Ghost Ship: A Port Chatham Mystery (7 page)

“What is this? Good ghost, bad ghost?” Jordan grumbled. At Hattie’s confused look, she said, “Never mind.”

Drying the ends of her hair with the towel, she explained impatiently, “First of all, I’m not interested in functioning as an amateur detective for all the ghosts in this town.” She paused, shuddering at the implications of what she’d just said. “And second, in this case,
everyone
probably wanted Seavey dead—he had so many enemies I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

She rummaged through a drawer, looking for the cotton T-shirt Jase had given her as a belated house-warming present and she’d converted into a nightshirt. The one that stated across the front, in large block letters,
REALITY IS JUST A STATE OF MIND
.

Hattie wrinkled her nose. “I don’t understand this modern practice of painting comments on your night-wear,” she said. “
Or
of wearing something to bed that should be worn during the day. Last week, your nightshirt said something that sounded like a local football team. Don’t you have a proper nightgown?”

“They get too tangled—they’re a hassle,” Jordan replied, turning back the down comforter on her bed. “Didn’t you have any slogans back in the 1800s?”

Hattie looked confused.

“You know, like something the president might have said that became a common phrase people used to explain how they felt or how something worked in the world?”

“Maybe,” she replied, but her expression said she doubted it.

“Well, there you go.” Jordan glanced toward the hall. “Where’s Charlotte?”

“Downstairs practicing her telekinesis powers, using them to straighten up the library.”

The relevant word in this instance being “practice.” Jordan closed her eyes. She’d think about it tomorrow, she reminded herself.

Hattie continued to hover just inside the door.

Jordan sighed. “All right, I’ll take a trip out to the historical society tomorrow to see if there are any other newspaper articles about Seavey’s murder or survivors of the shipwreck. If there aren’t, that’s the end of it.”

Hattie sagged with relief.

Of course, the historical society was still closed for remodeling, which meant Jordan would have to ask Darcy to meet her there and let her in. Not a good plan, given how buried Darcy would be with Holt’s murder investigation. And hadn’t she mentioned something about going back out to the crime scene tomorrow?

Alternatively, Jordan could break into the building. Again. Breaking the law was becoming habitual for her—during her last visit she’d stolen materials from the archives, then broken in to return them while Darcy was in the hospital.

“In the meantime,” she told Hattie sternly, “I expect you to resolve this marriage issue. I’m not keen on having either man in this house.”

Hattie made several reassuring noises that Jordan knew better than to believe signaled the end to
that
discussion, then faded away, leaving her in peace.

Malachi slipped into the bedroom and jumped onto the bed, settling in. Jordan climbed in right after him, fighting for her half of the comforter. She was about to turn out the bedside lamp when she saw Michael Seavey’s personal papers, still stacked where she’d left them on her nightstand. She’d been procrastinating about returning them to Holt, not looking forward to having to fend off his inevitable advances. And didn’t
that
make her feel guilty, in light of today’s events? She and Hattie were certainly a pair. First thing tomorrow, she’d take the papers to the local mail shop and copy them, then drive them out to Holt’s house. His family would want to know that she returned them, since they would be part of Holt’s estate.

She leaned against the headboard, still too worked up to fall asleep. Perhaps if she read Seavey’s papers she wouldn’t lie in the dark and think about the
other thing
she’d seen that afternoon. Or maybe she’d find information that would indicate the thing she’d seen wasn’t the
Henrietta Dale
, thus proving the gardener wrong.

Surely, if Seavey had owned a clipper ship, he’d have written about it. And if so, he also would’ve detailed his plans for the ship. It seemed unlikely that he would’ve gone into any kind of shipping business, given his established shanghaing practices. And no one had mentioned to her that Seavey had taken over Longren Shipping after Hattie’s murder. Jordan couldn’t come up with any reason why he would’ve needed to expand his interests in that direction. So if he
had
purchased the clipper ship, why? And who might have tried to run it aground? And what, if anything, did the shipwreck have to do with his murder? Or Holt’s, for that matter?

She grabbed a couple of pillows and punched them into submission, shoving them behind her, then leaned back. Reaching for the papers, she flipped through a stack of yellowed, handwritten notes until she came to a sheaf of pages dated 1893.

