“June 6, 1890,” Charlotte said.
“Do you want us to make you an espresso?” Hattie called after her. “We’ve been watching how you—”
“Do not touch my espresso machine!”
* * *
JORDAN located Michael Seavey’s papers, then sorted through them until she found a packet of loose, yellowed pages in handwritten script, bounded by a rubber band. The minute she tried to pull the rubber band off, it disintegrated. Pages fanned out, dropping onto the bed and the floor. Gathering them up and stacking them in their original order, Jordan sat down on the edge of the bed and began to read the entries around the date of the soirée.
June 3rd—I’ve come to the unfortunate conclusion I must take action to halt the rapidly escalating situation with regard to Clive Johnson. Sadly, the man has become more of a liability than an asset. I’ve always felt his unhealthy predilections regarding young girls would cause him trouble one day. To kidnap girls to appease his appetites, then once tired of them, to smuggle them overseas, is certainly distasteful. However, since being barred from the local brothels following the incident with the prostitute Isobel, his activities have begun to affect his business judgment. Still, I remained uninvolved, though increasingly concerned—that is, until I discovered he had decided to spread the rumor that I am behind the kidnappings. This, of course, is unacceptable and has to be dealt with.
Jordan resisted the urge to scream, because of course Seavey hadn’t felt the need to explain how he had dealt with the situation. If Seavey had pressured or beaten Johnson, he’d actually increased the man’s motivation to murder Hattie, whom he would’ve considered the source of his problems. Jordan started flipping through pages, looking for another reference to Clive Johnson.
June 5th—Today saw a disturbing development. Hattie Longren, whom I’ve come to admire, accused me of kidnapping young Charlotte. Though it will no doubt take me a period of time to recover from learning Hattie could think me capable of such an act, I am determined to get to the bottom of what has happened. To this end, I have ordered my men to bring Clive Johnson to the hotel. Clearly, my procrastination in dealing with him has jeopardized the sister of someone I care for. I can only hope I’m not too late to save the lovely Charlotte from Johnson’s disgusting proclivities.
With regard to Hattie, I find myself tormented by a personal dilemma most unusual … I’m deeply angry that she could suspect me of such a heinous crime, and yet, when I would typically strike back in kind, I find myself unable to. My instinct is to help her and to keep her safe, not to destroy her. I must overcome this new weakness in my character.
Jordan laid the papers on her nightstand. So she’d been correct about Michael Seavey all along—he’d loved Hattie, whether or not he understood the emotion well enough to recognize it. Her faith in charming psychopaths was entirely restored.
After thinking about what she’d read for a few minutes, she picked up the rest of Holt Stilwell’s package, sifting through its contents and looking at the dates. There were none beyond June 5—the day before Eleanor’s soireé. And that meant there were possibly pages still missing.
Jordan took the stairs two at a time, leaping down the last three to land in the front entry. “Hattie!”
No answer.
“Hattie! Charlotte!”
The ghosts materialized in the hallway, their hair now tied with strips of fabric that stuck out all over their heads.
“What?” Hattie’s arms were crossed over the bodice of her nightdress, and she was glaring.
Jordan took in their appearance without a blink. “When did Seavey die?”
“He was murdered a few years later, in August of 1893,” Charlotte replied.
“Someone finally gave him what he deserved, in my opinion,” Hattie added.
Jordan waved that aside. “So we should find personal diary entries from him up to that date, right?”
“I suppose.”
“Yeah, well, the ones I have stop the night before the soirée, so I’m missing a chunk of pages.”
Jordan glanced at her watch—8 A.M. Late enough that Jase should be up and about, and she needed a favor. She headed back upstairs to grab a clean pair of jeans, only to find all her clothing rearranged. “Dammit! Did you have to reorganize my closet, too?” she yelled.
“What are you talking about?” Hattie materialized beside her with a frown. “We would never assume it appropriate to handle your toiletries and clothes.”
“Never mind.” Jordan headed for the door. “By the way,” she told Hattie on her way out, “according to Seavey, he didn’t kidnap Charlotte—Clive Johnson did. Seavey saved her.”
* * *
JASE answered the door of his Mission-style bungalow, still in the act of pulling on a shirt and with his jeans half buttoned, his jaw cracking from a yawn. Two days’ growth of beard shadowed his jaw, and his blue eyes had a sleepy look.
He pushed the door open farther. “Come on in.” She followed him into his living room, a large space filled with comfortable-looking overstuffed furniture. Though the room was obviously well cared for, she liked that it wasn’t perfectly neat—a pile of newspapers lay on the floor, and a couple of abandoned coffee mugs were shoved together by a stack of books on the coffee table. “Nice,” she said.
He perched on the arm of the sofa. “I was coming to find you in a few minutes, anyway. I set up a conference call with JT for nine o’clock at the pub. He’s got something for us—he emailed me last night.”
They had an hour, then. “I need directions to Holt Stilwell’s place.”
“I don’t want you approaching him on your own, and I sure as hell don’t think it’s safe for you to go to his house.”
“I’m missing pages from the papers he gave me that night outside the pub,” she explained. “And I’m so close, I can taste it.”
“So you know who murdered Hattie?”
“No,” she admitted. “But I think Holt’s ancestor knew, and I think he would’ve avenged Hattie’s death. He was in love with her.”
Jase sighed. “Okay, I’ll drive you out there.” He rubbed a hand over his unshaven jaw. “This means I have to wait on a shower, a shave, and coffee. You’re going to owe me.”
“I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
His eyes crinkled. “I’ll hold you to that. Give me five minutes.”
* * *
THE drive out to Stilwell’s place was shorter than she would’ve expected. The dog stretched out on the king cab seat behind the front seat, doing what he seemed to do best, napping.
“Who’d you go haring off after last night, anyway?” Jase asked, keeping his eyes on the two-lane blacktop road that headed south of town along the bluffs overlooking Discovery Bay.
“Remember the man who didn’t drink the Jack Daniel’s and didn’t pay his tab? He’s the ghost of Frank Lewis, the guy who hanged for Hattie’s murder. I saw him slipping out the door and followed him to my house.”
Jase merely shot her a curious look. “What does he want?”
“He had the nerve to criticize my lack of progress on solving Hattie’s murder.” When Jase grinned, she narrowed her gaze. “Anyway, I thought maybe Frank was the person who has been following me, but he claims not.”
He glanced at her as he negotiated a curve high on a bluff overlooking the bay. “So you still think you’re being followed?”