P. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

She turned away to stack dinner plates in the cupboard to the right of the sink. “I guess it doesn’t matter, does it? I need a lawyer, and you’re willing to help. Darcy is right, beggars can’t be choosers. I should be grateful.”

“But you don’t have to like it,” he concluded astutely.

She didn’t reply, pulling another newspaper-wrapped stack of china out of the box.

He sighed and held out his hand. “Give me five dollars, dammit.”

She fished the bill out of her pocket and handed it to him. “In the movies, it’s always a dollar,” she said lightly.

“I’ve never been cheap.”

She smiled, but it was halfhearted.

He shook his head. “Anything you need to tell me before the meeting tomorrow? Something you might know that never made it into the accounts in the newspapers?”

She hesitated. “No.”

“All right.” He turned to go, then paused. “Just one more thing.” She looked up from her unpacking. “Just in case you’re inclined to make comparisons, I’m not at all like your late husband. Got it?”

She nodded. Again.

He certainly wasn’t acting laid back any longer.

* * *

FOR the rest of the day, Jordan unpacked, focusing on the kitchen, trying to ignore the sounds of the chain saw and large pieces of wood thumping down the stairs. She worked even harder at ignoring the meeting tomorrow and her stark terror of being arrested. Somehow, if she could get the kitchen under control, she told herself, she would be able to handle the chaos in the rest of her life.

The ghosts remained conspicuously absent, for which she was grateful—she couldn’t cope with them at the moment. She could only hope they weren’t up to anything nefarious.

Tom poked his head in around midafternoon to tell her that the foundation was solid, but that the library wall would have to be rebuilt. Calling Amanda in from the garden, they discussed strategies for saving the wisteria and creating an iron trellis structure that could be attached to the outside wall and support the vine, preventing it from damaging the new wall.

Not too long after, Felicia Warren dropped by to deliver the forms Jordan would need to fill out to have Longren House added to Port Chatham’s historic homes register. They spent a pleasant hour discussing the pros and cons of owning and refurbishing a historic home. Jase was right—the woman was a fount of knowledge. Jordan’s head was spinning by the time she left.

Just before dinner, Jordan slipped out to deliver the dog to the vet’s for grooming and a wellness check, repeatedly promising him that she would be back to pick him up in the morning. She could tell by his expression that he didn’t believe her. Clearly, he had as many trust issues as she did—he’d probably been betrayed in his life just as many times.

The movers were finished by the time she returned, and she wrote a check, adding a large cash tip. She even accepted with aplomb the Goth kid’s note referencing a Tourette’s syndrome hotline and support group.

When the ghosts still hadn’t reappeared by dark, she decided to simply enjoy the time on her own. Pouring herself a hefty glass of Merlot, she knocked down empty boxes for recycling, then smoothed and folded a small stack of packing paper, to be saved in case she decided she had to slip over the Canadian border in the middle of the night with the dog and a few belongings. With a second glass of wine in hand, she headed up to the attic to search for Charlotte’s diaries. After an hour of digging through boxes covered with debris from the earlier chain saw activity, she’d uncovered nothing of interest and admitted defeat. A search of Charlotte’s room yielded similar results.

It wasn’t until late that night, after she came back from taking a long walk through her new neighborhood, missing the company of the dog the entire time, that she realized she was still so keyed up over the upcoming interview with Drake that her chances of sleeping through the night were slim to none.

She changed into an oversized football jersey, crawled under her down comforter, and, with a cool night breeze flowing in the window, picked up the stack of Hattie’s diaries she’d pulled off the library shelves that afternoon.

Might as well distract herself with a murder investigation she could control.

Unintended Consequences

HATTIE reached into the carriage and lifted Frank’s hand to feel for a pulse. Fast and erratic, but there. Dear God. She’d been the cause of this.

“We have no doctors on the waterfront,” Mona said in a low voice behind her. “I didn’t know who else to turn to. He’s been unconscious for hours—my men found him in the alley behind the Green Light this afternoon. I had hoped he’d come to, but …”

Arms wrapped around herself to keep from trembling, Hattie straightened. “Sara!” she yelled.

The housekeeper must have been standing close by, for she appeared within seconds.

“Go quickly and fetch the girls,” Hattie ordered. “Have Charlotte rush a note over to Dr. Willoughby’s infirmary—we need him on a matter of utmost urgency.” Willoughby was Celeste’s father and ran the neighborhood medical clinic. “Instruct Charlotte to take Tabitha with her, and to remain vigilant, returning home at once. Upon their departure, put clean bedding on the cot in the attic bedroom.”

“Ma’am!” Sara protested, spying the contents of the carriage. “You can’t possibly mean to bring him into our home!”

“That is precisely what I intend. Mr. Lewis may have suffered this beating because of what I asked of him. It’s our responsibility to see that he gets the care he needs. Now, go!”

The housekeeper fled, and Hattie turned back to Mona. “Can your coachman help us carry him inside?”

“Of course.” Mona walked to the front of the carriage and gave a quiet order. “Frank was doing your bidding when this happened?” she asked as they waited for the man to climb down.

“Yes, he was looking into a business matter for me.”

“So you might know who did this—or ordered it done.”

“I have a very good idea, yes,” Hattie replied, her fury building. “Rest assured that I intend to have a word with Chief Greeley.”

The coachman had opened the opposite door of the carriage and positioned himself at Frank’s head. With Hattie and Mona holding Frank’s legs, they eased him out of the carriage and onto the ground.

The coachman leaned down and gently lifted him in his arms. “Where to, ma’am?”

Hattie directed him through the back door, then up two flights of stairs to a room under the eaves. He lowered Frank to the cot Sara had just finished hastily making up, shifting his body to a more comfortable position.

Hattie surveyed the room, mentally rearranging the secondhand furniture to create a small but functional infirmary. If she left the door open to the floor below, heat would make its way up the stairs and keep the room comfortably warm. Frank would be safe, yet well concealed. If anyone made a social call, he or she would be none the wiser.

Sara handed her a blanket, which she shook out and draped carefully over Frank. He hadn’t stirred since he’d been removed from the carriage. She turned to Sara, who hovered, sneaking curious glances at Mona. “Prepare a basin of warm water, along with some clean rags, and bring them to me.”

“Yes, ma’am. The girls are on their way to Dr. Willoughby’s, ma’am.”

“Good.” Hattie glanced at Mona. “There’s nothing more we can do for the moment. If you’d be kind enough to follow me down to the second-floor parlor while we await the physician’s arrival, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Mona inclined her head. “Of course.” Turning to the coachman, she ordered him to wait for her in the carriage.