P. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

After thinking about what she’d read for a few minutes, she picked up the rest of Holt Stilwell’s package, sifting through its contents and looking at the dates. There were none beyond June 5—the day before Eleanor’s soireé. And that meant there were possibly pages still missing.

Jordan took the stairs two at a time, leaping down the last three to land in the front entry. “Hattie!”

No answer.

“Hattie! Charlotte!”

The ghosts materialized in the hallway, their hair now tied with strips of fabric that stuck out all over their heads.

“What?” Hattie’s arms were crossed over the bodice of her nightdress, and she was glaring.

Jordan took in their appearance without a blink. “When did Seavey die?”

“He was murdered a few years later, in August of 1893,” Charlotte replied.

“Someone finally gave him what he deserved, in my opinion,” Hattie added.

Jordan waved that aside. “So we should find personal diary entries from him up to that date, right?”

“I suppose.”

“Yeah, well, the ones I have stop the night before the soirée, so I’m missing a chunk of pages.”

Jordan glanced at her watch—8 A.M. Late enough that Jase should be up and about, and she needed a favor. She headed back upstairs to grab a clean pair of jeans, only to find all her clothing rearranged. “Dammit! Did you have to reorganize my closet, too?” she yelled.

“What are you talking about?” Hattie materialized beside her with a frown. “We would never assume it appropriate to handle your toiletries and clothes.”

“Never mind.” Jordan headed for the door. “By the way,” she told Hattie on her way out, “according to Seavey, he didn’t kidnap Charlotte—Clive Johnson did. Seavey saved her.”

* * *

JASE answered the door of his Mission-style bungalow, still in the act of pulling on a shirt and with his jeans half buttoned, his jaw cracking from a yawn. Two days’ growth of beard shadowed his jaw, and his blue eyes had a sleepy look.

He pushed the door open farther. “Come on in.” She followed him into his living room, a large space filled with comfortable-looking overstuffed furniture. Though the room was obviously well cared for, she liked that it wasn’t perfectly neat—a pile of newspapers lay on the floor, and a couple of abandoned coffee mugs were shoved together by a stack of books on the coffee table. “Nice,” she said.

He perched on the arm of the sofa. “I was coming to find you in a few minutes, anyway. I set up a conference call with JT for nine o’clock at the pub. He’s got something for us—he emailed me last night.”

They had an hour, then. “I need directions to Holt Stilwell’s place.”

“I don’t want you approaching him on your own, and I sure as hell don’t think it’s safe for you to go to his house.”

“I’m missing pages from the papers he gave me that night outside the pub,” she explained. “And I’m so close, I can taste it.”

“So you know who murdered Hattie?”

“No,” she admitted. “But I think Holt’s ancestor knew, and I think he would’ve avenged Hattie’s death. He was in love with her.”

Jase sighed. “Okay, I’ll drive you out there.” He rubbed a hand over his unshaven jaw. “This means I have to wait on a shower, a shave, and coffee. You’re going to owe me.”

“I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

His eyes crinkled. “I’ll hold you to that. Give me five minutes.”

* * *

THE drive out to Stilwell’s place was shorter than she would’ve expected. The dog stretched out on the king cab seat behind the front seat, doing what he seemed to do best, napping.

“Who’d you go haring off after last night, anyway?” Jase asked, keeping his eyes on the two-lane blacktop road that headed south of town along the bluffs overlooking Discovery Bay.

“Remember the man who didn’t drink the Jack Daniel’s and didn’t pay his tab? He’s the ghost of Frank Lewis, the guy who hanged for Hattie’s murder. I saw him slipping out the door and followed him to my house.”

Jase merely shot her a curious look. “What does he want?”

“He had the nerve to criticize my lack of progress on solving Hattie’s murder.” When Jase grinned, she narrowed her gaze. “Anyway, I thought maybe Frank was the person who has been following me, but he claims not.”

He glanced at her as he negotiated a curve high on a bluff overlooking the bay. “So you still think you’re being followed?”

“Sometimes.”

“Have you told Darcy?”

“Not since she reported that she’d been through the incident reports and hadn’t found anything suspicious.”

“I don’t like it—let’s mention it to JT and see whether he can send someone up for security detail.”

Jordan rolled her eyes. “Please. I’ve got at least three ghosts hovering, and Darcy’s already tracking my every move for Drake. And let’s not forget the dog. I think I’m covered.” She reached a hand back to rub his head. “Speaking of whom, how about Malachi?”

The dog barked, then attempted to climb over the seat and lick her face, grinning and showing his huge canines. His tail thumped against the back window.

“That would be a yes vote,” Jase said wryly. He turned into Stilwell’s driveway. “How’d you come up with that name?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

As they drove up and parked, Holt was coming out his front door. He paused on the front porch of his rundown rambler, looking surprised to see them.

Jordan was out of the truck before Jase had the engine shut off. “I need you to help me search for some missing papers,” she told Stilwell without preamble. “It’s important.”

He rocked back on his heels. “Looks like those favors you’re gonna owe me just keep piling up.”

“Can we cut the crap?” she asked as Jase reached her side. “Your act isn’t all that convincing.”

Holt’s expression turned wary.

“For your information, your ancestor wasn’t nearly the bad guy you and the rest of the town seem to think he was. So you can quit trying to live down to your family’s reputation. You do not descend from the long line of thieves and murderers you think you do.”

She felt Jase’s sidelong glance. “If you’d let us search for more family papers,” he said to Holt, “we’d appreciate it.”

Holt shrugged. “Whatever. I gotta get to work, but go for it. The place is unlocked.”

“Of course it is,” Jordan muttered, noting the rotting porch, peeling paint, and moss on the roof. “Anyone knows better than to burglarize it.”

“Hey, if you’re gonna criticize my house—”

She shook her head. “Where would the papers be stored? I don’t have much time.”

“The attic—boxes along the far wall.”

“Thanks.” They left Holt standing in the driveway as they headed into the house.

“Enjoy my housemates,” Holt called after her.

While Jordan checked out filthy rooms on the main floor, Jase located the stairs to the attic, which were in the kitchen next to the back door. She walked past kitchen counters filled with dirty dishes and boxes of half-eaten pizza that had been there awhile, wrinkling her nose. Darcy hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d described the state of the place.

The attic proved to be equally scary. She climbed the sagging stairs with trepidation. Jase shoved aside piles of boxes and other debris scattered on the floor to get to the piece of string that hung down from the single lightbulb at the peak of the ceiling. The bulb put out low wattage, so turning it on didn’t help dispel the gloom.

Jordan stayed where she was, searching along the far wall until she identified several boxes that might be the right ones. She had to climb over broken chairs and piles of old clothes to get to them.