Haunting Jordan (31 page)

“Nope.” The vet smiled. “And it doesn’t really matter, does it? He’s chosen the person he wants to be with.”

* * *

A
FTER
loading the dog plus all the food and supplements she’d purchased into the Prius, she drove to the house. The men were gone, along with the detritus from the wisteria. Though Amanda’s tent was still in the backyard, she was nowhere to be found. Tom had left notes taped to a kitchen cupboard indicating he’d get back to her within a couple of days with the remodeling plan.

When Jordan stuck her head into the library, she found Hattie and Charlotte still mysteriously absent, which had her wondering whether they were occasionally called back to wherever ghosts came from, for some kind of confab with their superiors. Surely there was some sort of society, complete with its own laws that ruled the spectral realm. It made sense, didn’t it?

Feeling antsy and unable to settle, she headed for the kitchen to retrieve her portable CD player. She’d take advantage of the ghosts’ absence while keeping her mind off the meeting with Drake by putting some work into those stacks of books in the library. Restoring a sense of order to the room would make her feel as if she’d accomplished something productive for the day.

She put one of Ted’s CDs in and set the player atop the stacks of newspapers on the corner of the old oak desk. With the trio playing in the background, she started sorting through piles of books. The dog collapsed on the floor, stretching out to sleep with a grateful sigh.

Ancient, leather-bound volumes of classics had been heaped together with modern fiction—everything from
The Complete Works of Henry James
to Vonnegut and Grisham. Alphabetizing the collection, which had to
number in the thousands, was out of the question, though she actually considered it for a brief, insane moment. The thought of establishing that level of control over even a small corner of her life held great appeal. In the end, she settled for sorting out the worst of the moldy volumes to be taken to a used-book dealer for assessment, then dusting and stacking the others in the bookcases.

At dinnertime, having organized one entire wall, she knocked off for the day. She was about to wake up the dog when she spied a stack of small, thin volumes that she’d set aside while filling the last bookcase. They didn’t look like published books. Curious, she picked one up and flipped through it. They were diaries—more of Hattie’s, by the look of the writing. She picked them up and headed upstairs to add them to the growing pile of reading materials next to her bed.

Fifteen minutes later, she and the dog were on their way to the pub. Though clouds were building to the southwest, she decided they could both use the walk to stretch their legs. If they were caught in the rain on the way home, it was only a few blocks—they wouldn’t melt.

As they walked, Jordan realized she was feeling more confident, and less panicked, now that she’d decided to hire a private investigator. Despite the nerve-wracking interview with Drake, and despite knowing he had every intention of arresting her for Ryland’s murder, she felt, well,
good
. Charged up. Ready to take on the world.

She shoved both hands into her jeans pockets, frowning. Over the last year, she’d become far more insular than she’d been at any other point in her life. She’d always been
a planner, but she’d never been one to avoid problems. Her MO was to analyze, consider alternative strategies, then take action. Since when had she become so passive, so willing to rely on others to come up with solutions?

Because of the public nature of Ryland’s legal problems and their divorce, she realized, she’d gotten in the habit of lying low to avoid the press, and of waiting for others to take action. But in the case of Ryland’s murder, she now saw she’d been far too trusting, assuming the cops would find the real murderer.

Well, no more of that
, she decided as they reached All That Jazz. Deciding to launch her own investigation, albeit from afar, was a step in the right direction. Hopefully, she thought as she and the dog entered the pub, Jase would tell her this evening that the private investigator was already on the case, working to develop viable suspects.

“Well, aren’t you just the handsome guy.” Darcy reached out to run a hand down the dog’s back as Jordan followed him over to her table. “He cleans up good.”

Jordan took a seat. “According to the vet, he sailed through his homeless phase with no health problems. Good genes, evidently. He’ll probably become even more insufferable, now that he knows.”

“What makes you think he hasn’t known all along?”

“Valid point.” She pulled her passport out of her jacket pocket and held it out. After a brief tug of war that had Darcy raising one eyebrow, she forced herself to let go.

