Haunting Jordan (8 page)

Charlotte floated over to the sink, her blue satin slippers barely touching the floor. The cupboard door slammed open and a paper bag flew through the air. Jordan managed to snag it as it winged past her.

She collapsed onto a kitchen chair and breathed into the bag, eyes closed. The bent lamp leapt from the floor to the table, wildly teetering back and forth on its base before settling. A hand patted her lightly on her shoulder, the feeling somewhat akin to static electricity crawling across her skin. The hairs on the back of her neck rose.

“You keep your paper bags by the kitchen sink?” Charlotte asked. “That’s what the butler’s pantry is for.”

“Now, Charlotte, don’t nag,” Hattie admonished, rubbing Jordan’s shoulder. “We can worry about the arrangement of the kitchen later—Jordan’s had a fright.”

“Well, she doesn’t want to unpack and arrange things in here twice, does she?”

“Nevertheless, she has plenty of time to think about where she’ll put her kitchen items,” Hattie said, her tone firm.

“I’m only trying to be helpful.”

Jordan raised her head to stare blearily at Charlotte. She was pouting again, which seemed to be her perpetual state. Something to look forward to, if Jordan had to live with her. On that note, she closed her eyes again.

“Can’t you see she’s shaken?” Hattie continued. “No one thinks about organizing their cupboards when they’re in shock.”

“A stylish home, along with a keen sense of fashion, are critical foundations of a well-ordered life—”

Jordan stood on shaky legs and walked over to the open cupboard. She dry-swallowed three tablets from the aspirin bottle she’d put in there earlier. Why the
hell
hadn’t she thought to pack something stronger?

“And look at
that
!” Charlotte’s tone was outraged. “She’s got
medicine
in there. Everyone knows herbal tinctures should be kept well away from the preparation of the food.”

“Times have changed,” Jordan managed. “Why don’t you two teleport yourselves to the local home improvement store? They’re probably still open, and you can check out the latest kitchen designs. That’ll give me the time I need to pack my bags and check into a hotel.”

“There’s no cause to get testy,” Hattie said mildly. “Or to leave. We have no intention of harming you.”

“Yeah, right. I’ve heard you two are a real joy to live with.” Jordan gripped the edge of the counter with one hand to hold herself up, since her knees were still nonfunctional. Though the roaring in her ears had begun to subside, she breathed into the paper bag again for good measure.

Charlotte sniffed. “If you’re referring to the prior inhabitants who ran that wretched boardinghouse—”

“Bed-and-breakfast,” Hattie corrected.

“—they got what they deserved. Why, they were considering knocking down the wall between the parlor and front hall!”

“Hell, no wonder you drove them to financial ruin,” Jordan muttered. “World peace hung in the balance.”

“Well, of course it didn’t … Oh, you meant that as a joke.”

Jordan could feel herself crashing as the adrenaline seeped away. “I don’t suppose I can talk you two into leaving for the evening and coming back in the morning, after I’ve had eight hours of sleep and some caffeine and can cope better?”

They glanced at each other with confused expressions. “We live here,” Hattie said. “Where would we go? You can’t really mean that you want to turn us away from our home.”

“That would be tragic,” Jordan said grimly, then snapped her fingers. “Got it! What about a portal? Didn’t I read somewhere that ghosts have portals, like little holes in the wall? You two could disappear into one and then I could stuff a rag into it.”

Charlotte folded her arms. “That’s insulting.”

“Well, what, then? Am I supposed to just accept that I’m now rooming with you two? And what have you done with my dog?”

“He’s around.” Hattie waved a hand. “Actually, we’re glad you finally arrived. It’s been hard to steal enough food for him. If you take the same item often enough, people notice. The poor thing has been getting thinner and thinner.”

“And we’re still developing our powers,” Charlotte confided, her image brightening, then fading, as if on cue. “We signed up for the seminar as soon as we heard you bought our house, but our instructor said it takes a lot of practice to perfect telekinesis.”

“Sorry about the smashed cake,” Hattie added. “We tried.”

Jordan rubbed her forehead. The aspirin wasn’t even going to make a dent. “So what
do
you want? Approval of the renovation plans?”

