Haunting Jordan (9 page)

“Yes, of course,” Hattie said quickly, embarrassed that she’d allowed herself to be misled by his appearance into thinking he was uninformed. Indeed, she should have immediately
noticed his intelligent eyes and educated speech patterns. Yet given his muscular build and work clothes, he certainly didn’t fit the mold of a refined man of letters who spent his days reading in the library.

“We need to move the injured to the Green Light,” she said. “Do you know of any men who can help transport the ones who can’t walk on their own?”

He nodded, waving over several who stood close by. After explaining the situation, he quickly had a system set up whereby he and Hattie would give the victims water and check their condition, then indicate who should be moved.

She followed him down the beach to kneel by the next victim. “Are you a doctor?” she asked, finding herself more curious about him than polite society dictated she should be.

Frank shot her a look of disbelief. “Hardly. It’s rare that we can get a doctor to treat anyone down here. We’ve learned to rely on ourselves.”

“But you’re from back East? Your accent …” His voice, though rough in timbre, bore the unmistakable broad vowels of New York or perhaps New Jersey.

“You’ve a good ear.” He checked the victim’s bandaged hands, then told the man that he would hold the cup for him. “I hail from New York City—I’m a union man,” he explained.

“Oh.”

Charles had spoken disparagingly of the local union movement, claiming a small group of men had set up their own shipping office and were challenging the shipping
masters, demanding outrageous wages and special treatment for union sailors. She’d refrained from arguing with him, even if it had gone against what she’d been raised to believe about the rights of workers. As it was, she and Charles had had enough contentiousness in their marriage.

Also strengthening her decision to remain silent, however, had been the recent newspaper accounts of violent clashes between the union representatives and the shipping masters. The latest had occurred when union members had thrown rocks at a boardinghouse that was supposedly run by a shanghaier. Eleanor had written numerous editorials openly condemning the union’s condoning of such violence.

Frank glanced up. “Don’t believe the mistruths you read in the local newspaper editorials,” he warned, uncannily reading her mind. “I was shanghaied off the New York docks, so I have firsthand knowledge of how sailors are treated.”

“My husband was a shipping master as well as a ship’s captain,” Hattie informed him coolly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, catching her use of past tense. “I’m sure he wasn’t happy about the formation of the union, since it meant money out of his pocket. But it’s necessary.”

“Charles always claimed that if he had supported the union, he would have lost his contracts to provide crews to the ships’ captains, as well as any chance he had of finding crews for his own ships.”

“I’m not surprised. Most of your social acquaintances,
with few exceptions, look the other way, unofficially sanctioning the shanghaiers’ brutal methods.”

Hattie bristled. “Failing to support the union doesn’t necessarily mean that Charles and his business associates supported the shanghaiers. Charles always said that it’s the union that isn’t doing the sailors any favors.”

“I’m sure that’s what your husband wanted you to believe.” Frank took the cup from her and crouched to hold it to a woman’s lips, softly urging her to drink. “But someone has to stand up to such a corrupt system. If unchecked, the already brutal treatment of sailors will only get worse.”

“But you
would
say that, wouldn’t you?” she argued, increasingly upset yet not really understanding why. “To salve your conscience when you resort to violence.”

Her comment appeared to amuse him. “What’s the matter, Hattie? Are you not as open-minded as you thought? Does it bother you to see an educated man fight for the rights of sailors?”

“Of course not! My family had a long history of philanthropy in Boston.”

“Really?” He straightened and took a step forward, standing too close for her comfort. “Then is it that you find yourself agreeing with me, even though I’m willing to resort to violence for the right cause?” he asked softly, holding her startled gaze. “Is that what’s making you argue so vehemently the views of a dead husband who probably never deserved your loyalty, even when he was alive?”

She gasped. “Why, you—” She stopped herself, saying coldly, “You overstep, sir!”

“Is this man bothering you, Mrs. Longren?” They both turned to see Chief Greeley approaching, his expression hard.

Hattie took in the look of animosity that passed between the two men. “No. No … I’m unharmed.”

