Haunting Jordan (33 page)

“What did he say to that?” Jordan asked, curious.

“Nothing. He just nodded and left.”

The dog approached, growling. She put out a hand to bring him to her side, shushing him.

“What’s his name?” Frank asked.

“You know, I’m getting tired of people asking me that.”

He smiled slightly. “Try Malachi.”

“Why?”

“I had a friend, an Irishman and a ship’s carpenter, who was shanghaied out of New York City on the same boat I was on. He completed a lot of the work on your house for Charles Longren. He had this dog, Malachi, who looked a lot like your fellow.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

Frank nodded, straightening. “Are you going to solve Hattie’s murder or not?”

Jordan’s exasperation returned. “Do you have any suggestions as to how I might do that?”

“Hattie wrote about everything up to her murder. Also, read Greeley’s personal papers. If he wrote in a daily journal, he might’ve let something slip. Or he might’ve regretted his actions after the fact.” Frank stared at Jordan,
his expression brooding. “It’s important that Hattie find some peace. I couldn’t give it to her when she was alive.”

Jordan softened a bit. “Look, why don’t you come inside with me? I suspect seeing you would go a long way toward making her happy.”

He shook his head, and for the first time, Jordan saw the pain and sorrow in his eyes. “I didn’t stop her murderer—I don’t deserve to see her.”

* * *

J
ORDAN’S
cellphone buzzed as she and the dog walked up the front porch steps. She pulled it out of her pocket to check the caller ID. Carol.

“You left me
hanging,”
Carol complained the minute she answered. “How did the interview go with Drake?”

“About like you’d expect,” she answered as she walked down the hall to the kitchen in search of a drink of water.

She skidded to a halt. Hattie and Charlotte sat at the kitchen table, smiling. “Where have you been?” she asked them.

“At work, where else?” Carol said. “Why?”

“Not you, the ghosts.”

“At the telekinesis seminar,” Hattie replied. “We thought we’d give you some time to calm down after discovering the inspection report.”

“And it gave us an opportunity to practice our skills,” Charlotte added, beaming.

Frightening thought
.

“You mean, you don’t just see the ghosts, you talk to them like regular human beings?” Carol asked.

“It’s a little difficult to tell them apart,” Jordan muttered.

“Ah.” Hattie nodded, looking pleased. “So you’re now noticing the rest of our community. Excellent.”

“We’ve been staying away from the tavern,” Charlotte explained. “We didn’t want you to think we were harassing you.”

“Perish the thought.” Jordan headed for the sink, opening the cupboard door directly above.

“Interesting one-sided conversation,” Carol observed.

“Self-destructive and delusional,” Jordan corrected. She reached for a glass, only to find that they weren’t where she’d put them—the cupboard was full of cleaning supplies.

She frowned. She could’ve sworn she’d put them there yesterday afternoon … She opened the cupboard to the right, where she’d put the dinner plates, and found cereal.

“What are you trying to find?” Charlotte asked, looking helpful.

“Glasses. I know I put them in here.”

“We moved the crystal, china, and cutlery into the butler’s pantry, where they belong.”

“You rearranged my kitchen?”

“They did?” Carol asked, laughing. “Fantastic.”

“A well-organized home is the foundation—” Charlotte began.

Jordan turned on her heel and stalked out of the kitchen, heading upstairs. “You’ve
got
to take pity on me
and at least prescribe some nice tranquilizers,” she said to Carol.

“I’m far more worried about what Drake’s up to.”

“He wanted to arrest me, but Darcy and Jase talked him out of it.” Jordan used the glass she’d brought up to the hall bath the evening before to gulp down some water, then summarized the meeting for Carol.

“I’m definitely taking the next flight up there.” Carol sounded worried. “You need me.”

“What can you do, other than sit around and wring your hands? I asked Jase to hire a PI, and as we speak, he’s busy investigating, trying to crack people’s alibis and find out who fed the police information. Really, all we can do is wait and see what he digs up.”

“So Jase took your case?
Good
. I Googled him—he used to be hell on wheels.”

He still is
.

Jordan blocked that thought and headed for the bedroom, but she was halted at the doorway by the dog, who was sniffing the air and growling. She glanced inside. Nothing seemed out of place.

