Ghost Ship: A Port Chatham Mystery (22 page)

Jordan started to explain, “I know you don’t like people in your kitchen—”

“Get in here,
right now
.”

“Okay, sure, right,” Jordan muttered, edging inside.

A large man dressed in loose work clothes leaned against the counter along the back wall next to the stove, his muscular arms crossed. His dark expressionless eyes tracked her as she closed half the distance between them before she stopped out of an innate sense of caution. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him.

“You deal with this guy, then get him the hell out of my kitchen,” Kathleen ordered. “I have work to do.”

“Do I know you?” Jordan asked him, puzzled. The light dawned. “Weren’t you sitting at one of the tables in the pub last night?”

“Yeah.” The man straightened, and she realized uneasily just how imposing he was. He flashed her a humorless grin, exposing crooked teeth. “You want answers about the wreck of the
Henrietta Dale
and Seavey’s murder, and I want to set the record straight.”

She eyed him nervously. “And you would be?”

“Sam Garrett.”

*   *   *

J
ORDAN
rounded on Kathleen. “You can see
ghosts
!”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Kathleen grumbled.

“Denial,” Jordan said. “Believe me, I can empathize. But you can see
him
, right?”

“Of course she can see me,” Garrett answered for her. “Are you daft, woman? How do you think she knew to come find you?”

Kathleen pointed the long-bladed chef’s knife she was using to chop garlic at both of them. “Deal with him and then leave. I have work to do.”

Jordan folded her arms. “This discussion isn’t over, you know,” she told her.

“You want to ever eat my food again?”

Well, shit
.

“I thought so.” Kathleen went back to chopping garlic.

“Ignore the fool woman!” Garrett interrupted, clearly impatient. “We have much to discuss.”

It finally dawned on Jordan that she was talking to a cold-blooded killer. If he decided to attack her, she really had no defense against him.

She edged toward the door, then was in the process of realizing she couldn’t leave Kathleen alone with a murderer when he made a
tsk
ing sound that halted her in her tracks. “I wouldn’t advise trying to run.”

Kathleen slammed an iron skillet onto the stove, glaring at her. “If you
rabbit
before handling him, I will bury my meat cleaver between your shoulder blades. He’s
your
problem.”

Jordan sent up a silent prayer that Jase would come back to the kitchen with dinner orders, but she wasn’t hopeful—even Malachi was sound asleep behind the bar, oblivious to the danger she was in. Surreptitiously, she glanced at the knife racks above Kathleen’s workstation.

“Those knives can’t hurt me,” Garrett said, amused.

Her fear must have then shown on her face, because he sighed. “I currently have no plan to kill you. I simply want to set the record straight.”

Jordan swallowed and waved a shaky hand. “By all means,” she told him, trying to sound courageous, “proceed.”

“You consider me a suspect in Michael Seavey’s murder, do you not?” he demanded.

Did she dare say yes? “In truth,” she allowed, “I hadn’t yet reached any conclusions.”

“Quit prevaricating!” he snapped, and she jumped a foot.

“Um, what I do know is that you and Michael Seavey were at odds, that you had committed several m-murders …” She swallowed. “And that people back then were generally afraid of you.”
Versus now, when they have good reason to be flat-out terrified
.

Her answer seemed to mollify him. “Precisely. However, I did not murder Seavey.”

“Were you responsible for the grounding of the
Henrietta Dale
?”

A smug look crossed his face. “Of course. It was ridiculously easy.”

“How did you do it? Set a lantern farther down the beach? After disabling the one in the lighthouse?”

“The manner in which I caused the grounding of the
Henrietta Dale
is neither here nor there.”

“Well, you had to have done something similar to what I describe. Otherwise, the captain wouldn’t have made such a grave error in his calculations,” she insisted.

He looked amused. “You may believe what you wish.”

Exasperated, she pushed him. “So your intention was to murder Michael Seavey?”

“On the contrary. My intention was to
ruin
the bastard by sinking his ship. The fact that he ended up dead because of … my actions …” Garrett seemed to stumble over the words, then shrugged. “Let’s just say that I wasn’t unduly concerned about the possibility. Although it would have been more gratifying to watch him experience the humiliation of a total loss of power and influence.”

“From what I’ve been told—”

“—You mean, from what you’ve
seen
?” he corrected her with a sly grin.

Jordan heard Kathleen snort. She pressed on. “I
read
about the shipwreck in the
Port Chatham Weekly Gazette
. The
Henrietta Dale
broke up in the surf that night, so I’d say you succeeded, if that was truly your goal. You also caused the deaths of dozens of people.”