“Ah. Longren Shipping, is it?” Frank stepped back, his expression cooling. “If you want to learn what goes on down here,
Mrs. Longren
, read the
Seacoast Journal
. The ‘Red Letters’ column documents the true accounts of people who have been severely mistreated in the course of doing business with Longren Shipping. Or better yet, ask your man Johnson, if you think you’ll get a truthful answer from him.”

“How
dare
you imply—”

“That’s enough, Lewis.” Greeley spoke in a steely tone, and Hattie jerked at the mention of his name, water sloshing over the side of her bucket.

“Lewis,” she repeated numbly. “Frank
Lewis.”

He reached for the bucket. “Yes. What of it?”

The bucket fell to the ground as she hit him, hands fisted on his chest.
“You
are responsible for my husband’s death! You incited his crew to riot—”

“Mrs. Longren!” Greeley stepped between them and grabbed both her arms. “Control yourself!”

“Let her go, Greeley,” Frank said quietly, his gaze holding regret but no hint of remorse. “Though it seems there are circumstances under which Mrs. Longren believes violence is appropriate after all.”

“You watch your mouth,” Greeley snapped, “or I’ll have you arrested.”

Frank shrugged and leaned down to pick up the empty bucket, giving Hattie a long, quiet look in the process. “I’ll just refill this and get back to my work.”

Suddenly aware of the silence around her, Hattie turned. People stood staring at her—Seavey with his slightly mocking smile, Clive Johnson, his face reflecting anger and resentment. Even Mona, who’d warmed up to her during the night, now appeared cautious and withdrawn. But it was the pity she read in Frank Lewis’s expression that she couldn’t bear.

Pulling away from Greeley, she raised her chin. “Thank you for your intervention, Chief Greeley, but I’ll be fine now.”

He shook his head, again taking her arm to lead her to where Charlotte and Tabitha stood. “You have no idea what you’ve done, Mrs. Longren, exposing your girls to the waterfront. For God’s sake, look at yourself, woman.” He gestured at her stained and scorched dress. “If you want to parade around in public in such an unkempt manner, I can’t stop you. But allowing Charlotte to do so is inexcusable. Take her home and make certain her maid attends to her promptly. And see that she doesn’t continue to wear dresses that are so suggestive. A high-standing collar would have been more seemly.”

Hattie trembled but refused to back down. “Though I appreciate your vigilance, I will be the judge of what is appropriate dress for my charges.”

“If that judgment is as flawed in matters of social decorum as it has been throughout this night,” he retorted,
“you’d do well to seek the advice of Eleanor Canby and others in your neighborhood.”

Suddenly too exhausted to form a suitable response, she turned to the girls, who had watched the altercation with growing alarm. It had begun to rain—large, cold drops that would soak them through before they reached the house. Hattie gestured for them to head in the direction of the footbridge.

“Leave the day-to-day running of your husband’s business to your manager, Mrs. Longren,” Greeley called after her, loudly enough for all to hear. “Don’t bring Charlotte down here again.”

Chapter 5

JUST great.

Black Widow Works to Solve
Century-Old Murder,
Easily Slipping into the Mind of a
Deranged Killer

After a sleepless night, Jordan stood on the front porch, cellphone in hand. Sunlight filtered through decorative scrollwork, highlighting the iridescent pink petals of the few roses that struggled to bloom along the foundation. The dog was stretched out at her feet, his head propped on the seat of the broken swing, snoring.

Although it was not yet midmorning, several of her neighbors were out, working in their yards or walking their dogs. She’d greeted a couple of people as they passed by, but they hadn’t stopped to introduce themselves. Down the block, a lawn mower kicked on, drowning out the birds singing in the trees. Though she was certain it
was her imagination, she thought she could already smell the newly mown grass.

All in all, it was an idyllic tableau.

She scowled, focusing on the peeling paint and rotting wood beneath her feet while she speed-dialed her therapist.

She and Carol had gone through school together, roomed together, and practiced therapy techniques on each other. Carol was her best friend and had been there for her, unconditionally, during the last year.

“I need you to prescribe Librium,” she said without preamble when Carol answered. “I’m experiencing a psychotic break, but I have a plan to deal with it.”

