“I seem to remember reading something about that in newspapers from that time.” Tom took a sip of his coffee. “The partner accused the vegetable farmer of making off with a shipment of opium, right?”
“Yeah. It’s pretty clear from what I read that Seavey and his partner were smuggling in opium on a regular basis.” She added milk to the eggs, then reached into the fridge for fresh herbs and a plate of organic butter from the local dairy. Using a spatula, she cut a small wedge of butter and dropped it into her cast-iron skillet to melt. “Seavey talked about the Chinese as if they were illegal immigrants, but my memory of the nineteenth century on the West Coast is that the Chinese were laborers.”
“They were,” Tom confirmed. “They came into the country around the middle of the century to work in the mines during the California Gold Rush. But that was before the passage of the Chinese Exclusion Act. Not one of our country’s finest hours.”
She glanced over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised, then used kitchen scissors to snip fines herbes into the eggs.
“Congress passed the law in 1882,” Jase explained. “It gave lawmakers the ability to suspend immigration. The original intent was to exclude Chinese immigrants from working in mines, taking jobs away from Americans, but the restrictions were gradually expanded to include Chinese living in cities. One senator called it nothing less than legalized discrimination.”
“So by 1893 when Seavey died,” Tom added, “there was a thriving business in smuggling Chinese immigrants out of Canada—where they could enter legally—and onto our shores. If you read the local papers from that time, you’ll see numerous accounts of the authorities rounding up Chinese and returning them to Canada.”
Jordan shivered as she poured the eggs into the skillet, then got busy slicing a loaf of artisan bread. “Pretty grim.”
“Definitely not cool for a nation that prides itself on its support of human rights,” Jase agreed.
“That explains the comment Seavey made in his papers that he wouldn’t have anything to do with transporting Chinese immigrants. He was concerned his business partner was combining human trafficking with the smuggling of opium.” She reached for plates and cutlery, handing them to Tom.
“The two crimes were miles apart in severity,” he pointed out as he laid the plates on the table. “Opium smuggling occurred simply to avoid paying duties, thereby increasing one’s already substantial profits from the sale of the stuff. Smuggling immigrants, though—now that was a federal offense. Seavey seemed to stick with highly profitable businesses in which the authorities tended to turn a blind eye, like the shanghaiing. Everyone knew it took place, but the ships needed crews, so no one really cared except the union reps. In the case of opium, no one cared except the Customs officials—at least, to begin with.”
“The common denominator being,” Jordan pointed out wryly, “that no one seemed to care much about upholding the law.”
“Well, you’re definitely right about that.” Tom sat back down, eyeing her curiously. “So why were you reading Seavey’s papers last night?”
She stirred the eggs while she debated whether to admit that Hattie wanted her to look into Seavey’s murder. And whether to let on that the number of ghosts hanging out around the place continued to increase. Of course, said ghosts were conspicuously absent this morning, without explanation, which always made her more nervous than when they were present. She never knew quite what to think when they disappeared.
Pulling the skillet off the stove, she served the eggs. On the one hand, if she admitted she was looking into Seavey’s murder, she could avoid the type of discussion she and Jase had been having when Tom arrived. Then again, Seavey’s murder really wasn’t her only motivation to go poking around in the past. She didn’t like lying, even by omission, to her friends.
“Just curious, that’s all,” she prevaricated, silently rationalizing that she’d explain later. “I was hoping to find a mention of the Henrietta Dale.” Grabbing toast from the toaster oven and putting it onto a plate, she sat in a rickety chair across from the two men. “I figured that if Seavey purchased a clipper ship and was using it for business purposes, he’d have mentioned it. According to the gardener I talked to yesterday on Dungeness Spit, the ship ran aground during her maiden voyage. I also wondered what Seavey had intended to use her for, which I found out—smuggling opium. But I had hoped he would mention the shipwreck.”