“Their deaths couldn’t be helped,” Garrett replied, his tone hardening. “No one treats me the way Seavey did and gets away with it.”

Jordan shuddered. “So you returned to Port Chatham and finished the job, killing him there.”

He hissed angrily, and she backed up several steps. “You haven’t been
listening
. I came here to tell you that I had
nothing
to do with the man’s murder! Though I would like to take credit for it, certain … events, shall we say, immediately after the sinking of the
Henrietta Dale
made it impossible for me to return to Port Chatham.”

“Do you know who
did
murder him?”

“I couldn’t, could I? I wasn’t present. I only care that you understand
I
didn’t murder the man.”

“Okay, fine. Message received.”

“I didn’t send a message! I stood here and told you the truth of it!”

“Let me rephrase that,” she said hastily. “I meant I now understand that you didn’t murder Seavey.” She glanced in Kathleen’s direction, but the cook had something sizzling in her iron skillet and was pointedly ignoring them. “So you can go now?” she asked Garrett hopefully.

He sent her a chiding glance that had her contemplating whether she could reach the door into the back hallway before he could nab her, or whatever it was a ghost could do to her. Folding his arms across his massive chest, he said, “I have information that I am willing to barter in return for your promise that you will announce I had nothing to do with Seavey’s death.”

“But don’t most sociopaths like to have kills attributed to them that they didn’t do?” she asked curiously. Not that she had a clue, really. And what the hell was she doing, asking such questions? After all, reminding a murderer that he got off on the act of murder was sort of like poking a crazed bull with a sharp stick.

“ ‘Sociopaths’?” He thought that over, then nodded. “The term is pleasing. What I wish to impress upon you, however, is that an altercation with Michael Seavey at the moment would be enervating, and these days, I wish to expend my energies on other pursuits.”

Honest to God, she
really
didn’t want to know.

“Therefore, it’s imperative he understand that I wasn’t the one to murder him.” Garrett’s dark eyes were coldly assessing. “Do we have an arrangement?”

“Yes.” After all, it wasn’t as if she was going to say
no
and risk further pissing him off.

“Excellent.” Reaching into the pocket of his wool coat, he did something to cause a small, ornately decorated tin to fly out and float in the air between them. Jordan immediately recognized it from the day at the beach. “I believe
this
is what you have been seeking,” he said, zinging it at her.

She grabbed it out of the air, turning it over and examining it closely. It was actually quite beautiful, the lid etched in swirling scrolls of an Oriental design, their colors faded with time and exposure to the elements. “You’re the diver I saw on the beach that day,” she exclaimed.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t make the connection; you look different out of a dive suit.” She tried to open the box, but it didn’t budge—it was probably rusted shut.

“It’s sealed with beeswax, to keep the contents dry,” he explained. “Each ‘package’ contains a quantity of chandu opium, molded into small cakes, portions of which are placed in a pipe to be smoked. The cakes were wrapped in waxed paper.” His expression was derisive. “Seavey was determined to provide his customers with the highest quality opium, packaged in a pleasing manner. He went to great expense to have the opium cakes brought in from the Orient, then repackaged in a more pleasing way. Really, it’s not as if his customers would have known the difference if he’d substituted less expensive product after the first puff or two.”

What he was saying was consistent with what Jordan knew of Michael Seavey—the man placed a high value on presentation and style. She doubted he would have stood for increasing his profits through a lowering of the quality of the drug. “So you’ve been retrieving these from the shipwreck?” she asked.

His gaze slid away. “Of course not. What earthly use would I have of them? Besides, over time, with exposure to the elements, the stuff would obviously have deteriorated to the point of being worthless.”

Not in the eyes of collectors, who would pay dearly to own a small piece of West Coast history, she realized. She thought back to her first encounter with him and was still confused on one point. “But I saw you bring one of these tins out of the water, didn’t I?”

“I was
attempting
to give you a hint, so that you would think to look into what type of salvage operation was occurring. I know now that you are frequently too oblivious to notice such things.” He waved a hand at the tin. “That is one your friend brought up. He inadvertently dropped it on the beach.”

A tendril of excitement raced down her spine. “So these tins are what Holt was salvaging from the wreck!”

“Yes.” Garrett scowled. “Unbeknownst to me, Seavey had built secret, reinforced compartments into the hull for the purposes of transporting opium. A portion of the ship’s hull, along with some of those compartments, apparently survived intact and lies on the ocean floor just off the spit. The human—”

“Holt Stilwell,” she supplied.

“By Christ, woman! I care not a whit about the man’s name! Will you cease to be so
difficult
?”

Her face must have blanched, because he sighed and then continued. “
Stilwell
discovered the undamaged portion of the hull on his initial dive. Then he came back on subsequent days to retrieve a number of the tins.”

