Ghost Ship: A Port Chatham Mystery (13 page)

“That man needs his meds adjusted,” she grumbled.

“Pardon?”

“Never mind.”

“He’s an obnoxious little creature, is he not? I quite enjoy making his life difficult at every opportunity.”

Jordan glanced around to make certain no one was observing their conversation. She was still unused to appearing to others as if she were talking to herself. “What’s that guy’s problem? Do you know?”

Seavey shrugged, his shoulders moving under the expensive slate-gray fabric of his coat. “I confess I have no idea,” he replied.

Today he wore a beautifully tailored suit over a pale gray silk shirt, a snowy white handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket, a black top hat, and black leather walking boots. In deference to her, he’d removed his top hat and held it in one hand. She had to admit, he was certainly the most stylishly dressed ghost she’d come across.

“I don’t spend my time worrying about the man,” Seavey continued. “If he becomes too intrusive, I’ll find a way to be rid of him.”

His mildly disapproving gaze traveled over the jeans and cotton sweater she’d thrown on earlier in her haste to leave the house. “I had thought perhaps the outfit you wore last evening was an aberration, but you seem to delight in wearing mannish clothing. My deceased wife wore such garments on occasion, but for good reason: It’s quite difficult to wield a bullwhip wearing silk skirts. You, however, have no such excuse.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “This is perfectly acceptable attire for a woman of this century—just look around you. I’m sure you’ve seen worse on the guests staying in your suite of rooms.”

He waved a hand. “Cretins, the lot of them.” He frowned, considering. “Admittedly, modern clothing leaves little to the imagination, but truthfully, I haven’t yet decided whether I believe it to be an improvement. After all, to view a woman’s lush form through the thin fabrics of my day—say, perhaps, a woman gracing my private rooms wearing a chemise of the finest muslin—”

“Too much information,” Jordan interrupted. “Let’s not go there.”

He dipped his head. “As you wish. I merely meant to acquaint you with a stairway at the back of the building. I suspect you can slip past the manager unnoticed. But if you prefer not to …”

Jordan realized he’d taken her literally. “That’s not what I meant, but …” She contemplated his suggestion, sorely tempted to slip up that stairway. The prospect of being discovered and dealing with the police, however, was unappealing. “Is anyone up there right now?”

“Two workers are repairing the plaster walls and painting the ceiling. Though I suppose it is only to be expected that the rooms would need refurbishment at some point, I don’t approve of the decoration scheme that absurd man has chosen. I can only hope they don’t do anything to ruin the ambience of the Turkish motif.”

“Remember your great-great-nephew? The one I told you was murdered a couple of nights ago? He was in charge of the renovation of your suite. He was, according to those in the business, extremely good at historically accurate renovations. I don’t think you have to worry—”

“That loudmouthed, uncouth, sorry excuse for a gentleman was
related
to me?” Seavey interrupted, rising to his full height and glaring down at her. “
I think not, madam!
”

“Yes, he was.” She fisted her hands on her hips. “How can you act so offended? Weren’t you a hardened criminal in your time?”

He sniffed. “I may have—allegedly—engaged in certain illegal acts, but I assure you, I was never
crass
in my dealings with the fairer sex.”

Well, he had her there—she couldn’t exactly defend Holt’s treatment of women. Better to change the subject. “I found some old newspaper articles this afternoon about the wreck of the
Henrietta Dale
. You were listed among the survivors.”

He looked unimpressed. “I believe I indicated I thought such articles were fabricated.”

“I find it hard to agree with you that the articles about the shipwreck would be fabricated. What’s the last thing you remember from that night?”

“The ship hit the spit and knocked me off my feet. Then the rigging fell on me.” He paused, then shook his head. “After that—nothing.”

“Is it possible that you were knocked out, but then were rescued and taken unconscious to Port Chatham?”

“Anything is possible, madam. But the fact that I don’t remember waking up and finding myself in a different location lends far more credibility to my contention that such articles are erroneous.”

“Not necessarily. You could’ve been murdered while you were still unconscious,” she argued.

