Ghost Ship: A Port Chatham Mystery (25 page)

Chapter 19

A
FTER
her first good night’s sleep in two days, Jordan woke early and decided to take Malachi out to breakfast. Darcy had promised to call her as soon as she heard whether the ballistics for Clive Walters’s gun matched the bullet pulled from Holt’s corpse. If so, she hoped Walters would simply confess. Jordan didn’t have anything pressing until she was due at the marina at nine for the telephone interview with Bob’s historian friend regarding her sighting of the ghost ship. That left her with a couple of hours of rare peace and quiet in which to gather her thoughts and gain some perspective.

She shook her head while she hunted for Malachi’s leash. What a crackpot Walters had turned out to be. Who in his right mind
murdered
to keep a ghost on the premises to haunt a business, because it was good for the bottom line? Then again, maybe Walters’s reasoning wasn’t all that different from others who had killed for money.

For some reason, though, she felt bugged by the whole situation. All of the recent events—Holt’s discovering historic documents in the wall of the hotel suite, diving to retrieve sunken treasure off the
Henrietta Dale
, his murder, Walters’s subsequent frantic hunt for those documents—hinged on the events in 1893 leading up to Michael Seavey’s murder. And she still didn’t have a handle on everything that had happened back then. In fact, given how thin the historical sources were for that particular time frame, she might
never
know.

What had happened to the survivors of the shipwreck? Had Seavey been transported alive back to Port Chatham? If so, and if he had been murdered afterward, why didn’t he remember the time between his rescue and when he was killed? And why did Sam Garrett feel the need to protect the identity of the man he saw shoot Holt?

She yanked open drawers and stopped to peer into cupboards, trying to remember where she’d last stashed the leash. “Where’s your leash?” she asked Malachi.

He gave her The Look. “Roooo.”

“Helpful,” she said, then resumed her hunt.

If Walters
was
the killer, it seemed to her that her first order of business was to confirm some kind of connection between him and Garrett. She’d found no evidence that Walters could actually see ghosts. As far as she knew, Garrett had nothing to do with the Cosmopolitan Hotel. Which meant Jase might be correct that the connection could be familial. As he’d pointed out, even murderers had families.

She shoved the last drawer shut and straightened to stare at the kitchen while she mulled over that possibility. Both men undoubtedly suffered from mental instability, though in actuality, their formal diagnoses would be quite different: Garrett was clearly a sociopath, while Walters exhibited symptoms of extreme paranoia. Still, a history of inherited mental instability
could
be indicative of a family connection.

She also needed to see if she could find any further mention of Seavey’s murder. All of which meant she should keep reading through the historical documents she’d filched from the Historical Society.

Finally spying Malachi’s leash on top of the stove—how the hell had it gotten
there
?—she tucked Eleanor’s memoir and the pages from Captain Williams’s diary under one arm, whistled for Malachi, then headed out the back door.

Though high clouds provided a pale gray cover, the temperature was mild, making for a pleasant walk to their favorite French restaurant. The prospect of a sinfully rich and filling breakfast,
caffé breve
, and a relaxed perusal of
The New York Times
struck her as the definition of pure bliss. She owed it to herself, she rationalized, to spend at least
some
time on those pleasurable pursuits before she cracked open Eleanor’s memoir, which she felt certain would make her want to pull her hair out.

They walked to the corner of her block, passing Jase’s house, which immediately had her feeling guilty that she hadn’t yet thanked him for the roses. He was taking the day off to work with Bill and Tom on the library wall, and therefore certain to be in and out of Longren House. This gave her even more reason to vacate the premises, since she still hadn’t a clue what she wanted to do about him. The man definitely rang all her bells.

Marietta, the plump, fiftyish café owner, who always made certain she had a special treat for Malachi, seated Jordan in the outside courtyard. “The usual on the espresso?” she asked Jordan cheerfully as she handed her a menu and the newspaper.

