Ghost Ship: A Port Chatham Mystery (12 page)

“I’ll be needing a name, sir.”

“Pardon?”

“A name. For the ship, sir? Unless you’d be wanting to keep the old name, but most owners replace it with one of their own choice, a name that means something special to them …” MacDonough’s voice trailed off as Seavey scowled, staring out across the bay.

After a long moment, he replied, feeling as if the words had been wrenched from him, “
Henrietta Dale.
”

“A fine name, sir! Would it be belonging to someone I might’ve met?”

“No,” Seavey replied coldly. “It belongs to someone long dead.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

“Yes, so am I.”

*   *   *

I
T
took Michael only minutes to cross the wharf and walk the block to his hotel. The building was two stories high, and he’d added an annex that allowed for separation of the luxury rooms used by well-heeled guests from the wing of dormitory-style rooms used to accommodate sailors. A balcony ran the length of the second story, and the name of the hotel was attached in large painted wooden letters to the railing. His hotel was easily the most imposing structure along that part of the waterfront, just as he’d intended.

Though it was early in the day, he glimpsed a few sailors already partaking of spirits in his bar, while his wealthier guests reclined on comfortable settees in the adjacent hotel lobby, drinking coffee and reading the
Port Chatham Weekly Gazette
. No doubt perusing Eleanor’s editorial, Michael thought, and nodding their heads in agreement. Hypocrites, the lot of them.

He quickly climbed the back steps, accessing his suite of rooms through the rear hallway and taking a few minutes to freshen up before entering the sitting room where Yardley waited.

A tall man with a grim expression and a huge handlebar mustache, Yardley was fond of using his size to intimidate others. The Customs inspector’s job was to collect import duties and taxes on incoming cargo, and he had at his disposal a fleet of revenue cutters crewed by agents who had the authority to board and inspect any ship in local waters. Yardley had even become so bold as to insist that his agents travel on board the ships for the shorter runs between local ports.

Still attired in his uniform of wool pants and a double-breasted coat sporting two rows of gold buttons, Yardley must have come directly from being on duty. He held his narrow-brimmed hat with its gold Customs insignia in one hand at his side as he paced. Spying Michael, he halted.

Michael approached, gesturing at the brocade furniture gracing his suite. “Pray be seated, Inspector.”

“I prefer to stand.” Yardley’s tone was pleasant, yet Michael thought he detected a hint of grimness.

“May I offer you refreshment?” he asked, taking a seat in a handsome wing-back chair and propping a boot on one knee.

“No.” Yardley must have realized how rude he sounded, for he added, “Thank you.” He returned to his perusal of Michael’s plush furnishings and expensive artwork, his expression disapproving.

Michael waited him out.

Yardley swung around abruptly. “Last night, my men retrieved the bodies of several Chinese from the local waters. What do you know of this?”

“I’m sorry to hear of it,” Michael replied, not revealing the alarm he felt. “I’m afraid I am of no help, however—I was at the mayor’s soiree for the evening.”

“My men were patrolling an area just off North Beach.” Yardley’s tone was impatient. “According to the police, a Chinaman by the name of Lok lodged a complaint this morning, claiming Sam Garrett attempted to hang him last night in that same location. Lok also stated that another man, one fitting your description, was responsible for saving his life.”

Michael gave a silent curse. No good would come of this; Garrett would be hunting the man to permanently silence him. One would’ve thought Lok had the sense to remain silent about the affair.

He shrugged, maintaining an air of indifference. “The man must be mistaken—I know of no such incident. If I had, I would have reported it.”

“Do you deny that your man Garrett was out there last night, then?”

Michael feigned astonishment. “Come now, Inspector. Sam Garrett is not ‘my man,’ as you put it. I take no interest in his whereabouts—indeed, I rarely have any dealings with him at all. Therefore, how could I possibly confirm or deny?”

Yardley snorted. “You don’t expect me to swallow that story, do you, Seavey?”

“I don’t really care whether you do or not. It is the truth, however.”

Yardley clenched his hands at his sides, the only indication that he was less than composed. He evidently decided to take a less confrontational approach, however, for he said in a more equable tone, “As you may know, we’re experiencing an increase in these types of incidents. Because of the Chinese Exclusion Act, the Chinese are desperate to find a way to our shores by whatever means. Unfortunately, they sometimes book passage with ships’ captains who are less than candid about the risks associated with the crossing. Many of these captains feel justified in tossing them overboard, should one of our cutters approach, given the steep fines they would face upon discovery.”

