Haunting Jordan

by P. J. Alderman

  “Yes, I’m certain you’re feeling fine at the moment,” Hattie said, her tone acerbic. Though his improvement had been rapid since his awakening, he was by no means miraculously cured of either the concussion or the broken ribs. She grasped his arm. “Let me help you back up the stairs.”

  He didn’t move, instead gazing down at her grimly. “The walls have ears, Hattie. I heard Tabitha’s screams, and her sobs late into the night. And Sara informed me of your plans for this evening.”

  Hattie stiffened. “I gave Sara no such permission.”

  “I was persuasive in my arguments.” Hattie watched him deal with a new wave of dizziness before continuing. “She’s concerned, as am I. I’m asking you to reconsider.”

  “There’s no other way.”

  She began to turn away, but Frank placed his hand on her arm, halting her. “I can’t … be there to protect you.”

  She covered his hand with her own. “I must do this—I’m Charlotte’s only hope.”

  “Take Seavey’s offer,” he urged. “I could accept that before I could bear seeing any harm come to you.”

  “And you don’t believe he’d harm me?”

  “At least you’d be safe. He’s a hard man, but I don’t think he’d mistreat you.”

  “And what of you?” she argued, unaccountably angry. “Do you truly believe I’m capable of trading Charlotte’s life for yours? If so, you must think very little of me.”

  After a long moment, Frank sighed, dropping his hand. “At least give me assurances that Mona is taking adequate precautions for your safety.”

  “Yes, Booth will be accompanying us, along with two hired bodyguards.”

  “Very well.” His tone was grudging.

  “Please, allow me to help you back to bed—”

  “No.” He ran a hand through his hair, his expression rife with frustration. “I’ll await your return in the library.”

  * * *

  AT precisely eight o’clock that evening, Hattie presented her engraved invitation to the butler at the door of the Canby Mansion. While he studied it, she slipped a hand into her pocket to assure herself the roll of cash she’d taken from the library safe was still there.

  “If you’ll follow me, Mrs. Longren.” The butler ushered her inside.

  Eleanor stood with her husband in the mansion’s spacious front entry hall, receiving guests. She wore an eggplant moiré gown trimmed in creamy white Venetian lace that Hattie couldn’t help but admire. The gown’s rich fabric bespoke of the wealth Eleanor and her husband enjoyed, while its subdued color had been carefully chosen so as not to eclipse the outfits of her guests. Hattie knew she’d never possess a fraction of the social skill Eleanor so effortlessly exhibited.

  She moved forward, injecting as much warmth into her voice as she could. “Eleanor, thank you for allowing me to attend this evening.”

  Eleanor noted the dark green velvet trim on Hattie’s mourning gown, pursing her lips. “Hattie.” She inclined her head. “I believe my invitation included Charlotte. Is she not attending this evening?”

  “I’m afraid my sister came down with a severe headache this afternoon and is quite indisposed,” Hattie lied.

  “A pity. I’ll send my maid over presently with a powder that may ease her discomfort.”

  “No … that is, no, thank you, Eleanor. Sara has already prepared a tincture for Charlotte, and she’s gone to bed for the night. I’m certain she’ll be fully recovered by morning.”

  If Eleanor noticed her agitation, she didn’t remark upon it. “Very well, I’m sure you know what’s best.”

  “Yes.”

  “May I present my husband, Alexander? Alex, this is Charles Longren’s widow, the lady I’ve mentioned to you frequently of late.”

  “Mr. Canby,” Hattie managed politely.

  After a quick glance in the direction of his wife, Canby bowed over her hand. “Mrs. Longren. I hope you enjoy the evening we have planned.” She caught the barest hint of a twinkle in his eye. “The music promises to be entertaining.”

  “Yes, I look forward to it,” she replied. Casting about desperately for an appropriate topic of conversation, she seized upon the design of the grand, three-tiered staircase behind them that was the talk of the town. “You must be quite proud of your home, Mr. Canby. The architecture is astonishing.”

