P.J. Alderman - Ghost Ship

“Okay,” Darcy told Jordan, turning around, “so that’s two out of three sets of prints. Maybe. Barring that they might belong to any one of the several hundred lawbreakers in this town, that leaves us with one other person.”

“With respect to the fingerprints showing up in both locations, I can’t think of any reason for Sally to break into my house,” Jordan mused. “So I vote for door number three, whoever is behind it.”

“Any ideas?” Darcy asked Bob.

“Nope. I didn’t see a soul.”

“Whoever it was, they attacked Jordan.”

He looked concerned. “Hey, I’m real sorry. That had to have been, what? Right after you left the marina?”

“Yes,” Jordan replied.

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

“Sore but fine.”

“So you’re up to talking to that historian on the phone tomorrow? He’d like to set up a conference call for around nine in the morning, if that’s okay.” He set down his beer mug to reach into his jacket pocket and pull out a folded sheet of paper. “This is the schedule of events for the Wooden Boat Festival. I’ve penciled in your talk at the society headquarters for end of the second afternoon, if that’s okay.”

Jordan took the paper from him, frowning. “Actually, I’ve given it more thought, and I’m still not sure I’d feel comfortable talking to anyone about seeing the ghost ship, much less a crowd of people.”

Darcy raised her brows at Jordan.

“But I’ve already publicized your seminar; you can’t back out now,” Bob protested. “The Wooden Boat Festival is the biggest event Port Chatham puts on; folks will be really disappointed if you don’t show.”

“ Seminar? Bob, I never committed to do the talk; I just said I’d think about it.” Jordan was irritated. She’d been very clear that she’d get back to him with a decision one way or the other.

“Let’s start with the telephone interview tomorrow,” he said in a placating tone that only served to irritate her further. “If you’re okay with how that goes, then you can give the seminar. Deal?”

“I’ll do the interview, then decide,” she said firmly. “So you have no clue who else might have wanted something inside Holt’s house? How well do you know Clive Walters?”

“That guy who owns the Cosmopolitan? I’ve had a few dealings with him. He wants to advertise in some of my mailings, to pick up bookings during the festival. Tried to get me to let him advertise for free. Said that unless people could find hotel rooms, they wouldn’t attend the festival, so I owed him some free space.”

“Cheeky,” Darcy observed, “but that’s Clive for you.”

Bob rolled his eyes. “Like I would fall for his bullshit reasoning. The society is always strapped for cash—we don’t give away anything for free. And we’re a major source of revenue for the town’s merchants. If anything, I should raise my ad rates.” He cocked his head at Jordan. “Why are you asking about Walters?”

“I just wondered if you knew whether he owned a .22,” she replied. “We got into a scuffle. He thinks I stole historical documents from his hotel. I wondered if he’d fought with Holt, possibly.”

“Not a clue,” Bob replied.

“He appears to have an alibi for the time of Holt’s death, anyway,” Darcy put in. “He claims he was hosting a winetasting at the hotel that evening. If so, there’s no way he could have hosted the event, then taken a boat ride all the way out to the spit to dump a body. Not according to the official time of death from the ME’s report, that is.”

“Well, damn.” Jordan stared at Darcy in dismay. “There goes your best suspect.”

“Maybe.” Darcy looked unconvinced. “I’m digging deeper, trying to verify his story with the guests at the winetasting. But his motive is weak. Why kill over a small remodel job? Still, he says he owns a boat that he moors at the marina. Correct?” she asked Bob.

He shrugged. “I don’t have anything to do with renting out the slips, but I’ve seen him around. It’s possible he let someone else take the boat out.”

“Maybe,” Darcy said again.

Kathleen appeared silently at Jordan’s side for a second time that night. Jordan picked up her empty plate to hand it to her, thinking she’d come to retrieve their dishes, but got a glare for her effort.

“I don’t bus the dishes, for Christ’s sake,” the chef growled. “Come with me. Right now .”

“Me?” Jordan asked.

“You see me talking to anyone else?” she snapped.

“If I’m not back in fifteen minutes,” Jordan told Darcy, “come find me.”

“I’ll send out a search party,” Darcy responded cheerfully.

“ Not funny,” Kathleen said.

Curious, Jordan followed the cook down the back hallway, stopping at the doorway to her kitchen. Kathleen kept walking, turning when she realized Jordan wasn’t behind her.

Jordan started to explain, “I know you don’t like people in your kitchen—”

“Get in here, right now .”

“Okay, sure, right,” Jordan muttered, edging inside.

A large man dressed in loose work clothes leaned against the counter along the back wall next to the stove, his muscular arms crossed. His dark expressionless eyes tracked her as she closed half the distance between them before she stopped out of an innate sense of caution. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him.

“You deal with this guy, then get him the hell out of my kitchen,” Kathleen ordered. “I have work to do.”

“Do I know you?” Jordan asked him, puzzled. The light dawned. “Weren’t you sitting at one of the tables in the pub last night?”

“Yeah.” The man straightened, and she realized uneasily just how imposing he was. He flashed her a humorless grin, exposing crooked teeth. “You want answers about the wreck of the Henrietta Dale and Seavey’s murder, and I want to set the record straight.”

She eyed him nervously. “And you would be?”

“Sam Garrett.”

JORDAN rounded on Kathleen. “You can see ghosts !”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Kathleen grumbled.

“Denial,” Jordan said. “Believe me, I can empathize. But you can see him , right?”

“Of course she can see me,” Garrett answered for her. “Are you daft, woman? How do you think she knew to come find you?”

Kathleen pointed the long-bladed chef’s knife she was using to chop garlic at both of them. “Deal with him and then leave. I have work to do.”

Jordan folded her arms. “This discussion isn’t over, you know,” she told her.

“You want to ever eat my food again?”

Well, shit .

“I thought so.” Kathleen went back to chopping garlic.

“Ignore the fool woman!” Garrett interrupted, clearly impatient. “We have much to discuss.”

It finally dawned on Jordan that she was talking to a cold-blooded killer. If he decided to attack her, she really had no defense against him.

She edged toward the door, then was in the process of realizing she couldn’t leave Kathleen alone with a murderer when he made a tsk ing sound that halted her in her tracks. “I wouldn’t advise trying to run.”

Kathleen slammed an iron skillet onto the stove, glaring at her. “If you rabbit before handling him, I will bury my meat cleaver between your shoulder blades. He’s your problem.”

Jordan sent up a silent prayer that Jase would come back to the kitchen with dinner orders, but she wasn’t hopeful—even Malachi was sound asleep behind the bar, oblivious to the danger she was in. Surreptitiously, she glanced at the knife racks above Kathleen’s workstation.