Before she had a chance to search for a mention of the
Henrietta Dale
, a diary entry from the month before Seavey’s death caught her eye:

July 8, 1893: I found much in the events of this evening to be cause for increased concern. Garrett grows ever bolder, taking unwise risks, even flaunting our successes in front of the Customs agents …

Jordan looked up from the page long enough to adjust the light from the bedside lamp, then settled in to read.

Lost Nerve

July 8, 1893

(
one month earlier
)

M
ICHAEL
propped a shoulder against the back wall of Mayor Payton’s luxuriously appointed parlor, sipping after-dinner port from Baccarat crystal and listening to the evening’s guest performer, Payton’s unmarried sister. A quiet mouse of a woman dressed in a dull green gown that did nothing for her sallow coloring or plump figure, she’d been seated next to Michael during dinner. She moved effortlessly between Bach, Schumann, and more contemporary ragtime songs, displaying a far better command of the pianoforte than she had of polite dinner conversation.

Michael’s fellow dinner guests, polished in deportment yet woefully uneducated in the fine arts, ignored Miss Payton’s stunning musical talent in favor of consuming large amounts of the admittedly excellent Duoro port the mayor imported for his frequent fund-raisers. Drowning out the music with chatter, the guests bemoaned the cool, wet summer weather that had ruined the Independence Day fireworks display; worried aloud about their risky investments in the proposed railroad between Port Chatham and Portland, Oregon; and vociferously predicted the demise of the local shipping industry. The latter was based on the increased business that lately had gone to that “upstart” port town of “heretics and hedonists,” Seattle.

Michael found it all intolerably boring. Savoring another sip of the port, he wondered whether he could manage a glance at his pocket watch without appearing rude. And whether, if he found enough time had passed, he could slip away without drawing unwanted attention.

Loud laughter erupted from the opposite corner of the room, causing Miss Payton to falter in her otherwise flawless execution of a Bach cantabile. More than one set of eyes averted as Jesse Canby staggered then fell onto a velvet settee. His silk cravat wine-stained and askew, his legs splayed, he raised his head to lock gazes with his mother, Eleanor, who stood rigid with embarrassment. Jesse’s eyes were feverishly bright, his laughter uncaring as the effort to hold his head up became too much.

As owner of the
Port Chatham Weekly Gazette
, Eleanor Canby held sway over the opinions of the town’s social elite. She’d made it clear that Jesse, an unrepentant alcoholic who had taken an unhealthy interest in the waterfront’s opium-smoking parlors, not to mention its brothels, was no longer welcome in her home. And recently, she’d become ever more strident in her stand on her editorial page, railing against the evils of such licentiousness. Indeed, given the potential for offending Eleanor, Michael was surprised that Payton had allowed Jesse to attend this evening’s event.

Then again, when one craved the heavenly demon, all else took a backseat. Jesse was quietly supplying the good mayor with contraband, thus minimizing the risk that someone would witness Payton’s visit to a known opium den.

Michael was careful to keep his expression bland, not allowing his amusement to show. Payton was in a delicate position: he couldn’t slight Eleanor without suffering political repercussions, yet neither could he publicly snub his supplier. Nevertheless, Eleanor possessed a keen intelligence—it wouldn’t take long for her to piece together the reason for Jesse’s presence tonight.

The irony was that half the guests this evening, including Jesse, were Michael’s regular customers. The new pastime of Port Chatham’s social elite was a visit to one’s favorite Chinese “laundry,” taking a walk on the wild side of the waterfront. And Michael’s goal was to ensure they could engage in their illicit activities with a minimum of risk, in the company of like-minded friends. Once his plans were complete, his customers would no longer feel compelled to sneak through the back door at a laundry; instead, they would recline in splendor served by Michael’s charming chefs, smoking chandu opium of the highest quality, smuggled in weekly from Canada.

Oddly enough, his customers seemed to relish taking the risk of inviting him into their homes. They constantly plied him with invitations to attend the season’s most prestigious gatherings, be they dinners organized to belay the tedium of the cold, cloudy summer, or political fund-raisers meant to line the coffers of the mayor and his cronies.

Michael wanted nothing more than to hole up in his hotel suite. He remained haunted by the thought that Hattie would walk into a hostess’s parlor, or that Hattie was seated at the other end of the dinner table, just out of sight. Though it had been three years since her death, he continued to be plagued by imagined glimpses of her among the crowds on the waterfront boardwalks, and by his memories of her gracing the elegant homes of her neighbors.