“It seems a great risk indeed,” Michael agreed serenely, “to book passage with someone who thinks your life is expendable at the merest provocation. However, I fail to understand why you’ve come to me to discuss these incidents. I have no history of—indeed, no inclination to ever consider—trafficking in humans. I can assure you, I hold a man’s life to be far more valuable than that.”

Yardley merely raised an eyebrow. “Your reputation says otherwise.”

“Yes, well.” Michael waved a hand impatiently. “A man can’t spend his time trying to live down the foolish rumors that circulate about him along the waterfront. I conduct my affairs privately, discreetly, and to the benefit of all those involved. I certainly do not barter in human lives.”

“This man Lok,” Yardley said, abruptly changing the subject. “He claims you saved him from certain death last night. Do you categorically deny it?”

“I wouldn’t think such a crime would fall under your jurisdiction, Inspector.”

“It would if it had anything to do with illegal smuggling—either of drugs
or
humans.”

Close scrutiny by the authorities would be most unwelcome. It was imperative that he stop this line of inquiry immediately. “The man appears to be delusional on this account,” he lied without compunction. “I was at the mayor’s home until quite late. Any number of his guests can vouch for my presence throughout the evening. Payton’s sister, whose name escapes me at the moment, played an exceptional Bach cantabile. And I do admit to indulging in the fine port on offer. I was hardly in any shape to be gallivanting about on North Beach.” He paused, then shook his head. “Perhaps this man—Lok, you said?—suffered some disorientation because of the alleged attempt on his life.”

“Perhaps,” Yardley allowed, studying Michael silently for a long moment. “I suspect it’s also quite possible, however, that you guard your secrets closely.” He placed his hat on his head, turned to leave, then turned back. “I trust that if you hear of anything that might help us solve the drowning of the Chinese, you’ll contact me at once?”

“On that, Inspector,” Michael felt comfortable replying, “you can rely.”

Chapter 7

T
HE
sound of the construction worker’s footsteps overhead roused Jordan from her reading. Glancing at her watch, she was astonished to learn that more than two hours had passed, and immediately felt a pang of guilt about Malachi. She contemplated the various papers she’d gotten only halfway through, then—without a qualm—stuffed the pages from Captain Williams’s diary inside her jacket and headed upstairs.

Travis paused in the act of smearing grayish-white stuff vertically down a wall seam with a metal trowel. “Find what you were looking for?”

“Not entirely,” she admitted. “I seem to have more questions than when I started.”

He went back to his scraping, the tool scritching against the wallboard. “That’s usually the way of things, now isn’t it? Some days even this Sheetrock mud refuses to give up its mysteries.” He leaned down to scoop up more of the glop. “You found the section of the archives we had to temporarily relocate to the other side of the basement, right?”

She turned back from the front door. “You did what?”

“Let me show you.” Dropping the trowel into a tray, he led the way back downstairs and to a darkened corner of the basement. There, binders full of newspapers, photos, and books had been stacked on a wooden shelf. “We needed the room for the display cases we moved down from upstairs. We were afraid we’d crack the glass, then have to pay for them.” He looked apologetic. “I probably shoulda told you about this right away, huh?”

“No problem.” She peered at the handwritten labels, her excitement building as she spied several from July and August 1893.

“I’ll just head back upstairs then?” he asked after a moment.

“Hmm?” She refocused. “Oh, sure.” She shot him a distracted smile. “Thanks.”

Selecting a binder from August, she balanced it on top of the stack of papers in her arms and hauled everything back over to the small table where she’d been reading. Flipping through the binder’s contents, she quickly found a second issue of the
Port Chatham Weekly Gazette
displaying a banner headline about the wreck of the
Henrietta Dale
.

Survivor Describes Final Moments of Terror and Despair Aboard the Ill-Fated
Henrietta Dale

August 8—“The moment I felt that awful grindin’ jolt, I knew we were doomed. It’s a miracle any of us survived,” First Mate Dan Jensen told this reporter just hours after the heroic rescue. “We were goin’ full bore on a broad reach, sails extended, when we hit the spit. ’Tweren’t no chance to slow ’er down.”

As related in this paper’s previous issue, the
Henrietta Dale
, owned by Michael Seavey, a businessman well known on Port Chatham’s waterfront, ran aground on the west side of Dungeness Spit late in the evening of August 5. Locals did their best to help rescue survivors, though by the time they arrived, the beautiful clipper ship was already mortally damaged by high waves and was a danger to those on shore.