He shrugged. “Perhaps. I confess, I don’t see that it matters.”

“Did Eleanor Canby blame you for the death of her son?” At Seavey’s look of confusion, she explained. “Jesse died that night.”

“Ah. I hadn’t realized.”

Of course—he wouldn’t have known. “Why didn’t you ask about survivors after you came back as a ghost?”

His impatience was beginning to show. “The matter simply wasn’t of interest to me. And I didn’t ‘come back,’ as you put it, for a number of years. It’s not a simple process.”

“So you must have had other reasons for telling me last night that Eleanor despised you,” Jordan persisted.

Another shrug, this one accompanied by a sideways glance. “Eleanor disapproved of me on general principle—I didn’t measure up to her high moral standards. She was an uptight, rigid individual, who in my opinion caused more harm than good through her endless proselytizing.”

After having read Eleanor’s editorials, Jordan wasn’t certain she disagreed. She glanced up at the second floor of the old hotel, her thoughts returning to the present. “By any chance, did you keep business papers in a safe or some other secret compartment in your hotel suite when you were alive? Anything that Holt might have found while renovating your rooms?”

Seavey’s eyes shifted. “I don’t pretend to follow every activity of the humans who come and go from my establishment.”

“But you don’t deny that you had such papers,” she pressed.

He studied her for a long moment, gently tapping the brim of his top hat against one leg. “Even if something of the nature you describe were to exist,” he said finally, “I wouldn’t admit to it. Surely you can see that I wouldn’t want information regarding my past activities to undermine my courtship of Hattie. She wouldn’t—in many cases—necessarily approve.”

“I think you’ll find that Hattie is more flexible in her outlook these days than she might have been in the past.”

He shook his head. “Indeed, I doubt that.” A calculating gleam flickered his pale gray eyes. “It’s possible we might come to a mutually advantageous arrangement, one that would allow me to exchange information in return for, shall we say, certain favors.”

“What do you have in mind?” Jordan asked warily.

“Merely that I might indeed have knowledge of documents that I kept in my private rooms. If I were to reveal the location of those documents—should they exist—in return I would have your promise that you won’t show them to Hattie or talk to her about them.” When Jordan started to object, he held up a hand. “Further, that you would refrain from voicing any negative opinions you might hold as to my worthiness as a suitor.”

“You’re asking me to advocate that Hattie marry
you
?”

“Certainly not,” he snapped. “I don’t need a woman to present my case; I’m perfectly capable of convincing Hattie myself. The task should be simple—the union would obviously be mutually beneficial. I would merely ask that you don’t actively
dissuade
her. After all, you might even discover certain facts indicating my character isn’t as impoverished as you might currently believe.”

“I doubt it,” Jordan retorted wryly. “And as a counselor, I’m not in the habit of withholding advice that might result in a person making a decision that could cause her to align herself with someone of dubious ethics.”

He snorted. “You exaggerate, madam. I’m merely a businessman who employed tactics—and sometimes, I admit, the judicious use of violence—that might be less than palatable to the fairer sex, though quite necessary in the day.”

Jordan eyed him curiously. “Why
do
you want to marry Hattie?”

An emotion flashed through his eyes, gone so swiftly she couldn’t get a handle on it. “I don’t see that my reasons are any of your concern.”

“You’re in love with her,” she realized suddenly. Why hadn’t she seen it before now? He had, after all, avenged Hattie’s death. Now she knew why. One mystery solved.

His expression, however, turned to one of contempt. “Love is an utterly childish notion. Hattie and I are simply well suited to each other.”

“Uh-huh.” Jordan wasn’t buying it. Seavey had all the hallmarks of a person deep in denial concerning his true feelings toward Hattie. Then again, most criminals weren’t real big on analyzing their feelings or motivations.

She folded her arms. “So let me get this straight: You’re asking me to stay out of your way while you court Hattie, in return for information concerning the whereabouts of business papers that Holt might have discovered in your suite of rooms during the course of a remodel. Correct?”

He looked relieved. “Precisely.”

“No.”

He started. “I beg your pardon?”

