Haunting Jordan (23 page)

“Bustles and all those petticoats have been proven to damage a woman’s internal organs,” Hattie explained patiently for the fifth time that day. “I won’t have you physically harming yourself for the sake of fashion.”

“Oh, pooh.” Charlotte tossed her head, sending the bits of leaves clinging to her golden curls to the floor and drawing an exasperated sigh from Sara. “You’ve been listening to Aunt Kate far too much.” She referred to their maiden aunt who traveled the country lecturing on the dangers of women’s fashions and advocating a more sensible approach. “She’s a spinster—what could she
possibly
know about catching and holding a man’s interest?”

Hattie raised an eyebrow. “So you’re saying you think it’s more important to have a man appreciate you for how you look, rather than for your intelligence, your good humor, or your talent.”

“Well, of course not! But if you don’t catch his eye to begin with, you won’t ever have a chance to impress him with the rest. Men are frivolous creatures, are they not?”

“For heaven’s sake, child,” Sara admonished as she handed Hattie the day’s post. “I don’t know where you get these crazy notions.”

“They’re not crazy,” Charlotte protested. “I’ve read magazine articles about how to catch a man, which is more than either of you can say.”

“Well, notwithstanding the advice of those experts,” Hattie said, her tone wry as she shuffled through the pile of newly delivered notes and cards on the hall table, “Chief Greeley made his preferences regarding your dress perfectly clear—he expects you to be conservatively attired. So if you’re hoping to catch his eye, and not have him strongly disapprove, you’ll take my advice and choose a pattern that shows off your figure in a more demure and understated manner.”

She held up an envelope from Eleanor Canby, frowning. Given their recent argument, she would’ve thought Eleanor would avoid contact with her. With some trepidation, she tore open the envelope, then allowed herself a small sigh of relief. It was an invitation—a very fancy, engraved summons to a dinner party being held by Eleanor that weekend:

MR. AND MRS. ALEXANDER CANBY
WILL BE PLEASED TO SEE YOU AND CHARLOTTE
AT CANBY MANSION THE EVENING OF
SATURDAY, JUNE 6TH, AT EIGHT O’CLOCK, FOR
A DINNER HONORING THE FAMOUS COMPOSER
AND MUSICIAN,
SCOTT JOPLIN.
JUNE 1, 1890

Eleanor had scrawled a handwritten missive across the bottom:

Hattie, I hope you will take this invitation as an opportunity to redeem yourself in the eyes of the Port Chatham business community
.

Charlotte peered over Hattie’s shoulder to read the invitation and clapped her hands. “Scott Joplin! I simply
adore
his ragtime! And absolutely everyone will be there! You
must
send a reply at once!”

Hattie frowned. “I’m not at all certain we have the appropriate clothes. Eleanor’s party will be quite elaborate, and she will expect us to dress accordingly.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sara agreed. “The clothes you wear should reflect an appropriate degree of display, as well as indicate that you appreciate the time and expense Mrs. Canby has gone to for the party.”

“All the more reason to pen a quick refusal,” Hattie replied. Not to mention, she thought, that they would be
under scrutiny the entire evening. Eleanor was throwing down the gauntlet—one misstep and they would be cut from all future social events. She expected Hattie to let it be known to all the guests that she had learned her lesson and would henceforth act according to the dictates of proper etiquette.

How utterly galling.

“You
can’t
be thinking of not attending!” Charlotte wailed.

“An occasion such as this requires gowns of the finest quality,” Hattie explained. “Satins, lace collars and cuffs, expensive evening slippers—we don’t have either the time or the money to upgrade our wardrobes.” She refused to think of the cash in the safe; she wouldn’t use potentially ill-gotten gains for their benefit.

“But Mona gave us material that is well suited,” Charlotte protested. “All we need to do is remove and reuse some of the lace from gowns Charles had made for you that you can’t wear because of your mourning period. And regardless, Eleanor will expect you to be dressed in a more subdued fashion.” Her expression turned pleading. “Please.”

“And what of your restrictions? You’re still very much on probation because of that stunt you pulled at Fuller’s Ice Cream Parlor.”

“Oh, Hattie! You can’t make me stay home from the most important social event of the season!”

“Charlotte’s right, ma’am,” Tabitha said. “We can take apart some of your other gowns and use the lace from
them for Charlotte’s gowns, and use the mousseline de soie that Mona sent to create a gown for yourself.”

