P.J. Alderman - Ghost Ship

“What you’re doing is dangerous,” Jase interrupted, his tone unusually blunt. “ Anything you do to give the murderer the impression you are trying to find out what happened to Holt gives him a reason to come after you.”

Jordan was so taken aback she couldn’t form a response. Until now, issuing orders hadn’t seemed to be in Jase’s DNA.

Tom chose that moment to arrive, ducking through the French doors, carrying coffee in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other. He took one look at their faces and halted in his tracks. “You two want me to go back out, wait until one of you gives me the all-clear signal, then return?”

After a tense silence, Jase blew out a breath, his expression discomfited, as if he realized just how dictatorial he’d sounded.

“Are those your notes for the restoration plan?” Jordan asked Tom, pasting a welcoming smile on her face.

“Yeah.” He glanced at the nearest shelf of books, which were still in a jumble. “Wasn’t this room all straightened up yesterday?”

Jordan sighed. She started to explain, but Tom frowned and leaned closer to read the bindings. “Are your books alphabetized ?”

“It helps me find what I’m looking for more easily, and I like the sense of order.”

“But wouldn’t it be more practical to organize them by subject, so you can browse?”

Jase coughed.

“How about I fix us some breakfast,” Jordan said grimly. She turned to Jase. “Are you sitting in on this meeting?”

Jase nodded. “Tom thought it might be helpful if I was here.”

“A restoration on this scale can be a bit overwhelming, when viewed at the planning level,” Tom explained.

“In comparison to dealing with ghost ships, I think we’re good,” Jordan said wryly.

Both men looked skeptical.

“You lived in a condominium down in L.A., right? One that you bought already completely finished?” Jase asked.

“Of course.” Jordan had never liked the place. Ryland had bought it as a wedding present, and she’d never had the heart to tell him she found its modern architecture cold and impersonal.

“And you never redecorated it or remodeled any part of it, right?” Jase continued.

“Right. So?”

“So there’s a certain amount of … chaos that accompanies any house renovation.”

She shrugged, stuffing the dust cloth onto a shelf where it would be handy later on. “It’ll be fine—I’ll just make a plan to keep the restoration well under control.”

“Right.” Jase’s expression was bland. “Where’s that stack of books I had you buy when we were at the hardware store? Have you read the one on old-house restoration?”

“I haven’t had time.”

“Which book is that?” Tom asked.

“The one that explains the difference between historical restoration and remodeling.”

“Oh. Yeah, good—that one gives a person a clear idea of the types of decisions she will face. It also explains the best process to use when renovating an old home—how to assess the work, draw up a plan, and so on.”

“If she continues to clean and organize while she reads the book, she’ll become intimate with all of the rooms, while at the same time avoid damaging them,” Jase pointed out.

“Great idea,” Tom agreed.

“So I’m being reduced to a maid in my own home,” Jordan concluded. “Keep it up, and there’ll be no breakfast for either of you.”

“I’m fairly certain even the book advises that you start with cleaning each room.” Tom was fighting a grin. “But for the sake of my stomach, I’m willing to strike a compromise.”

“What’s with the scaffolding?” she asked him.

“Makes it easier to deal with the repairs to the siding and the underlying structure. You’ve got some dry rot here and there that will have to be taken care of before we can construct the iron trellis.”

Not knowing what dry rot was or wanting to think too deeply about it, Jordan quickly alphabetized the pile of books she held, then led the way down the hall to the kitchen at the back of the house.

THOUGH its cracked, yellowed linoleum and warped countertops bespoke a misguided remodel, the kitchen was spacious and had a homey feel to it. Hints of the original design could still be found in the mahogany wainscoting and in the glass-fronted cabinets that graced the butler’s pantry. A huge, white porcelain sink stood against the back wall, next to an ancient refrigerator that made strange sounds and did its best to keep Jordan’s electric bill well into the stratosphere. She’d also discovered boxes full of antique kitchenwares in the attic—chromolithograph tins for coffee, tea, and sugar; yellowware crocks and bowls; and wooden utensils. Once she fixed the room up, she was certain it would become one of her favorites.

Both men sat down at the well-worn pine table that took up most of the center of the room. Pulling out a carton of fresh farm eggs she’d bought at the Saturday market, she rummaged in the cabinet next to the stove for a porcelain mixing bowl.

“Scrambled eggs and toast okay?” she asked, plunking the items on the counter next to the ancient gas stove.

“We’re pathetically easy,” Jase replied, leaning back and stretching his legs under the table.

“I read a few pages of Seavey’s personal papers last night,” she told Tom while she cracked eggs and beat them with a whisk. “I didn’t make it far before conking out, but it appears as if Seavey knew his business partner was going to cause him trouble. He wrote about an incident in which the partner tried to hang a Chinese vegetable farmer. Seavey intervened on the farmer’s behalf.”

“I seem to remember reading something about that in newspapers from that time.” Tom took a sip of his coffee. “The partner accused the vegetable farmer of making off with a shipment of opium, right?”

“Yeah. It’s pretty clear from what I read that Seavey and his partner were smuggling in opium on a regular basis.” She added milk to the eggs, then reached into the fridge for fresh herbs and a plate of organic butter from the local dairy. Using a spatula, she cut a small wedge of butter and dropped it into her cast-iron skillet to melt. “Seavey talked about the Chinese as if they were illegal immigrants, but my memory of the nineteenth century on the West Coast is that the Chinese were laborers.”

“They were,” Tom confirmed. “They came into the country around the middle of the century to work in the mines during the California Gold Rush. But that was before the passage of the Chinese Exclusion Act. Not one of our country’s finest hours.”

She glanced over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised, then used kitchen scissors to snip fines herbes into the eggs.

“Congress passed the law in 1882,” Jase explained. “It gave lawmakers the ability to suspend immigration. The original intent was to exclude Chinese immigrants from working in mines, taking jobs away from Americans, but the restrictions were gradually expanded to include Chinese living in cities. One senator called it nothing less than legalized discrimination.”

“So by 1893 when Seavey died,” Tom added, “there was a thriving business in smuggling Chinese immigrants out of Canada—where they could enter legally—and onto our shores. If you read the local papers from that time, you’ll see numerous accounts of the authorities rounding up Chinese and returning them to Canada.”

Jordan shivered as she poured the eggs into the skillet, then got busy slicing a loaf of artisan bread. “Pretty grim.”

“Definitely not cool for a nation that prides itself on its support of human rights,” Jase agreed.

“That explains the comment Seavey made in his papers that he wouldn’t have anything to do with transporting Chinese immigrants. He was concerned his business partner was combining human trafficking with the smuggling of opium.” She reached for plates and cutlery, handing them to Tom.