Shrugging, she walked around the dog while she described her interactions with Didi Wyeth to Carol. “What’s your off-the-cuff profile? Is she capable of murder?”

There was a moment of silence while Carol thought. “Well, of course, I’d need to interview her to be certain, but yeah, I think she’d probably be willing to skewer anyone who messed with her career. And you said her
breakup with Ryland was picked up by the gossip columnists, right?”

“Yes, but what’s the saying—‘Any publicity is good publicity’? So why would having the sordid details of their breakup splashed across the front page of
The Hollywood Reporter
harm her career?”

“Sweetie, she jumped into bed with L.A.’s most notorious psychiatrist, who was in the middle of being sued for sexual harassment by his client. That doesn’t exactly make her look stable. And whereas the general consensus was that you deserved sympathy, given Ryland’s slimy morals, I’m sure most folks thought Didi had a screw loose. If I were a film producer with two hundred million of my investors’ cash at stake and a bonding company to keep happy, I’d think twice about casting her.”

Jordan sighed. “You may be right, but she has an alibi.”

“Wait and see what the PI turns up—I’ll bet she’s lying. My money is on her infamous temper.”

“Well, I can vouch for the temper,” Jordan said wryly.

“You sure I can’t visit for a few days and at least provide moral support?”

Jordan thought about the wisteria and the gritty film that had settled over everything. Definitely
not
Carol’s preferred milieu.

“I’ve got two words for you,” she replied.
“Plaster dust.”

“I just became the least supportive best friend you’ve ever had.”

“I thought you’d see it that way.” She flipped the phone shut, setting it on the nightstand next to her bed.

Given the revelations of the day, she felt eerily calm. Of
course, there was probably only so much stress her nervous system could take before it completely shut down its fight-or-flight response. Maybe she was a walking zombie at this point. So the possibility loomed that she might hang just like Frank Lewis, for a crime she didn’t commit. So what? So there were a few extra ghosts populating her reality. Not a problem.

She changed into sweats. Glancing out the bay window, she noted that Frank hadn’t stirred from his post across the street. Their gazes locked for one long moment, and he inclined his head. She closed the fragile lace sheers, ridiculously reassured that he was standing watch for the night.

Climbing into bed, she turned on a lamp and started thumbing through the stack of memoirs and diaries on her nightstand. She’d already read Greeley’s diary and hadn’t found anything of note, but she still had those volumes of Hattie’s diary she’d found earlier to finish. Pulling them from the stack, she settled back against the pillows.

Maybe before she landed on death row, she could clear another suspect’s name.

The Abduction

MORE than two days had passed, and Frank hadn’t regained consciousness. The increasing fear that he wouldn’t awaken at all had Hattie’s nerves stretched as thin as the thread the girls were using to sew Charlotte’s new gown. Sleepless nights were taking an additional toll.

Hattie sat in the chair beside the bed in the waning afternoon light, reading Henry James aloud and hoping Frank could hear her voice. Exhaustion had her stumbling over the lyrical prose; she could only hope the famous author would forgive her.

Her life felt as if it were temporarily suspended. Surely Frank would awaken, and he would remember the names of his attackers. But until then, she felt as if she were useless, doing nothing more than waiting.

Timothy had shown up faithfully each morning to report on the prior day’s business at Longren Shipping, and she’d taken bits of time away from the attic to have him help her decipher the files she’d brought home after her last visit to the office. She now knew that Longren Shipping
made regular payments to a vendor whose name was unknown to the Port Chatham business community. In all likelihood, that vendor was no more than a dummy account to accumulate the cash skimmed by Clive Johnson. But she needed more proof to make any formal accusation of wrongdoing. Her only hope was that Frank had managed to discover more before he’d been attacked, and that he would eventually be able to tell her what he knew.

The girls had proceeded with their plans to make Charlotte’s gown for Eleanor’s soirée, which was scheduled to occur the next evening. They’d even sewn a beautiful mourning gown for Hattie, made from the mousseline de soie and trimmed in dark green velvet. She would wear her dark green velvet cape as a wrap, though she knew it would likely cause Eleanor’s eyebrows to inch ever higher. But the excitement over the upcoming social event had yet to take hold of Hattie—she couldn’t think past the moment when Frank might awaken.

