P. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

“Of course.”

Jase was waiting, so after telling the dog to stay, Jordan walked over to the bar, hefting a tray of drinks that Bill had mixed. “Where do these go?”

Jase pointed out the tables, then asked her to check others nearby for orders. A few customers noted the efficiency with which she handled the drinks and asked whether she planned to hire on. She laughed, replying that the way her checking account was being depleted, she might have to, which drew a few pained chuckles from people who were also renovating their historic homes.

She walked to the section of the room next to the front door to take orders. Some looked surprised, then smiled and told her they’d only come for the music, though a few others ordered drinks. She eventually made her way to where a man stood inside the front door, reading a newspaper. He hadn’t been there long—she’d noticed him when he walked in.

“What would you like?” she asked, pencil poised over the small order pad Jase had given her.

The man glanced up from the newspaper, his light-colored eyes sweeping over her without expression. She had only a brief moment to realize he made her uneasy before he replied. “Jack Daniel’s.”

“Neat?” she clarified, writing it down.

“Sure.”

“Be right back with that.” She turned to go, mentally shrugging. She could feel his eyes on her back, and it occurred to her as she crossed to the bar that the LAPD might have sent him to keep an eye on her.

Controlling a spurt of irritation at the thought, she gave her orders to Jase, made several more trips through the packed room, then returned to lean both elbows against the bar. If she was under surveillance, so be it—she was determined to enjoy herself. She purposefully ignored the stranger, listening to the musicians warm up while she waited for the next round to be mixed.

Ted raised his horn, working his way through a complicated riff, his fingers caressing the valves, and she was reminded once again of his tremendous talent—he truly was one of the greats. Or he would’ve been, if his career hadn’t been interrupted by a stint of drugs and alcohol. He’d always claimed that he could be the next Miles Davis, and his band members had privately admitted to her that he wasn’t being arrogant. Perhaps now that his career was back on track, he’d get the recognition he deserved.

She jolted as an arm snaked around her waist. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the pretty lady who offed her old man for sleeping around,” a deep, gritty voice murmured in her ear.

She smelled the alcohol on his breath before she looked up into Holt Stilwell’s leer. Calmly, she stepped to one side, but his grip tightened, keeping her where she was. Rather than struggle with him, she looked him in the eye. “How convenient, Mr. Stilwell. I’ve been meaning to ask you about borrowing your family papers.”

It wasn’t the reaction he’d obviously hoped for. “What’re you talking about?”

“I’m looking for any diaries you might have from the late 1800s.”

He dropped his hand to her hip. “Well, now, if I do have any, I wouldn’t let you see them.” He grinned, purposely crowding her. “That is, unless you want to drop by my place later tonight.”

“Holt.” Jase had approached without her knowledge. His eyes lacked their customary warmth, and his voice was deceptively quiet.

Stilwell stared at him for a long moment. “She yours?”

Jordan gaped at Stilwell, wondering whether she’d time-traveled back a century.

Jase shook his head. “Don’t.”

Darcy was out of her chair and looking determined, but Jordan shook her head at her. “Excuse me.” She took the tray of drinks Jase had set on the bar and moved away, effectively breaking the tension. From a safe distance, she turned back, her expression polite. “If you wouldn’t mind looking for those papers, Mr. Stilwell, I’d appreciate it.”

He shrugged. “Whatever.”

After delivering the drinks, she gave Stilwell time to focus his attention elsewhere by walking over to the stage. “You guys want any water to drink during your set?” she asked the band members.

Ted frowned, wiping down his horn with a soft cloth. “You’re working here?”

She shook her head. “Just helping out for the evening.”

“That’s not okay,” he protested. “You shouldn’t be hauling our drinks.”

He’d always voiced strong opinions about what she should be doing with her life, opinions she felt were inappropriate. She kept her tone light. “I’m just getting a little exercise and helping out a friend.”

“Let her bust her butt, hon.” Didi Wyeth’s clothes and makeup were stunning, her voice artificially sultry, her body slender to the point of emaciation. Her glance flicked over Jordan dismissively as she snuggled up to Ted’s side.

Jordan noted that the gesture seemed to annoy him, and given the brittleness of Didi’s expression, she suspected the actress had picked up on his reaction as well.

“I’m sure Jordan needs the money, since insurance companies don’t pay out to murderesses,” Didi continued, smiling with false sympathy at Jordan.

“Didi,” Ted warned.

She shrugged. “Grey Goose martini, double, dirty,” she ordered.

“No problem.” Jordan smiled politely and wrote down the order, then returned to the bar.

“Is she bothering you?” Jase asked, evidently having observed the interchange.

“You mean, do I mind that she’s here?” Jordan shrugged. “Thanks for the thought, but, no, I’m fine. Ryland pretty much killed whatever feelings I had for him long before she arrived on the scene.”

“Good to know,” Jase said quietly.

Their gazes met and held. She moved to place two pitchers of ice water for the band onto her tray, silently willing her hands to remain steady.

“That should do it for the moment,” he said in a more businesslike tone. “Sit with Darcy and enjoy the music—I’ll let you know whether I need you again.”

“Deal.” She hesitated. “And thanks.”

He smiled, catching her reference to Stilwell. “Standard knight-in-shining-armor stuff, though my armor may be a bit tarnished here and there.”

Tarnished just enough, she suspected, to enhance his appeal.

* * *

DARCY had somehow managed to save her chair from the boisterous crowd. The pub was now standing room only, the roar of laughter and clink of glasses loud enough that Jordan had to strain to hear Darcy. As many people were simply listening to the music as were purchasing drinks, though Jase didn’t seem to mind. Tom had decamped to stand with friends at the opposite end of the bar.

“So Ted Rawlins lives most of the year in L.A.?” Darcy asked.

Jordan gave her a questioning look. “As far as I know. Why?”

“Just curious how well you know him.”

The light dawned. “Ah, you think maybe I had a relationship with him, and that’s what I’m keeping quiet about? That Ryland and I were both into kink with our patients? No way.”

“Then why is the actress sending you death rays?”

“She probably still feels threatened by my presence, given that she dated Ryland before the divorce was finalized,” Jordan replied. She cocked her head. “You have an overly suspicious mind.”

“Comes with the territory. I spent five years in the Minneapolis PD as a homicide detective, so I’m more jaded than most.”

That certainly explained Darcy’s fair coloring—the upper Midwest was heavily populated with Scandinavians. Still, Jordan was surprised. “I thought you were a local.”

“Nope. I’ve been here eight years, which in the locals’ eyes still makes me a newcomer. You’d be amazed by the number of folks in this town who have a past life.” Darcy cocked her head toward the bar. “Bill, for instance, used to be a Wall Street trader. And Tom was a tenured professor at the University of Washington; he taught chemistry.”