P.J. Alderman - Ghost Ship

“The opium is a plant-based product that would have lost its potency a long time ago, not to mention gotten waterlogged, in all likelihood. Do you actually know what else was on board the ship that night? Did you find the business papers?” Darcy stopped abruptly. “I get it—that’s what you were looking for at Holt’s house. The papers. I knew you were searching for something.” She glowered at Jordan. “You are a real pain in the butt, you know that?”

“Seavey showed me where the papers had been hidden in his hotel suite,” Jordan explained. She decided not to mention the obnoxious owner and her foray into illegal trespass. “I also talked to one of Holt’s employees, who told me he’d found the papers, then signed up for diving lessons.” She drank the last of her wine, then leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. “I’m not just making this up, you know. Holt really was diving for whatever was on the ship at the time she went down.”

Which made her wonder, come to think of it, who the guy was that she’d seen on the beach during their hike. At the time, she’d thought he was a ghost and discounted his presence. He’d been diving, and he’d had some kind of decorated tin in his hand. After all, Darcy hadn’t even noticed him. But maybe he was the murderer after all.

Darcy waved a hand in front of her face. “Hello? You flew away there for a minute.”

Jordan hesitated; then she shrugged. “Just thinking, is all.” Until she was certain of what she’d seen, she wasn’t going to mention it.

“Fine,” Darcy said, “but let me repeat: I’m not interested in some old shipwreck, even if that’s why Holt was in a dry suit. This murder took place in present day, and it most likely has something to do with events in Holt’s life that don’t relate in any way to Michael Seavey and the nineteenth century. I’m focusing on who in recent months—including old girlfriends or disgruntled business associates—would have wanted him dead.”

Her last statement caught Jordan’s attention. “Disgruntled business associates?”

“Holt’s fired a few workers over the years who subsequently let it be known they thought they’d been treated badly.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Down, girl. I haven’t gotten far enough in my search to identify specific individuals yet. I’ve been busy with the various crime scenes and running down your elusive assailant. And people don’t go around just announcing that they were fired from jobs. Besides, running any names past you that I might come up with is of very little value. Even if I introduce you to each person, it’s not like you have a lot of experience counseling murderers and delving into their psyches. You wouldn’t immediately recognize a homicidal tendency in someone you met.”

“Valid point.” Witness her stalker, who Jordan had thought was completely nonviolent. When it came to wielding a gun, he’d been quite casual about it. He’d probably been equally casual when he’d cut the brake lines on Ryland’s Beemer. Jordan shuddered.

“What?” Darcy asked, watching Jordan’s face closely. “What do you know?”

“Nothing, really,” she answered truthfully.

“Look, go ahead and investigate Seavey’s murder if you like, but stay out of the current-day investigation. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Jordan nodded. “As much as I can, I will.”

Darcy looked unhappy with her answer. “Are you worried about Seavey being in your house?”

“Not really,” Jordan said. “As sociopaths go, Seavey’s a fairly harmless one. And besides, he’s mostly focused on Hattie, not me.”

Darcy grinned. “A spectral wedding, huh? This should be interesting.”

Jordan leaned forward, suddenly remembering the biggest news of the day. “So get this: Hattie had her maid from the 1890s, a woman named Sara, return to the house a few years after their deaths to hire workers to build a bookcase behind the desk in the library.”

Darcy raised both brows. “And this is important because?”

“Think about it,” Jordan said impatiently. “That means another human could see Hattie. I’m not alone .”

“Why did Hattie want the bookcase built?”

“What? Oh, to hide a wall safe that contains about forty thousand dollars, supposedly.”

“Shit!” Darcy hastily glanced around, then leaned over the table. “Keep your voice down, unless you want to be burglarized, too.” She paused. “Forty thousand dollars? Are you certain?”

“You’re missing the point here,” Jordan said, exasperated.

“I repeat— forty thousand dollars ?”

Jordan sighed. “That’s what Hattie claims, though it’s entirely probable someone in the intervening years found the cash. Tom’s going to help me remove the bookcase tomorrow morning, but I’m skeptical the money will still be there.” Bill had noticed their empty wineglasses and dropped off refills. Jordan smiled her thanks, then continued. “You know, I could go back out to the lighthouse and talk to the gardener about who survived the shipwreck that night in 1893. I found a list today at the Historical Society, but it would be helpful to ask her about the details of the rescue. And also I could find out if Holt ever went out there to look at the Henrietta Dale ’s logbook.”

“So you’re ready to admit that the gardener is probably a ghost?” Darcy asked with a grin.

“Treat me nicely if you’d like me to make the trip out and ask her if anyone from present day who might be associated with your investigation has been lurking about.”

“Hell yes, what an excellent idea. I can see myself explaining that one in court. ‘My hearsay testimony, Your Honor, comes from a civilian unrelated to the case, who told the story to me after talking to a ghost who can’t be called as a witness.’ ”

“Geez, never mind.”

A young, slim woman approached their table, wearing a Victorian-style purple velvet dress, complete with a fitted short cape, and a felted, beaded beret. She carried a large, leather portfolio under one arm.

Jordan sat up straight in her chair, suddenly uneasy. Up to now, she’d never been openly approached by any of the ghosts in the pub.

“Hey, Susan,” Darcy greeted her.

“Hey, yourself.” The young woman smiled at Darcy.

Jordan gave Darcy a sideways glance, reassessing. “You can see her?”

“Of course.”

“Jordan Marsh?” the young woman asked, turning to her. “Bob MacDonough sent me. He couldn’t be here tonight, but he said you want me to sketch some sort of ship you saw?”

“Oh, right.” Jordan noted Darcy’s amusement and felt foolish. She shook the young woman’s slender, fine-boned hand. “Nice to meet you, Susan.”

“We’d better get to work, then. I have a portrait sitting in an hour. If that’s all right with you?”

“Absolutely.”

Jordan gave the woman a few moments to get settled, then started describing what she’d seen. Susan’s pencil moved rapidly over a sketch pad until Kathleen reappeared with their dinners.

She glanced at the sketch Susan was working on. “Why are you having her draw a tall ship?” she asked as she placed the warm plates of food in front of Darcy and Jordan.

“It’s a sketch of the ghost ship Jordan saw yesterday off Dungeness Spit,” Darcy explained.

Kathleen glared. “The crap I have to put up with in my diners.” She turned on the heels of her sensible loafers and stalked away.

Jordan shook her head and dug into Kathleen’s seasonal greens and polenta.

Susan showed her the incomplete sketch—it was a surprisingly accurate likeness of what she’d seen. “The masts were taller, with more rows of square sails, here and here,” Jordan told her, pointing. “And she had this pointy piece of wood on her bow—”