“Interesting.” To her knowledge, nothing of the sort had been found in either Holt’s house or his truck. If it had, Darcy certainly would have told her. “You don’t happen to know what he did with them, do you?”

“In that regard, I have no interest in helping you,” Garrett replied. “It’s not as if I followed the man around town between his dives. I just happened to be on hand, curious about what he was up to, when he was near the shipwreck. The fool was going to sell them in some kind of auction. He called it a name that doesn’t match any auction house I’m familiar with …”

“eBay, perhaps?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because I was right there, listening when he told his plans to the person who brought him out to the beach in his boat. Stilwell described that his intent was to hold a press conference, then open bidding on the tins.”

“What guy? Holt wasn’t diving with anyone else. At least, we haven’t been able to locate anyone—”

“The other person wasn’t a diver,” Garrett corrected her, looking impatient again. “But the person
was
quite angry with Stilwell. I presume that’s why Stilwell was murdered. I’ve never understood the reason to murder in circumstances such as those, when torture or a sound beating, at a minimum, can be far more effective—”

“Wait,” Jordan interrupted, excited. “Do you mean to tell me you saw Holt get shot?”

Kathleen stopped what she was doing and looked up.

Garrett shrugged. “Not that it’s of any import, but yes, I witnessed the entire affair.”

Chapter 15

Y
OU
have
got
to be kidding me,” Darcy groused. “There’s an eyewitness to Holt’s murder, and it’s a
ghost
?”

“Yes.”

“And he refused to tell you who did it.” Darcy’s expression was one of utter disbelief.

“Yep.”

The jazz band was on break before its last set of the evening. Customers who didn’t count themselves among the diehards had called it quits and left for home. Taking advantage of the momentary lull, Darcy, Jordan, and several of the men had retreated to a table on the far side of the room to discuss the latest development. Microbrew beer was flowing freely.

Darcy had moved into full rant mode. “I don’t fucking believe this! It’s not as if I can arrest a ghost as a material witness and compel him to testify.”

“He said he wouldn’t reveal facts that might implicate someone he felt the need to protect,” Jordan explained. “Actually, he acted oddly, given that he’s a sociopath. Sociopaths have no conscience.”

“This case is
so
in the crapper.”

“Who would a sociopath feel the need to protect?” Bob asked. “Another sociopath?”

“Maybe,” Jordan replied, unconvinced.

“No other dead bodies floating around that we know of,” Tom pointed out.

“What I’m having trouble wrapping my mind around,” Jase said, looking grimly at Jordan as he placed a full pitcher on the table and took a seat, “is that you were conversing with the ghost of a murderous drug runner in my kitchen. Did it ever occur to either you or Kathleen that you were in mortal danger from this guy?”

“Of course,” Jordan replied. “But what were we supposed to do? It’s not like I can control the movements of the ghosts in this town any more than Darcy can successfully arrest one. They can do pretty much whatever they want.”

“You could’ve run like hell.”

“I considered it,” Jordan admitted. “But he made it clear that I’d never get away. And call me crazy, but I definitely had the sense it was far better to humor him than to anger him.”

“Jase is right, though—the trend
is
worrisome,” Darcy said. “In the beginning, the ghosts with whom you came in contact were relatively benign. There’s been an escalation toward more dangerous ones since then, starting with the ghost of Michael Seavey.”

Jordan frowned. “I don’t think Michael Seavey is very dangerous. Not really.”

“He’s not exactly the local choirboy, either,” Jase retorted, standing to gather empties from the next table.

Darcy looked thoughtful. “Do
you
know what Garrett meant when he said he felt the need to protect someone?”

“No.” Jordan scrubbed her face with both hands. The adrenaline was starting to wear off, leaving her feeling like she’d been flattened by a truck. “I got the impression that at least partially, Garrett just didn’t care. Bob could be on the right track: Thinking from the perspective of a sociopath, you would feel a kinship to others like you. So he could just be protecting the identity of a fellow criminal. But I got the strong sense that it was more than that—that whoever had murdered Holt was someone for whom Garrett felt a sense of obligation.”

Darcy leaned her elbows on the table, pressing her fingers against closed eyes. “I’m now officially suicidal.”

“And it turns out I was right about the two murders being related,” Jordan continued. “Holt was salvaging the opium tins from the hull of the
Henrietta Dale
. His plans to reveal what he’d found and to auction off the tins were a threat to someone in present day.”

“That’s nice,” Darcy said.

“The question is, who? And what kind of threat?”

“Uh-huh.” Darcy hadn’t moved.