Hattie hesitated, then put an arm around Charlotte, who pressed trembling lips together and nodded encouragingly.

“We want you to solve my murder.”

A Crisis of Confidence

BY dawn, the fire had been contained to two blocks facing the harbor, sparing City Hall. Nine were dead, scores more injured. Overhead, the sky slowly lightened to streaks of pale pink and bluish gray, marred only occasionally by black wisps of smoke. Hattie dropped a bucket in the mud at her feet and rubbed the small of her back, gazing past smoldering ruins to the harbor.

Ships lay quietly, anchored on glassy water reflecting the colors of the early morning light. Yet the harbor already resonated with the cries of first mates, ordering crews up masts to secure sails against the growing threat of clouds on the horizon. Wind and rain would move onshore before noon.

Since moving to Port Chatham, gauging the weather had become second nature. Until recently, she would’ve checked the harbor throughout the day, hoping to catch a glimpse of Charles’s ship on the horizon. A dense bank of clouds such as the one visible this morning would’ve meant his return would be delayed. Even now, Admiralty
Inlet was unusually empty of ships—none would set sail until the storm had passed.

Though it had been weeks since Hattie had received word of Charles’s death in the South Seas, she still found herself unconsciously searching the waters for his barque. She hadn’t had his body to lay to rest, nor any way to properly grieve. It was as if he’d sailed out of the harbor and would return any day now. She felt like an interloper, running his business. An interloper, yet one with responsibilities, she reminded herself.

Given the threatening weather, she’d have to order Clive Johnson to return the crews to their schooners. No doubt he’d take the opportunity to point out that if they’d been on board throughout the night, they would already have the rigging secured. But at the moment, she was simply too tired to care about his barbed criticisms.

Turning toward the beach, she spied Charlotte and Tabitha curled up together on a blanket, sound asleep, their faces showing the same signs of exhaustion she was certain could be seen on her own, their dresses as soiled and soaked with muddy water as hers. Chief Greeley, though busy throughout the night, had never wandered far from Charlotte’s side. Even now, he stood watch. Hattie was grateful, yet uneasy. Greeley was big and stern looking, and she’d never observed in him any evidence of good humor. Charlotte was far too fragile for a hard man like Greeley.

“Ma’am?” Two of Mona’s girls stood a few feet away, holding folded blankets from the Green Light.

She walked over to take them. “Thank you,” she said gently.

They dipped in nervous curtsies and fled, but not before Hattie had noticed the newly healed cuts and bruises on the smaller of the two. She wanted to inquire about the girl’s injuries, to ask if she needed help, but she suspected her questions would only serve to frighten the two even more.

“They aren’t comfortable around respectable women of means,” Mona explained as she approached. The hard lines in her face were more deeply pronounced in the morning light.

Hattie remembered Eleanor’s earlier warnings and condemnation, and her expression turned wry. “My position in society may be more precarious than you realize.”

“And you haven’t improved it, coming down here to help,” Mona concluded astutely.

“If so, I can’t worry about it.”

“Perhaps you would be wise to return home now that the fire is out.”

Hattie shook her head. “I’m not leaving while people still need tending.” She held out the blankets. “If you’ll pass these out, I’ll see whether the hand pump on that well across the street is still working. The injured need water.”

Mona studied her for a moment, then shrugged. She cast a look at the rapidly darkening western sky. “We’d best hurry—that storm may put out the rest of the fire, but it will bring its own form of misery. We’ll have to use the tunnels for the supplies, and move the injured to the
Green Light. We can access the tunnels from the basement of Seavey’s hotel.”

Hattie surreptitiously glanced toward the beach, where he still stood with his bodyguards. He’d watched her all night long, making her shiver more than once from the weight of his gaze.

From what little Charles had told her about his business, Port Chatham’s booming shipping industry relied on a steady supply of sailors. Shanghaiers like Seavey either worked in concert with boardinghouse operators to provide crews to the shipping masters or, in some cases, owned the boardinghouses outright. The tunnels supposedly served as a temporary prison for those least willing to go along with the shanghaiers’ demands.