She glanced around—the pub was already filling up,
some people standing around and chatting, others ordering drinks or food. Jordan was once again impressed that Jase felt laid back enough about the business to allow folks to drop in simply to enjoy the music. Most tavern owners would have required people to pay a cover charge and purchase at least one drink.

“Is Ted scheduled to play again this evening?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Darcy replied. “He came in earlier with his band members and Didi Wyeth.”

“Good.” Jordan had questions for Didi. She wanted to know whether the actress was the “witness” who had told Drake about Ryland’s attempts to reconcile. Didi would’ve known, because according to what Ryland had told Jordan the night he died, he’d used his desire to patch up his marriage as the reason to break off the affair with Didi.

Kathleen stopped on her way past the table, raising her eyebrows at Jordan in an unspoken question.

“Yes,” she said hastily.

Jase brought her a glass of red wine. “It’s an old-vine Zinfandel I’d like to start carrying. Let me know what you think.”

His manner was once again friendly, and Jordan was able to relax a bit. In truth, she was grateful for his help, but she still didn’t know how she felt about his past. What she knew for certain, though, was that a slight distance had been created between them, and she regretted it.

She held the wineglass up to breathe in its bouquet, then sipped. Her eyes drifted closed.

“I take it that’s a solid yes vote,” Jase said.

She nodded. She took another sip, savoring, then asked, “Did you get ahold of the private investigator?”

He gave the room an assessing glance, evidently deciding he had a few minutes to relax, and pulled up a chair. “JT’s already digging up information. He should have something by tomorrow.”

“That’s fast.” Jordan was surprised.

“He owed me.”

“Ah. Thanks for calling in favors. As soon as he has any information to report back, I’d like to set up a conference call with him.”

Jase nodded. “I’ll arrange it.”

Kathleen arrived with plates of food—tonight’s selection was grilled salmon, steamed local asparagus, and rice pilaf. She’d included a plate of home-baked treats for the dog.

“They probably don’t serve food like this in the California State Penitentiary System, huh?” Jordan asked as she put the dog’s plate on the floor.

“You’re not going to jail,” Jase and Darcy said simultaneously, glowering at her.

“No, I’m not,” Jordan said calmly. “Geez. Lighten up—it was a joke.”

Jase’s expression remained tense, and Darcy gave her a halfhearted smile.

Bad sign
. Jordan swallowed nervously. “But maybe I should take my passport back, just in case.”

“Maybe,” Jase acknowledged, earning a glare from Darcy.

Jordan sighed and dug into her food. “Look, the PI will find something Drake overlooked, or I’ll dig up information on my own.” When they didn’t look reassured, she decided a change of subject was in order. “So how about I bring you up-to-date on what I’ve learned about Hattie’s murder?”

“Right, good,” Darcy said, looking relieved.

Jase took that as his cue to excuse himself to help out behind the bar.

While they ate, Jordan told Darcy about the attack on Frank, and Hattie’s coming to the conclusion that Clive Johnson was behind it, then about how Michael Seavey had thwarted Hattie’s attempt to fire Johnson. “The two were definitely in cahoots, but I still think Seavey was torn between his growing feelings for her and her jeopardizing his business with Longren Shipping. And I think part of his motivation for offering her his protection was that he was truly worried for her safety.”

“That’s plausible.” Darcy forked up a bite of salmon. “So now we know how Frank ended up in Hattie’s home around the time of the murder?”

“Yeah. And Greeley’s reaction was over the top, don’t you think? Why wouldn’t he have investigated the attack on Frank, as Hattie asked?”

“Actually, I can see his point. It doesn’t make sense to file an incident report based on third-party information.” Darcy hesitated. “Not that they probably had incident reports back then, but still. He would’ve needed to see and/or talk to Frank, and Hattie was denying him access.”

“But given her suspicion that the police might be corrupt, it made sense to withhold Frank’s location. Especially since Greeley had made it clear he thought Frank had the beating coming to him.”

“Yeah, you’ve got a point.” Darcy chewed, her expression pensive. “You gotta wonder what else was driving Greeley.”