“Good morning, Jordan,” Carol said, placid as always. “You’re adjusting well to your new environment, I take it.”

“Will you prescribe the Librium or not?” Jordan stalked down the hall to the kitchen, almost mowing down Hattie and Charlotte, who were practicing cotillion steps to “Rhyme and Reason” by the Dave Matthews Band, booming at earsplitting volume on her portable CD player.

“Jordan!” Charlotte cried. “Quick! Go find someone to fill out the foursome!”

“Now, Charlotte …” Hattie began.

Jordan hastily palmed the lower half of the cellphone.
“Ssshhhhh!”

“You called
me
, remember?” Carol said, sounding irritated.

“Sorry.” Jordan retrieved the old spatula she’d discovered at the back of a drawer and grabbed a bucket,
retreating to the relative safety of the porch. Breakfast had been more of a debacle than the last six months in L.A. combined, and the ghosts’ attempts to use her espresso machine didn’t even bear thinking about.

“Get me those meds,” she told Carol grimly.

“What’s this about?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Her friend’s sigh huffed into the phone. “You want me to prescribe a powerful, habit-forming antianxiety medication without explaining why. Let me think …
No
. Sign up for a yoga class.”

“It’s either drugs or sell the house, and I love the house.” Jordan targeted a curl of dingy white paint roughly the size of some third world nations.

“You aren’t having a psychotic break,” Carol said, her desk chair creaking the way it did when she swiveled to prop her Gucci platform sandals on her antique needlepoint footstool. “Okay, correction. If you
are
having a psychotic break, it’s caused by your impulsive decision to remodel a century-old house, a decision which all along I suspected indicates a deeply disturbed mind. After all, who willingly puts up with Sheetrock dust?”

“The walls are plaster, not Sheetrock. And I’m
not
impulsive.”

“Uh-huh. Denial is such an underrated emotion.”

Jordan chose to ignore that. “This has nothing to do with purchasing the house.” Well, sort of. The ghosts and the house were related, but this was really about her inability to distinguish fantasy from reality. “I’m telling you, I’m having a psychotic break.”

“You aren’t even capable of having one. You worship at the altar of ‘well adjusted.’ Now, what’s really going on?”

Jordan closed her eyes for a moment, then scraped furiously. “I’m seeing ghosts.”

“Get
out!”
Carol sounded delighted. “You bought a haunted house?”

“I did not buy a haunted house
. I’m simply seeing things that aren’t there, having
conversations
with the things that aren’t there, and fixing fucking
breakfast
for the things that aren’t there. I’m in the initial stage of a major psychosis, probably manifesting itself as a delusional disorder, but I can—”

“Who are they?”

“What?” Jordan paused, thrown off stride. “Oh. Two women who lived in the house in the late 1800s.” Then she added darkly,
“Not that they actually exist
. Can we please stay on topic here? I need those meds.”

“You’re the most rational person I know,” Carol retorted. “Freakily, you haven’t even exhibited much emotional trauma in the past year, even though Ryland cheated on you with size-two starlets, willingly fed you to the paparazzi, then had the nerve to get murdered in a way that made you the prime suspect. At the very least, you could’ve had the decency to check yourself into a spa and demand herbal wraps. So trust me, you’ll take a ghost or two right in stride.”

“Will you
listen
to yourself? Our training is grounded in science.
There. Are. No. Ghosts
. I’m having delusions.”

“Bullshit. You haven’t exhibited any of the early symptoms of a delusional disorder; ergo, you don’t have one.”

“I’ve been under a lot of stress, okay? And delusions can be triggered by stress.”

“Jordan.” Carol’s voice turned firm. “You know better than to self-diagnose. What do the ghosts want from you?”

“What makes you think they want anything?” Jordan asked suspiciously, the spatula halting on an upswing.

“Well, that’s why ghosts hang around, isn’t it? Because of some unresolved issue?”

Jordan ripped a huge chunk of paint off the top edge of the column and dropped it into the bucket, then eyed the chunks hanging from the board-and-batten porch ceiling.
“Hypothetically speaking
, they want me to help them solve an old murder.”