Though come to think of it, she realized, a forkful of eggs stalling midair, Seavey couldn’t have written about it if he had been aboard and died that night, as he insisted.
Jase was frowning at her again. “You do realize that if you interfere in Darcy’s investigation, she’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks. Right?”
Who knew the man was such a pit bull? Jordan sighed. Maybe she should mention Seavey’s ghost. It might distract Jase from his current goal, which seemed to be acting dictatorial.
“I’m just following up because of the coincidences,” she reminded him. “I know you two don’t think Holt would’ve been diving out there, but we found him in the same approximate location as where the ship ran aground. If Seavey was using the ship for smuggling, it stands to reason that Holt might’ve been curious enough to see if he could locate the shipwreck.”
Jase shook his head. “There’s no connection unless Holt knew about the shipwreck, and you had Seavey’s papers, which, by the way, wouldn’t even have mentioned the shipwreck if Seavey died that night. You said yourself that Holt had no interest in reading them, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have found anything. So I don’t see how he could have known to go diving in that location.”
Dammit, he was right. She got up to open a can of dog food for Malachi, who viewed it with disdain, then went back to staring intently at the toast on her plate. He’d become addicted to the freshly churned butter she bought.
She returned to the table, brooding while she fed her toast to Malachi. Okay, maybe it was just a coincidence that Holt had been found in that location. Unless … another thought occurred to her. “Didn’t you say Holt was working at the Cosmopolitan Hotel?” she asked Tom.
“Yeah.” Tom swallowed a bite of toast. “He won the bid to repaint the top three floors—the new owner is doing some upgrades. That means Holt would have been working in the suites from which Seavey ran his businesses, back in the 1890s. Seavey bought the hotel from the person who originally built it, then added onto it substantially. He also knocked an entrance from the basement of the hotel into the network of underground tunnels running under the waterfront that were used for smuggling and shanghaiing.”
“So it stands to reason that Holt could’ve run across some old business papers, then got curious,” she concluded.
Jase’s expression was skeptical. “We’re talking Holt, here—he rarely showed interest in anything other than custom paint blending and hitting on women in All That Jazz. If he came across old papers, he would’ve chucked them into the trash.”
“It can’t hurt to drop by and have a chat with the owner,” she insisted.
“Just be careful how far you take this,” Jase warned. “Even if you do find a connection, it may not relate to Darcy’s investigation. If Holt was diving for sunken treasure, I can guarantee he wouldn’t have told anyone about it. Therefore, I still don’t see how it could be relevant to his murder.”
Jordan opened her mouth to argue further, sorely tempted to point out how thickheaded he was being, but she was interrupted by the back door swinging open. Amanda entered, bleary-eyed and sporting bed hair, a coffee mug dangling from the limp fingers of one hand. Dressed in torn jeans, layered tank tops, and high-top running shoes, even just out of bed, the lithe blonde managed to ooze a girl-next-door sexy appeal. Jordan considered snarling.
Amanda halted, blinking at them. “Oh. Um, morning.”
“Hey.” Tom smiled fondly at her. Jordan had observed that he functioned somewhat as a mentor, since the two frequently ended up working on the same homes.
&nb
sp; Though her parents lived right next door, Amanda had pitched her tent in Jordan’s backyard the first day she’d shown up to work, claiming that she had to live with a garden 24/7 in order to tune in to its “vibes.” Jordan had long since ceded kitchen rights to her, including the use of the espresso machine.
“Pull up a chair,” Jordan offered, “and have some breakfast.”
The young woman accepted a plate of eggs from her with a sleepy smile, giving Jase a limp “high five” before sitting down. “You talked to Jordan about the plan yet?” she asked Tom.
“We were getting to that.”
“It’s important that she’s fully on board, since we’ll be counting on her to provide critical information.” Amanda shoved eggs into her mouth.
“I’m sure you both know more than I do,” Jordan pointed out.