“And why he never considered Clive Johnson a suspect in Hattie’s murder,” Jordan added. “From everything I’m learning, Johnson had the strongest motive by far to get rid of Hattie. And yet, Greeley never even mentions him in his memoir.” Jordan shook her head. “No offense, and present company excluded, of course, but I’m dealing with a few too many cops right now who don’t seem interested in approaching their jobs in a fair and impartial manner.”

Darcy shrugged. “Cops are human, and they lead very stressful lives. They don’t always do a good job of separating the personal from the public.” Her expression was worried. “But yeah, I’m concerned about Drake. More than once, I watched detectives on the Minneapolis force be influenced by their personal baggage—the divorce they were going through, the child who’d just entered drug rehab—and watched how those problems drove them to inaccurate conclusions on their open cases.”

Jordan reached down to rub the dog’s stomach. “Well, I have to believe Jase’s buddy will come up with something we can use. Otherwise, I’ll go mad.” She glanced in the direction of the stage, spying Ted and Didi. “Then
again,” she muttered, shoving back her chair, “maybe
I
can come up with something. Be right back.”

She intercepted Jase halfway across the room, commandeering a tray of drinks he had intended to deliver to the band.

“Jordan,” Ted greeted her, his expression lighting up. “How did the meeting go this morning? Everything okay?”

“Just fine,” she lied, handing out the drinks to the band members. “In fact, that’s one of the reasons I came over to chat.” She turned to the actress, holding out her martini. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind, Didi.”

Didi was sitting in a chair just off the edge of the stage. Tonight’s outfit consisted of tight leather pants, a bustier, and knee-high black boots. She looked like she planned to visit a BDSM club later on, though Jordan doubted Port Chatham had one.

Eying Jordan with distaste, Didi said, “Why would I talk to you? You murdered the man I loved.”

“Because I
didn’t
murder him,” Jordan replied evenly, “and because you want his real murderer found just as badly as I do.”

Didi shrugged. “Ryland told me about the insurance policy you took out, you know. I figure you just never expected the cops to find those cut brake lines.”

Jordan tamped down her irritation. “Did Detective Drake interview you about your relationship with Ryland?”

“Sure. I told him Ryland and I were in love, that he was only trying to reconcile with you long enough to get his hands on your granny’s inheritance.” Didi paused to light
an imported cigarette, blowing the smoke in Jordan’s face. “He wouldn’t have stayed with you.”

“I wasn’t interested in him staying with me,” Jordan said automatically, then realized Didi’s version of Ryland’s reasons for the reconciliation made as much sense as any she’d been able to come up with. “So you’re the one who told Drake about Ryland wanting to patch up the marriage.”

“Yeah. I figured anything I could say that got him looking in your direction was good. I knew you’d done it, and I wanted to make damn sure you didn’t get away with it.” Jordan started to protest, but Didi added, oblivious, “Drake also wanted to know where I was that night, and unlike you, I have an airtight alibi.”

“And it is?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I was at a party in Beverly Hills, hosted by the producer of the next film I’m starring in.”

Jordan shot a curious glance at Ted, but he had his back turned to them, talking to his band members. He’d indicated to Jordan just yesterday that Didi was on vacation. “I thought you were taking some time off from your career?”

“You can’t believe everything you read in the newspapers, darling.”

Jordan thought she detected a hint of anger behind Didi’s reply. So Ted had been at least partially correct—the press had had a field day with the news of Didi and Ryland’s breakup.

The actress flicked ash on the floor, her expression
bored. “Look, why don’t you just confess and be done with it? We all know you resented the fact that Ryland cheated on you. That the only reason you’d been so accommodating during the divorce was because you thought you were going to take him to the cleaners. I’ll bet you got the shock of your life when you realized the lawsuits would eat up that nice settlement you’d been fantasizing about.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were attributing the kind of motives
you
would have to my actions.” Jordan kept her tone mild.

“I
loved
Ryland,” Didi shot back. “I would
never have
done anything to hurt him.”

“Oh, for …” Jordan gave up, letting her irritation rule. “Get a clue. The man you fell in love with screwed his way through half his patient list! You’ve got serious self-esteem issues if you think he could’ve
ever
been any good for you.”