P.J. Alderman - Ghost Ship

“Those knives can’t hurt me,” Garrett said, amused.

Her fear must have then shown on her face, because he sighed. “I currently have no plan to kill you. I simply want to set the record straight.”

Jordan swallowed and waved a shaky hand. “By all means,” she told him, trying to sound courageous, “proceed.”

“You consider me a suspect in Michael Seavey’s murder, do you not?” he demanded.

Did she dare say yes? “In truth,” she allowed, “I hadn’t yet reached any conclusions.”

“Quit prevaricating!” he snapped, and she jumped a foot.

“Um, what I do know is that you and Michael Seavey were at odds, that you had committed several m-murders …” She swallowed. “And that people back then were generally afraid of you.” Versus now, when they have good reason to be flat-out terrified .

Her answer seemed to mollify him. “Precisely. However, I did not murder Seavey.”

“Were you responsible for the grounding of the Henrietta Dale ?”

A smug look crossed his face. “Of course. It was ridiculously easy.”

“How did you do it? Set a lantern farther down the beach? After disabling the one in the lighthouse?”

“The manner in which I caused the grounding of the Henrietta Dale is neither here nor there.”

“Well, you had to have done something similar to what I describe. Otherwise, the captain wouldn’t have made such a grave error in his calculations,” she insisted.

He looked amused. “You may believe what you wish.”

Exasperated, she pushed him. “So your intention was to murder Michael Seavey?”

“On the contrary. My intention was to ruin the bastard by sinking his ship. The fact that he ended up dead because of … my actions …” Garrett seemed to stumble over the words, then shrugged. “Let’s just say that I wasn’t unduly concerned about the possibility. Although it would have been more gratifying to watch him experience the humiliation of a total loss of power and influence.”

“From what I’ve been told—”

“—You mean, from what you’ve seen ?” he corrected her with a sly grin.

Jordan heard Kathleen snort. She pressed on. “I read about the shipwreck in the Port Chatham Weekly Gazette . The Henrietta Dale broke up in the surf that night, so I’d say you succeeded, if that was truly your goal. You also caused the deaths of dozens of people.”

“Their deaths couldn’t be helped,” Garrett replied, his tone hardening. “No one treats me the way Seavey did and gets away with it.”

Jordan shuddered. “So you returned to Port Chatham and finished the job, killing him there.”

He hissed angrily, and she backed up several steps. “You haven’t been listening . I came here to tell you that I had nothing to do with the man’s murder! Though I would like to take credit for it, certain … events, shall we say, immediately after the sinking of the Henrietta Dale made it impossible for me to return to Port Chatham.”

“Do you know who did murder him?”

“I couldn’t, could I? I wasn’t present. I only care that you understand I didn’t murder the man.”

“Okay, fine. Message received.”

“I didn’t send a message! I stood here and told you the truth of it!”

“Let me rephrase that,” she said hastily. “I meant I now understand that you didn’t murder Seavey.” She glanced in Kathleen’s direction, but the cook had something sizzling in her iron skillet and was pointedly ignoring them. “So you can go now?” she asked Garrett hopefully.

He sent her a chiding glance that had her contemplating whether she could reach the door into the back hallway before he could nab her, or whatever it was a ghost could do to her. Folding his arms across his massive chest, he said, “I have information that I am willing to barter in return for your promise that you will announce I had nothing to do with Seavey’s death.”

“But don’t most sociopaths like to have kills attributed to them that they didn’t do?” she asked curiously. Not that she had a clue, really. And what the hell was she doing, asking such questions? After all, reminding a murderer that he got off on the act of murder was sort of like poking a crazed bull with a sharp stick.

“ ‘Sociopaths’?” He thought that over, then nodded. “The term is pleasing. What I wish to impress upon you, however, is that an altercation with Michael Seavey at the moment would be enervating, and these days, I wish to expend my energies on other pursuits.”

Honest to God, she really didn’t want to know.

“Therefore, it’s imperative he understand that I wasn’t the one to murder him.” Garrett’s dark eyes were coldly assessing. “Do we have an arrangement?”

“Yes.” After all, it wasn’t as if she was going to say no and risk further pissing him off.

“Excellent.” Reaching into the pocket of his wool coat, he did something to cause a small, ornately decorated tin to fly out and float in the air between them. Jordan immediately recognized it from the day at the beach. “I believe this is what you have been seeking,” he said, zinging it at her.

She grabbed it out of the air, turning it over and examining it closely. It was actually quite beautiful, the lid etched in swirling scrolls of an Oriental design, their colors faded with time and exposure to the elements. “You’re the diver I saw on the beach that day,” she exclaimed.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t make the connection; you look different out of a dive suit.” She tried to open the box, but it didn’t budge—it was probably rusted shut.

“It’s sealed with beeswax, to keep the contents dry,” he explained. “Each ‘package’ contains a quantity of chandu opium, molded into small cakes, portions of which are placed in a pipe to be smoked. The cakes were wrapped in waxed paper.” His expression was derisive. “Seavey was determined to provide his customers with the highest quality opium, packaged in a pleasing manner. He went to great expense to have the opium cakes brought in from the Orient, then repackaged in a more pleasing way. Really, it’s not as if his customers would have known the difference if he’d substituted less expensive product after the first puff or two.”

What he was saying was consistent with what Jordan knew of Michael Seavey—the man placed a high value on presentation and style. She doubted he would have stood for increasing his profits through a lowering of the quality of the drug. “So you’ve been retrieving these from the shipwreck?” she asked.

His gaze slid away. “Of course not. What earthly use would I have of them? Besides, over time, with exposure to the elements, the stuff would obviously have deteriorated to the point of being worthless.”

Not in the eyes of collectors, who would pay dearly to own a small piece of West Coast history, she realized. She thought back to her first encounter with him and was still confused on one point. “But I saw you bring one of these tins out of the water, didn’t I?”

“I was attempting to give you a hint, so that you would think to look into what type of salvage operation was occurring. I know now that you are frequently too oblivious to notice such things.” He waved a hand at the tin. “That is one your friend brought up. He inadvertently dropped it on the beach.”

A tendril of excitement raced down her spine. “So these tins are what Holt was salvaging from the wreck!”

“Yes.” Garrett scowled. “Unbeknownst to me, Seavey had built secret, reinforced compartments into the hull for the purposes of transporting opium. A portion of the ship’s hull, along with some of those compartments, apparently survived intact and lies on the ocean floor just off the spit. The human—”