She’d struggled through a portion of the next chapter in James’s
Portrait of a Lady
when she felt rather than heard a slight shift of the blankets. She looked up, her voice trailing off midsentence, to find Frank’s eyes open and fixed on her, his expression confused and grimacing with pain.

She dropped the novel on the blanket and reached out to grip his hand in both of hers. “Don’t try to move—your ribs are broken, and you have a concussion. Do you understand?”

“Yes … water?”

She poured a small amount into a glass from the
pitcher on the table next to his cot, then held it to his lips so that he could swallow.

He leaned back against the pillows, exhausted by the effort. “Where?” His voice was hoarse from disuse.

“You’re in my attic, and safe for now,” she said softly. “No one knows where you are.”

He nodded slightly, closing his eyes.

“Frank, who did this to you?”

“Don’t … know. There were … four.” Each word seemed to tax him further, bring him ever more pain. “Seavey’s … I think.”

“Mona is asking around. We’ll get names, then I’ll take them to Greeley.”

“No.”
He opened his eyes, his expression fierce. “Too dangerous … Greeley … paid by Seavey.”

His agitation increased, and she strove to reassure him. “Very well, I won’t go to the police.”

One corner of his mouth rose. “You … must’ve been very worried … aren’t arguing with me.”

She laughed softly. “I’m fine, now that you’re awake. Do you know why you were attacked?”

“Know … too much. Seavey … Johnson bribing boardinghouses … Johnson started fire …” His voice trailed away, then he seemed to rouse himself. His grip tightened on her fingers. “Henry James … kept hearing your voice … brought me back.”

She smiled. “Rest.”

“Don’t leave …”

“I won’t,” she promised.

* * *

S
HE
left his side only after his breathing had deepened, and only long enough to return to the second-floor parlor to pen a note. She rang for Sara. “Have Charlotte and Tabitha deliver this to Dr. Willoughby at once. Also, prepare some chamomile tea—strong enough to mask the flavor of laudanum, if possible.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sara slipped the note into her skirt pocket, then fidgeted.

“Yes, what is it?” Hattie asked impatiently.

“Mrs. Starr is at the kitchen entrance again, asking to see you.”

“Ah. Bring her to me, please.”

“Is that wise, ma’am?”

“For heaven’s sake, Sara! Do as I say!”

Sara fled, leaving Hattie feeling guilty for having snapped at her. The housekeeper only had her best interests at heart. An apology was in order, she feared. She rubbed her face, exhausted.

At the telltale swish of satin skirts, she dropped her hands back to her lap. “Please come in, Mrs. Starr.”

“You really should call me Mona.” She walked over to the chair next to the fire. “And how is our patient this evening?”

“He awakened a short while ago and was able to talk a bit, but he’s in great pain. I’ve sent for the physician.”

“Yet he was aware of his surroundings and recognized you?” When Hattie nodded, Mona looked relieved.
“Then the worst is over—he’ll likely recover. Tell me, does he remember the attack?”

“Yes. He said there were four, not three as Dr. Willoughby had surmised. He indicated they were in Seavey’s employ.”

Mona frowned. “Hmm. My man Booth was able to persuade two witnesses to take him into their confidence, though they have no intention of speaking as candidly to the police. Their stories and descriptions of the attackers were remarkably similar.”

“Was Booth able to uncover the attackers’ identities from the information he was given?”

“Yes.” Mona pulled a slip of paper from her watch pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Hattie.

As Hattie read, her hands began to shake with fury. “Two of the names appear on the payroll for Longren Shipping.”

Mona nodded. “Our sources tell Booth they are longshoremen. Clive Johnson has used them for similar work, though the targets in the past have been sailors and boardinghouse operators.” She leaned back, staring into the fire. “The other two have had occasion to visit my establishment. They are under Seavey’s employ, as Frank thought.”

“Then the attack was planned by both men.”

“So it would seem.”

Hattie recalled Seavey’s offer of protection, now recognizing it for the smoke screen it was. Oh, she had little doubt he’d planned to take full advantage of her, should she have actually agreed to his protection. But he’d never
intended to do more than keep her distracted from the activities of Longren Shipping so that he and Johnson could continue to run the company as they saw fit.