  “Why, yes, my dear!” Canby smiled, looking relieved. “Do note the eight panels of the domed ceiling—the frescoes of graces and nymphs depict the Four Seasons and Four Virtues. You’ll have to return for a visit during the first few days of a season—sunlight shines through the ruby glass of dormer windows, causing a red beam to point at the appropriate season—”

  “Alice,” Eleanor interrupted firmly, glowering at her husband. “Please show Mrs. Longren into the parlor, where she can await the arrival of our other guests.”

  Canby shot Hattie a rueful glance but remained silent. Hattie gave him a small smile of apology before turning away. Evidently her own contretemps with Eleanor were indicative of the manner in which she also treated her family members.

  Hattie was shown into a lushly furnished parlor graced with a high ceiling decorated by stencils and elaborate murals. Because she was the first to arrive, she had a moment alone to collect her thoughts. She’d probably committed some small slight of etiquette, showing up exactly on time, but her nerves hadn’t given her a choice. She wanted the hours until she could slip away gone, the evening over. Concentrating on breathing deeply and evenly, she took in her surroundings.

  Tall windows adorned with allegorical corner carvings of lions, doves, and ferns looked onto formal gardens. Groupings of velvet-upholstered, baroque-style furniture crowded the room, and on the farthest wall stood the largest music organ she’d ever seen in a private home. No doubt Eleanor had her own personal organist who played hymns each Sunday for the family.

  Unable to remain still, Hattie paced around the ornate room, noting it contained no fireplace. Eleanor’s pronouncement to the world, Hattie suspected, that she could afford central heating and therefore no longer saw the need for wood fires. Stopping at a window, Hattie gazed out, trying to calm the pounding of her heart, which sounded unnaturally loud to her own ears. It wouldn’t do to faint, she silently chastised herself.

  “Alexander commissioned the house’s interior finish work by his ships’ carpenters, as you know.” The deep voice came from behind her, chilling her.

  She swallowed and turned from her view of Eleanor’s immaculate gardens. Michael Seavey stood inside the door of the parlor, elegant in his charcoal gray dress jacket and kid gloves, his pale eyes watching her the way a powerful cat watches its prey.

  Think of Charlotte, she reminded herself, only of Charlotte. All that mattered was that he not learn of her plan for later that evening.

  “It’s said that the design of the supporting structure for the hall staircase remains a secret even to this day,” he added, smiling slightly. “And Eleanor does love her secrets.”

  “Stay away from me.” Hattie kept her voice low.

  He strode across the room to stand before her, his demeanor too familiar by half. She held her ground. The gesture did not appear to be lost on him. He smiled. “I do greatly admire your spirit, my dear.”

  She took a deliberate step backward, allowing him to see the revulsion she felt. An indefinable emotion flickered in his eyes, gone in an instant, then his expression turned neutral. He made a production of removing his gloves and lighting a cigar.

  “I’m told we are to be entertained by the great Scott Joplin this evening,” he said lightly, obviously enjoying the acrid fragrance of the smoke.

  “I doubt I’ll find Joplin’s music relaxing.”

  “On that we agree.” He looked amused, clearly choosing to misinterpret her remark. “The jarring melodies that enthrall Antonín Dvořák elude me. Rumor is that the composer might use their essence in his New World symphony, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”

  “Yes, though I’m sur
prised you took note. I don’t see you as a man of refinement.”

  If her affront bothered him, he didn’t show it. He puffed on the cigar, then sighed. “I feel the need to impress upon you once again that I can help you, Hattie, if only you’ll allow me.”

  “In return for the surrender of everything I hold dear, no doubt,” she replied bitterly.

  He leaned toward her, keeping his voice low. “Say the word, and Charlotte is returned to you, unharmed.”

  She remained silent. In the hallway, more guests had arrived, and she could hear Greeley’s booming voice, causing her stomach to knot even harder.

  “Men have base instincts, Hattie,” Seavey murmured. “Ones that Charles may have chosen to shield you from during your brief marriage. And my men … well.” He spread his hands. “I can’t predict, nor can I control how long they will wait before acting upon those … instincts.”

  “You bastard.”

  He stepped closer, so close she feared she’d gag. “I’ve proposed a lucrative business alliance, one that will make you a rich woman overnight. And I can guarantee you’d enjoy my touch.”

