* * *
SHE thought dinner would never end.
As poor luck would have it, she’d been seated across from Seavey, which gave him an excellent vantage point from which to observe her barely disguised terror. Mayor Payton, jovial to the point that she wanted to scream, had been seated next to her. When she’d seen the name cards placed among the glittering lead crystal and china on the dinner table, determining the seating arrangement as Eleanor decreed, it had been all Hattie could do not to snatch them up and rearrange them.
She could be thankful for one small bit of serendipity, though—Chief Greeley had been seated to Eleanor’s right at the far end of the table, well away from her. To that end, he was forced to limit his treatment of her to icy, rage-filled stares. Hattie had no doubt that had she been forced to remain in close quarters with him for the duration of the six-course meal, they’d have come to blows.
As it was, she was forced to endure Payton’s inane chatter and Seavey’s cat-and-mouse barbs, all the while willing herself not to throw up the rich food. The butler oversaw the serving of each course—Quilcene oysters on the half shell, mock turtle soup, filet of beef in morel mushroom sauce, escarole salad, salmon in dill sauce.
At last, waiters removed the tablecloth, providing finger bowls before the serving of dessert. Hattie dipped trembling hands in the lemon-scented water, wiping her fingers on a paper doily. She’d made it this far; surely she could survive floating island with fresh raspberry ice.
At Eleanor’s signal, they rose en masse to retire to the music room for the evening’s entertainment. Hattie made certain she positioned herself close to the doors leading onto the patio, opened to allow a small amount of fresh air into the room, which was a crush of warm bodies sated on heavy food and strong spirits.
As discreetly as possible, she checked the time on her pocket watch. A few moments before midnight.
Scott Joplin appeared beside the grand piano, formally dressed in a black suit and vest, snowy white shirt, and silk tie, bowing to the adoring crowd. Seating himself, he paused for a moment, eyes closed and hands suspended over the ivory keys, then launched into his ragtime songs.
After one last glance around the room to ensure Seavey and Greeley stood some distance away, Hattie quietly slipped out the French doors, escaping into the night.
Chapter 15
JORDAN swore, slamming Hattie’s diary shut and tossing it onto the bed. It simply stopped, and at the worst possible moment. Of course, it probably ended in that place because Hattie had been murdered shortly thereafter, but to Jordan’s way of thinking, that was no excuse. She refused to be left hanging. It wasn’t as if she could just snuggle down and drop off to sleep without knowing whether Hattie and Mona had succeeded in freeing Charlotte.
She glanced at the alarm clock on her nightstand. Three o’clock. This was ridiculous—she hadn’t pulled an all-nighter since graduate school and had no intention of doing so now. Reaching out, she switched off the light, then lay back, pulling the covers over her as best she could, given that the dog had most of them pinned beneath him. Two minutes later, she turned the light back on and glared at the watermarks on the ceiling.
Throwing back the covers, she climbed out of bed and trotted downstairs to the kitchen. How did one go about conjuring up ghosts, exactly?
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” she called.
After enough time had elapsed that Jordan was contemplating some sort of ritual dance to awaken sleeping spirits, the air shimmered, and the ghosts appeared in their assigned spots at the kitchen table. Both were wearing high-necked, ankle-length flannel nightgowns sporting lace and ruffles. Their hair hung in single braids down the center of their backs.
“Really,” Hattie admonished her, yawning. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“Why do you care? Do ghosts actually sleep?” There had to be at least four yards of material in their nightdresses. Thank God football jerseys had been invented.
“Well, of course! We need our beauty rest, after all. And it’s not as if we’re part of some children’s parlor game. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are’? Please. Simply call our names and we’ll appear.”
“My apologies.” Jordan’s tone was sarcastic as she dealt with the espresso maker. “I just finished your diary. You have to tell me what happened the night of Eleanor’s soirée.”
“And you needed this information so badly you had to awaken us at three A. M.?” Hattie’s tone was querulous.
While the machine heated, Jordan ground beans. “I still don’t know who killed you,” she admitted. “I know about Frank’s attack, the abduction, and Seavey’s proposition. But that’s far from the proof I need to convince anyone Seavey murdered you.” And as added inducement, I now have another ghost breathing down my neck, criticizing my performance.
“What do you need to know?” Hattie asked.
Jordan poured her espresso and sat down at the table. “Tell me exactly what happened the night of the party.”
“Well, Charlotte was kidnapped the day before Eleanor’s soirée, as you probably know by now.” She smiled sadly at Charlotte. “Remember? You had wanted so badly to attend.”
Charlotte nodded, then gave her a look of encouragement.
Hattie’s eyes lost their focus, her mind in some distant place. “Mona and I had come up with a plan to free you, you see. She would have Booth find out who was holding you, and the location within the tunnels where you were being held. Then we would bribe the guards to turn you over to us. Once you were back at the house, we’d decide whether to try to force Greeley to press charges against your kidnappers.”
“You must have been so scared,” Charlotte murmured.
“Yes. The party was torture. Seavey was watching my every move. I thought it would never end. But around midnight, I slipped through the library doors while Scott Joplin was playing. He traveled the country back then, you may remember, playing at opera houses and brothels to support himself while composing his songs.” Hattie’s expression turned momentarily wry. “I always thought it ironic that Eleanor, of all people, would allow him into her home. But his music was so popular she probably overlooked his questionable connections.”
“Never mind that.” Jordan noted Hattie’s careful omission of Greeley’s refusal to help find Charlotte, assuming it was to spare Charlotte’s feelings. “Go on,” she urged.
Hattie drew a breath. “The guests were so enthralled with the music that no one ever saw me leave. Or if anyone did notice, they must’ve thought I was slipping out to the garden for some fresh air.
“The moon was bright, and there was already dew on the grass. My evening slippers were soaked through before I’d even made it halfway across the garden. Isn’t it funny the impressions you’re left with? I can still feel the cold damp soaking through my stockings.” She sighed. “Anyway, all I could think was that damp feet and ruined shoes were of no consequence, that I had to get to Charlotte. Seavey’s men had had almost thirty-six hours to do whatever they wanted, and though Mona wasn’t saying as much, I knew she feared the worst.”
Charlotte placed her hand on Hattie’s arm. “They never touched me. Seavey must’ve given them an order not to harm me. Oh, they talked about what they’d do to me when they got the chance, and they kept me petrified with the descriptions, probably so I wouldn’t fight to get away. But mostly, they just forced me to drink a foul-tasting tea of some kind.”
“Probably drugged,” Jordan surmised. She nodded at Hattie to continue.
“After a block or so,” Hattie said, “I thought I’d gotten away without Seavey realizing it. So I moved as fast as I could, trying to stay in the shadows of the buildings along the waterfront, hoping no one would see me.” She clasped trembling hands on the table. “I was afraid I’d be waylaid, you see. Danger abounded on the waterfront that late at night. If I’d had the bad luck of some group of drunken sailors spying me, keeping me from my destination …” Her face twisted. “As it turned out, I needn’t have worried.”