“I doubt it,” Jordan retorted wryly. “And as a counselor, I’m not in the habit of withholding advice that might result in a person making a decision that could cause her to align herself with someone of dubious ethics.”
He snorted. “You exaggerate, madam. I’m merely a businessman who employed tactics—and sometimes, I admit, the judicious use of violence—that might be less than palatable to the fairer sex, though quite necessary in the day.”
Jordan eyed him curiously. “Why do you want to marry Hattie?”
An emotion flashed through his eyes, gone so swiftly she couldn’t get a handle on it. “I don’t see that my reasons are any of your concern.”
“You’re in love with her,” she realized suddenly. Why hadn’t she seen it before now? He had, after all, avenged Hattie’s death. Now she knew why. One mystery solved.
His expression, however, turned to one of contempt. “Love is an utterly childish notion. Hattie and I are simply well suited to each other.”
“Uh-huh.” Jordan wasn’t buying it. Seavey had all the hallmarks of a person deep in denial concerning his true feelings toward Hattie. Then again, most criminals weren’t real big on analyzing their feelings or motivations.
She folded her arms. “So let me get this straight: You’re asking me to stay out of your way while you court Hattie, in return for information concerning the whereabouts of business papers that Holt might have discovered in your suite of rooms during the course of a remodel. Correct?”
He looked relieved. “Precisely.”
“No.”
He started. “I beg your pardon?”
“No,” she repeated flatly. “If I conclude that you aren’t a worthy suitor, I will say so.” She paused, realizing how crazy it was to comment in this day and age on someone’s worthiness as a suitor. “Hattie wants me to solve your murder, out of some misguided sense of guilt over the way she’s maligned your character for the last century. Go figure. But if I can help her feel less guilty by discovering how you died, then I will. In addition, I will also let her know that you were helpful during my investigation into your death.”
He stared at her broodingly, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Very well, I agree to your stipulations.” His nod was abrupt. “I admit that I have found this Holt you refer to, to be brutish in the extreme. Because of that, I’ve ensured I was away at various social commitments much of the time he labored in my suite. Therefore, it’s possible the man could’ve found a ledger and other files.”
“So you’re admitting to their existence?”
“Hypothetically, papers of that nature existed, ones that might have documented certain shipments and payments of … shall we say … contraband. At the time, it would have made sense to keep them concealed in a false compartment in my sitting room wall. Therefore, also hypothetically, the documents could have been discovered as part of the recent repairs to the plaster in that room.”
Jordan felt a surge of excitement. So Holt would have had access to information about the Henrietta Dale. And he might have been curious enough to check it out. “And did your documents mention what the Henrietta Dale would have been carrying as ‘cargo’ the night she ran aground?”
Seavey fiddled with the cuff of his silk shirt before answering. “It’s possible such information existed in my ledger of accounts.”
She barely managed to restrain herself from pumping her fist in the air. The workers would probably know what Holt had done with the ledger and files. With any luck, the papers might still be in the suite.
Glancing back toward the entrance to the hotel lobby, she couldn’t see the owner lurking about. If he called the cops on her, so be it. She turned back to Seavey. “Show me those stairs you mentioned.”
She followed him as he floated across a small gravel lot around to the back of the building. He stopped by a set of rusty iron stairs, bowed, and swept a hand upward to indicate that she should precede him. She eyed the steps critically, wondering how safe they were.
“I assure you they are quite solid.”
She continued to hesitate. “How would you know? It’s not like you weigh anything.”
“Good Christ, woman! Try not to be so obstreperous! I’ve seen the workers use them time and again.”
“Oh. Right.” She started up the stairs, then turned back to see if he was following. His gaze lifted to her face, and not particularly quickly. “Were you just checking out my butt?” she demanded, incredulous.
He merely looked amused. “I’d have to be dead, crossed over, and have lost all powers of perception—which I assure you I have not—to fail to notice a pleasing female form.”
“Your ogling being a benefit of the modern clothing you insist is in such poor taste?” she said drily.
“Of course. I’m a discerning man, and I might prefer that you show off your assets in a manner that leaves more to the imagination, thus providing an air of alluring mystery. But I am not stupid.”
Shaking her head, she continued up the stairs.
LESS than a half hour later, she and Malachi were on their way to Point Hudson east and slightly north of the downtown waterfront district. She had more information, though not the documents she’d hoped for. Holt’s workers had been quite talkative, answering all her questions as well as those prompted by the ghost lurking at her side.
Holt had found Seavey’s ledger and files approximately a week ago. Apparently, he’d become excited after reading about the Henrietta Dale but had acted secretive about the details of what he’d learned. The next day, he’d left work early on the excuse that he had a scuba diving lesson. Every day after that, he’d disappeared by midafternoon, indifferent in the face of the owner’s complaints that he was slacking off. When Jordan had asked what Holt had done with the original documents, though, no one could tell her. And a hasty search of the suite turned up nothing.
She needed to verify that the location of the shipwreck matched where she’d found Holt’s body. If she could nail down that detail, none of the skeptics in the pub could ignore the strong possibility that Holt had been murdered because of his interest in salvaging the Henrietta Dale. But who had told Holt about the shipwreck in the first place? He couldn’t have found out about it from Seavey’s papers, and neither of his workers had known about it. He must have mentioned the Henrietta Dale to someone who told him about the 1893 shipwreck. But who? Was the history of the shipwreck well known around town?
She parked in front of the Wooden Boat Society at Point Hudson. Each time Jordan had glanced at the marina on her trips downtown, she’d been intrigued by the quaint, bungalow-style building that sat adjacent to the docks. She’d assumed it housed some type of business associated with the marina. In fact, it was the home of a society dedicated to restoring and building wooden boats—evidently one of only a few such societies in the United States.
Out on the inlet, a sailboat, its spinnaker taking advantage of the breeze rippling the water, came within feet of an anchored tall ship. Jordan took a moment to study the tableau stretched out before her.
Now that she thought about it, she realized she had an unconscious expectation that objects from another dimension would at least be a little faded, sort of like the sepia-toned prints one saw in history books. But everything, real and spectral, appeared to her in full Technicolor. Some of the ships might have a slight variation in the quality of the air surrounding them, but that was the only difference she could detect. And with so many refurbished historic ships sailing the local waters, she couldn’t count on the design of the boat as a reliable clue. Though of course there was the fact that the real ones could sail right through the unreal ones.