“This is progress,” Jordan insisted. “We now know Holt’s girlfriends didn’t do him in.”

“I don’t see how you can rule out Sally, though,” Bob argued. “Didn’t Holt date her sister, the one who committed suicide? That’s a hell of a motive.”

“Have you been able to determine if she has an alibi?” Jordan asked Darcy.

“No. Not unless we can nail down when she was on email that evening. We had to subpoena her Internet service provider, who declined to be nice and hand over her usage records. Subpoenas take time.”

“Well regardless, you should be thrilled to narrow the field of potential suspects,” Jordan said to Darcy. “What’s your problem?”

She opened her eyes to glare at Jordan. “Well, gee. I’ve got a ghost for the only witness to a murder. That means I have no proof that will stand up in court, and no real evidence so far. And we haven’t
narrowed
the field of suspects, we’ve eliminated
most
of them.”

“What about Crazy Clive?” Tom asked.

“He has an alibi,” Jordan replied, then looked at Darcy. “Unless you haven’t been able to verify it?”

“I’m still trying to get hold of some of the guests at the winetasting.” Darcy straightened on a sigh. “Even if you could get Garrett the Ghost to tell us who shot Holt, we’d have to figure out a way to trap the killer into confessing. Which usually gives the defense lawyer the chance to scream entrapment when the case comes to trial.”

“Garrett won’t talk,” Jordan said with certainty. She paused, thinking back over their conversation. “I’m convinced he was lying about something, as well. I just can’t figure out what.”

“Don’t even
think
about getting close enough to him to ask,” Jase growled, approaching with a loaded tray.

“I won’t,” Jordan hurriedly agreed. “Though as I pointed out, I don’t control the movements of the ghosts.”

“You can at least make an effort to avoid those locations where you think you might run into him,” Jase insisted.

“He came to
me
, sought me out in the pub,” Jordan pointed out. “He was here last night as well, sitting at one of the tables. So unless I avoid the pub, it’s going to be hard to keep out of his way.” She shook her head. “My suggestion is that we try to figure out what connects Sam Garrett with someone in this town, and then go from there.”

Jase clearly didn’t like her answer. “Okay,” he replied, his tone reluctant, “so what type of connection would a man like Garrett want to keep secret?”

“The obvious one is some kind of honor among murderers,” Bob said. “Like honor among thieves.”

“Maybe,” Darcy answered, her expression skeptical. “But from what I’ve read about sociopaths, they’re usually only motivated to hide the kills of a copycat killer, because they believe their own work is so admirable and consider the copycat a form of flattery. And Holt was shot pointblank, a technique he would consider amateurish and uninspired.”

“Okay, how about those missing tins of opium?” Tom asked. “They would be considered collectibles and fetch a nice price at auction. Holt was right about that. Maybe the killer has Holt’s cache and wants to sell them to private collectors.”

“So perhaps what Holt was doing wasn’t so much a threat as an opportunity for someone to cash in on those tins?” Jase asked. “Makes sense to me.”

“But why would
Garrett
care about that?” Jordan asked. “According to what he told me, he sank the
Henrietta Dale
to get back at Seavey, not because of the opium. In fact, I’m fairly certain from what he said that he didn’t even know about the secret compartments in the hull until recently. So I doubt he would care if someone in present day was out to make money off the salvage.”

“Maybe Garrett has some kind of personal connection to the murderer,” Jase mused. “A relative, perhaps? Even murderers have family.”

“No one like that has popped up in any of my research,” Bob pointed out.

“Mine, either,” Tom said. “I’m fairly familiar with the descendants of the founding families—at least, those who still live in the area, and no one pops onto my radar.” He looked at Jordan. “Have you seen any mention of what happened to Garrett in Seavey’s papers?”

“No, but let me hunt around,” Jordan replied. “I’m not done reading Eleanor Canby’s memoirs, or with going through the newspapers from the period surrounding the shipwreck. It’s also possible Charlotte might know something—Garrett was a Green Light client back then.”

“See if you can find any marriage announcements, births, or obituaries,” Darcy suggested.

“Good idea,” Jordan agreed, reaching over to add her empty glass to Jase’s tray.

The band members were filing back onto the stage, tuning their instruments.

“Time to get back to work.” Jase stood, placing a hand on Jordan’s shoulder. “You’re done for the night—Bill and I can handle it from here.”

“Come on. I’ll give you and Malachi a lift home,” Darcy added. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky, and the murderer will be standing on your front porch, waiting to confess.”

*   *   *

D
ARCY
dropped off Jordan and Malachi a few minutes later, after an uneventful ride through quiet streets. At that time of night, most of both communities were at home in bed or in their portals, so Jordan could worry less about witnessing the debacle of Darcy unknowingly driving through someone.

