P. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

Jordan hesitated, baffled by the question.

“Can’t you see she hasn’t even moved in yet?” Nora chided her sister. “Magazines would be the very last thing she’d unpack.”

“Nonsense. Anyone who keeps up on fashion would have one or two magazines with them for the long trip up here, now, wouldn’t they? And she did travel all the way from California.”

“Ah, well—”

“Delia.” Nora ignored Jordan’s attempted reply. “Quit harassing the poor girl.”

Delia pouted.

Jordan couldn’t remember the last time anyone had referred to her as a “girl,” but she had to admit that it beat “black widow” hands down. She pasted an apologetic smile on her face. “I’m afraid I really don’t pay much attention to fashion,” she said, gesturing at her jeans, which looked “vintage” only because of the number of washings they’d endured. “About those refreshments—”

“We brought treats!” Delia lit up, her moods fluctuating at the speed of a teenager’s. “A chocolate cake! We put it in the kitchen.”

“How kind of you. Let me find some paper plates. But first, would you like a tour of the house?”

“Don’t go to the trouble,” Nora told her firmly. “We’ve seen it many times.”

“That makes sense.” Jordan led the way toward the kitchen. “I suppose Port Chatham has a historic homes tour, right? And the prior owners would’ve had the place on the tour, what with the murder and all.”

She heard a gasp behind her; she turned to find Delia halted, tears in her eyes.

“There, there.” Nora rushed to put an arm around her sister’s shoulders. “She’s extremely sensitive,” she confided to Jordan. “She cries over the sad stories associated with some of the homes here in town.”

“I’m so sorry. Can I get anything? Perhaps some water?”

“No, we’re fine. Your comment took us by surprise, that’s all.”

“So you know all about the murder?”

“Of course. Poor Hattie. Such a tragedy it was. Killed by the man she loved, they say …” Nora handed Delia a handkerchief, her own expression bereft. “But we never really believed the official story, now, did we?”

“No.” Delia blew her nose loudly. “Frank loved Hattie. He never would have killed her.”

“Though it’s true we don’t really know for certain—”

“I do! He was a wonderful man. He didn’t have a violent bone in his body.”

Nora sent her sister a sharp look. “Well, perhaps, though it would hardly seem so from the newspaper accounts.” Her hand sliced through the air impatiently. “The fact is, I’ve always suspected Seavey.”

“Who is—was—Seavey?” Jordan asked, intrigued.

“Well, I don’t think he did it,” Delia insisted. “Even if he was a bad man.”

“He was a vile man. Anyone can see that from—”

“But he worshipped Hattie—”

“He most certainly did not !”

“Cake,” Jordan said grimly. “In the kitchen. Now.”

Nora jumped. “We have to be going.” She pointed Delia in the direction of the front door.

“No—wait,” Jordan said hastily. Right. Scare off the sweet little local ladies. That’ll endear you to the neighborhood . “I’m sorry for sounding abrupt—it’s just that I’ve already had a long drive and … Please stay.”

“No, we mustn’t keep you.” Nora nudged her sister forward. “We just stopped by to bring you a few historical documents we thought you might enjoy. They’re on the counter next to the cake. You’ll return them to us at the Society when you’re through with them, won’t you?”

“Of course. How thoughtful of you. In fact, I’m eager to visit and go through your collection.” Jordan waved a hand. “I’m determined to fix the old place up. I’d love to see some pictures from when it was new, plus any articles that might have appeared at the time in the local newspapers.”

Evidently she’d said the right thing, because both women beamed at her.

“And we’d love to be of help!” Delia gushed. “It’s so important to preserve our heritage, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely.” Relieved, Jordan walked them to the door. “Are you sure I can’t interest you in some cake? I can’t possibly eat it all by myself.”

“No, we’ll … get out of your hair!” Delia giggled, looking pleased with herself, and Nora chuckled indulgently.

Jordan looked from one to the other, not getting their joke. Did her hair look that bad? She resisted the urge to raise a hand and check. “Well, thanks again. I’ll stop by tomorrow. What time do you open?”

“Around ten,” Nora replied. “Do you know where the research center is?”

“I have a map—I’ll find it.”

Jordan closed the door behind them. Leaning against it, she shook her head, amused. Given their argumentative communication style, she’d wager her Prius that those two had been living together for a very long time.

Walking back to the kitchen, she spied a cake box on the counter next to a jumble of newspaper clippings and papers. Peeking inside, she swiped a bit of frosting. “Oh. Yum.” Devil’s food with cream cheese fudge frosting.

One side of the cake was smashed—she wondered whether they’d dropped it on the way over. She shrugged, smiling, and licked more frosting off her finger.

As she walked back down the hallway to the foot of the stairs, she looked up. “You can come out now,” she called. “They’re gone.”

The dog stuck his head around the banister, unrepentant.

“Traitor.”

* * *

JORDAN spent the next several hours hauling, sweeping, and mopping. By late afternoon, she had generated a recycle pile of respectable size and felt the need for sustenance that didn’t contain sugar.

After explaining the concept of leash laws to the dog, who sat and listened with exaggerated patience, she tied a piece of rope she’d found in the butler’s pantry around his neck. He barked at her, no matter how firmly she tugged on the rope, until she folded it and held it out. Taking it gently from her, he held it in his mouth and trotted out the front door, pausing to look over his shoulder. She shook her head and hurried obediently after him.

“We need to have a discussion regarding names,” she said as they proceeded down the sidewalk. “I refuse to call you Dog—it’s demeaning. What about … hmm … Spike?”

“Raaoomph!”

“Hey, he’s a great director—you could do worse. But I’ll keep thinking.”

The afternoon had turned warm, and she tugged off her sweatshirt and tied it around her waist. As she walked, she soaked up the atmosphere along with the rays.

Port Chatham sat on a bluff on the northernmost tip of the Olympic Peninsula, surrounded by the glistening waters of Puget Sound. The town’s historic waterfront faced Port Chatham Bay on a narrow strip of low-lying land only a few blocks wide. The rest of the town—the majority of its residential areas—had been built on the bluffs overlooking downtown.

Around each corner, Jordan was confronted with yet a different view of the shipping lanes and the islands that dotted Puget Sound. To the east, a few blocks off the brow of the hill, she could see the ferry making its way across Admiralty Inlet to Whidbey Island.

Her neighborhood consisted of blocks of historic homes surrounding a small, satellite business district that spread outward from a central intersection of two arterial streets. As always, she was struck by the clash of old and new—well-cared-for homes that made her feel as though she’d stepped back a hundred years in time juxtaposed with the jarring presence of modern businesses, telephone poles, and parked cars.