Darcy shook her head. “Sarcasm.”
“You aren’t alone in this, you know,” Bob assured Jordan. “There have been dozens of sightings of ghost ships.”
“But why me?”
They all looked at her as if the answer was obvious.
“I meant, why me, why now? If there have been dozens of these sightings, why hasn’t anyone else sighted this ship over the years?”
“Maybe you’re supposed to investigate what happened that night?” Tom speculated.
“No, wait—she does have a point,” Jase said. “The timing of the sighting appears to be unexplained. How would any spectral entities know that she’d be hiking today, or that she’d put two and two together, for that matter?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Darcy mused. “I’d assume that along with Jordan’s powers comes some kind of connection with the spectral entities, such that they’d know what she was up to and when it would make sense to try to influence her.”
“You guys do know how insane you sound?” Jordan fumed.
“But why now?” Jase asked, obviously considering her question rhetorical. “Do you suppose we’re coming up on the anniversary of the shipwreck?” He turned to Bob. “Do you know the exact date?”
“Sometime in August of ninety-three, I think. I’d have to look it up. And I don’t think it has anything to do with the upcoming boat festival, since nothing like this has happened in prior years.”
“Jordan wasn’t in town in prior years, though.”
“Hmm. Valid point.” Bob rubbed his chin. “At any rate, I’m not sure the sighting is supposed to mean anything other than what it was. Such sightings have occurred throughout history, but they didn’t translate into some kind of cry for help from a different dimension.”
“Still,” Tom said, “it makes sense that she should look into the shipwreck.”
“I can assure you I feel absolutely no desire to do so,” Jordan replied grimly.
“There was never any conclusive evidence as to whether the Henrietta Dale was deliberately lured onto the rocks,” Tom continued as if she’d never spoken. “If Jordan researches the incident, maybe she can find some tidbit that provides proof one way or the other, thus giving the ship some peace of mind.”
Jordan groaned and buried her face in her hands.
“I can bring you some books to read as a starting point,” he offered.
“If you darken my doorstep with any books on the subject, I will take Darcy’s gun and shoot you between the eyes.”
“Are you all right?” Jase asked.
“I need to go home.” And climb into bed and pull the covers over my head. Denial, that’s the ticket.
“You can’t leave now—we want to hear every detail,” Bob protested.
“Giant wooden ship. Lots of masts and sails. Singing crew,” Jordan ticked off on her fingers. “What else do you need to know?”
“Well, for starters, we need to carefully document your sighting—the exact longitude and latitude of the ship, time of day, atmospheric conditions, and so on. Experts who track this kind of thing will want a full accounting for their records.”
“It might also be a good idea for you to work with a sketch artist,” Tom added, receiving an eager nod of agreement from Bob. “You can generate a sketch from your memory of what you saw. Then we could compare it to the specifications for the Henrietta Dale, to see how accurate the sighting was.”
“I can put you in touch with the sketch artist the police department uses on occasion,” Darcy offered. “She’s very good.”
Jordan looked at her.
“Or not,” Darcy said.
“No, that’s an excellent idea.” Bob grabbed a bar napkin and pulled a pen from his shirt pocket to start making notes. “I’ve got calls to make. Jordan, we need your eyewitness account recorded right away, so that it’s as accurate as possible.”
“That’s it!” Jordan muttered. “I’m out of here. Darcy, I’ll drive—you’re too tired. Keys. Malachi! Let’s go.” When Bob started to protest, she held up a hand. “I’ll come by your offices tomorrow.” She crooked the fingers of her extended hand at Darcy for the keys.
Darcy opened her mouth as if to say something—probably, Jordan thought darkly, some pithy observation about who was in the worst shape and therefore who should be driving—but then wisely seemed to think better of it. Without a word, she handed over the keys to her SUV.
Jase placed a hand on Jordan’s shoulder. His expression was solemn, but his blue eyes held a definite twinkle. “Want me to carry you out to the truck so that you can retrieve your shoes?”
IT took less than a half hour to drive Darcy home, talk her into taking her pain medication, and make certain she was alert enough to get ready for bed on her own. Jordan then pulled on her damp, salt-encrusted running shoes, and she and Malachi walked the two blocks to Longren House in the dark.
As they turned the corner on her block, Malachi growled low in his throat. Jordan slowed, laying a hand on his collar. She studied the surrounding shadows, wondering what had set the dog off.
Nothing looked out of place in the yards on either side of her house. Amanda, the landscaper she’d involuntarily adopted, had probably already retired to her tent in the backyard, having long since quit for the day. Jordan recognized Amanda’s handiwork in the careful pruning and temporary supports for the wisteria, which would eventually climb a new iron trellis along the library wall. She halted in her tracks, peering more closely at the support structure. Was that … scaffolding? Maybe that was what had spooked Malachi—it was certainly enough to spook her.
The moon and stars had come out, providing enough illumination that Jordan could make out the lines of her house’s nineteenth-century Queen Anne architecture. Though relatively small in terms of square footage, her home was a glorious example of the ornate, wacky home designs of that era. A covered porch ran the length of the front, curving around the corners and decorated with gingerbread-style carved balusters. The turret off her master bedroom rose into the night sky above her, its darkened antique glass windows shining in the moonlight. A hall light glowed softly through the beveled glass of the front door. Someone had left lights burning in the kitchen and the library.
Jordan loved how the house looked at night, when darkness obscured the peeling paint and missing siding. Her first priority had been to hire a carpenter to repair and hang the old porch swing, whose use was essential in helping her cling to her dream of a warm, cozy home.
Malachi growled again, straining against her grip on his collar, and, increasingly uneasy, she studied the house more carefully. The gallon of wood brightener she’d bought the day before at the local hardware store still sat on the porch where she’d left it. Nothing seemed out of place.
Something flew past the library window, inside. She stared, wondering if her imagination was running away from her. A smoky, amorphous shape flew past again, this time in the opposite direction. It was followed by several airborne books. She heard a faint crash in the general direction of the antique table and wing-back chair.
Malachi pulled out of her grip, barking, and leapt onto the porch. She followed, easing open the front door and cautiously entering the hall. The sound of crashing objects in the library intensified. Crossing to the arched doorway, she peeked inside.
Books she had meticulously dusted and shelved in alphabetical order in the ceiling-to-floor bookcases now lay in heaps on the floor. Ornately framed pictures of dour Longren ancestors hung askew. The wing-back chair was overturned. Plants in the conservatory had toppled, their soil spilled onto the red and white Aubusson rug.