P. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

“How about right now?”

* * *

AFTER clearing out the back of the Prius for the dog, Jordan folded down the backseats and made a bed out of a comforter she kept in the car for emergencies. But the dog didn’t fit standing up, and he also couldn’t jump in without banging his head on the ceiling. Since he outweighed her, she lifted his front paws in, then lifted and shoved his rear, then showed him how to scrunch down.

Once she had him settled, she dumped an armload of Hattie’s diaries on the passenger seat, then followed Darcy’s police cruiser out to the highway on the east side of town, to a location not far from the regional airport. Traffic was light in Jordan’s neighborhood, but when they turned onto the highway linking Port Chatham with the rest of the Olympic Peninsula, Jordan could see the impact tourists had in the summer months. Other than the ferry to Whidbey Island, the highway was Port Chatham’s only link to civilization. As such, it was crowded not only with tourists but with service and logging trucks.

The Historical Society’s building sat on a hillside with towering evergreens surrounding the parking lot. The architecture was plain—a one-story, cement block design. As a testament to the ongoing remodel, a large green construction waste bin sat not far from the front door, but there were no construction crews in sight. They parked their cars, Darcy waiting while Jordan cracked the windows for the dog, then they walked across the lot.

Darcy frowned at the sight of the piece of plywood that had evidently been nailed across the front door but now lay some distance away in the weeds on the edge of the parking lot. “I wonder how that happened.”

Jordan glimpsed a blue dress inside the building. “Maybe one of the crew took it off temporarily,” she prevaricated.

“That must be it.” Darcy produced a ring of keys and unlocked the door.

Inside, the space was dim, musty, and torn apart. Display cases stood empty and shoved to one side, and the carpet had been rolled up, exposing the subflooring. Walls had been ripped open, wiring hanging loose, and windows had been boarded over, presumably to protect the glass.

Jordan sneezed twice.

“The air in here is a little thick,” Darcy observed.

“So the archives are in the basement?” Jordan asked, waving a hand in front of her face and ignoring Hattie and Charlotte, who were lurking in the gloom on the far side of the room behind a display case.

“Yeah, the stairs to the basement are over there.” Darcy pointed. “I need to make my rounds—will you be okay here by yourself?”

“Sure,” Jordan said, relieved.

“Right. Back in a couple of hours, then?”

After Darcy let herself out, Jordan turned around. “I don’t even want to know about the plywood.”

Charlotte floated over the top of a display case, sniffing. “We were only trying to help.”

Jordan climbed down the stairs, followed by the ghosts. She pushed aside a curtain of heavy construction plastic that had been hung to protect the basement’s contents from the dust and dirt that accompanied any remodel. Charlotte stayed just long enough to retrieve a stack of historical fashion magazines and take them back upstairs.

“Which shelves hold the newspapers?” Jordan asked Hattie once they were standing in the midst of rows of metal stacks filled with boxes, books, and files. The construction of Longren House should have been a newsworthy event back then.

Hattie led her to the row next to the east wall. “Eleanor Canby’s newspaper—the Port Chatham Weekly Gazette —was the only one at the time.”

Jordan ran her fingers along spines of the neatly labeled file boxes. “A woman owned the newspaper?”

Hattie nodded. “Eleanor was editor-in-chief of the Gazette , and a very important person in town. She held strong views. You’ve seen the large house down the block from us? The one with the sign out front?”

Jordan had noticed the place. Situated on a block of more modest cottages, it was hard to ignore. It was huge—three stories including the attic—and very formal in design. A historic marker graced the front yard. She’d been meaning to check it out but hadn’t yet had the time.

“It’s called Canby Mansion,” Hattie said. “Eleanor’s husband had his ship’s carpenters handle all the finish work inside the house. It was considered a stunning accomplishment in its day. No one has ever figured out how they managed to disguise the support for the staircase. And the windows up above direct the sunlight onto friezes of different mythological figures, based on the month of the year—”

“Which dates should I be looking for?” Jordan interrupted, anxious to start reading.

“May 27, 1890. Charlotte used to love to go to Eleanor’s soirées,” Hattie continued. “They were the highlight of the Port Chatham social season.” Her smile faded, replaced by sadness. “That is, until … well.”

Jordan located several boxes for that year and pulled them off the shelf to stack them on a small desk next to the back wall. She blew dust off the desk and set down the materials. The only light came from a window high up on the wall, and since the lamp on the desk didn’t work, she surmised that the electricity was turned off. Hunting through her purse, she located the small penlight she kept for such occasions, praying the batteries were still good.

Opening the first box, she carefully pulled out the stack of yellowed papers and set them down, gingerly leafing through them. By the time she realized Hattie had pointed her to a date right after the fire she’d read about the day before—not the date Longren House had been built—she was so engrossed in an editorial written by Eleanor Canby that she forgot all about her original quest.

Fall from Grace

May 27, 1890

Fiery Conflagration Consumes Two Waterfront Blocks

It has been nearly six years since this community has been rocked by a deadly fire on the waterfront. Yet two nights ago we were once again confronted with the horrific consequences of the licentious behaviors of our waterfront denizens.

Certain residents of this town have suggested that this week’s fire was started by businessmen who were “encouraging” waterfront proprietors to pay promptly on accounts due, “or else.” Such residents would do well to get their facts straight before making these outlandish accusations against our upstanding businessmen. For it was revealed to this newspaper’s reporter late yesterday morning that the fire was indeed started as the result of the actions taken by a woman of the most degraded form of humanity.

It is now known that a young man from an honorable family had been frequently observed in the company of the soiled dove and become completely besotted. Two nights ago, in a fit of lovesick delirium and insane with liquor no doubt supplied by her, the young man killed the fallen woman, then set fire to the bed on which she lay. One can only assume he was subsequently overcome with guilt for the shame his family would have to endure when the truth came out, for he then effectually killed himself by blowing his brains out. The resulting conflagration was responsible for the taking of seven other lives and untold losses to many of our businessmen.

Let this tragedy serve as a warning to residents who sympathize with the women who engage in such scarlet sins. Public sentiment should see to it that these women who entice our young men to the waterfront pay dearly for this recent, tragic turn of events.

Hattie set the editorial next to her coffee cup on the dining room table and rubbed her throbbing temples. Eleanor might as well have mentioned her by name. A number of their neighbors had witnessed her argument with Eleanor the night before last—they would have no trouble putting together that incident with Eleanor’s pointed editorial.