“No,” she repeated flatly. “If I conclude that you aren’t a worthy suitor, I will say so.” She paused, realizing how crazy it was to comment in this day and age on someone’s worthiness as a suitor. “Hattie wants me to solve your murder, out of some misguided sense of guilt over the way she’s maligned your character for the last century. Go figure. But if I can help her feel less guilty by discovering how you died, then I will. In addition, I will also let her know that you were helpful during my investigation into your death.”

He stared at her broodingly, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Very well, I agree to your stipulations.” His nod was abrupt. “I admit that I have found this Holt you refer to, to be brutish in the extreme. Because of that, I’ve ensured I was away at various social commitments much of the time he labored in my suite. Therefore, it’s possible the man could’ve found a ledger and other files.”

“So you’re admitting to their existence?”

“Hypothetically, papers of that nature existed, ones that might have documented certain shipments and payments of … shall we say … 
contraband
. At the time, it would have made sense to keep them concealed in a false compartment in my sitting room wall. Therefore, also hypothetically, the documents could have been discovered as part of the recent repairs to the plaster in that room.”

Jordan felt a surge of excitement. So Holt
would
have had access to information about the
Henrietta Dale
. And he might have been curious enough to check it out. “And did your documents mention what the
Henrietta Dale
would have been carrying as ‘cargo’ the night she ran aground?”

Seavey fiddled with the cuff of his silk shirt before answering. “It’s possible such information existed in my ledger of accounts.”

She barely managed to restrain herself from pumping her fist in the air. The workers would probably know what Holt had done with the ledger and files. With any luck, the papers might still be in the suite.

Glancing back toward the entrance to the hotel lobby, she couldn’t see the owner lurking about. If he called the cops on her, so be it. She turned back to Seavey. “Show me those stairs you mentioned.”

She followed him as he floated across a small gravel lot around to the back of the building. He stopped by a set of rusty iron stairs, bowed, and swept a hand upward to indicate that she should precede him. She eyed the steps critically, wondering how safe they were.

“I assure you they are quite solid.”

She continued to hesitate. “How would you know? It’s not like you weigh anything.”

“Good Christ, woman! Try not to be so obstreperous! I’ve seen the workers use them time and again.”

“Oh. Right.” She started up the stairs, then turned back to see if he was following. His gaze lifted to her face, and not particularly quickly. “Were you just checking out my
butt
?” she demanded, incredulous.

He merely looked amused. “I’d have to be dead, crossed over, and have lost all powers of perception—which I assure you I have not—to fail to notice a pleasing female form.”

“Your ogling being a benefit of the modern clothing you insist is in such poor taste?” she said drily.

“Of course. I’m a discerning man, and I might prefer that you show off your assets in a manner that leaves more to the imagination, thus providing an air of alluring mystery. But I am not stupid.”

Shaking her head, she continued up the stairs.

*   *   *

L
ESS
than a half hour later, she and Malachi were on their way to Point Hudson east and slightly north of the downtown waterfront district. She had more information, though not the documents she’d hoped for. Holt’s workers had been quite talkative, answering all her questions as well as those prompted by the ghost lurking at her side.

Holt had found Seavey’s ledger and files approximately a week ago. Apparently, he’d become excited after reading about the
Henrietta Dale
but had acted secretive about the details of what he’d learned. The next day, he’d left work early on the excuse that he had a scuba diving lesson. Every day after that, he’d disappeared by midafternoon, indifferent in the face of the owner’s complaints that he was slacking off. When Jordan had asked what Holt had done with the original documents, though, no one could tell her. And a hasty search of the suite turned up nothing.

She needed to verify that the location of the shipwreck matched where she’d found Holt’s body. If she could nail down that detail, none of the skeptics in the pub could ignore the strong possibility that Holt had been murdered because of his interest in salvaging the
Henrietta Dale
. But who had told Holt about the shipwreck in the first place? He couldn’t have found out about it from Seavey’s papers, and neither of his workers had known about it. He must have mentioned the
Henrietta Dale
to someone who told him about the 1893 shipwreck. But who? Was the history of the shipwreck well known around town?