Her neighborhood consisted of blocks of historic homes surrounding a small, satellite business district that spread outward from a central intersection of two arterial streets. As always, she was struck by the clash of old and new—well-cared-for homes that made her feel as though she’d stepped back a hundred years in time juxtaposed with the jarring presence of modern businesses, telephone poles, and parked cars.
A block down, a young man sat on a sagging couch on the front porch of a small cottage, playing jazz on his guitar—a song that combined elements of blues and fusion. A young girl wearing a vintage dress sat at his feet, softly humming her own tune while she played with an antique doll.
Just beyond the cottage stood a lovingly tended old home, painted lemon yellow with aubergine accents and surrounded by a white picket fence smothered in pink climbing roses. Jordan smiled and waved at the elderly couple sitting in the gently swaying porch swing, holding hands. The man put out his foot to halt the swing, surprise showing on his face, but his wife returned Jordan’s smile with a nod.
The grocery was one block up and two over, and it seemed to be a neighborhood hub of sorts. She’d discovered the small business district when she’d stayed at a bed-and-breakfast down the block, on her trip to town the prior summer. Between jazz performances at the local taverns, she’d sat outside the bakery and had coffee, then wandered down the quiet back streets, exchanging greetings with friendly locals who’d been out watering their lawns or walking their dogs. She remembered thinking at the time that she’d possibly found a community that could be her salvation. Her impression hadn’t changed.
The dog sat down to wait outside the grocery, his leash still in his mouth. She didn’t even attempt to tie him to the bicycle stand.
Though the building was new, the grocery fit into the neighborhood with its homey atmosphere, appealing displays of organic produce, and quaint hand-lettered signs. Leaded-glass windows of abstract design flooded the interior with light, and customers sat in a loft over the deli, reading the newspaper while they ate their sandwiches.
The aisles were stocked with standard fare plus an impressive selection of gourmet and organic foods that promised to do serious damage to Jordan’s monthly budget. She dumped canned organic dog food, a box of whole-grain cereal, milk, and a bag of coffee into her basket, plus a deli-packed serving of vegetarian lasagna for dinner. Snagging a bottle of Pinot Noir, she headed for the checkout.
Halfway there she halted and backtracked to add a wedge of imported French triple-cream Brie, fancy crackers, and more sliced chicken breast, muttering to herself the entire time about a lack of self-discipline. After a chat with the checkout clerk about the fire a few years back that had destroyed the original historic building, she and the dog headed back home.
Pulling paper plates from one of the boxes on the kitchen counter, Jordan fixed a sandwich, dividing the chicken breast heavily in favor of the dog. Opening a can of dog food that looked more appealing than her own recipe for beef stew, she added its contents to the plate, placing it on the floor. The food disappeared with alarming speed.
While she munched on her sandwich, she rifled through the stack of papers left by Nora and Delia. The ladies had provided a mix of old newspaper articles about the murder and what appeared to be pages from a diary. She wedged the papers under one elbow, picked up a book on Port Chatham’s history she’d bought at a local bookstore during her last trip to town, and headed outside to sit on the front stoop. Though she felt more exposed than she liked—as if someone were still watching her—she’d be damned if anyone would stop her from enjoying her own porch.
According to the clerk at the grocery, fire had played an important role in the town’s history. Torn over what to read first, she finally set aside the ladies’ papers and propped the book on her knees, flipping through until she found a chapter on historic fires. The author had interspersed text with pictures of the valiant fire crews, standing somberly in their old-fashioned uniforms and helmets.
A photocopied newspaper article on a huge waterfront fire caught her eye, and she settled down to read, the dog snoozing in the sun at her feet.
The Great Fire
May 25, 1890, two weeks earlier
“THEY say an entire block is already in flames,” Hattie Longren murmured to Eleanor Canby. “Five are dead, with more to be found.”
Though midnight had come and gone, they stood next to the bell tower at the top of the bluff with their neighbors, watching as the inferno raged below them on the waterfront. Orange flames leapt high against a smoke-filled, black sky, writhing and reaching out on the wind.
“Good riddance, I say.” Eleanor folded her arms over her ample bosom. Tall and matronly, she wore her gray serge as if it were a suit of armor in a war against loose morals. “We both know that area was nothing but saloons and brothels.”
As the owner of the Port Chatham Weekly Gazette, Eleanor frequently wrote editorials with strong views regarding the lawlessness and temptations of the waterfront. Rigid, old-fashioned views, in Hattie’s opinion.
She shivered, holding the folds of her cape tightly closed against the damp night air. “No one deserves to die that way.”
The bell had begun ringing at ten, a full half hour after the first spiral of smoke had been spotted, according to one neighbor. The blaze had quickly spread. Hattie suspected the fire was no accident, and that the initial report had been intentionally delayed. Someone had been sending a message: Do as we say, or see your business destroyed. But whoever had started the fire hadn’t counted on the strong wind from the south, and other businesses were now at risk.
A murmur rose from the crowd as several adjoining buildings, black silhouettes half eaten through, teetered, then fell, consumed instantly in a roiling mass of crimson sparks. A silver stream of salt water arced from a tugboat anchored in the harbor, dousing roofs and flooding the streets. Hattie could see the dark shapes of men racing to and fro in a desperate attempt to save the records from City Hall. Working to save City Hall, but making no effort to save the people in buildings facing the waterfront, she thought in disgust.
“Will the fire spread up here?” Charlotte’s delicate features were pale from anxiety.
“No.” Hattie placed a hand on her sister’s trembling shoulder. “There’s no chance of that. They’ll have it under control before then.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Eleanor retorted. “Sparks could find their way to us.”
“If they do, we’ll extinguish them,” Hattie said firmly. At the impressionable age of fifteen, Charlotte was prone to wild mood swings. Hattie didn’t need her frightened by Eleanor’s tendency toward dour predictions.
After their parents died in a carriage accident in Boston, Charlotte and her beloved lady’s maid, Tabitha, had come to live with Hattie. Charlotte had proven to be more of a handful than Hattie had anticipated. Charlotte yearns for adventure as you once did, their mother had written in a letter to be delivered upon the event of her death, but she hasn’t your innate good judgment. We’re counting on you to keep her safe.
Innate good judgment. Hattie sighed. If only her mother knew the truth about her short marriage. The tension between her and Charles had driven him to sea, where he perished at the hands of a mutinous crew, leaving her with a struggling shipping business she was ill prepared to manage. And now she had Charlotte depending on her as well. A familiar sense of panic threatened to overwhelm her.