“Charles told me he refused to pay the shanghaiers for his crews,” she said now.

Mona snorted her disbelief. “It’s common practice with all the shipping companies, your husband’s included. How do you think he got the crews he needed to run that many ships? And with some sailors turning to the union, cheap crews are more scarce than ever.” She glanced around, then continued before Hattie could argue, keeping her voice low. “Rumor is now that Seavey has the local shanghaiing business all but tied up he’s moved on to kidnapping young girls.”

“What?
He
ransoms
them?”

“He sells them into prostitution rings operating in the Far East. Young white virgins are in great demand over there.”

“But if everyone knows what he’s doing, why don’t the police raid the tunnels?” Hattie asked, sickened.

“When someone up on the hill is kidnapped, the police might investigate, though they would have trouble finding enough proof to convict. But most of the time, they look the other way.” Mona’s tone was bitter. “Prostitutes don’t matter.”

Hattie had heard similar complaints regarding lack of police protection from women down on their luck back East—a hard truth of the times she had trouble accepting. Shuddering, she glanced over to reassure herself that Charlotte and Tabitha were still safe. No wonder Greeley had been so attentive.

“I trust I don’t have to tell you to never let your girls go out without a chaperone—even in your immediate neighborhood,” Mona said. “Even respectable business establishments in your neighborhood have been targeted.”

“No, I’m insistent that the girls are always accompanied by an adult.”

“Good. I’ll talk to Seavey about storing supplies in the tunnels after I distribute these.” She took the blankets. “I don’t want you wandering down to that end of the street.”

“Nonsense—”

“No.” Mona was adamant. “You listen to me. You and the girls have been in far greater danger than you realize. Seavey’s utterly ruthless. And those two thugs he has with him? You don’t want to know what they’ve done to the girls they’ve gotten hold of.” Her expression softened. “Look, you helped us last night, and we’re grateful. But don’t be a fool—you have no experience with men like
Seavey. Take water to the injured, if you feel you must—you’re safe enough on the beach. But stay away from the tunnels.”

Hattie wanted to protest, to point out that as owner of a shipping business, she would eventually have to cope with the dangers of the waterfront. That as the daughter of parents who had regularly ventured into the slums of Boston to provide medical care, she knew a thing or two about what she might encounter. But she’d gone cold at the image of Charlotte and Tabitha in the hands of Seavey’s thugs.

Mona was right—she didn’t have any experience with men like Seavey. Or with running a waterfront business. She didn’t just feel like an interloper—she felt completely out of her element.

A fact Clive Johnson relished in reminding her of daily.

* * *

O
NCE
she’d filled a bucket from the well and hunted through the piles of merchandise from the general store for a cup, she carried both across the street. As the fire had burned lower, people had started small bonfires along the beach for warmth and were now huddled around them, their hands spread over the flames. She spied Mona moving from one group to the next, distributing the blankets.

People huddled under blankets, their faces lined with the strain of their ordeal. Conversation trailed off to tense
silence whenever Hattie approached, but she persisted, knowing they needed the water she offered. Some refused outright, but others accepted the cup, their eyes remaining wary as they drank.

The workman who had tended to the prostitute she’d pulled from the fire stopped to help her hold the head of a burn victim so that she could trickle water into his mouth. “I’m Frank,” he said as he gently lowered the man back to the ground with large, capable hands. “And you are?”

“Hattie,” she replied softly. Under the circumstances, it didn’t seem right to insist he address her formally. She noted the care with which he tucked a blanket around the man.

“Well, Hattie, it’s a good deed you’ve done tonight,” he said, leaning back on his heels and smiling tiredly. “Though folks are acting wary, they won’t forget that one of you from the hilltop area came down here.”

She shrugged. “More should have been willing to help. ‘The good we secure for ourselves is precarious and uncertain until it is secured for all of us. …’”

“Jane Addams,” he said, nodding. “Apt.”

“You know of her work?” Hattie was surprised.

His expression turned wry. “Just because I don’t live on the hill doesn’t mean I don’t stay abreast of social reform. Hull House has been an exceptionally successful settlement house for the unfortunate back East.”