P.J. Alderman - Ghost Ship

And it would have been relatively simple to murder him, after all. The killer merely needed to be someone whose presence the rescue workers wouldn’t have questioned, who made it a point of being in charge of transporting the unconscious Seavey to a doctor’s infirmary. Once he had Seavey out of sight, it would have been easy to shoot him and dump his body under the wharf. All under the cover of darkness, if the killer had waited until that evening.

She pulled up in front of the Wooden Boat Society headquarters and killed the engine. Following a chattering group of tourists inside, she waited impatiently for them to move aside so that she could walk into Bob’s office. The sooner she got this call over with, the sooner she could go home and verify her suspicions with Charlotte.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said to Bob. “Has your friend called yet?”

“Nope.” He looked up from what appeared to be a mock-up of a brochure about the upcoming boat festival. “You’re good. When you didn’t arrive right on time, I sent him a brief email, asking him to delay his call by fifteen minutes, just in case.”

Jordan sat down across from him at the desk. “How do you want this to work? Do you want to put him on speaker, so that we can both talk to him?”

“Why don’t we see what his preference is?” Bob replied. “I hear you had another visitor at your house last night.”

“Yeah, Clive Walters.” She gave him a brief recap. “Darcy and I think he might have murdered Holt and broke into my house looking for the documents, because he was trying to keep Seavey around as a ghost to improve business.”

Bob leaned back in his chair, raising both brows. “Really? That’s pretty crazy.”

“Yeah, I thought so. We won’t know for certain until Darcy—” Her cellphone rang, cutting her off. “That’s probably her right now. Excuse me.”

She stood up and walked a few feet away, pressing the screen with her thumb to answer the call. “Tell me he’s our guy,” she said without preamble.

“I don’t know whether he is or not,” Darcy said, sounding tired and exasperated.

“You’re kidding me.”

“No. The ballistics on the gun match, but he’s lawyered up and not talking. Several guests also swear he never left the winetasting event that evening, and they would have no reason to lie for him. So if he slipped out, I can’t figure out how or when. And he’s definitely not confessing to the murder—only to wanting to stop you from getting hold of the documents you needed to solve Seavey’s murder. He’s claiming I’m protecting you and that you killed Holt.”

Jordan stared out the window at the neat rows of expensive power boats and yachts in the marina. “So other than the sheer insanity of his faulty mental processing,” she said slowly, thinking it through, “that means someone else might have planted the gun.”

“Tragically, yes. I freaking hate this case. As of now, I’m concentrating on Sally as a Person of Interest, because she has the strongest motive. That could evaporate, though, if her ISP verifies that she was using email at the time of Holt’s murder.” Darcy sighed. “I don’t suppose you remember the last time you were in the library?”

“No, not really … maybe that morning? I was gone all that afternoon and evening. And the house was wide-open. Anyone could have put the gun there.”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t want to lock your doors when you leave,” Darcy said sarcastically.

“Hey.”

“Sorry, I’m a little testy.” Jordan heard her fiddle with some papers on her desk. “I can’t believe I’m asking this, but can you question the ghosts and see if any of them know anything or saw anything? We could use the information to point us to the right person.”

“I can ask, though they disappear with alarming regularity,” Jordan replied. “One of these days I’m going to ask them where they go. Not, mind you, that I’m sure I really want to know.”

“Well, get back to me as soon as you can, will you? I’m booking Walters on the attempted robbery, but a lawyer will have him back on the streets within hours.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.” She ended the call. “Sorry about that,” she said, turning. “That was Darcy, as I suspected.”

“Yes, I heard,” Bob said.

She froze midturn.

He held a very, very scary-looking, really, really big black gun in his hand. And it was pointed at her.

“But what about the conference call?” she asked stupidly, staring at the hole in the end of the barrel.

“I’m afraid I felt compelled to mislead you,” Bob replied gently.

Chapter 21

FUCK.” Jordan bent over, trying to control the roaring in her ears. With the thumb of her left hand, she surreptitiously speed-dialed Darcy. “I’m going to pee my pants.”

“That’s disgusting,” Bob said. “Suck it up.”

“ You try having a b-big gun pointed at you,” she retorted, feeling both nauseous and faint.

“Shut up.” He followed her sidelong glance toward the other room. “And unless you want me to kill all those nice, innocent tourists as well, you won’t try to get their attention.”

Which was exactly what she’d been thinking. Shit . Where was a damn ghost when she needed one? Even Charlotte could have caused some kind of commotion with all the crap lying around his office, and the distraction would have given her a chance to run for it. The front door wasn’t that far away.

She straightened gingerly. And focused on the hole in the end of the gun barrel. Again. “Why?”

“Why what?” He kept the gun trained on her as he leaned over to pick up the wastebasket beside the desk. “You mean, why did I kill Holt? That’s simple—he was going to expose my family background.”

“But everyone already knows about your great-great-grandfather MacDonough.”

“Not that ancestor. Sam Garrett.”

“ You’re related to Garrett?” She stared at him, utterly confused.

“Good ole Grady married Garrett’s sister not too long after Seavey’s death. And I knew once you started looking at the marriage records, you’d figure it out. I couldn’t have that. Cellphone, in here, now.” He gestured with the wastebasket. “I can’t have you trying to contact anyone.”

Shit, shit, shit . She reached into her back jeans pocket and slowly withdrew it. Hopefully, Darcy was hearing all of this.

“I still don’t understand,” she said, trying to buy herself time. “What difference does it make if you’re related to Sam Garrett? I would think that kind of notoriety would bring people in by the droves to the Wooden Boat Festival.”

Bob snorted. “Being the descendant of a master ship’s carpenter is prestigious . Being related to a mass murderer? Not so much. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s an economic recession, and people aren’t making charitable contributions like they used to. One whiff of my being related to a mass murderer, and the contributions to the Wooden Boat Society would have dried up. Not to mention that the festival would have bombed this year. And Holt had plans to hold a press conference , the fool.”

“You sent out a call?” Michael Seavey asked, materializing beside her. “Why does this man have a gun pointed at you? What have you done now?”

Her knees almost gave out in relief. She splayed a hand out at her side, hoping he understood the signal.

Seavey raised a brow. “Indeed, I never willingly engage in physical violence unless there is sufficient provocation.”

“Have you ‘called’ the others?” she asked, sotto voce.

“I don’t recommend calling anyone, unless you want me to shoot you right here and now.” Bob gestured with the gun. “Come on, I’m losing patience with your juvenile stall tactics. Give me the damn phone.”