“To not attend would be an insult to Mrs. Canby you can ill afford,” Sara warned.

Hattie sighed. “Very well—” She was drowned out by Charlotte’s shriek, then staggered under the force of her hug.

“Come on, Tabitha!” Charlotte said, dragging the poor girl up the stairs. “We must begin at once!”

“Don’t remove any gowns from my closet without my express permission,” Hattie called after them as they scurried up the stairs, then shook her head. She’d be lucky to have even a fraction of her wardrobe survive the week. She dropped onto a hall chair to remove her muddy boots.

“Ma’am.”

Hattie looked over to find Sara hovering by the kitchen door, wearing a troubled expression and wringing her hands.

“Yes, what is it, Sara?”

“If you could come to the back entrance? There’s someone who needs to speak with you.” Sara’s eyes were wide and afraid.

Perhaps Frank Lewis had already sent someone with word of the information he’d sought. “For heaven’s sake, Sara, whoever it is, send them in. And bring me some tea, would you please?”

Sara shook her head with vehemence. “I’ll not take that chance with your reputation, ma’am. This person
should not enter our house. If she hadn’t been so insistent, I wouldn’t even have announced her arrival.”

She?
Hattie frowned, intrigued. “Very well, though sometimes I think you worry far too much about my reputation. I’m fairly certain it’s irredeemable at this point.”

She rose from the hall chair. After the day’s work in the garden, her muscles protested the sudden movement, but she followed Sara down the hall and through the kitchen to the back door.

Mona Starr stood on the back stoop in the encroaching twilight.

“Mrs. Starr!” Hattie said, shocked. “Please, come in! I’m ashamed that my housekeeper left you to stand outside.”

Mona shook her head, glancing around, clearly uneasy with her surroundings. Though she was immaculately and expensively dressed, her expression conveyed distress. “I’ve come to ask your aid in a matter of some urgency. If you would be kind enough to follow me out to my carriage?”

“Of course,” Hattie replied, even more curious.

“I wouldn’t have come at all if the situation weren’t so grave.”

Hattie stepped outside, shushing Sara’s protests. “Don’t worry, Sara, if the woman abducts me, you can call Chief Greeley to my aid within moments. Nothing will happen.”

She hurried through the gathering darkness behind Mona’s quickly retreating figure. When she rounded the
stand of trees at the back of the yard, separating the garden from the
alley
beyond, she came upon an elaborate carriage drawn by a matched pair of bays. Mona waved her over to the open carriage door.

Hesitating, Hattie wondered what she was getting herself into and whether there really was cause to be concerned for her own safety. She shook her head over her own foolishness. This woman had no cause to harm or abduct her—she’d been listening to Sara and Greeley far too much. With a firm stride, she walked over and peered inside, then gave a small cry of distress.

Frank Lewis lay on the floor of the carriage, unconscious, his face so bloody and bruised she hardly recognized him.

Chapter 10

JORDAN slowly became aware that someone was standing on the porch. Now was
not
the time for interruptions. Hattie had never mentioned that Frank had been attacked!

“Look, if the room bothers you that much, I can take the bed in …” Her voice trailed off when she saw Jase on the steps, looking tired. Tom stood behind him on the sidewalk. “Oh, hey. Sorry, I thought you were movers.”

“You know, some folks consider hanging the porch swing
before
sitting in it,” Tom observed with a grin.

“Where’s the fun in that?” she quipped, stacking the diaries and books and rising to her feet. The dog raised his head long enough to scope out the situation, then went back to sleep. A nap in the sun apparently trumped human companionship.

“Got any more of that?” Jase asked, pointing to her mug.

“Sure.” She led the way down the hall to the kitchen.
While she reheated the espresso machine, she motioned for them to sit down. “Late night?”

“Closed around three
A.M
.” Jase rubbed his unshaven jaw. “A few extra musicians showed up, and they all jammed until the wee hours. My no-longer-twenty-something body is feeling the effects.”

Tom turned a kitchen chair around, straddling it with his arms resting along its high back. “You’ll survive once you count up the night’s receipts. And the music was damn good, I gotta say. Keep it up and you’ll become the premier location for live jazz in Port Chatham.”