  “I don’t want your money. Or your hands on me.”

  “Yes, I’ve come to that lamentable conclusion.” He straightened away from her. “You have the rest of the evening to decide. After that, it’s out of my control.”

  She kept her tone cold, though fine tremors ran the length of her spine. “Do not approach me again, Mr. Seavey, or conventions be damned—I will scream this house down. And I will tell everyone what you’ve done to Charlotte. Do you understand?”

  He sighed, inclining his head. “More than you do, my dear.”

  * * *

  SHE thought dinner would never end.

  As poor luck would have it, she’d been seated across from Seavey, which gave him an excellent vantage point from which to observe her barely disguised terror. Mayor Payton, jovial to the point that she wanted to scream, had been seated next to her. When she’d seen the name cards placed among the glittering lead crystal and china on the dinner table, determining the seating arrangement as Eleanor decreed, it had been all Hattie could do not to snatch them up and rearrange them.

  She could be thankful for one small bit of serendipity, though—Chief Greeley had been seated to Eleanor’s right at the far end of the table, well away from her. To that end, he was forced to limit his treatment of her to icy, rage-filled stares. Hattie had no doubt that had she been forced to remain in close quarters with him for the duration of the six-course meal, they’d have come to blows.

  As it was, she was forced to endure Payton’s inane chatter and Seavey’s cat-and-mouse barbs, all the while willing herself not to throw up the rich food. The butler oversaw the serving of each course—Quilcene oysters on the half shell, mock turtle soup, filet of beef in morel mushroom sauce, escarole salad, salmon in dill sauce.

  At last, waiters removed the tablecloth, providing finger bowls before the serving of dessert. Hattie dipped trembling hands in the lemon-scented water, wiping her fingers on a paper doily. She’d made it this far; surely she could survive floating island with fresh raspberry ice.

  At Eleanor’s signal, they rose en masse to retire to the music room for the evening’s entertainment. Hattie made certain she positioned herself close to the doors leading onto the patio, opened to allow a small amount of fresh air into the room, which was a crush of warm bodies sated on heavy food and strong spirits.

  As discreetly as possible, she checked the time on her pocket watch. A few moments before midnight.

  Scott Joplin appeared beside the grand piano, formally dressed in a black suit and vest, snowy white shirt, and silk tie, bowing to the adoring crowd. Seating himself, he paused for a moment, eyes closed and hands suspended over the ivory keys, then launched into his ragtime songs.

  After one last glance around the room to ensure Seavey and Greeley stood some distance away, Hattie quietly slipped out the French doors, escaping into the night.

  Chapter 15

  JORDAN swore, slamming Hattie’s diary shut and tossing it onto the bed. It simply stopped, and at the worst possible moment. Of course, it probably ended in that place because Hattie had been murdered shortly thereafter, but to Jordan’s way of thinking, that was no excuse. She refused to be left hanging. It wasn’t as if she could just snuggle down and drop off to sleep without knowing whether Hattie and Mona had succeeded in freeing Charlotte.

  She glanced at the alarm clock on her nightstand. Three o’clock. This was ridiculous—she hadn’t pulled an all-nighter since graduate school and had no intention of doing so now. Reaching out, she switched off the light, then lay back, pulling the covers over her as best she could, given that the dog had most of them pinned beneath him. Two minutes later, she turned the light back on and glared at the watermarks on the ceiling.

  Throwing back the covers, she climbed out of bed and trotted downstairs to the kitchen. How did one go about conjuring up ghosts, exactly?

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” she called.

  After enough time had elapsed that Jordan was contemplating some sort of ritual dance to awaken sleeping spirits, the air shimmered, and the ghosts appeared in their assigned spots at the kitchen table. Both were wearing high-necked, ankle-length flannel nightgowns sporting lace and ruffles. Their hair hung in single braids down the center of their backs.

  “Really,” Hattie admonished her, yawning. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “Why do you care? Do ghosts actually sleep?” There had to be at least four yards of material in their nightdresses. Thank God football jerseys had been invented.

