P. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

Parking the Prius around the corner from the pub, Jordan climbed out. The dog knew where to go and bounded in that direction, leaving her to follow at her own pace, shaking her head. After just two days in his company, she was fairly certain he was smarter than she was.

As she turned onto the main arterial, she halted, her gaze drawn down the sloping hill to the inlet beyond. The sunset promised to be stunning—the water already glistened in bands of midnight blue, orange, and neon pink. Lights on the ferry returning from Whidbey Island twinkled against the darkening sky, its wake rippling through the prism of colors. Downtown, the ornate outlines of historical buildings were backlit against the crimson sky. She felt like a tourist, gaping at the picture-perfect, post-cardlike scene spread below her.

A young man rode past her on an old-fashioned high-wheel bicycle, completing the charm of the scene.

“Nice evening for a ride,” she called to him, and he grinned, giving her a quick salute. Then he spread his arms wide and tilted his head back, coasting down the hill.

A chill wind gusted down the street behind him, dragging pine needles and bits of debris in its wake. She shivered, hugging herself. According to the locals, she could expect wind year-round. Because Port Chatham sat surrounded by inlets and bays, no matter which direction the wind blew, the town sustained a direct hit off water that averaged temperatures in the forty-degree range. She would definitely have to modify her wardrobe before she froze to death.

The tavern was already crowded, heat and bright light spilling onto the sidewalk. Jase stood behind the bar, helping Bill mix drinks. Mellow jazz played from the sound system’s speakers but was mostly drowned out by shouts of laughter and loud conversation.

The minute Jordan entered, Darcy pointed to the empty chair at her table, her expression determined. “I might consent to you relaxing with a drink first, but you owe me a detailed report.”

“Alcohol loosens my tongue, so that’s definitely your best strategy.” Jordan dropped into the chair.

“Then allow me to pour it down your throat. Just out of curiosity, how many drinks does it take to get you drunk?”

“Two.”

“Huh. Probably best not to admit that in mixed company.” Darcy drank some beer. “I suppose the ghosts were there this afternoon?”

“I plead the Fifth.”

“Shit.” Darcy flopped back in her chair. “I’m pissed that you can see them and I can’t.”

“Want to trade places?”

Jase brought over a glass of Australian Shiraz. “Figured out who dunnit yet?” he asked.

Jordan narrowed her gaze. “It’s early days. Don’t you have customers to tend to?”

He shot her a grin. “Yes, ma’am.”

She followed his progress back to the bar, then watched him mix drinks. He handled the task the way he handled everything—confidently and capably. “There ought to be a patch,” she muttered.

Darcy gave her a sideways glance. “Come again?”

“You know, like those nicotine patches? Only these would provide nice little vanilla orgasms, to take the edge off so you’re not inclined to do something foolish.”

“Vanilla orgasms,” Darcy repeated, shaking her head. “How’s that Four-Point Plan working for you?”

“Just peachy.”

A dark-haired woman of average height, rail thin and radiating a grim intensity, approached their table. “Are you going to buy that fancy crap at the deli or eat dinner here tonight?”

“Jordan, meet Kathleen, the chef of All That Jazz,” Darcy offered.

“Eat here?” Jordan replied faintly.

“Good choice.” Kathleen cocked her head at the dog, who had stretched out on his designated patch of floor. “A couple of burgers for him? It’s grass-fed, organic beef.”

“Sure, okay.”

“You name him yet?”

“He doesn’t like the names I’ve come up with so far, but I think I’m making progress.”

Kathleen snorted and left.

Jordan looked at Darcy. “She didn’t ask what I wanted.”

“You’ll get whatever she thinks you should have.”

“She also didn’t seem too concerned about Health Department regulations.” Jordan cocked her head at the dog.

“The inspector is someone’s stepmother’s cousin—I can’t remember exactly who—but we don’t worry overly much.” Darcy made a hurry-up motion with her hand. “Now quit stalling and spill it.”

Jordan brought her up-to-date on what she’d read that afternoon about the men in Hattie’s life. “The thing is, any of them could’ve had a motive to kill Hattie, and any of them could’ve been either an abusive or pathological personality type.”

Darcy drummed her fingers on the table. “I think your problem is that you’re viewing this from current-day perspective. Historically speaking, men were possessive, controlling chauvinists.”

“You mean, rethink my definition of ‘normal.’ Right —been doing that a lot lately. So there were no laws on the books regarding domestic abuse or sexual harassment?”

“The terms weren’t even known back then. I whine about men like Holt Stilwell, but the reality is, if he steps over the line, he’s broken the law. Back then, not so much. And within a marriage, women had even fewer rights.”

Jordan took a healthy sip of wine, enjoying the crisp bite of the Shiraz while she thought about it. “You know, Michael Seavey could be as strong a suspect as Frank Lewis.” Jordan summarized his involvement in waterfront crime for Darcy.

“Maybe.” Darcy looked unconvinced. “What about potential female suspects? Given a sturdy murder weapon, a woman has the strength to bash in a skull.”

“Eleanor Canby, the owner of the Port Chatham Weekly Gazette , comes to mind. She disapproved of Hattie’s actions, even openly accused her of poor judgment in an editorial. That’s a little over the top.”

“Who was in the house that night?”

“Besides Frank Lewis? The housekeeper and Charlotte. I doubt either had a motive to kill Hattie.”

Kathleen served their dinners—salads of fresh organic greens topped with ahi tuna seared in ginger and garlic, accompanied by warm, crusty chunks of bread to be dipped in olive oil. Jordan abruptly realized how famished she was. She cut the two hamburgers into bite-sized chunks, placing the plate on the floor for the dog, then dug in to her salad.

The first bite registered with her taste buds. “This is good.”

Darcy nodded, her mouth already full.

Once Jordan had sated the worst of her hunger and was willing to talk between bites, she continued. “I read that in the 1890s, Port Chatham was the second-largest port on the West Coast behind San Francisco. And that it had all the prostitutes, smuggling, et cetera, et cetera, you typically find in a port town.”

Darcy sprinkled sea salt on her olive oil and dipped the bread into it. “Yeah, the waterfront was literally lawless.”

“And yet, if the editorial I read today was any indication, Port Chatham did have an upper-crust society.”

“As far as I know, that’s accurate. I’ve heard mention of a group of women, referred to as Mercer Girls, who would’ve been the matrons of Port Chatham society by the time Hattie arrived.”

“Was Eleanor Canby one of them?”

Darcy looked toward the bar. “Tom! Eleanor Canby, Port Chatham Weekly Gazette —Mercer Girl?”

“Yep.” He picked up a box that had been sitting on the bar and brought it over to the table. “Back in the 1860s, William Mercer, the president of the University of Washington, realized how scarce marriageable women were in the region, so he traveled back East and returned with young, single, educated women from good families.” Tom placed the box on the floor beside Jordan’s chair, then pulled up his own. “Several Mercer Girls married ships’ captains in the area and went on to become socially powerful in their communities.”