’s all.”