“That would be marvelous,” Jordan replied with a grateful smile.

Despite the early hour, a number of locals came and went, most stopping in to pick up coffee and one of the restaurant’s fabulous baked goods for their commute. A few lingered, however, taking the time to eat a leisurely breakfast.

When Marietta returned with Jordan’s
caffé breve
, she ordered an omelet, then settled back in her chair, opening
The New York Times
to the national news page. Surely some politician’s imbroglio with his mistress would take her mind off whatever was bugging her about the night of the
Henrietta Dale
’s shipwreck. Something was nagging at her, something she’d originally read, or that Michael Seavey had told her …

Six minutes later, after reading the same headline three times, she tossed down the paper in disgust. Until she figured out what was driving her crazy, she wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything else. Well, except the subjects she wanted to deny, such as the house remodel, the sexy guy currently remodeling it and revving her hormones …

She blew out a breath, picked up Captain Williams’s diary pages, and started skimming. But other than a brief mention of his retirement the first week of September 1893, she found nothing of use. Resigned, she opened Eleanor’s memoir and prepared to read chapter after strident chapter of preachy text, to see if she could find even a hint of something useful.

A third of the way into the small, leather-bound book, she
did
find a reference to opium smuggling. Jordan was certain it was a rehashing of her editorials, but she forced herself to read the passage.

In hopes of convincing my fellow citizens of the inherent dangers of opium, I decided to one day visit such a den of iniquity, so that I might describe my experience to my readers, thus giving them a real sense of the depravity of the drug’s purveyors. However, even I was unprepared for what awaited me …

In the middle of a bright, sunny day, I traveled down to the seedier section of Port Chatham’s waterfront, where houses of ill repute vie for space with Chinese “laundries” and saloons. Choosing a laundry at random, I entered and proceeded directly to the room in the back, where I felt certain I would discover an opium den
.

Immediately upon entering the room, I was assaulted by layer after layer of thick smoke undulating in strata, like waves in the ocean, its pungent odor intensifying as I walked to the center of the room. Though small lamps had been placed throughout the
room for illumination, they did little to permeate the gloom
.

The room was lined with wooden bunks—pallets really—which were covered with the barest minimum of padding and small, filthy linens stuffed with straw, presumably functioning as a sort of crude pillow upon which the smoker could lay his head once he succumbed to the heinous effects of the drug
.

Although many have told me that the atmosphere of an opium den has its own alluring and sensuous qualities, I found the place to be utterly depraved. Men and women with sunken, bruised eyes, dressed in soiled clothing, emaciated from the pernicious effects of the drug, had lit pipes and were passing them amongst one another …

“One omelet, plus an extra stack of whole-wheat toast to share with Malachi, as ordered,” Marietta announced brightly, placing a plate stacked high with food in front of Jordan, forcing her to set aside Eleanor’s memoir.

“Looks fabulous,” she assured the owner, leaning over to breathe in the aroma of grilled veggies, farm-fresh eggs, and homemade hash browns. Forget dieting. She needed her strength to deal with the challenges of the next few days, right? She picked up a fork and dug in.

The woman reached down and picked up the small book, studying it for a moment. “Heavy stuff,” she commented.

Jordan couldn’t argue with her assessment. “I’m reading it to see if I can find more information about the 1893 wreck of the
Henrietta Dale
,” she explained.

“Oh, that’s right! I heard a rumor yesterday that you had seen the ghost ship.” The woman cocked her head. “That must be
quite
the experience.”

“Understatement of the year,” Jordan muttered.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll put your new, expanded powers to good use for our community.”

After she left, Jordan gave Malachi a slice of toast, took a moment to moan in appreciation over a forkful of potatoes, then picked up Eleanor’s memoir once more. She supposed she should be worried about getting food stains on it, but really, the world would be a better place if no one else ever had to read Eleanor’s drivel again.