According to what this intrepid reporter has been able to discover, the
Henrietta Dale
, recently refurbished by Seavey, was on her maiden voyage from Victoria, British Columbia. Along with the crew of the ship, passengers included several Port Chatham residents as well as the son of this paper’s owner and editor-in-chief, Eleanor Canby. Jesse Canby is believed to have perished when he was crushed by the collapse of the mizzenmast, which caused the deck to cave in, damaging the great cabin below. An unofficial accounting of the victims can be obtained by their loved ones from the Port Chatham Police Department.

Rescue workers were able by valiant measures to help six souls extricate themselves from the terrible wreckage. All suffered from severe injuries and were transported to medical clinics in Port Chatham. Among the survivors were three of the
Henrietta Dale
’s crew, including Captain Nathaniel Williams and the first mate quoted above. A young girl, Martha Smith, and Michael Seavey were also among the wounded.

Though rumors abound regarding the purpose of the doomed ship’s voyage and of nefarious attempts to lure her off course, this reporter has not yet been able to determine the cause of the lethal grounding. A formal inquiry into the matter will no doubt be held, at which time the
Gazette
will provide for its readers full coverage of the proceedings. It is essential that, in these modern times, we continue to monitor the safety and well-being of those among us who choose to travel our treacherous waterways.

Yes!
Seavey was listed among the survivors.

After scribbling the names of the survivors on a crumpled bank deposit slip she found in her pocket, Jordan returned the newspaper to its binder. So Jesse Canby had been on board the
Henrietta Dale
that night. And he had perished. Could that be the reason behind Seavey’s comment that Eleanor had despised him?

Replacing the binder on the shelf, Jordan gathered her papers and headed back upstairs. She thanked Travis and went outside to let an outraged Malachi out of the car. He sniffed the grass at the edge of the lot while she mentally reviewed what she’d learned. Although Eleanor Canby had railed in her editorial against the demon opium, her writing style had more to do with ranting than providing useful facts. Not one opium smuggler had been mentioned by name. Which meant Jordan had no idea who Seavey’s competitors were, and therefore no idea who might have lured the
Henrietta Dale
onto the spit. Then again, if she assumed Seavey was telling the truth in his own papers, wouldn’t his business partner have had motive?

The real surprise she’d uncovered in her reading was that Charlotte probably knew even more about Michael Seavey than she’d let on. If Charlotte had been close to Jesse Canby, and if Jesse had been purchasing opium from Seavey, then it stood to reason that she might also have been around Seavey during the weeks before his death.

Until now, Jordan had purposely avoided asking Charlotte about her life in the years following her sister Hattie’s murder in 1890. She was afraid of raising issues that would be too painful for the young ghost to discuss. In less than a year, Charlotte had gone from a carefree, pampered teenager to losing her parents in a carriage accident in Boston, then traveling out West to live with her older sister here in Port Chatham. Even worse, within months of her arrival, Hattie had been murdered, leaving Charlotte destitute and in the employ of a notorious madam. The psychological trauma from such events could cause irreparable damage to a strong person for life, and, well, Charlotte simply wasn’t that strong.

Perhaps, given the lengthy passage of time, there was a way to gently question Charlotte about what she knew. Whistling for Malachi, Jordan decided that she should proceed cautiously. Regardless of the teenage ghost’s antics, she’d become fond of Charlotte and didn’t want to be the cause of her becoming even more fragile.

Jordan helped Malachi into the Prius’s cramped hatchback area, then drove downtown. The night before, she’d promised Bob MacDonough she would stop by the Wooden Boat Society’s headquarters at Point Hudson to provide more details about her sighting of the ghost ship. And after what she’d learned in the last two hours, she had a few questions of her own.

Her stomach growled, reminding her that it had been a long time since breakfast, so she stopped at a natural food cooperative to grab an energy bar and some dog biscuits for Malachi. As she drove down the main drag, she munched on the bar, getting crumbs all over her sweater. Glancing down from the steering wheel to brush off the crumbs, she came within inches of running through a black carriage carrying a beautifully dressed woman holding a black Battenburg lace parasol. The horse shied, almost flipping the carriage. Jordan jerked the wheel to the right, craning her neck to assure herself the lady and the horse were okay.

And then had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting the car in front of her.

Malachi plowed into the back of her seat, slamming her into the steering wheel. She held her breath, but the airbag didn’t deploy.

“Raaaoomph!” Malachi scrambled to right himself, giving her a baleful look that said he thought the entire affair was her fault. She supposed it was. Easing her foot off the brake pedal, she edged the car forward once again, catching one last glimpse of the black lace parasol in her rearview mirror.