  “Well, of course! We need our beauty rest, after all. And it’s not as if we’re part of some children’s parlor game. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are’? Please. Simply call our names and we’ll appear.”

  “My apologies.” Jordan’s tone was sarcastic as she dealt with the espresso maker. “I just finished your diary. You have to tell me what happened the night of Eleanor’s soirée.”

  “And you needed this information so badly you had to awaken us at three A. M.?” Hattie’s tone was querulous.

  While the machine heated, Jordan ground beans. “I still don’t know who killed you,” she admitted. “I know about Frank’s attack, the abduction, and Seavey’s proposition. But that’s far from the proof I need to convince anyone Seavey murdered you.” And as added inducement, I now have another ghost breathing down my neck, criticizing my performance.

  “What do you need to know?” Hattie asked.

  Jordan poured her espresso and sat down at the table. “Tell me exactly what happened the night of the party.”

  “Well, Charlotte was kidnapped the day before Eleanor’s soirée, as you probably know by now.” She smiled sadly at Charlotte. “Remember? You had wanted so badly to attend.”

  Charlotte nodded, then gave her a look of encouragement.

  Hattie’s eyes lost their focus, her mind in some distant place. “Mona and I had come up with a plan to free you, you see. She would have Booth find out who was holding you, and the location within the tunnels where you were being held. Then we would bribe the guards to turn you over to us. Once you were back at the house, we’d decide whether to try to force Greeley to press charges against your kidnappers.”

  “You must have been so scared,” Charlotte murmured.

  “Yes. The party was torture. Seavey was watching my every move. I thought it would never end. But around midnight, I slipped through the library doors while Scott Joplin was playing. He traveled the country back then, you may remember, playing at opera houses and brothels to support himself while composing his songs.” Hattie’s expression turned momentarily wry. “I always thought it ironic that Eleanor, of all people, would allow him into her home. But his music was so popular she probably overlooked his questionable connections.”

  “Never mind that.” Jordan noted Hattie’s careful omission of Greeley’s refusal to help find Charlotte, assuming i
t was to spare Charlotte’s feelings. “Go on,” she urged.

  Hattie drew a breath. “The guests were so enthralled with the music that no one ever saw me leave. Or if anyone did notice, they must’ve thought I was slipping out to the garden for some fresh air.

  “The moon was bright, and there was already dew on the grass. My evening slippers were soaked through before I’d even made it halfway across the garden. Isn’t it funny the impressions you’re left with? I can still feel the cold damp soaking through my stockings.” She sighed. “Anyway, all I could think was that damp feet and ruined shoes were of no consequence, that I had to get to Charlotte. Seavey’s men had had almost thirty-six hours to do whatever they wanted, and though Mona wasn’t saying as much, I knew she feared the worst.”

  Charlotte placed her hand on Hattie’s arm. “They never touched me. Seavey must’ve given them an order not to harm me. Oh, they talked about what they’d do to me when they got the chance, and they kept me petrified with the descriptions, probably so I wouldn’t fight to get away. But mostly, they just forced me to drink a foul-tasting tea of some kind.”

  “Probably drugged,” Jordan surmised. She nodded at Hattie to continue.

  “After a block or so,” Hattie said, “I thought I’d gotten away without Seavey realizing it. So I moved as fast as I could, trying to stay in the shadows of the buildings along the waterfront, hoping no one would see me.” She clasped trembling hands on the table. “I was afraid I’d be waylaid, you see. Danger abounded on the waterfront that late at night. If I’d had the bad luck of some group of drunken sailors spying me, keeping me from my destination …” Her face twisted. “As it turned out, I needn’t have worried.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Seavey caught me and dragged me into a dark alley before I could get inside the Green Light. Mona never even knew I’d arrived.”

  Jordan almost dropped her espresso. “So Seavey did follow you.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  The Price Paid

  MICHAEL Seavey wrapped an arm around Hattie’s waist, lifting her away from the Green Light’s door and clapping his gloved hand across her mouth to muffle her screams. He dragged her into the darkness at the end of the alley, silently swearing when her teeth sunk through leather into the fleshy part of his palm.