“The roses are from Michael,” Hattie said from behind her. “Wasn’t it a nice gesture?”
Jordan stopped hunting for the card, noting Hattie’s blush. Okay, so not from Jase, but from a ghost. That explained the slight damage and messy arrangement. She straightened some of the stems, allowing herself a moment to swallow her disappointment.
“You don’t happen to know which florist he ripped off, do you?” she asked, trying not to sound cranky. “So that I can go by and pay them for the flowers?”
“Ripped off?”
Jordan rephrased. “Which florist he stole the roses from.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” Hattie said loyally.
“For the shop owner trying to run a profitable business, not so much.” Jordan paused, making a connection from her reading earlier. “Do you have a middle name?”
“Why, yes,” Hattie replied, looking perplexed by the question. “Dale.”
“Flowers!” Charlotte floated down the hallway from the kitchen. “Oh, Hattie!”
Frank appeared in the library doorway. “The man has hidden motives.” His expression was grim.
“Oh, I don’t think this one is very hidden,” Jordan replied before Hattie could protest.
“Certainly not!” Charlotte agreed. “He really loves Hattie!”
Frank folded his arms. “I have no doubt Seavey wants more from Hattie than her affections. He must suspect she still has assets he can get hold of, or that perhaps she can provide him a certain social legitimacy with others in our community.” He shrugged. “Sending flowers is a brazen attempt to manipulate her affections.”
Wishing to avoid another ghostly squabble, Jordan headed down the hall to the kitchen. “You might want to rethink that strategy,” she hinted at him as she passed. “Women love flowers.”
Frank merely snorted.
She heard simultaneous gasps from behind her and turned back. Hattie and Charlotte were clutching each other, their mouths agape, their expressions full of fear. “What?” she asked them.
“Your clothing is torn, and smeared with dirt and debris,” Hattie said faintly.
“And your hair has blood in it!” Charlotte cried. She circled the stairwell twice at ceiling height, then vanished in a puff of particles.
Hattie sighed. “She faints at the sight of gore.” Her expression remained troubled. “What happened to you?”
“Nothing much.” Jordan continued down the hall to the kitchen, dropping into the chair at the table. After a minute or two, she’d get those aspirin tablets she badly needed, she promised herself. “Someone shoved me down some cement steps and I hit my head.”
“What did you do to provoke him?” Frank leaned a shoulder against the kitchen door.
Jordan narrowed her gaze. “Nothing. Someone was inside Holt Stilwell’s house when I arrived. Obviously, they didn’t want to be caught in there, or they wouldn’t have attacked me.” She reached up to touch the lump on the back of her head. It hadn’t gotten any smaller.
“Hmm.” Frank’s expression remained skeptical.
In her peripheral vision, the teakettle landed askew on a stove burner, which turned on by itself. A coffee mug fell from the cupboard above onto the counter beside the stove, herbs pouring into it. Within seconds—much faster than normal, which had Jordan wondering about the damage to her fuse box—the teakettle whistled, then floated over to the cup, pouring steaming water into it. The cup then landed in front of Jordan, almost tipping over. She leaned back warily as hot water splattered across the table.
Charlotte’s image rematerialized beside her. “The tea will ease your headache,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears. “I can’t believe someone attacked you! How horrible. You must have been terrified!”
Jordan was touched by her concern. “Not so much terrified as pissed off,” she admitted, then added in a soothing tone, “I’m fine, really, Charlotte. I wasn’t hurt.”
“You could have been killed!”
Frank rolled his eyes. Which didn’t come off quite like when a human did it—his eyes sort of rolled around in the sockets like marbles. It was not an attractive sight.
Hattie wafted down into one of the chairs across from Jordan. “It’s all right, Charlotte. As you can see, she’s unharmed.”
Jordan took a sip of the hot tea and hurriedly spit it back into the cup. “Gah! Unharmed until now! What the hell did you put in this?”
“It’s willow bark tea, which will ease your aches and pains from the fall,” Charlotte replied. Her expression stern, she pointed at the cup. “Now don’t be such a child—drink every drop. It’s good for you.”
Jordan stood and walked over to the sink, dumping out the tea despite Charlotte’s outraged shriek. Pulling an aspirin bottle out of the cupboard, she showed it to Charlotte. “This is the same thing—they now make it in tablets, so you can swallow them without having to actually taste it. Trust me, it’s a vast improvement.” She filled a glass with water and downed the tablets, then refilled the kettle to put it back on the burner and make herself a more palatable cup of Earl Grey.
“I do appreciate that you tried to help,” she added gently, turning back to lean against the edge of the counter while the water heated. “Charlotte, you started to mention something about Michael Seavey last night, but I interrupted you. Did you know him back then?”
Charlotte fidgeted, her hands gripping the skirts of her pale blue silk gown tightly enough to cause wrinkles. “The Green Light was right around the corner from his hotel. Therefore, I frequently ran into him. And some of my ‘clients’ would tell me about Michael, of course. He was quite famous along the waterfront.” She sent an apologetic glance to Hattie. “Michael was a good man in many ways. He always treated me kindly.”
Hattie’s eyes grew round. “Do you mean to tell me that he … visited you at the Green Light?”
“Oh, goodness no!” Charlotte assured her hastily. “I just meant that I would run into him from time to time out walking, and he always treated me with great respect.” Her expression darkened. “Unlike that business partner of his.”
The teakettle shrieked, and Jordan removed it from the stove, rummaging for a tea bag. “Did Sam Garrett ever hurt you?” she asked Charlotte carefully.
Charlotte’s face immediately closed up. “Not so much,” she replied vaguely, twisting a blond ringlet of hair with her fingers. “I just didn’t like having him as a customer.”
“Did you know Michael Seavey was smuggling opium?” Jordan asked.
Charlotte became agitated, circling the room, the swishing of her skirts audible. “I won’t talk ill of Michael!” she cried.
She swooped down on the stack of papers Tom had left behind, scooting them across the table toward Jordan. “And what’s the meaning of this?” she asked angrily. “Surely you won’t let those people who have been hanging about make this many alterations to Longren House!”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Jordan prevaricated, not objecting to the change of subject, “but I promise that when I do, I’ll consult with you and Hattie first.”