“A mixed blessing,” Jase muttered, then gave Jordan a grateful smile when she handed him his cup. “Which reminds me, whoever you served that bourbon to by the front door never paid his bill. I found the drink after closing—it hadn’t been touched.”

“Damn.” She stared at Jase, dismayed. “I knew that guy was trouble. I should’ve kept a better eye on him.” And she should’ve asked him whether he worked for Drake, but she didn’t say that out loud.

She paused while pulling the next shot of espresso, frowning. Why would a cop skip out on a bill? That didn’t make sense.

“The money isn’t the problem,” Jase assured her. “It just had me curious. Did you get a good look at him?”

She described him, but he didn’t ring a bell with either of them. “If he shows up again, I’ll find out who he is.”

Jase shook his head. “I don’t want you confronting him. Just point him out and let me handle it.”

She shrugged. If he was who she suspected he was, and
if she saw him lurking around the house today, she’d ask him to produce identification. “What’s a ball-peen hammer used for?” she asked, thinking about the pictures she’d seen in the home repair book.

“Metalworking,” they answered in unison.

Jase added, “You don’t have any metalwork on this house. Why do you ask?”

She explained that she’d seen a picture of one when she looked up hand augers, the supposed weapon of choice for bludgeoning in 1890.

“You had a chance to look at my great-grandfather’s diaries?” Tom asked.

“Not yet, though I was able to read a few pages over breakfast from his memoir about the murder investigation. And Holt Stilwell approached me with some papers last night after I left the pub.” She caught Jase’s frown. “I handled him, don’t worry. He gave me what turned out to be portions of Michael Seavey’s diary, which I was reading when you arrived. Seavey indicated that Clive Johnson, Hattie’s business manager, was the one who started the fire on the waterfront in 1890, and that he’d helped Johnson by covering it up.”

Tom raised his brows. “Interesting.”

“Yeah.”

She handed him an espresso, then turned back to pull another one for Jase. While they’d been talking, the Goth kid had delivered two dish packs of her china and kitchen utensils to the center of the room. She finished Jase’s espresso, then slit open the dish packs with a box cutter, so that she could hunt for the plates, mixing bowl, and
pans she’d need to fix everyone breakfast. She’d bought supplies at the grocery store the night before, in anticipation of today’s crowd.

“According to Eleanor Canby’s editorial, which it now appears she may have been pressured to write, the fire originated in a brothel,” she said, placing her griddle on the stove to heat while she pulled the ingredients for buttermilk pancakes from the cupboards and fridge. “Hattie may have been right all along—she believed the fire had been deliberately set to send a message.”

“What kind of message?” Jase asked.

“Don’t know, I haven’t read that far yet.” She pulled a pint of fresh, local strawberries and a package of organic bacon from the fridge, setting the bacon on to fry. “The rest of today’s a lost cause, what with the movers here. I won’t get back to my research until tonight at the earliest.”

As if she’d conjured them up, two movers appeared in the kitchen doorway, asking for instructions. She dealt with their logistical issues, then returned to mixing the pancake batter, talking while she worked. “I have to admit, after reading about the murder investigation in Greeley’s memoir, I’m wondering whether he got the right man. The evidence was mostly circumstantial.” She filled them in on Frank Lewis’s claim that he’d been drugged and the bloody fingerprint. “I haven’t asked Darcy whether that would’ve been enough to convict in the nineteenth century, but I’ll run it by her tonight.”

Tom looked troubled. “Have you read about the trial itself?”

“No, just portions of the investigation so far. I had hoped to find trial information, either in Greeley’s memoir or at the Historical Society.” She flipped bacon and pancakes, then washed strawberries. “It would be nice to read the actual witness statements. Depending on who gave damning evidence against Frank, I would be swayed one way or the other. Eleanor Canby, for example, probably wouldn’t have hesitated to make things look bad for Frank and Hattie.”

“More evidence could’ve come out during the trial that swayed the jury,” Tom argued, accepting plates of pancakes from her.

He was right, she realized as she poured more batter onto the griddle. But if she couldn’t find the trial transcripts, it was a moot point. And though she wasn’t yet willing to admit as much to Tom, she had a bad feeling about the veracity of Greeley’s account. The police chief had clearly felt the need to prove he’d built an airtight case against Frank Lewis. If he’d had doubts at any time, he wouldn’t have admitted to them
or
documented them.