P.J. Alderman - Ghost Ship

“He came to me , sought me out in the pub,” Jordan pointed out. “He was here last night as well, sitting at one of the tables. So unless I avoid the pub, it’s going to be hard to keep out of his way.” She shook her head. “My suggestion is that we try to figure out what connects Sam Garrett with someone in this town, and then go from there.”

Jase clearly didn’t like her answer. “Okay,” he replied, his tone reluctant, “so what type of connection would a man like Garrett want to keep secret?”

“The obvious one is some kind of honor among murderers,” Bob said. “Like honor among thieves.”

“Maybe,” Darcy answered, her expression skeptical. “But from what I’ve read about sociopaths, they’re usually only motivated to hide the kills of a copycat killer, because they believe their own work is so admirable and consider the copycat a form of flattery. And Holt was shot pointblank, a technique he would consider amateurish and uninspired.”

“Okay, how about those missing tins of opium?” Tom asked. “They would be considered collectibles and fetch a nice price at auction. Holt was right about that. Maybe the killer has Holt’s cache and wants to sell them to private collectors.”

“So perhaps what Holt was doing wasn’t so much a threat as an opportunity for someone to cash in on those tins?” Jase asked. “Makes sense to me.”

“But why would Garrett care about that?” Jordan asked. “According to what he told me, he sank the Henrietta Dale to get back at Seavey, not because of the opium. In fact, I’m fairly certain from what he said that he didn’t even know about the secret compartments in the hull until recently. So I doubt he would care if someone in present day was out to make money off the salvage.”

“Maybe Garrett has some kind of personal connection to the murderer,” Jase mused. “A relative, perhaps? Even murderers have family.”

“No one like that has popped up in any of my research,” Bob pointed out.

“Mine, either,” Tom said. “I’m fairly familiar with the descendants of the founding families—at least, those who still live in the area, and no one pops onto my radar.” He looked at Jordan. “Have you seen any mention of what happened to Garrett in Seavey’s papers?”

“No, but let me hunt around,” Jordan replied. “I’m not done reading Eleanor Canby’s memoirs, or with going through the newspapers from the period surrounding the shipwreck. It’s also possible Charlotte might know something—Garrett was a Green Light client back then.”

“See if you can find any marriage announcements, births, or obituaries,” Darcy suggested.

“Good idea,” Jordan agreed, reaching over to add her empty glass to Jase’s tray.

The band members were filing back onto the stage, tuning their instruments.

“Time to get back to work.” Jase stood, placing a hand on Jordan’s shoulder. “You’re done for the night—Bill and I can handle it from here.”

“Come on. I’ll give you and Malachi a lift home,” Darcy added. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky, and the murderer will be standing on your front porch, waiting to confess.”

DARCY dropped off Jordan and Malachi a few minutes later, after an uneventful ride through quiet streets. At that time of night, most of both communities were at home in bed or in their portals, so Jordan could worry less about witnessing the debacle of Darcy unknowingly driving through someone.

Jordan climbed the front steps and opened the door to discover yet another vase of red roses in the hallway.

Dammit . “Hattie!” she yelled.

“No need to raise your voice beyond what is considered a polite tone,” Hattie replied from the entry to the library. “Yelling is extremely unladylike.”

Jordan ignored that. “You’ve got to convince Seavey to quit filching flowers from the florist. I’m going broke cleaning up after him.”

“I assure you, though I claim responsibility for the original bouquet, I had no hand in the delivery of these,” Michael Seavey said from behind her. “I wouldn’t be so crass as to send duplicate gifts to a beautiful woman. Each trinket or gesture during courtship should impart a unique, artfully constructed message, designed to communicate the seriousness of the suit. This evening, Hattie and I have been sharing a book of poetry.”

From somewhere in the depths of the library, Jordan heard Frank growl.

“No fistfights this evening,” she warned in a raised voice. “I’m beat, and I have reading to do.” She paused. “So who are the flowers from?”

“Since the card is addressed to you,” Hattie pointed out in an arch tone, “I have no way of ascertaining that, do I? I’m not in the habit of reading someone’s private missives.”

“I’ll wager they’re from your handsome beau!” Charlotte gushed from somewhere overhead. “Hattie, we should expect him to offer for her hand within the fortnight. Do you realize the import of this new development? We must plan for a double wedding! How romantic !”

“Don’t even think about it,” Jordan warned grimly. “In modern times, men don’t ‘offer’ for a woman’s hand.”

“Well, I find that to be simply outrageous,” Charlotte sniffed. “Some conventions should withstand the test of time.”

“Yeah, and obviously, that one didn’t.” Curious, Jordan walked over to examine the flowers. A card was nestled in the leaves. She plucked it out and removed it from its envelope. There was no message, just a boldly scrawled “J.”

She replaced the card and, smiling, leaned over to sniff the fragrant flowers.

“I believe you may be correct regarding the source, Charlotte.” Seavey sounded amused. “Of course, the man got the idea from me, which indicates an appalling lack of imagination.”

“He was merely making certain I didn’t feel left out,” Jordan said. “It was a kind, thoughtful gesture.” And charmingly sneaky.

“I fail to see why women lose all sense of reason over a handful of hothouse flowers,” Frank said, his tone disdainful. “You are, as a sex, such disgustingly sentimental creatures.”

Seavey sighed and raised his gaze to the ceiling. “Given your attitude, Lewis, is it any wonder that Hattie prefers me over you?”

“Michael,” Hattie admonished. “As you are perfectly well aware, I haven’t made a decision yet. Please do not taunt your competition.”

“Regardless of your attempts to manipulate her emotions, Seavey, I feel confident that Hattie will see through you.” Frank remained stubbonly focused on his opponent. “She has, after all, an outstanding mind and admirable ethics.”

“Thank you, Frank,” Hattie replied softly. “You are a good man.”

“Enough,” Jordan ordered. “I’m way too tired to referee this evening. I’m fixing a cup of tea and then heading up to bed with my stack of reading.”

“What, precisely, are you reading?” Seavey asked.

Already halfway down the hall to the kitchen, Jordan slowed and looked over her shoulder. “Your personal papers. I’m looking for information about Sam Garrett. I talked to him earlier this evening, and—”

Charlotte gasped and flew to Hattie’s side, clutching her arm. “Garrett is here ?”

“He is an extremely dangerous man,” Seavey admonished Jordan. “I strongly suggest that you have nothing to do with him.”

“Believe me,” she said fervently, “I never want to cross paths with him again. But I need to know more about him.”

“Your investigation into this man could put you, as well as the rest of us, at extreme risk,” Hattie warned. “I beg of you to drop whatever line of inquiry you are pursuing.”