Seavey harrumphed. “If you had been a better man,” he informed Frank, “you would’ve escaped from jail and solved the crime properly. You are correct—you don’t deserve her. I would never have shown such weakness or passivity.”
Frank visibly flinched; the shanghaier had hit a nerve. “If you knew I didn’t murder Hattie, it was your responsibility to speak up. Yet you did nothing.”
“Good God, man, I’m not dull-witted!” Seavey looked amused. “Why would I help a known union sympathizer escape from jail? You would’ve continued to wreak havoc upon my business interests.”
Charlotte clapped her hands together, though they made no sound. “I can’t wait to plan the wedding! We can have it right here in the front parlor!” She hesitated, then frowned at Jordan. “You must work harder on the renovation. Everything must be perfect.”
“You son of a bitch!” Frank snarled, gliding toward Seavey, who turned to face him, widening his stance, his hands falling loosely to his sides.
Jordan gave another sharp whistle. “Stop!” She glared at the two men. “There will be no more fighting on the premises. We will solve this like civilized human beings.” She paused, then waved a hand. “Whatever.”
She really was way too tired to deal with any of them. And she really wanted a hot soak in her claw-foot tub, then eight solid hours in her nice, soft bed. Turning to Hattie, she ordered, “Choose one and tell the other to get lost.”
Seavey hissed, and Hattie looked horrified. “I couldn’t possibly!”
Frank’s head swiveled toward Hattie. “You would actually consider his suit?” His expression was incredulous.
Hattie wrung her hands.
“Michael is a wonderful man,” Charlotte said loyally, shooting Frank a disgruntled glare. “Most people don’t understand that about him, but he truly cares.”
Seavey looked gratified.
Jordan closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Remember our discussion a few weeks ago about the number of people this man murdered during his lifetime?” she asked Charlotte. “I’m with Frank—I think the choice is obvious.” She gave Hattie a chiding look. “I’m surprised you even need to give it a moment’s thought.”
“But—” Hattie began, only to be interrupted by Charlotte’s shriek of outrage.
“Michael is a good man! Why, just before he died, he—”
“That would be when someone deliberately lured his ship onto the rocks, correct?” Jordan drove her point home as she picked up pieces of the lampshade and dropped them into an ashtray. “It seems to me someone wanted him dead. And probably for good reason.”
“Nonsense,” Seavey replied. “They lured the Henrietta Dale onto the rocks because they wanted to eliminate a competitor, nothing more. It was merely my bad luck to go down with the ship.”
Frank snorted. “You mean, someone finally had the good sense to rid the waterfront of its worst nemesis. I’m sure you deserved whatever happened to you.”
“ ‘Worst nemesis,’ ” Seavey murmured, looking quite pleased. “I like that.”
Hattie looked confused. “But Michael, you didn’t go down with the ship.”
He gave her a tender yet patronizing look. “I’m sorry, my dear; that’s precisely what happened. If it makes my death any more palatable, rest assured that I felt no pain.”
“No, no!” She roiled the newspapers strewn across the desktop, then zinged one at Jordan, who barely managed to react fast enough to snag it out of the air. “Jordan, if you would be so kind as to read the article halfway down the front page?”
Reluctantly curious, Jordan searched until she found the news story Hattie referred to, then skimmed through the text:
Escalating Lawless and Licentious Activities on the Waterfront
August 7—Further proof of the disintegration of the social fabric of our beloved Port Chatham society was evidenced by the recent murder of the ruthless shanghaier, one Michael Seavey, whose body was found by this paper’s reporter early this morning, floating in the waters under Union Wharf, the victim of an execution-style slaying …
Jordan raised her head to frown at Seavey.
“See?” Hattie gave an affirming nod, then addressed Seavey. “The article states that your body was found floating under Union Wharf. You’d been shot.”
“Yellow journalism.” Seavey waved his hand. “We both know Eleanor Canby told her reporters to write whatever suited her purposes, which fluctuated from one day to the next. The woman despised me.”
“No, Hattie’s right,” Jordan said slowly, reading further. “The article is quite detailed—you were found under the wharf at dawn, wearing the evening clothes you’d been seen in the night before.” She lifted her gaze. “Someone shot you in the back.”
Everyone looked horrified with the exception of Frank, who nodded matter-of-factly, saying, “Any one of your known associates would have been capable of it.”
“A common enough occurrence in those days, even if untrue in my case,” Seavey agreed.
“Actually, it seems to be common in your family,” Jordan informed him. “I found the body of your great-great-nephew this afternoon. He’d been shot as well.”
“How horrible!” Hattie exclaimed.
“How unseemly,” Charlotte countered. “Women shouldn’t be exposed to such things. If you’d been here at the house, concentrating on restoring our home, ensuring that it will be ready for the hundreds of guests that will attend the wedding—”
“What the devil are you talking about?” Seavey demanded of Jordan. “I don’t have any descendants.”
“Yes, you do,” Jordan replied, ignoring Charlotte’s tirade. “I’d have to go back through your papers, then trace the family genealogy, but you definitely have descendants.”
“You’re reading my personal papers? Woman, have you no sense of decency?”
“If you didn’t want them read, why did you write them?” Jordan retorted, exasperated. She drew in a deep breath. “Look, can we get back on topic here?”
Everyone stared at her as if she’d spoken in tongues. “Can we return to the matter at hand?” she paraphrased.
“An excellent idea,” Seavey concurred. “We should discuss Hattie’s and my forthcoming nuptials.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Jordan saw Frank puff up threateningly. Hurriedly, she intervened. “Actually, we were discussing the report of your murder. Though for the life of me, I don’t remember how we got on that topic, either.”
“I wasn’t murdered. The last thing I remember was the shipwreck. How could I have gotten from there to dead under the wharf?” Seavey shook his head. “No. I’m certain the article must’ve been fabricated.”
Hattie moved over next to Jordan and laid a hand on her arm. Jordan’s arm tingled as if she’d picked up a charge, not unlike static electricity. “I don’t suppose you could look into the matter and make a determination for us?”
“What? No, no …”
“She’s hardly capable—you would do better to ask a man,” Seavey pointed out.
“Hey,” Jordan snapped. “This is the twenty-first century. That kind of thinking went out of fashion a long time ago.”
His shrug was one of indifference. “Nevertheless, I admit to being unconcerned about the entire affair. Who cares how I died?”
“Your murder shouldn’t go unsolved.” Hattie’s comment earned her a hard look from Frank.