Jordan climbed the front steps and opened the door to discover yet another vase of red roses in the hallway.

Dammit
. “Hattie!” she yelled.

“No need to raise your voice beyond what is considered a polite tone,” Hattie replied from the entry to the library. “Yelling is extremely unladylike.”

Jordan ignored that. “You’ve
got
to convince Seavey to quit filching flowers from the florist. I’m going broke cleaning up after him.”

“I assure you, though I claim responsibility for the original bouquet, I had no hand in the delivery of these,” Michael Seavey said from behind her. “I wouldn’t be so crass as to send duplicate gifts to a beautiful woman. Each trinket or gesture during courtship should impart a unique, artfully constructed message, designed to communicate the seriousness of the suit. This evening, Hattie and I have been sharing a book of poetry.”

From somewhere in the depths of the library, Jordan heard Frank growl.

“No fistfights this evening,” she warned in a raised voice. “I’m beat, and I have reading to do.” She paused. “So who
are
the flowers from?”

“Since the card is addressed to you,” Hattie pointed out in an arch tone, “I have no way of ascertaining that, do I? I’m not in the habit of reading someone’s private missives.”

“I’ll wager they’re from your handsome beau!” Charlotte gushed from somewhere overhead. “Hattie, we should expect him to offer for her hand within the fortnight. Do you realize the import of this new development? We must plan for a double wedding! How
romantic
!”

“Don’t even think about it,” Jordan warned grimly. “In modern times, men don’t ‘offer’ for a woman’s hand.”

“Well, I find that to be simply outrageous,” Charlotte sniffed. “Some conventions should withstand the test of time.”

“Yeah, and obviously, that one didn’t.” Curious, Jordan walked over to examine the flowers. A card was nestled in the leaves. She plucked it out and removed it from its envelope. There was no message, just a boldly scrawled “J.”

She replaced the card and, smiling, leaned over to sniff the fragrant flowers.

“I believe you may be correct regarding the source, Charlotte.” Seavey sounded amused. “Of course, the man got the idea from me, which indicates an appalling lack of imagination.”

“He was merely making certain I didn’t feel left out,” Jordan said. “It was a kind, thoughtful gesture.” And charmingly sneaky.

“I fail to see why women lose all sense of reason over a handful of hothouse flowers,” Frank said, his tone disdainful. “You are, as a sex, such disgustingly sentimental creatures.”

Seavey sighed and raised his gaze to the ceiling. “Given your attitude, Lewis, is it any wonder that Hattie prefers me over you?”

“Michael,” Hattie admonished. “As you are perfectly well aware, I haven’t made a decision yet. Please do not taunt your competition.”

“Regardless of your attempts to manipulate her emotions, Seavey, I feel confident that Hattie will see through you.” Frank remained stubbonly focused on his opponent. “She has, after all, an outstanding mind and admirable ethics.”

“Thank you, Frank,” Hattie replied softly. “You are a good man.”

“Enough,” Jordan ordered. “I’m way too tired to referee this evening. I’m fixing a cup of tea and then heading up to bed with my stack of reading.”

“What, precisely, are you reading?” Seavey asked.

Already halfway down the hall to the kitchen, Jordan slowed and looked over her shoulder. “Your personal papers. I’m looking for information about Sam Garrett. I talked to him earlier this evening, and—”

Charlotte gasped and flew to Hattie’s side, clutching her arm. “Garrett is
here
?”

“He is an extremely dangerous man,” Seavey admonished Jordan. “I strongly suggest that you have nothing to do with him.”

“Believe me,” she said fervently, “I never want to cross paths with him again. But I need to know more about him.”

“Your investigation into this man could put you, as well as the rest of us, at extreme risk,” Hattie warned. “I beg of you to drop whatever line of inquiry you are pursuing.”

“You
do
want me to solve Michael’s murder, don’t you?” At Hattie’s grudging nod, Jordan added, “Then I need answers.”

Charlotte started sobbing uncontrollably. “If Garrett comes near me again, I simply won’t survive! I can’t bear to see him!”

Jordan looked at her, perplexed. “What do you mean, ‘again’? Has he been coming around Longren House?”

“She means before,” Seavey explained quietly. He moved to place a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. “My dear, if Garrett approaches you, you need only to summon me, and I will endeavor to protect you as I did in the past.”

“What are you talking about?” Jordan asked, bewildered.

“Yes, I would like to know the answer to that question myself,” Hattie said firmly. “Charlotte, did Garrett harm you in some way? And if so, why is this the first time I’m hearing of it?”