“Oh, we don’t mean about the restoration work itself,” Amanda assured her. “You don’t have a clue about that.” Jordan debated whether to be insulted as Amanda continued. “We need you to talk to the ghosts. You know, ask them about the original design of the house and the gardens. Our goal is a completely integrated, historically accurate restoration.”
Tom held up a hand. “Why don’t you let me explain everything to Jordan before we go there?”
Jase obviously agreed. “You don’t even know if Jordan wants to stick with the original design of the house, or if she’s interested in applying for historic landmark status. That’s a headache all on its own, not to mention whether the original design of the house is livable, in terms of modern conveniences.”
Amanda looked mutinous. “But—”
“It’s not as if Jordan likes to go without her comforts,” Tom interrupted.
“Hey,” Jordan said. She was insulted.
“We’re not saying there’s anything wrong with wanting to be comfortable,” Jase hastily assured her. “I upgraded both the kitchen and bathrooms in my house when I restored it. I wasn’t interested in living without a dishwasher, among other things.”
“But we need her to talk to the ghosts, so that we have all the information,” Amanda insisted. “This is an exciting opportunity for all of us, having the original inhabitants of a haunted house available for interviews during the restoration.”
Jordan tried to wrap her mind around that comment and failed. She settled for saying, “I can’t bring the ghosts into the process until I have a vision of what I intend to do.” Standing, she removed plates and stacked them in the sink. “Tom, did you bring your papers with you from the library?”
“Yep.” He pointed.
The sheaf of papers sitting in the middle of the table looked thick and intimidating. Jordan blew out a breath. “So. Who wants more espresso?”
* * *
THREE hours later, Jordan drove out to the Port Chatham Historical Society research building, weaving around horse-drawn carriages and old-fashioned bicycles. If any cops were on traffic duty, they probably thought she was careening wildly down the road under the influence. But it wasn’t as if she had any choice in the matter—she couldn’t drive through people, even if they weren’t of this world.
Halfway into Tom’s recitation of the many repairs needed to Longren House, she’d started hyperventilating over the projected costs. Apparently the diagonal crack running the length of the bay window in the parlor was a “compression shear crack of moderate size,” a not so bad problem yet, while the cracks in the plaster behind the bookcases in the library were possibly the result of ground settlement, a worse problem, and troubling. Tom had then talked about finding no “pyramid” failures in the exposed portions of the foundation in the basement, maybe a good sign, but quickly segued into a discourse on water being the “adversary” they had to decisively rout from the entire structure.
About the time he anthropomorphized a structural defect in the staircase—describing it as relentless in its attempts to undermine the second and third floors of the house—she’d called a halt. After shooing everyone out, she’d straightened up the rest of the mess in the library, agreed to let Malachi take her for a walk, then shoved him into the Prius for the trip out to the Historical Society research facility.
Her favorite route from home to the south side of town where the facility was located was admittedly circuitous. Instead of heading straight south through her neighborhood along the main drag, she turned east, driving down the hill to the waterfront. This route gave her sweeping views of Admiralty Inlet and Port Chatham Bay, where she could observe the ferries and other marine traffic. The harbor was filled with sailing ships of all kinds—even an old-fashioned steamer or two with their huge smokestacks and paddle wheels.
In the past, she’d taken for granted that the beautiful old ships she always saw anchored throughout the bay were actually there. Now, of course, she had to wonder, which really put a dent in the pleasure of simply observing. Did ghost ships—if those were what she was actually seeing—simply hang out in the harbor? Was the ghost of every wrecked ship from over the centuries still lurking about? If she walked into a historic bar down on the waterfront, would she find a higher ratio of ghosts to patrons than in All That Jazz, because of the number of spectral sailors living along the waterfront?
She braked at a red light downtown, scowling at the two ladies attired in ankle-length day dresses with parasols, jaywalking half a block up. Dammit, this simply wouldn’t do—she couldn’t spend all her time speculating about the ramifications of what she saw versus what everyone else saw. And more to the point, she refused to lose the simple pleasure of enjoying the scenery on her outings. There had to be some way to control this crap. She had enough challenges in her real life.
