P.J. Alderman - Ghost Ship

He waved a hand. “Cretins, the lot of them.” He frowned, considering. “Admittedly, modern clothing leaves little to the imagination, but truthfully, I haven’t yet decided whether I believe it to be an improvement. After all, to view a woman’s lush form through the thin fabrics of my day—say, perhaps, a woman gracing my private rooms wearing a chemise of the finest muslin—”

“Too much information,” Jordan interrupted. “Let’s not go there.”

He dipped his head. “As you wish. I merely meant to acquaint you with a stairway at the back of the building. I suspect you can slip past the manager unnoticed. But if you prefer not to …”

Jordan realized he’d taken her literally. “That’s not what I meant, but …” She contemplated his suggestion, sorely tempted to slip up that stairway. The prospect of being discovered and dealing with the police, however, was unappealing. “Is anyone up there right now?”

“Two workers are repairing the plaster walls and painting the ceiling. Though I suppose it is only to be expected that the rooms would need refurbishment at some point, I don’t approve of the decoration scheme that absurd man has chosen. I can only hope they don’t do anything to ruin the ambience of the Turkish motif.”

“Remember your great-great-nephew? The one I told you was murdered a couple of nights ago? He was in charge of the renovation of your suite. He was, according to those in the business, extremely good at historically accurate renovations. I don’t think you have to worry—”

“That loudmouthed, uncouth, sorry excuse for a gentleman was related to me?” Seavey interrupted, rising to his full height and glaring down at her. “ I think not, madam! ”

“Yes, he was.” She fisted her hands on her hips. “How can you act so offended? Weren’t you a hardened criminal in your time?”

He sniffed. “I may have—allegedly—engaged in certain illegal acts, but I assure you, I was never crass in my dealings with the fairer sex.”

Well, he had her there—she couldn’t exactly defend Holt’s treatment of women. Better to change the subject. “I found some old newspaper articles this afternoon about the wreck of the Henrietta Dale . You were listed among the survivors.”

He looked unimpressed. “I believe I indicated I thought such articles were fabricated.”

“I find it hard to agree with you that the articles about the shipwreck would be fabricated. What’s the last thing you remember from that night?”

“The ship hit the spit and knocked me off my feet. Then the rigging fell on me.” He paused, then shook his head. “After that—nothing.”

“Is it possible that you were knocked out, but then were rescued and taken unconscious to Port Chatham?”

“Anything is possible, madam. But the fact that I don’t remember waking up and finding myself in a different location lends far more credibility to my contention that such articles are erroneous.”

“Not necessarily. You could’ve been murdered while you were still unconscious,” she argued.

He shrugged. “Perhaps. I confess, I don’t see that it matters.”

“Did Eleanor Canby blame you for the death of her son?” At Seavey’s look of confusion, she explained. “Jesse died that night.”

“Ah. I hadn’t realized.”

Of course—he wouldn’t have known. “Why didn’t you ask about survivors after you came back as a ghost?”

His impatience was beginning to show. “The matter simply wasn’t of interest to me. And I didn’t ‘come back,’ as you put it, for a number of years. It’s not a simple process.”

“So you must have had other reasons for telling me last night that Eleanor despised you,” Jordan persisted.

Another shrug, this one accompanied by a sideways glance. “Eleanor disapproved of me on general principle—I didn’t measure up to her high moral standards. She was an uptight, rigid individual, who in my opinion caused more harm than good through her endless proselytizing.”

After having read Eleanor’s editorials, Jordan wasn’t certain she disagreed. She glanced up at the second floor of the old hotel, her thoughts returning to the present. “By any chance, did you keep business papers in a safe or some other secret compartment in your hotel suite when you were alive? Anything that Holt might have found while renovating your rooms?”

Seavey’s eyes shifted. “I don’t pretend to follow every activity of the humans who come and go from my establishment.”

“But you don’t deny that you had such papers,” she pressed.

He studied her for a long moment, gently tapping the brim of his top hat against one leg. “Even if something of the nature you describe were to exist,” he said finally, “I wouldn’t admit to it. Surely you can see that I wouldn’t want information regarding my past activities to undermine my courtship of Hattie. She wouldn’t—in many cases—necessarily approve.”

“I think you’ll find that Hattie is more flexible in her outlook these days than she might have been in the past.”

He shook his head. “Indeed, I doubt that.” A calculating gleam flickered his pale gray eyes. “It’s possible we might come to a mutually advantageous arrangement, one that would allow me to exchange information in return for, shall we say, certain favors.”

“What do you have in mind?” Jordan asked warily.

“Merely that I might indeed have knowledge of documents that I kept in my private rooms. If I were to reveal the location of those documents—should they exist—in return I would have your promise that you won’t show them to Hattie or talk to her about them.” When Jordan started to object, he held up a hand. “Further, that you would refrain from voicing any negative opinions you might hold as to my worthiness as a suitor.”

“You’re asking me to advocate that Hattie marry you ?”

“Certainly not,” he snapped. “I don’t need a woman to present my case; I’m perfectly capable of convincing Hattie myself. The task should be simple—the union would obviously be mutually beneficial. I would merely ask that you don’t actively dissuade her. After all, you might even discover certain facts indicating my character isn’t as impoverished as you might currently believe.”

“I doubt it,” Jordan retorted wryly. “And as a counselor, I’m not in the habit of withholding advice that might result in a person making a decision that could cause her to align herself with someone of dubious ethics.”

He snorted. “You exaggerate, madam. I’m merely a businessman who employed tactics—and sometimes, I admit, the judicious use of violence—that might be less than palatable to the fairer sex, though quite necessary in the day.”

Jordan eyed him curiously. “Why do you want to marry Hattie?”

An emotion flashed through his eyes, gone so swiftly she couldn’t get a handle on it. “I don’t see that my reasons are any of your concern.”

“You’re in love with her,” she realized suddenly. Why hadn’t she seen it before now? He had, after all, avenged Hattie’s death. Now she knew why. One mystery solved.

His expression, however, turned to one of contempt. “Love is an utterly childish notion. Hattie and I are simply well suited to each other.”

“Uh-huh.” Jordan wasn’t buying it. Seavey had all the hallmarks of a person deep in denial concerning his true feelings toward Hattie. Then again, most criminals weren’t real big on analyzing their feelings or motivations.

She folded her arms. “So let me get this straight: You’re asking me to stay out of your way while you court Hattie, in return for information concerning the whereabouts of business papers that Holt might have discovered in your suite of rooms during the course of a remodel. Correct?”