“I’ve been trying to catch up with that dog all week.” Darcy flipped open her cellphone. “Let me put in a call to Animal Control—”
He lowered his head and whined.
“No!”
Darcy paused, her finger poised over the keypad, brows raised.
“He’s mine,” Jordan improvised.
“Uh-huh. Didn’t you say you just drove in this morning?”
“Minor technicality,” she replied brightly. “Why don’t we take our drinks and go sit out front? I’ve always wanted a front stoop to sit on.” Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed Darcy’s soda can, leaving her to follow.
“So what made you decide on Port Chatham?” Darcy asked once they were settled on the porch steps.
“An acquaintance of mine gave me tickets to last year’s jazz concert. A few days in town was all it took to hook me on the idea of moving up here. Are you familiar with the Ted Rawlins Trio?”
Darcy nodded. “Rawlins is the friend? I’ve heard him play—he’s very good. I think he purchased a summer home south of town on the golf course, didn’t he?”
“He comes up every summer, as far as I know.”
“How long are you planning to stay in town? Will Longren House be your vacation home, or your primary residence?”
The police chief was grilling her—and not all that subtly, either. Jordan kept her answers friendly. “I’ll be here at least a year, maybe more, depending on how the remodel goes. And no, I don’t plan to split my time—I’m gone from L.A. for good, I think.” She shrugged. “We’ll see. I want to research the house’s history, plan the remodel right. Got any suggestions on where to start?”
“County. They might even have a copy of the original plans.” Darcy propped an elbow on the top step. “If memory serves, a Captain Charles Longren built the place for his bride, Hattie, in the late 1800s. Hattie didn’t live here all that long, though. There’ve been a number of owners over the years—”
Her cellphone wailed, startling Jordan.
After a brief conversation, Darcy hung up, sighing. “I’ve got to head back to the station.”
“Your phone is programmed for Miles Davis?”
“Of course. We take our jazz seriously around here.” Darcy drained her soda and stood, then studied Jordan for a moment. “So I’m betting you weren’t the one who cut the brake lines on your husband’s Beemer.”
“No, I wasn’t.” Jordan managed to keep her tone matter-of-fact.
Darcy nodded. “Needed to ask.”
“I can give you the name of the detective in L.A. who is handling the case. I’m sure he’ll be glad to fill you in.”
“Not necessary. The LAPD has already been in contact to say you’re part of an ongoing investigation. It got me curious, so I asked a few questions.”
Jordan didn’t respond—over the past few months she’d learned not to volunteer information.
They walked to the curb, Darcy in the lead. “Listen, why don’t you drop by the pub tonight? I’ll introduce you around.”
“Pub?”
“The neighborhood hangout, over on the main drag. Come to think of it, your buddy Rawlins is slated to perform there tomorrow night. It’s a laid-back place—the food is great and Jase doesn’t water the drinks.”
So he owned a pub. “I met him a bit ago, I think. Dark, wavy hair, killer blue eyes—”
“—and sexy as all hell? Yep, that’s Jase.” She flashed a grin, and Jordan relented, smiling back. “Seeing as how you don’t strike me as a black widow in training,” Darcy added, “I’ll also mention that Jase is unattached.”
Jordan held up a hand like a traffic cop. “Not on the agenda anytime soon.”
“Good thing you’ve adopted a dog to keep you company, then.” Darcy opened the door of the police cruiser. “Hey, do you like to hike? I’m always looking for new blood, and there’s a great trek out on Dungeness Spit if we time the tides right.”
Jordan had a sudden vision of being dragged, breathless, along a boulder-strewn promontory. “We’ll see.”
“Wise to be cautious.” Darcy’s grin broadened. “Talk to Jase—he’ll tell you I don’t lose too many of my hiking buddies. Well, just the uncoordinated ones.”
Jordan shook her head, amused in spite of herself. “Thanks for the help unpacking the car.”
“No problem. We tend to do for each other around here. Give it a couple of days and you’ll be buried in food from the various welcoming committees.”
“You live here in the neighborhood?”
“Two streets over—the Gothic Revival in the middle of the block.”
Jordan must have looked perplexed.
“Blue with white trim, clean, symmetrical lines, a couple of Adirondacks on the porch,” Darcy elaborated. “None of those frilly cottage garden flowers. You can’t miss it.”
She started to climb into the driver’s seat, then paused, angling her head to look up at the second floor of Longren House. “So which bedroom are you planning to commandeer?”
“The front one. It’s the largest, and the window seat in the turret is pretty hard to resist.”
“You might want to rethink that if you plan on getting a good night’s sleep.”
“Why?”
“You mean Sandy didn’t tell you?” Darcy shook her head in apparent disgust. “Back around the turn of the last century, Hattie Longren was bludgeoned to death in that very room.”
Chapter 2
AS the police cruiser disappeared around the corner, Jordan squeezed her eyes shut.
“Okay,” she muttered. “Murder definitely constitutes a giant checkmark in the buyer’s remorse column.”
But now that she thought about it, she’d been able to buy Longren House for a lot less than other homes for sale in town. Not that writing the amount on the check hadn’t caused her serious heartburn at the time, but still, she remembered having one of those niggling feelings …
Abruptly, she sat down on the curb and scrubbed her face with both hands. When it came to dealing with the unintended consequences of impulsive acts, murder—even one a century old—bumped the thirteen colors of paint and sagging porch all the way down to the white noise level. She was a therapist, for chrissakes. She strongly believed in, and practiced, Rational Therapy. So how in God’s name had she considered it rational to act so impulsively?
A small, hysterical laugh escaped. And what were the damn odds that she would buy a house tainted by murder? No one would believe it was mere coincidence. She had no problem envisioning that headline:
Suspected Black Widow Fascinated by Murder Buys Longren House
No wonder the police chief had shown up on her doorstep twenty minutes after she’d hit town.
She really needed to work on the gullibility issue. Not that this would be the first time she’d fallen prey—witness her seven-year marriage to one of L.A.’s smoothest operators. She’d had no clue of the double life he’d led; she’d actually believed him when he’d said he had to work late all those evenings.
She sighed. No matter what Ryland’s faults had been—and they’d turned out to be legion—he hadn’t deserved to die. And though she might’ve fantasized a time or two about wringing his neck, she hadn’t actually given in to impulse, regardless of what the L.A. cops believed.
The dog sat next to her, whining, and licked her cheek. She threw an arm around his neck and hugged him. “I’m okay,” she reassured him. “But thanks for asking.”