P. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

“If he does, the local cops don’t know about it,” she said, then winced when she realized how that must sound to Jase.

She was fairly certain Darcy would’ve mentioned any surveillance, but then again, perhaps she was trusting Darcy more than she should. Being under surveillance did jibe with her feeling of being watched, unless—and she’d wondered about this during the night—her edginess could be attributed to the presence of the ghosts. But that assumed there actually were ghosts, which there weren’t.

Her brain hurt.

“Gotta go—patient’s here ,” Carol said. “Seriously, do you need me to come up there?”

“No.”

“You’re okay?”

“Everything’s under control,” Jordan lied, then said goodbye. Flipping the phone shut, she turned to face Jase. “Just how much of that did you hear?”

“Quite a bit,” he said cheerfully. Slouching against the railing with latte in hand, ankles crossed, he looked comfortably at home on her porch. This morning’s Henley T-shirt was faded, his jeans ripped. His strong jawline was shadowed with day-old beard.

“I felt bad about how things were left last night,” he said by way of apology, “so I thought I’d offer my services.”

She took a sip of her coffee, giving him a sidelong glance as she went back to tearing off paint chips. “You’ll help me find a ghost buster?”

“’Fraid not.” He smiled. “I gather Hattie and Charlotte want you to investigate the murder?”

“Assuming you buy the premise that they exist, yes.”

“Hmm.” He drank from his cup thoughtfully. “Why doesn’t Hattie already know who murdered her?”

Jordan had asked the same question last night. “From what I gather, there’s this whole afterlife process—” She stopped, realizing how crazy she sounded. “Let’s just say it takes a while to … metamorphose, so Hattie wasn’t immediately available to see her murderer.”

Jase accepted her explanation without blinking. “Was Charlotte in the house?”

“Yes, but asleep. And before you ask, so was the housekeeper. She heard nothing until Frank Lewis, the union man, woke her to tell her what had happened.” Jordan shrugged. “Odds really are good that Frank did it—he was in the house when it happened.”

“But logically speaking, if he did, Hattie wouldn’t need you to solve her murder. Ghosts typically remain on our plane for a reason.”

Jordan gave him a “get real” look. “Even if I have been asked to investigate Hattie’s murder, it would be virtually impossible. It’s not as if any potential witnesses are still alive, and the court records probably aren’t even available.”

“It was common practice back then to keep diaries—even for men, right? I’m betting if you can lay your hands on Tom’s great-grandfather’s, you’ll find he wrote about the case in detail. After all, it would’ve been a high point in his career to catch the perpetrator of a society murder.”

“Maybe.” Jordan was unconvinced.

“Plus, there will be old newspaper accounts available,” Jase pointed out. “It’s really too bad the Hapleys are out of the country. The historical society is the obvious place to start your search, what with its archives of newspapers, photos, and family documents.”

“But you said yourself there’s no one around who can get me inside the building.”

He frowned. “It’s possible we could sweet-talk Darcy into it … wait. Charlotte has to know something about the original investigation, right? She would’ve still been alive during the trial.”

“Yeah, what the hell, just ask the ghosts,” Jordan grumbled. “I’m trying to rationalize my way out of this.”

He managed to look amused and sympathetic at the same time. “Probably won’t be successful with that.”

Jordan shot him a narrow look and picked up the spatula with the intent of going back to her scraping, but he leaned in close, gently prying it from her grasp. “Philosophically, I’m against gouging hundred-year-old wood, no matter what the provocation. And you should be wearing a mask—this old paint probably has lead in it. Which brings me to the reason I dropped by.” He tossed the spatula into the bucket, then pushed away from the railing. “I’ve only got a couple of hours before suppliers start making deliveries, so let’s get a move on.”

“Where are we going?” she asked warily.

“I’m going to advise you in the purchase of a hammer.” His voice was grave, but his eyes held a definite twinkle.

He jogged down the steps and held open the passenger door of his pickup, one eyebrow raised. The dog trotted over and jumped in without a backward glance, but Jordan already knew what kind of scruples he had.

She hung back. “Are you certain you want to help me purchase tools that can be wielded as deadly weapons?”

He smiled, but his gaze remained serious. “I’ll take my chances.”

Dammit .

Chapter 6

THEY returned from the hardware store just before noon with a truckload of tools, Jordan’s bank account balance substantially depleted.

Jase had introduced her to Ed, a small, wizened man with a handlebar mustache who had greeted Jase as if he were a long-lost friend. Despite Jase’s personal avowals, Ed had eyed her with deep suspicion.

“You sure about her?” he’d asked Jase outright.

“She’s already talked to Hattie and Charlotte.”

“Oh, well then.” Ed had nodded, and Jordan had resisted the temptation to roll her eyes.

She was now the proud owner of three ladders—a six-foot, a ten-foot, and an extension; a pile of books on historical renovation Jase had insisted were required reading; at least four hammers, each of which—he had patiently explained—served very different purposes; and a few large, lethal-looking power saws and drills that he’d made her promise not to turn on until he could demonstrate their safe use.

“I can follow instructions,” she said as they unloaded the shiny red tool chest she would use to store the smaller tools, a little miffed by his lack of confidence in her skills.

“Instructions are iffy, and I don’t want to be the one hauling you into the ER, so humor me.”

She would’ve continued to protest, but they were interrupted by the arrival of a middle-aged woman, conservatively dressed in cotton slacks and a short-sleeved knit top, walking across Jordan’s front yard, carrying a foil-covered casserole dish.

“Hey, Felicia,” Jase greeted her.

“Hey yourself.” She returned his grin, then turned to Jordan, thrusting the casserole dish into her hands. “I’m Felicia Warren, your neighbor to the east.” She waved at the pretty white bungalow next door surrounded by a white picket fence. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

“Thanks.” Jordan had an immediate impression of cheerful, energetic, and down-to-earth. “Your yard is gorgeous.” She’d noticed it the day before as she sat on her front stoop reading, wincing when she’d contrasted it with her overgrown, weed-ridden jungle.

Felicia’s yard looked chaotic, but there the similarities ended. An artfully designed riot of flowers overflowed onto meandering stone paths, encouraging visitors to wander through and linger awhile on one of several bent-wood benches. No doubt Felicia was thrilled that someone would finally be taking care of the yard next to hers.

She beamed at Jordan’s compliment. “I’m so pleased with it! Amanda, my daughter, handled all the planting and design. I taped her business card to the foil right on top of your dish.” She pointed. “Amanda specializes in historical restorations.”

Jordan retrieved the card, reading it. “I’ll be sure to give her a call.”