“I’ll put an order in with Kathleen.” Jase headed toward the kitchen, maneuvering past Malachi, who was stretched out and snoring, taking up all the floor space where they needed to work.
“So.” Bob placed his forearms on the bar. “Jase said you had some questions for me?”
“Yeah, about the wreck of the Henrietta Dale. I understand she ran aground on Dungeness Spit in 1893, and that it’s rumored she was purposely lured onto the rocks.”
“Yup.” He handed her his empty pint and pointed to the tap he preferred. “According to my great-great-grandfather’s papers—he was the master ship’s carpenter who handled all the renovations—Michael Seavey purchased the Henrietta Dale from a San Francisco shipping company in 1893 and had her refurbished. He hired a crew and set sail out of Victoria. She never made it to Port Chatham—she ran off course and grounded on the west side of the spit, killing most on board.”
“Seavey was the owner?” Jordan digested that bit of news while she drew his beer. “Interesting coincidence, given that he was Holt’s ancestor.”
“No kidding. History repeating itself and all that.” Bob took a long draw from his new pint. “The lightkeeper and his wife tried to help the few survivors.”
“Was the weather bad the night of the wreck?”
“Not that I know of. And that spit is way off the route they should have taken. Seavey didn’t hire fools; his captain had a good reputation. Which is why folks thought he had to have been lured onto the rocks.”
Jordan ran hot water into the sink, added detergent, then dumped in a tray of empties to soak. “How does one go about luring a ship off course?”
“Back then, a ship captain would’ve used the lights of Point Wilson—that’s the lighthouse right here in town—and New Dungeness to triangulate his ship’s position. Once he had a position and his speed, he could then use maps to set a heading. If someone purposely changed the location of the light on Dungeness Spit—say, by disabling the lightstation and then putting a bright lantern somewhere farther down the beach—the captain would have triangulated their position incorrectly, adjusted the ship’s course, and then run aground.”
“She’s a clipper ship, right?” Jordan asked as she handed Bill a tray of drinks to deliver.
“And a real beauty, according to the articles in the newspapers back then,” Bob confirmed. “Clipper ships had a huge sail area, which made them very fast for the day. If the captain calculated their position incorrectly, by the time he’d realized his mistake, there would’ve been no stopping her—the crew couldn’t have gotten the sails down in time.”
“So who would have done that?” Jordan asked, intrigued.
Bob shrugged. “My guess? Maybe a business competitor. A lot of folks wouldn’t have minded if Seavey disappeared off the waterfront.”
Jase returned with plates for her and Malachi, who miraculously woke up from his coma the moment Jase placed the food under his nose.
Jordan set her own plate of grilled sturgeon and sautéed greens where she could take bites while mixing the next round of drinks. She picked up a drink slip. “What in the world is a Mexican Martini?”
“Tequila, Cointreau, lime juice, and sweet and sour …” Her eyes must have glazed over, because Jase took the slip away from her.
“Seavey’s partner was also a real piece of work,” Tom was saying. “He had a history of violence. I wouldn’t put it past him to have tried to cut Seavey out of their business.”
Bob looked as if he wanted to disagree, but the front door opened, snagging their attention, and Darcy entered. Acknowledging Jordan’s wave, she came over and took the stool between Bob and Tom.
She gave Jordan a wary look. “You’re bartending?”
“I was properly warned,” Jase said.
“And still you proceeded.” Darcy shook her head. Her clothes were streaked with sand and mud. She leaned both elbows on the counter.
“You look like hell,” Jordan said, worried.
“Nice to know I look exactly like I feel,” she retorted wryly.
“How’d you get here so fast?”
“The Coast Guard guys gave me a lift back to my SUV in the helicopter. We lost the light, and no one thought to bring battery-operated floods. It was pointless to continue, so the plan is to go back out tomorrow morning.”
“Were you able to wrangle jurisdiction?” Jordan placed a pint of microbrew in front of her.
“Yeah.” Darcy took a large gulp and closed her eyes for a moment.
“Anything you can tell us?” Tom asked.
“Not much. Holt was probably murdered late last night—the ME said he’d been in the water less than twenty-four hours. It’ll be a couple of days before I get the autopsy report.” She reached for a napkin as Jase set down her dinner. “Come to think of it, I didn’t see Holt in here last night. Did you?” she asked Jase.
“Not that I remember. But Holt always paid with a credit card, so if he was here, I’d have the slip for his meal and drinks.” Jase wiped down the bar with a cloth. “You saw what a zoo it was in here last night—he could’ve escaped my notice easily.”
Darcy swallowed a bite of sturgeon, then turned to the others. “Did you guys see him?”
“I wasn’t here last night,” Bob replied, and Tom shook his head.
“I’ll ask around and check the receipts,” Jase assured Darcy. “Do you have detectives tracing his last movements?”
“Yep. Hopefully, they’ll find something useful.”
Tom leaned toward Darcy. “What’s this about you finding him in a dive suit and without gear? You know he hated the ocean, right?”
“That was my understanding. The only explanation that makes sense is that he was dumped off a boat, but I have no idea why he was diving in the first place. Or where, for that matter. He could’ve been killed anywhere out on the water, then brought to that location.” She grimaced. “Which means, of course, that we’re probably processing only the dump site, not the primary crime scene. We’ll have to keep looking, based on what we find Holt was up to.”
Jordan told Darcy about the nineteenth-century shipwreck and Seavey’s ownership of the Henrietta Dale. “Don’t you think that’s an odd coincidence, given that Seavey and Holt were related?”
Darcy’s shrug was indifferent. “Maybe. Then again, it could just be that—a coincidence.”
“Do you think Holt might have been diving for artifacts off the old shipwreck?”
“Seems unlikely that there would be any other reason Holt was diving in that location,” Tom pointed out.
“Then again,” Jordan thought it through out loud, “when I was looking at Seavey in relation to Hattie’s murder, Holt professed to be uninterested in any of his ancestors.”
“Maybe he hoped he’d find something of value,” Tom said. “Holt was always looking for ways to make an extra buck or three. And there’s been a rumor floating around lately that he underbid the hotel job and was losing money.”
Darcy pushed away her half-eaten dinner, then leaned forward so that she could address a woman with dishwater-blond hair, dressed in work clothes and boots, sitting three stools down. Jordan remembered serving her a whiskey, neat. “Hey, Sally? Do you happen to know who Holt was dating in recent weeks?”
The woman scowled. “It’s just like you cops to think that some woman did it, right? Blame the victim, that’s what you always do.”
“Sally …” Darcy warned.
Sally abruptly stood, digging a hand into her pocket. “Holt hated women. Not the other way around.”
“Why do you say that?” Jordan asked, curious because she had suspected the same.
Sally dismissed her question with a cool look. “I’m not interested in psychoanalyzing the son of a bitch.” She glanced at the tab Jase had handed her, then tossed a couple of twenties onto the bar. “All I know is, whoever did Holt in, I hope they get away with it. In fact, I’ll hold a damn block party in their honor.”