The persistence of those memories infuriated him.

Miss Payton brought the Bach piece to an end, pausing to shuffle music scores before launching into her next song. Michael set his glass on the tray of a passing housemaid, then slipped out the French doors to the garden.

Pausing on the steps leading down to a brick patio surrounded by sodden plants, he stood under the dripping eaves, gazing into the damp darkness. As was so often true this dreary summer, a steady, misting rain fell from a heavy sky, soaking all it touched. His forthcoming rendezvous on the north side of town promised to be an uncomfortable one.

The door behind him opened, spilling light onto the wet bricks, and he turned, thinking to see a fellow guest as intent on escaping the smoke-filled room as he. To his surprise and displeasure, Eleanor Canby stepped out.

“Mr. Seavey.” She nodded stiffly. “A moment of your time, if you please.”

Michael managed a formal bow. “As you wish, Mrs. Canby.”

He had never forgiven her for her treatment of Hattie in the days before her death. As editor-in-chief of Port Chatham’s only newspaper, Eleanor had long ago established herself as the town’s moral compass. She had denounced Hattie’s attempts to manage her husband’s shipping business after his death at sea, claiming such work didn’t suit a woman of high social standing. Eleanor’s public condemnation had undermined any chance Hattie might have had of saving the business, thus removing her only means of financial survival.

Michael also suspected that the disintegration of Longren Shipping within mere weeks of Hattie’s murder had been no coincidence. Eleanor had powerful business allies, many of whom would have been gleeful at the prospect of taking over the shipping contracts. He had it on good word that Charlotte, left with no means by which to support herself, was now under the tutelage of Mona Starr, the madam of Port Chatham’s most notorious brothel, the Green Light.

“I thought it only fair to warn you, Mr. Seavey.” Eleanor’s stentorian voice pulled him from his thoughts. “I plan to run an editorial this coming week decrying the increased use of opium by this town’s citizens. I am not unaware of your involvement in that business, of course.”

Michael raised both brows, feigning amusement. “My
dear
Eleanor. I have no idea to what you refer.”

Her lips thinned. “Come now, Mr. Seavey. We all know how you’ve replaced the income you lost from the demise of Longren Shipping. It’s no secret that Sam Garrett smuggles in contraband under your protection.”

“Sheer speculation.”

“Nevertheless.” She smoothed the skirts of her midnight-blue silk evening gown with hands encrusted with jewels. “My editorial will condemn the purchase and use of the disgusting drug. Though few speak out on the matter, I find the drug’s long-term effects on smokers distressing.”

She was referring, of course, to the continued deterioration of Jesse’s health in the face of her efforts to curb his voracious appetites. She’d even gone so far as to engage the services of a local physician, Willoughby, to treat Jesse for alcohol addiction. Unfortunately, the good doctor’s prescription of regularly administered doses of laudanum was no doubt the cause of Jesse’s newfound craving for opiates.

Though Michael was unsympathetic with regard to Eleanor’s plight, even he could see that she grew more desperate with each passing week. Jesse’s self-destructive tendencies betrayed her failures as a mother, and such knowledge surely ate away at her. The boy had a sensitive, artistic temperament; her rigid parenting had contributed greatly to his gradual withdrawal from those around him. Unfortunately, Eleanor’s despair might lead her to launch a public campaign that could become a rather large thorn in Michael’s side.

“I trust you won’t be naming names in your editorial,” he told her dispassionately. “That would be exceedingly unwise, Eleanor.”

Her spine straightened. “Do not believe, Mr. Seavey, that because you are an investor in my newspaper, you will be immune to condemnation in print. If I decide you are the cause of the moral decay of Port Chatham’s citizenry, I will not hold back.”

“I can only hope to attain such lofty status,” he replied wryly. “Watch your step, Eleanor. As a businessman, I never operate without contingent plans. Most in this town know not to cross me.”

“You
threaten
me?”

“Not at all,” Michael replied. “I’m simply making the point that ownership of the local newspaper might be an interesting addition to my business holdings.”

For the first time, he glimpsed pure rage in her eyes. Evidently, control of an editorial page trumped the well-being of her only child.

