“They were,” Tom confirmed. “They came into the country around the middle of the century to work in the mines during the California Gold Rush. But that was before the passage of the Chinese Exclusion Act. Not one of our country’s finest hours.”
She glanced over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised, then used kitchen scissors to snip fines herbes into the eggs.
“Congress passed the law in 1882,” Jase explained. “It gave lawmakers the ability to suspend immigration. The original intent was to exclude Chinese immigrants from working in mines, taking jobs away from Americans, but the restrictions were gradually expanded to include Chinese living in cities. One senator called it nothing less than legalized discrimination.”
“So by 1893 when Seavey died,” Tom added, “there was a thriving business in smuggling Chinese immigrants out of Canada—where they could enter legally—and onto our shores. If you read the local papers from that time, you’ll see numerous accounts of the authorities rounding up Chinese and returning them to Canada.”
Jordan shivered as she poured the eggs into the skillet, then got busy slicing a loaf of artisan bread. “Pretty grim.”
“Definitely not cool for a nation that prides itself on its support of human rights,” Jase agreed.
“That explains the comment Seavey made in his papers that he wouldn’t have anything to do with transporting Chinese immigrants. He was concerned his business partner was combining human trafficking with the smuggling of opium.” She reached for plates and cutlery, handing them to Tom.
“The two crimes were miles apart in severity,” he pointed out as he laid the plates on the table. “Opium smuggling occurred simply to avoid paying duties, thereby increasing one’s already substantial profits from the sale of the stuff. Smuggling immigrants, though—now that was a federal offense. Seavey seemed to stick with highly profitable businesses in which the authorities tended to turn a blind eye, like the shanghaiing. Everyone knew it took place, but the ships needed crews, so no one really cared except the union reps. In the case of opium, no one cared except the Customs officials—at least, to begin with.”
“The common denominator being,” Jordan pointed out wryly, “that no one seemed to care much about upholding the law.”
“Well, you’re definitely right about that.” Tom sat back down, eyeing her curiously. “So why were you reading Seavey’s papers last night?”
She stirred the eggs while she debated whether to admit that Hattie wanted her to look into Seavey’s murder. And whether to let on that the number of ghosts hanging out around the place continued to increase. Of course, said ghosts were conspicuously absent this morning, without explanation, which always made her more nervous than when they were present. She never knew quite what to think when they disappeared.
Pulling the skillet off the stove, she served the eggs. On the one hand, if she admitted she was looking into Seavey’s murder, she could avoid the type of discussion she and Jase had been having when Tom arrived. Then again, Seavey’s murder really wasn’t her only motivation to go poking around in the past. She didn’t like lying, even by omission, to her friends.
“Just curious, that’s all,” she prevaricated, silently rationalizing that she’d explain later. “I was hoping to find a mention of the Henrietta Dale.” Grabbing toast from the toaster oven and putting it onto a plate, she sat in a rickety chair across from the two men. “I figured that if Seavey purchased a clipper ship and was using it for business purposes, he’d have mentioned it. According to the gardener I talked to yesterday on Dungeness Spit, the ship ran aground during her maiden voyage. I also wondered what Seavey had intended to use her for, which I found out—smuggling opium. But I had hoped he would mention the shipwreck.”
Though come to think of it, she realized, a forkful of eggs stalling midair, Seavey couldn’t have written about it if he had been aboard and died that night, as he insisted.
Jase was frowning at her again. “You do realize that if you interfere in Darcy’s investigation, she’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks. Right?”
Who knew the man was such a pit bull? Jordan sighed. Maybe she should mention Seavey’s ghost. It might distract Jase from his current goal, which seemed to be acting dictatorial.
“I’m just following up because of the coincidences,” she reminded him. “I know you two don’t think Holt would’ve been diving out there, but we found him in the same approximate location as where the ship ran aground. If Seavey was using the ship for smuggling, it stands to reason that Holt might’ve been curious enough to see if he could locate the shipwreck.”
Jase shook his head. “There’s no connection unless Holt knew about the shipwreck, and you had Seavey’s papers, which, by the way, wouldn’t even have mentioned the shipwreck if Seavey died that night. You said yourself that Holt had no interest in reading them, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have found anything. So I don’t see how he could have known to go diving in that location.”
Dammit, he was right. She got up to open a can of dog food for Malachi, who viewed it with disdain, then went back to staring intently at the toast on her plate. He’d become addicted to the freshly churned butter she bought.
She returned to the table, brooding while she fed her toast to Malachi. Okay, maybe it was just a coincidence that Holt had been found in that location. Unless … another thought occurred to her. “Didn’t you say Holt was working at the Cosmopolitan Hotel?” she asked Tom.
“Yeah.” Tom swallowed a bite of toast. “He won the bid to repaint the top three floors—the new owner is doing some upgrades. That means Holt would have been working in the suites from which Seavey ran his businesses, back in the 1890s. Seavey bought the hotel from the person who originally built it, then added onto it substantially. He also knocked an entrance from the basement of the hotel into the network of underground tunnels running under the waterfront that were used for smuggling and shanghaiing.”
“So it stands to reason that Holt could’ve run across some old business papers, then got curious,” she concluded.
Jase’s expression was skeptical. “We’re talking Holt, here—he rarely showed interest in anything other than custom paint blending and hitting on women in All That Jazz. If he came across old papers, he would’ve chucked them into the trash.”
“It can’t hurt to drop by and have a chat with the owner,” she insisted.
“Just be careful how far you take this,” Jase warned. “Even if you do find a connection, it may not relate to Darcy’s investigation. If Holt was diving for sunken treasure, I can guarantee he wouldn’t have told anyone about it. Therefore, I still don’t see how it could be relevant to his murder.”
Jordan opened her mouth to argue further, sorely tempted to point out how thickheaded he was being, but she was interrupted by the back door swinging open. Amanda entered, bleary-eyed and sporting bed hair, a coffee mug dangling from the limp fingers of one hand. Dressed in torn jeans, layered tank tops, and high-top running shoes, even just out of bed, the lithe blonde managed to ooze a girl-next-door sexy appeal. Jordan considered snarling.
Amanda halted, blinking at them. “Oh. Um, morning.”
“Hey.” Tom smiled fondly at her. Jordan had observed that he functioned somewhat as a mentor, since the two frequently ended up working on the same homes.
Though her parents lived right next door, Amanda had pitched her tent in Jordan’s backyard the first day she’d shown up to work, claiming that she had to live with a garden 24/7 in order to tune in to its “vibes.” Jordan had long since ceded kitchen rights to her, including the use of the espresso machine.