P.J. Alderman - Ghost Ship

Praise for Haunting Jordan,

by P. J. Alderman …

“Lush, descriptive writing is the hallmark of P. J. Alderman’s novel Haunting Jordan .”

—DIANE MOTT DAVIDSON

“Blending a small measure of romance and a healthy dose of comedy into the suspenseful plot kept me up all night while I secretly attempted to figure out the ‘who-dun-it.’ Haunting Jordan is a breath of fresh air!”

—Suspense Magazine

“A fun read for the paranormal mystery fan, with lots of action and well-drawn characters you will enjoy meeting.”

—New Mystery Reader

“This book is wonderful. I got so wrapped up in it that I couldn’t put it down. Forget doing anything around the house or even going to sleep, I had to know who the murderers were.”

—Night Owl Romance

… and for her RITA-nominated debut, A Killing Tide

“Tense and riveting, Alderman’s debut delivers.”

—COLLEEN THOMPSON

“Suspense, romance, and a setting so well drawn that you’ll feel like you’re there—Alderman delivers it all. An outstanding debut!”

—MARILYN PAPPANO, RITA Award–winning author

“Alderman’s debut is a heart-thumping, quick-paced novel that will keep you on your toes. With an intricate plot, a complicated love story, and strong characters, this book possesses the winning formula for this genre.”

—Romantic Times Book Reviews

“A phenomenal debut novel combining suspense and romance against the backdrop of the sea.”

—Amazon (5 stars)

“You have a winner.… I stayed up until after midnight to finish it.… I love that pooch!!! I’m looking forward to future books by you—write fast!”

—CINDI STREICHER, Bookseller of the Year Award winner

By P. J. Alderman

Ghost Ship

Haunting Jordan

A Killing Tide

To my sister Julie

A False Light

Admiralty Inlet, Washington

August 5, 1893, 11 P.M.

HE was a damned fool.

Michael Seavey braced a boot against the taffrail at the stern of the Henrietta Dale . As he held a match to his cigar, the hand he cupped around the flame clenched into a fist.

The deck rolled as the clipper ship sliced through swells, leaving washes of luminous phosphorescence in its wake. An invisible salt-laden mist turned his silk cravat uncomfortably damp. Shivering, he tossed the match into the sea and tugged the lapels of his coat closed.

They ran on a broad reach, a chill, penetrating breeze cutting across the stern from the west. He’d chosen the night of the new moon for the Henrietta Dale ’s maiden voyage, confident the lack of natural light would obscure their presence from Customs revenue cutters. Setting sail out of Victoria, British Columbia, and bound for Port Chatham, Washington, his sloop carried precious cargo. Its spoils would provide him with the necessary currency to once again rule the waterfront.

Yet imprudently, he’d risked it all to save a fifteen-year-old girl who should have meant less than nothing to him.

“Let me live with you,” she’d pleaded two days past, standing in his hotel suite in her torn dress, her slender body trembling, her blue eyes awash in tears. “I’d make you happy—you won’t regret your decision.”

“It would be as if I’d slept with a ghost,” he’d replied with atypical gentleness. And God help him, he’d uttered none other than the truth.

His refusal should have signaled an end to their liaison. But ensnared by the knowledge that his own actions had endangered the girl, he’d felt compelled to bring her under his protection. And thus he’d exposed a fatal weakness to his enemies.

He shifted his feet, impatient. What was done could not be undone, no matter the consequences. Had Hattie still been alive, she would’ve expected no less of him.

The ship heeled hard to port on a gust of wind, its studding sails topping the waves, seawater sluicing off its creaking booms. He grabbed the rail to maintain his balance. Ten feet forward, the ship’s captain stood, feet braced wide, a sharp eye trained on the helmsman. Next to the forecastle, the current watch gathered, smoking pipes and talking quietly, their faces reflecting the green glow of the starboard lamp. None seemed concerned by the worsening seas. Michael relaxed once again.

Despite his relative inexperience at sea, he’d insisted on being aboard for the launch of his new business venture. So little interested him these days, yet he’d felt certain the thrill of the crossing—and of outfoxing the Customs agents—would stir his blood.

Even this initial voyage promised to prove quite profitable. The tins of opium concealed in secret compartments would net more than he made in a fortnight “procuring” crews from the logging camps for shipping masters. Rumors of his success would surely put an end to the recent erosion of his reputation.

And thus perhaps put an end to this cursed malaise he couldn’t seem to shake.

His jaw clenched, causing him to bite through the cigar’s wrapper. Even now, his enemies whispered that he’d gone soft. Utter nonsense, of course; he’d always bested them by whatever means necessary. Failure had never been an option.

It mattered not that he continued to be plagued by the memory of the only woman to have brought him to his knees. A woman dead these three long years. God damn her.

“Our current speed, Captain Williams,” he snapped.

“Roughly twelve knots, sir.” Williams was a short, stout man with a weathered countenance, and his overcoat strained across his barrel chest. “By dead reckoning, our remaining time to Port Chatham should be just over an hour and a half.”

Michael watched Williams triangulate their position using the lights of New Dungeness and Point Wilson, then give the order to correct their heading. Experienced yet ruthless, loyal yet greedy, the captain was a resource Michael could exploit if necessary. “And how is she handling?”

“She moves through the water without effort, sir! You did right by her during the restoration.” Williams paused long enough in his calculations to scowl. “I’ve never taken to those damned merchant steamers. Have you never smelled nothing so sweet as this air? Who would want to foul that with coal smoke, I ask you?”

“I doubt a steamer’s ambience would be palatable to my clientele,” Michael agreed wryly. Under the best of circumstances, opium smokers had tender stomachs.

Yet another pungent whiff of the stuff, smelling faintly of roasted peanuts, wafted through the portico of the great cabin he’d converted into a luxurious smoking den. Thank God he had the aroma of his cigar to mask such malodorous fumes. Though he’d been tempted by a great many vices in his lifetime, the heavenly demon held no allure. He smiled briefly. Fortunately, the same could not be said for Port Chatham’s social elite, who promised to line his coffers quite nicely through their love affair with the stuff.

His passengers this night were few but nonetheless prestigious: Jesse Canby, the dissolute son of Port Chatham’s self-acknowledged society matron Eleanor Canby; a town councilman determined to hide his addiction from his unforgiving electorate; and two eminently bribable, wealthy businessmen. Plus, of course, Michael’s beautiful young charge, serving as chef and assisting in the preparation and smoking of the pipes.

The ship abruptly dropped in the water, its forward momentum faltering. Sails flapped, thousands of yards of canvas and rigging slamming in deafening cacophony against the masts.