“Maybe he was trying to manage his phobia and took diving lessons as a way of conquering his fears.”
“Maybe. Doesn’t sound like Holt, though.” Jase watched Malachi chase a seagull. “Someone could have dumped his body out here after murdering him at a location closer to town, to confuse the authorities.”
“That’s what I suggested to Darcy, but that still doesn’t explain why he was diving.”
“No, it doesn’t, does it?”
The gull was having no trouble eluding capture, but that didn’t deter the dog. Jordan kept an eye out for anyone who looked as if he was upset by the dog’s presence near the off-limits area.
“Well, Darcy will sort through it all, I’m sure,” Jase finally said.
“She thinks whoever killed Holt probably lives in Port Chatham. That maybe it’s one of the women he dated.”
Jase appeared to consider the idea, then shook his head slowly. “Shooting someone isn’t a typical MO for a woman—it isn’t personal enough. Now, bashing in his skull or poisoning him? That I could buy.”
“But you think it’s possible his murderer lives in our town.”
“Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
Jordan shuddered.
Jase noticed and held out his hand. “C’mon, let’s get you back to the pub.” One corner of his mouth quirked up. “After hiking with Darcy, it’s always best to imbibe.”
“Why didn’t you warn me?” Jordan grumbled as they turned toward the inner harbor. “Oh, wait—I get it. The pool. You placed a bet, didn’t you?”
The quirk became a grin. “You know about that?”
“Darcy came clean somewhere around mile four.”
They walked across the grass toward the boat landing on the far side of the lighthouse. Most tourists had already departed, and the gardener she’d talked to earlier was nowhere to be seen. A sleek blue-and-white cabin cruiser rocked gently in the water. Jordan whistled for Malachi.
“I had an interesting chat earlier with the gardener about the ship that ran aground not far from here in the 1890s,” she told Jase as they waited for the dog.
“Yeah?” Jase’s tone was suspiciously casual. “About what time was that?”
“Around three. Why?”
“We bet on the time of the sighting as well as the possibility of the sighting.”
Her gaze narrowed. “The only person I talked to was the gardener, and everyone else I saw was a tourist. The subject of the shipwreck came up because the Henrietta Dale sailed by. The gardener seemed to believe that the ship had been deliberately lured onto the rocks back in 1893.”
Jase nodded equably. “I’ve heard the story. If you’re interested, you should ask Bob MacDonough to tell you what he knows. He’s the current president of the Port Chatham Wooden Boat Society, and he’s very knowledgeable about all the old wrecks in the area. He drops by the pub most nights, though he’s pretty busy right now. The historic tall ships are starting to show up in port for the upcoming Wooden Boat Festival.”
“Whoever refurbished the Henrietta Dale has done a beautiful job.”
“You’ll have to ask Bob about that—he knows pretty much everyone who owns and works on the sailing ships.” Jase paused while Jordan whistled a second time for the dog. “I believe the Henrietta Dale’s logbook is on display in the lightstation—did the gardener mention it?”
“No, she didn’t. I’d love to see it, actually.” Jordan debated going into the lighthouse, then quickly abandoned the idea. No way was she climbing all those steps, not given the current damage to her feet. “Do you suppose they have a copy of the logbook in town at the Wooden Boat Society?”
“If not, I’ll bring you back out.” Jase gave her a curious look. “Why are you so interested?”
Jordan shrugged. “Old shipwrecks are always fascinating, aren’t they? And this ship is particularly beautiful.”
Malachi finally came galloping toward them, giving them a happy canine grin. “It’s about time,” Jordan told him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you expend that much energy.”
That earned her The Look, Malachi’s patented expression combining equal parts personal affront and derision. She and Jase lifted him on board, then climbed in after him.
Malachi flopped down at her feet. Jase went below. He returned with a first-aid kit and a pair of thick wool socks. “While I get us under way, why don’t you use the shower in the head to rinse the saltwater off your blisters?”
Minutes later, she climbed back up the stairs, her feet warmer, cleaner, and stinging less. Standing behind Jase in the wheelhouse, she gazed back at the lighthouse grounds as the cruiser picked up speed, water rushing under its hull. Jase steered toward the distant headlands, and a chill breeze grew in strength, buffeting her hard enough that she had to widen her stance. She pulled her denim jacket closed, hugging herself.
The Olympic Mountains had taken on a pink glow against the setting sun. The beach blurred, then disappeared altogether in the gathering mist. Darcy was still out there documenting the crime scene, which would probably take several more hours. Though Jordan knew she was used to murder investigations, she didn’t envy her the task.
Jordan also didn’t envy her the task of discovering who in their small, friendly town hated Holt Stilwell enough to point a gun at his head and, without remorse, pull the trigger.
THE sun had dropped below the horizon by the time they returned the cabin cruiser to its berth in Port Chatham Harbor. Lights had blinked on in the downtown historic buildings, and the bluff running between the waterfront business district and the residential areas on the hills above was bathed in dark shadows.
They climbed the steep grade in Jase’s truck, driving through block after block of quaint, painstakingly refurbished Victorians surrounded by lovingly tended gardens. Views of the fading sunset over Discovery Bay, and of distant islands across midnight-blue water, greeted them as they drove up the street.
When Jordan had moved to town a few weeks ago, she’d been stunned by the contrast between the sleepy tourist town of present day and the stories of its rough-and-tumble past. At one time, Port Chatham had been the second-largest seaport on the West Coast, its waterfront rife with crime. But over the years, the town had evolved into a charming seaside village best known for its historic buildings and its jazz and wooden boat festivals. Modern-day murder simply didn’t fit with Jordan’s mental picture of her adopted town—at least, not in contemporary times. It was unsettling to think that someone, possibly living in a Victorian not far from her own, might be a murderer.
As they turned down a side street one block over from her house, Jordan noticed a number of residents out enjoying the fair weather, sitting in their porch swings, sipping wine, or strolling through the neighborhood. A woman in her thirties whom Jordan had yet to meet was washing her car in her driveway. Halfway down the block, a man wearing elegant black evening clothes and a top hat pulled his horse-drawn phaeton over to the curb as they passed, touching a finger to the brim of his hat and nodding to her. Just a few yards beyond, a teenage boy on a skateboard almost ran through a couple strolling down the sidewalk in ankle-length capes and walking boots. The man hastily tugged his wife aside, giving the youngster an irritated glance.
Jordan huffed out an exasperated breath.
“What?” Jase asked as he turned the corner onto the main thoroughfare running through the upper part of town.
“It would be a lot easier if vintage clothing wasn’t all the rage right now.”
He gave her a perplexed look, then clued in. “I can see where that might make things a bit difficult,” he allowed, tongue in cheek.