P. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

“Is that really a problem?” Jase asked, and she gave him a dirty look.

“An entire community of ghosts, huh?” Darcy said. “Seriously cool. Maybe you can help me figure out what I need to do, to be receptive enough to see them.”

“I think either you can see them, or you can’t,” Tom said. “It’s not like you can develop powers you don’t have.”

“Why the hell not?” Darcy asked.

Jordan’s head shot up as a new thought occurred to her. “Oh, oh.”

She jumped up, scanning the crowd until she found the man from two nights ago who’d never paid for his drink. He held her gaze for a fraction of a second, then turned and slipped through the crowd.

Dammit! He was getting away. She hurriedly nudged the dog awake with her foot.

“Whoa, hold on.” Jase took hold of her arm. “Where’re you going?”

“There’s someone I need to check out.” She folded the rope for the dog.

“Wait a minute—with all that’s been happening, you’re not chasing after someone on your own.”

“No, really, I’m okay,” she assured him. “I don’t think I’m in any danger.”

“Dammit—”

“I’ll explain later.” She was already out the door, jogging toward home.

* * *

SHE followed the stranger, keeping a half block between them. Though she was fairly certain he knew she was there, he didn’t stop or look back, instead disappearing around the corner. As she and the dog turned onto her street, she spied him standing next to a streetlight across from her house.

The dog planted all four paws, the hair on his back raised, and growled low in his throat. She halted, barely avoiding somersaulting over him. Putting a hand on his neck, she murmured, “Go up on the porch, boy. I’ll be okay.”

He cast a distrustful glance toward the man, then reluctantly did as she asked. Sitting on the top step, he kept watch as she jogged across the street.

The man straightened as she approached, his expression becoming resigned. She had a fleeting moment to wonder whether she was out of her mind, walking up to a stranger on a deserted street, and that thought had her stopping a safe distance from him. She shoved her hands into her pockets and met his hard gaze.

“You’re Frank Lewis, aren’t you?” she accused.

Chapter 14

THE ghost gave her a blatant once-over that had her wondering whether even after crossing over … well, to wherever ghosts cross over to, men continued to be plagued by a preoccupation with women and sex. She carefully returned his perusal.

Actually, now that she could see him rather than relying on Hattie’s written description of him, she could understand the attraction. Attitude radiated from him in waves, and in a rough-hewn, antiquated sort of way, she figured he pretty much personified “bad-boy hunk” for the nineteenth century.

The fact that his clothing was a century out of style and hung loosely on his hard, angular frame did little to lessen his impact. And though Jase held far more appeal for her, she wasn’t completely immune.

She brought herself up short. Okay, she hadn’t just compared the sex appeal of a ghost to that of a real man, right?

“Does Hattie know you’re here?” she asked.

He shook his head, settling himself more comfortably and shoving his hands into the pockets of his baggy work pants. “You’re not to tell her, either.”

Jordan crossed her arms. “You know, that would’ve gone over a whole lot better as a request. Just in case you need tutoring in twenty-first-century customs vis-à-vis the gender wars.”

His expression turned wary. “Pardon?”

“Never mind.”

Glancing around the darkened neighborhood, she wondered whether any neighbors were watching. If so, they would think she was standing on the street conversing with a light pole. It was a safe bet she wasn’t enhancing her reputation. Then again, given the most recent rumors that were bound to be flying around, talking to a light pole might be considered a minor infraction.

“So why are you here?” she asked.

“To keep an eye on your investigation.” One corner of his mouth lifted in a slight smile. “You could say I have an uncommon interest in your findings.”

She eyed him suspiciously. Either she’d had too much to drink, or he’d just made a spectral pun. “Have you been following me since I arrived in town?”

He snorted. “If I had been, you wouldn’t have known I was there. We can be present without revealing ourselves.”

“So why reveal yourself at all?”

“Because I thought it was time to impress upon you the importance of finding Hattie’s murderer. From what I’ve seen so far, you’re rather inept.”

She gaped at him. Not only was she delusional, her imaginary friends were now criticizing her performance. This had to represent a new low in methods of self-recrimination. “Did you kill Hattie?”

“Of course not.” His tone was chiding, as if he thought she was dull-witted.

“You were in the house that night, which makes you the most likely suspect,” she pointed out stubbornly. “You had opportunity.”

“How ironic. Aren’t you currently criticizing the police detective on your case for thinking you’re the most likely suspect in your husband’s murder, simply because you were there when he was murdered?”

She could’ve argued that she wasn’t the one with the reputation for violence, but he had a point. Still, his people skills definitely could use some improvement. “You claimed you were drugged. How?”

His brow furrowed. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “At first I thought it was possible Hattie had slipped laudanum into my tea. We’d argued about my refusal to take the drug—I was concerned with remaining alert, but she didn’t like to see me suffering. But I brewed my tea after she retired upstairs for the evening, so I had to rule out that possibility. I did add brandy to my tea, though. I doubt I would’ve tasted the laudanum, had it been added to the decanter.”

“And the physician left the laudanum in the house when he’d examined you after your attack.”

“Yes.”

“Clive Johnson ordered the attack on you, didn’t he?”

“I never knew for certain. Two of the men who attacked me were employed by Johnson, but the other two worked for Seavey. Hattie believed Johnson had ordered it, though.”

Jordan frowned. “So who do you think killed Hattie?”

“That’s what you’re supposed to find out, isn’t it? With all that expertise you have digging around inside people’s heads?”

“You must’ve had your suspicions.”

“Seavey was the perfect suspect—he was in love with Hattie, and he had a reputation for destroying what he couldn’t have. He also wanted the union neutralized, so framing me for her murder would have been an efficient solution.” Frank’s mouth twisted. “He looked quite pleased at my hanging.”

Jordan couldn’t quite wrap her mind around experiencing one’s own hanging and then “living” to tell about it. But in the face of Frank’s suspicions of Seavey, she had to wonder once again whether she was letting her weakness for charming psychopaths color her impressions. After all, there was no question Seavey hadn’t been a good man. So why didn’t she believe he’d killed Hattie? “I’ve been bothered by the fact that John Greeley didn’t pursue any other suspects.”

Frank lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Don’t forget, Greeley hated Hattie. He blamed her for Charlotte’s ruination. Had it not been considered a society murder, he might not have investigated at all.”

“Clive Johnson had good reason to kill Hattie, not to mention frame you for the murder. That’s pretty damning.”