Across the garden, Michael’s bodyguard, Remy, stepped out of the shadows, reminding him why he’d slipped away from the evening’s social obligations. “Quite frankly, though,” he continued, keeping his tone light as he pulled on his kidskin gloves, “I doubt your newspaper campaign against the heavenly demon will have much effect—it isn’t as if the stuff is illegal. Most folks consider it a harmless bit of play to try to outwit the Customs officers and evade paying the import duties.”

“They’ll soon change their minds when I educate them on the drug’s deleterious health effects,” Eleanor snapped, “not to mention the precious tax dollars that are being lost.”

He shrugged. “I care not what people put in their bodies—’tis a free country, after all. And for the moment, our town suffers little from funds lost to shrinking revenues.”

“People must be saved from their own poor judgment, Mr. Seavey!”

“As you saved Jesse from himself?” he asked softly.

“You go too far, sir! I intend to push for the eventual outlawing of all forms of opium, just as I’ve already done with those who introduced the wretched drug to our shores!”

She referred, of course, to the Chinese Exclusion Act that had been passed by Congress, placing a moratorium on the immigration of Chinese. The supposed argument had been a concern for the jobs they held in the gold fields, but Michael had always suspected that racial prejudice was the stronger motivation. And though the authorities had announced their intention to be vigilant, he doubted the law was enforceable—the West Coast had thousands of miles of remote inlets and beaches, any of which could be used for a night landing of unwanted immigrants.

Remy appeared more anxious with each passing moment. Michael donned his top hat. “As much as I would love to continue our debate, Eleanor, I must take leave of your excellent company. A prior engagement, you understand.”

“Of a clandestine nature, I presume, Mr. Seavey?” Eleanor’s voice was laced with disapproval.

“You may presume to your heart’s content—I only hold the power to stop you from putting those presumptions into print.”

“Stay away from my son, Mr. Seavey.”

He didn’t respond, instead bowing his head politely. “I bid you a pleasant evening, madam.”

*   *   *

R
EMY
waited at the entrance to the back alley, shifting from one foot to the other, holding open the door to the coach. “Trouble at North Beach, Boss.”

Michael sighed. His new business partner was proving to be more of an inconvenience than he was worth. Climbing into the coach, he took a seat across from Remy, pounding on the ceiling with his fist. Max, his second enforcer, whistled to the horses, then snapped the reins. The coach lurched forward.

The trip was swift—Payton’s residence was less than a mile from the hill above North Beach. Short in distance yet a world apart, the land abutting North Beach was inhabited by the poor Chinese farmers whose produce graced the elegant dining tables of Port Chatham.

Max pulled the horses to a halt at the top of a pasture that fell steeply away to the bluffs running along the beach. Remy opened the door, and Michael stepped down from the carriage. To his left halfway down the slope stood the black silhouette of a barn. Just before the water’s edge, a huge old maple tree spread its branches, barely discernible through the light rain that fell. He saw shadows floating across the ground, low against the barn’s east foundation. Chinese, no doubt, smuggled in along with their contraband from Victoria. His partner did indeed grow increasingly reckless.

As Michael strode quickly through the pasture, the rain clinging to the tall grass immediately soaked through his boots. Spying the silhouettes of three men standing next to the tree, he veered in that direction.

At his approach, Sam Garrett dropped the butt of a cigarette and ground it out with his boot. The two men at his back were as brawny in build as Garrett, and as heavily muscled. Michael had discovered Garrett working the fire crew aboard a steamship and, impressed with the man’s quick wit and strong physique, had made an offer Garrett couldn’t refuse: an illicit partnership in his growing smuggling business. It appeared, however, that Michael had exercised faulty judgment that day.

As had been the case on many days of late.

He shook off the thought, his gaze sharpening on a faint movement under a large limb of the maple. Peering into the gloom, he was able to make out the kicking feet of a man strung up to one of the lower branches.

“I didn’t know we’d taken on the business of lynching the Chinese, Garrett,” he said calmly, holding his anger in check. “Pray explain yourself.”

Garrett shrugged, folding massive arms across his chest. “The Customs agents came a bit too close, so I stashed the shipment on the beach earlier. When I returned to retrieve it just now, it was gone. That Lok fella there, he supposedly gardens this piece of land—I saw him lurking about earlier. I don’t tolerate theft.”