Once in the downtown area, traffic became congested, slowing her down. Tourists—both spectral and human—were out in force. Service trucks and horse-drawn flatbed wagons clogged the street. She crawled past block after block of majestic, Victorian-style buildings that housed apartments, offices, and boutiques. Impatiently drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, she noticed faded white block lettering on the balcony railing of a two-story clapboard building facing the waterfront: Cosmopolitan H--el. On impulse, she pulled out of her lane and whipped down the side street, parking across from the hotel’s entrance.

Telling an impatient Malachi to stay, she jogged across the street. Inside the hotel, she discovered a small, tastefully appointed lobby with high, stenciled ceilings and massive wood columns. Plush carpet muffled her footsteps. Groupings of overstuffed, comfortable-looking furniture were cleverly placed about the room for optimum privacy. Under a leaded-glass window, a sturdy Arts and Crafts library table offered an assortment of baskets containing mouthwatering pastries and thermoses filled with gourmet coffee blends.

Across the room stood an ornate oak conference table that held a telephone, a leather-bound guest register, and stacks of papers. A short, trim man with a receding hairline, dressed in dark wool slacks and a crisp white Oxford shirt, sat at the table. He glanced up from the pages he was reading, gazing at her through expensive, rimless eyeglasses, his expression briefly impatient.

“May I help you?” he asked in a clipped East Coast accent. He pasted a smile on his face.

Jordan walked over and offered her hand, introducing herself. “Are you the owner?”

“Yes,” he replied, not volunteering his name. “I really don’t have time right now for solicitations. I’m terribly slammed, so …”

She was momentarily speechless—she wasn’t often mistaken for a salesperson. “Um, sorry, didn’t mean to give the wrong impression. I live up the hill in Longren House, and I’m researching a historic event that may have a connection to your hotel.”

“
Boutique
hotel,” he corrected her. “Please refer to my establishment that way in any future conversations. It’s important to distinguish oneself from the chains these days, so that people understand we provide a much higher quality of service and more pleasant experience for the traveler.”

Right
. “I understand a shanghaier from the nineteenth century, Michael Seavey, used to own this building?”

He relaxed slightly. “Yes, indeed. His ghost haunts the penthouse suite even to this day. It’s quite the draw for tourists visiting our region.”

“Really?” She wondered if he’d made that up as a promotional gimmick, or if he could actually sense Seavey’s presence. “Would you mind if I viewed that suite of rooms?”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible—they’re currently under renovation. In fact, that’s why I’m so far behind in my work. The individual handling the renovation is suddenly indisposed, and I must find someone to replace him.” The owner scowled, straightening the sheaf of papers he held and setting them down so that they were perfectly aligned on the desk. “Although I certainly sympathize with the man’s plight, it has simply
ruined
my schedule. I may have to turn away customers because of this disaster!”

It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that Holt probably viewed his murder as representing more than a scheduling inconvenience, but she managed to say instead, “I don’t mind a little plaster dust. I was actually hoping to speak with any workers who might still be up there. If you’re too busy to accompany me to the penthouse, I’d be glad to go up on my own.”

“Out of the question!” Though the owner was still seated, he somehow managed to look down his nose. “I can’t have you interrupting what little work is still being accomplished.”

“I promise I won’t take up too much of their time,” she assured him. “One question, and then I’m gone.”

“What is it, exactly, that you wish to know?”

“I’m hoping that the workers might tell me whether Holt Stilwell found any old papers during the renovation. Perhaps something left behind by Michael Seavey—”

“Absolutely not!” The owner jumped to his feet, his face flushing an unbecoming shade of puce. “If any historic documents had been found, those documents would be the property of the hotel. You have no right to them
whatsoever
!”

“No, no,” she backpedaled. “I wouldn’t try to claim them or anything. I just want to take a look at them. You see, I’m researching the circumstances surrounding Michael Seavey’s death in 1893—”

“
No!
” He rushed around the desk, pointing a trembling finger at the front door. “I want you to leave, immediately!”

She gaped at him and backed up a few steps. “Have I offended you in some way, Mr.…?”

“You have no right to be here! If you don’t leave,
right this minute
, I’ll call the authorities!”

“Whoa. Okay.” She danced back a few more steps, hands raised. “No problem. I’m leaving.”

“Get out!” he shouted, advancing on her.

She turned and ran out the front door, noting the curious stares from the few guests who were seated in the lobby.

“And don’t come back!” he screeched from inside the lobby.

Outside, she walked a few yards toward the bay, then stopped, thoroughly shaken by the encounter.

“Your apparent lack of social skills continues to be a detriment, I see.”

The deep baritone came from behind her. Michael Seavey appeared from the shadows, looking amused. He must have witnessed her argument with the owner.