Rather than continuing to slog through the paragraphs about the waterfront opium dens, she flipped through pages, looking for something that would tie Eleanor to the rescue effort on August 5. She found what she was looking for in a chapter toward the end of the volume:

Events of recent days, which have taken a terrible toll on my family and others in our beloved Port Chatham, have now brought to light the horrifying truth of plans that could have wrecked the entire social fabric of our town
.

My only son, Jesse, was lost to me long before the night he was crushed by a falling mast when the ship he was a passenger on, the
Henrietta Dale
, ran aground on Dungeness Spit. Though I tried in vain to rid Jesse
of his addiction to the pestilent drug, opium, he continued to seek out the company of those who suffered from the same addiction
.

Many died the night that the
Henrietta Dale
ran aground, but I can only say, in retrospect, that someone was looking over us all. For if the notorious Michael Seavey had been able to put in place his plans to use the ship to import opium and provide a floating opium den for his customers, more of our citizens would have fallen prey to his greed
.

I hold Michael Seavey directly responsible for the death of my beloved son, but I can only be relieved by Seavey’s violent death just days later. Port Chatham remains an enviable place to live, based on that blessed turn of events
.

May Michael Seavey rot in hell for all eternity
.

Malachi whined, and without looking up from the page, Jordan held out another slice of toast. When he failed to take it from her hand, she dragged her attention back to the present.

Sam Garrett pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.

She dropped the toast and stumbled to her feet.

“Sit down,” he said mildly, “before you draw attention to yourself.”

She did as he ordered, taking a moment to glance around the small patio. No one seemed to notice her distress. Which, dammit, pissed her off. Garrett was interrupting what could have been a wonderfully peaceful, Zen-like breakfast. Well, aside from the garbage she was reading. But really, she was getting damn tired of being threatened, harassed …

He leaned over to sniff her plate. “ ’Tis a pity ghosts can’t eat real food—I really miss it.” He sighed. “At least if I try hard enough, I can manage a faint whiff of the intoxicating aromas.”

“What do you want?” she asked coldly.

He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t believe you will find it wise to take such a tone with me. I can reduce your mutt to a lifeless pile of fur in mere moments, should I become sufficiently displeased.”

Jordan felt the blood drain from her face. “
No!
” she said quickly. Malachi growled, and she shushed him, placing a protective arm around his neck and keeping it there. “Please don’t hurt him—he’s just a dog.”

Malachi gave her The Look, and she sent him a silent apology.

“That’s better,” Garrett said, leaning back with a humorless smile. “Now, pray tell, why haven’t you told Seavey that I didn’t murder him?”

“Things have been a little chaotic lately, and I just haven’t found the time—”

“I’m not interested in hearing your excuses. I want it done. Today.”

“Sure. Fine.” She nodded emphatically. “But …” she hesitated, then plunged ahead, hoping she didn’t increase his ire. “The thing is, I don’t actually know who killed Seavey. And until I do—”

Garrett waved a hand. “That is neither here nor there. The only fact that is of import is that
I
didn’t murder him. Take all the time you want to discover the identity of the real killer—I have no interest in what you do with respect to your little investigation. But I want it immediately communicated to Seavey that I had no part in his death.”

“So you’ll swear to me that you weren’t even in Port Chatham at the time Seavey was murdered?” she asked, not without some trepidation, tightening her hold on Malachi.

“For what it’s worth, certainly. I was otherwise engaged.”

“Doing what?”

He shrugged. “I don’t see that it can hurt to divulge that part of my past life. The good Captain Williams and I were busy salvaging the opium from inside the hull of the
Henrietta Dale.
”

Jordan gaped at him. “So the captain was in on it all along?”

“Of course not. Think, woman! How could I have lured the ship onto the beach if Williams had known of my intentions? He approached me two days after the grounding and told me the story of how he’d discovered that Seavey had had secret compartments built into the hull for the transport of opium. He said that if I were to agree to assist him in retrieving the contraband, we could sell it and split the profits.”