The light switched green and she turned onto the main drag heading out of downtown. Challenges, for instance, such as money, which was beginning to loom large, particularly after talking to Tom that morning. She supposed she’d have to consider starting up a new therapy practice earlier than she’d originally intended. Though the insurance settlement she’d received from her husband’s murder would tide her over for now, the repairs would make a serious dent in those funds.
Her plan had been to take at least a year’s sabbatical from therapy work, and frankly, she wasn’t even convinced in light of recent events that she should return to a practice at all. Given that she hadn’t had a clue that her charming sociopath of a husband had been bedding his patients for years—she wasn’t exactly confident of her skills in her chosen profession.
Granted, when she’d mentioned her concerns to her good friend Carol, a fellow professional, Carol had pooh-poohed them. She’d pointed out that no one does a good job of sorting through events affecting her own life, and that Jordan’s recent failures had no correlation to her effectiveness as a therapist. But Jordan wasn’t convinced. And because she’d lost her confidence, she knew she’d second-guess every decision she made in a therapy session, which wasn’t fair to her patients.
In addition, her discipline had been Rational Therapy. No one, at this point, would describe her life as anything remotely resembling rational. She turned into the Historical Society’s parking lot. No, she really didn’t believe she should be taking on patients—at least, not until she could come to grips with her own problems. If anything, her original plan for a one-year sabbatical should be extended.
Maybe Jase would let her waitress for tips. “That should give me just enough money to pay for your dog food,” she said out loud to Malachi.
“Rooooo … ooow.” He yawned, then inched forward to lick the side of her face.
Spying a construction worker in overalls coming out of the building, she cracked the windows, then hopped out of the car, poking her head back in just long enough to tell Malachi, “I promise I’ll only be a half hour or so.”
Malachi heaved a sigh, his expression skeptical yet resigned, and lay down.
She jogged across the lot, Seavey’s papers tucked under one arm, catching the man just as he was locking up. She stuck out a hand, saying cheerfully, “H
i! I’m Jordan.”
He shook. “Travis, ma’am.” He looked to be in his thirties, and his overalls were covered with smears of something white and gunky. He was frowning at her.
“Any chance you’d let me inside the building for a bit?” she asked. “I need to check the newspaper archives for information on a murder that occurred in the nineteenth century.”
His face cleared. “Hey, you’re that ghost lady, right? What? Are you investigating again or something?”
“Or something,” she replied vaguely. “I won’t be long, I promise.”
He hesitated, scratching his head, transferring some of the white goo in the process. “I’m not really supposed to let anyone else in.”
She pasted a reassuring expression on her face, hoping she looked trustworthy.
He gave a small shrug. “I guess it doesn’t matter all that much. I figure you’d just get one of your ghosts to go through the wall and unlock the door from the inside, right?”
As if she could get any of “her ghosts” to do anything she wanted. “Right.”
“And it would be kinda cool to help you solve an old murder, I guess.”
“Absolutely.”
He unlocked the door but kept his arm across the door-jamb, blocking her from entering. “Just don’t touch the walls, okay? The Sheetrock mud is still wet, and I don’t want to be sanding your handprints out of it.”
“Scout’s honor,” she promised. “I can lock up after myself if you’re leaving for the day.”
“Nah.” He stepped back to let her through. “I’m headed to the lumber company to pick up some extra mud. I was gonna stop for some lunch, but I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
She beamed at him. “Perfect.”
Inside, she was hit with a mildly chemical odor that tickled her nose. She hastily headed downstairs to the basement, where the Society’s archived collections were temporarily being stored during the remodel. The two elderly docents, Nora and Delia Hapley, were still on vacation in the south of France, happily avoiding the mess of the remodel. Little did they know how many times Jordan had illegally accessed their historical papers. She suspected there would be hell to pay when they found out.
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