P.J. Alderman - Ghost Ship

Michael also suspected that the disintegration of Longren Shipping within mere weeks of Hattie’s murder had been no coincidence. Eleanor had powerful business allies, many of whom would have been gleeful at the prospect of taking over the shipping contracts. He had it on good word that Charlotte, left with no means by which to support herself, was now under the tutelage of Mona Starr, the madam of Port Chatham’s most notorious brothel, the Green Light.

“I thought it only fair to warn you, Mr. Seavey.” Eleanor’s stentorian voice pulled him from his thoughts. “I plan to run an editorial this coming week decrying the increased use of opium by this town’s citizens. I am not unaware of your involvement in that business, of course.”

Michael raised both brows, feigning amusement. “My dear Eleanor. I have no idea to what you refer.”

Her lips thinned. “Come now, Mr. Seavey. We all know how you’ve replaced the income you lost from the demise of Longren Shipping. It’s no secret that Sam Garrett smuggles in contraband under your protection.”

“Sheer speculation.”

“Nevertheless.” She smoothed the skirts of her midnight-blue silk evening gown with hands encrusted with jewels. “My editorial will condemn the purchase and use of the disgusting drug. Though few speak out on the matter, I find the drug’s long-term effects on smokers distressing.”

She was referring, of course, to the continued deterioration of Jesse’s health in the face of her efforts to curb his voracious appetites. She’d even gone so far as to engage the services of a local physician, Willoughby, to treat Jesse for alcohol addiction. Unfortunately, the good doctor’s prescription of regularly administered doses of laudanum was no doubt the cause of Jesse’s newfound craving for opiates.

Though Michael was unsympathetic with regard to Eleanor’s plight, even he could see that she grew more desperate with each passing week. Jesse’s self-destructive tendencies betrayed her failures as a mother, and such knowledge surely ate away at her. The boy had a sensitive, artistic temperament; her rigid parenting had contributed greatly to his gradual withdrawal from those around him. Unfortunately, Eleanor’s despair might lead her to launch a public campaign that could become a rather large thorn in Michael’s side.

“I trust you won’t be naming names in your editorial,” he told her dispassionately. “That would be exceedingly unwise, Eleanor.”

Her spine straightened. “Do not believe, Mr. Seavey, that because you are an investor in my newspaper, you will be immune to condemnation in print. If I decide you are the cause of the moral decay of Port Chatham’s citizenry, I will not hold back.”

“I can only hope to attain such lofty status,” he replied wryly. “Watch your step, Eleanor. As a businessman, I never operate without contingent plans. Most in this town know not to cross me.”

“You threaten me?”

“Not at all,” Michael replied. “I’m simply making the point that ownership of the local newspaper might be an interesting addition to my business holdings.”

For the first time, he glimpsed pure rage in her eyes. Evidently, control of an editorial page trumped the well-being of her only child.

Across the garden, Michael’s bodyguard, Remy, stepped out of the shadows, reminding him why he’d slipped away from the evening’s social obligations. “Quite frankly, though,” he continued, keeping his tone light as he pulled on his kidskin gloves, “I doubt your newspaper campaign against the heavenly demon will have much effect—it isn’t as if the stuff is illegal. Most folks consider it a harmless bit of play to try to outwit the Customs officers and evade paying the import duties.”

“They’ll soon change their minds when I educate them on the drug’s deleterious health effects,” Eleanor snapped, “not to mention the precious tax dollars that are being lost.”

He shrugged. “I care not what people put in their bodies—’tis a free country, after all. And for the moment, our town suffers little from funds lost to shrinking revenues.”

“People must be saved from their own poor judgment, Mr. Seavey!”

“As you saved Jesse from himself?” he asked softly.

“You go too far, sir! I intend to push for the eventual outlawing of all forms of opium, just as I’ve already done with those who introduced the wretched drug to our shores!”

She referred, of course, to the Chinese Exclusion Act that had been passed by Congress, placing a moratorium on the immigration of Chinese. The supposed argument had been a concern for the jobs they held in the gold fields, but Michael had always suspected that racial prejudice was the stronger motivation. And though the authorities had announced their intention to be vigilant, he doubted the law was enforceable—the West Coast had thousands of miles of remote inlets and beaches, any of which could be used for a night landing of unwanted immigrants.

Remy appeared more anxious with each passing moment. Michael donned his top hat. “As much as I would love to continue our debate, Eleanor, I must take leave of your excellent company. A prior engagement, you understand.”

“Of a clandestine nature, I presume, Mr. Seavey?” Eleanor’s voice was laced with disapproval.

“You may presume to your heart’s content—I only hold the power to stop you from putting those presumptions into print.”

“Stay away from my son, Mr. Seavey.”

He didn’t respond, instead bowing his head politely. “I bid you a pleasant evening, madam.”

REMY waited at the entrance to the back alley, shifting from one foot to the other, holding open the door to the coach. “Trouble at North Beach, Boss.”

Michael sighed. His new business partner was proving to be more of an inconvenience than he was worth. Climbing into the coach, he took a seat across from Remy, pounding on the ceiling with his fist. Max, his second enforcer, whistled to the horses, then snapped the reins. The coach lurched forward.

The trip was swift—Payton’s residence was less than a mile from the hill above North Beach. Short in distance yet a world apart, the land abutting North Beach was inhabited by the poor Chinese farmers whose produce graced the elegant dining tables of Port Chatham.

Max pulled the horses to a halt at the top of a pasture that fell steeply away to the bluffs running along the beach. Remy opened the door, and Michael stepped down from the carriage. To his left halfway down the slope stood the black silhouette of a barn. Just before the water’s edge, a huge old maple tree spread its branches, barely discernible through the light rain that fell. He saw shadows floating across the ground, low against the barn’s east foundation. Chinese, no doubt, smuggled in along with their contraband from Victoria. His partner did indeed grow increasingly reckless.

As Michael strode quickly through the pasture, the rain clinging to the tall grass immediately soaked through his boots. Spying the silhouettes of three men standing next to the tree, he veered in that direction.

At his approach, Sam Garrett dropped the butt of a cigarette and ground it out with his boot. The two men at his back were as brawny in build as Garrett, and as heavily muscled. Michael had discovered Garrett working the fire crew aboard a steamship and, impressed with the man’s quick wit and strong physique, had made an offer Garrett couldn’t refuse: an illicit partnership in his growing smuggling business. It appeared, however, that Michael had exercised faulty judgment that day.

As had been the case on many days of late.

He shook off the thought, his gaze sharpening on a faint movement under a large limb of the maple. Peering into the gloom, he was able to make out the kicking feet of a man strung up to one of the lower branches.