“Hell yes, what an excellent idea. I can see myself explaining that one in court. ‘My hearsay testimony, Your Honor, comes from a civilian unrelated to the case, who told the story to me after talking to a ghost who can’t be called as a witness.’ ”
“Geez, never mind.”
A young, slim woman approached their table, wearing a Victorian-style purple velvet dress, complete with a fitted short cape, and a felted, beaded beret. She carried a large, leather portfolio under one arm.
Jordan sat up straight in her chair, suddenly uneasy. Up to now, she’d never been openly approached by any of the ghosts in the pub.
“Hey, Susan,” Darcy greeted her.
“Hey, yourself.” The young woman smiled at Darcy.
Jordan gave Darcy a sideways glance, reassessing. “You can see her?”
“Of course.”
“Jordan Marsh?” the young woman asked, turning to her. “Bob MacDonough sent me. He couldn’t be here tonight, but he said you want me to sketch some sort of ship you saw?”
“Oh, right.” Jordan noted Darcy’s amusement and felt foolish. She shook the young woman’s slender, fine-boned hand. “Nice to meet you, Susan.”
“We’d better get to work, then. I have a portrait sitting in an hour. If that’s all right with you?”
“Absolutely.”
Jordan gave the woman a few moments to get settled, then started describing what she’d seen. Susan’s pencil moved rapidly over a sketch pad until Kathleen reappeared with their dinners.
She glanced at the sketch Susan was working on. “Why are you having her draw a tall ship?” she asked as she placed the warm plates of food in front of Darcy and Jordan.
“It’s a sketch of the ghost ship Jordan saw yesterday off Dungeness Spit,” Darcy explained.
Kathleen glared. “The crap I have to put up with in my diners.” She turned on the heels of her sensible loafers and stalked away.
Jordan shook her head and dug into Kathleen’s seasonal greens and polenta.
Susan showed her the incomplete sketch—it was a surprisingly accurate likeness of what she’d seen. “The masts were taller, with more rows of square sails, here and here,” Jordan told her, pointing. “And she had this pointy piece of wood on her bow—”
“A bowsprit?” Susan asked, her hand flying across the page.
“I guess, and about twenty feet long, I think …”
The front door burst open, and Jordan turned her head in midchew. The owner from the Cosmopolitan Hotel stood in the entry, his eyes scouring the room, obviously looking for someone. Jordan slid down in her chair.
Spying her, he pointed at her, bellowing, “You!” He advanced on them, his strides as long as he could make them, given that his legs were shorter than hers.
Jordan tensed, gripping the arms of her chair.
Conversation in the pub ceased as patrons moved out of his way, warily tracking his progress. Susan grabbed her sketchbook and stood, backing away from the table. Out of the corner of Jordan’s eye, she saw Jase leap up from the piano and plow right through several ghosts, headed in her direction.
Darcy rose and blocked the hotel owner’s path, but the man planted a hand on her chest and shoved her out of the way.
“Burglar!” he screeched as he reached Jordan. He grabbed her by the upper arms and hauled her onto her feet. “Arrest this woman!”
“Hey!” Jordan yanked futilely, wriggling to dislodge his painful grip. He yanked back, hard, pulling her off-balance, and she stumbled into his chest.
Malachi came snarling out of a dead sleep and launched, his big, angry body glancing off the man and crashing into the next table. Mugs toppled, splattering beer in every direction. The hotel owner skidded on the wet floor, pulling Jordan down with him.
Darcy clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Let go of her, Walters. Now.”
Malachi scrambled to his feet, and sank his teeth into Walters’s thigh, ripping the fabric of his wool slacks.
“Get your dog off me!” Walters shrieked.
Jase waded in, and with a swift upward movement, broke Walters’s grip on Jordan, stepping between the two of them. Darcy twisted Walters’s arms behind him, using her other hand to grip his shirt collar.
Walters howled in pain.
“Malachi, leave!” Jordan commanded, and he loosened his grip, backing away a few steps to place himself at Jordan’s side, growling.
“You’ve got two minutes to explain yourself, pal,” Jase said in the iciest tone she’d ever heard from him, “before I kick you out of here on your stupid ass.”
She stood on her tiptoes and glared over Jase’s shoulder. “Yeah. What he said.”
Chapter 10
THAT bitch trespassed in my hotel after I expressly forbade her to do so.” Walters’s face was white with fury. “She stole valuable historic documents!”
“Whoa, wait a minute.” Jordan was confused. “What are you talking about? I didn’t steal anything.”
“You’re way out of line, Walters,” Jase said. “No one manhandles a woman in my pub. And if you lay a hand on Jordan again, no matter where—”
“But you did trespass?” Darcy interrupted. She was glaring at Jordan.
“Sort of …”
“See!” Walters said triumphantly. “I told you so. Arrest her! And let go of me, dammit! I’m not the criminal, here. She is.”
Darcy released him, and he staggered backward, scowling at all of them and rubbing his arm. She pinched her nose. “You really can’t go around breaking and entering in the name of historical research,” she told Jordan.
“All I wanted to do was chat with the workers for five minutes and find out if Holt had run across anything interesting,” Jordan explained. “And I asked permission first.”
“Which I denied,” Walters spit. He turned back to Darcy. “She stole the papers, I’m telling you! I know she did. I demand that you arrest her—I want to swear out a complaint.”
“Do you have any witnesses who saw her trespass?” Darcy asked him.
“Yes.”
Darcy muttered something under her breath. Then she sighed again. “Look, Clive …”
Jordan started to snicker—his name fit him really well. Darcy shot her a hard look, and she struggled, somewhat unsuccessfully, to swallow the sound.
“The way I see it,” the police chief continued, “Jordan could swear out a complaint against you for assault, with the whole pub as witnesses.”
“What? That’s preposterous. She’s the one who stole from me. You ask her if she has those papers.”
“I didn’t steal anything,” Jordan repeated. “All I did was ask the workers if Holt had found any papers. Which, by the way, he did. We looked for them, because I was going to—I admit—glance through them. But I had no intention of taking them from your hotel.” At least, she told herself, she probably wouldn’t have. “We didn’t find papers anywhere in the suite, and I have no idea where they are.”
“I don’t believe you! You—”
“Well, I’m inclined to,” Darcy interposed firmly, “because I witnessed her looking for the same papers just a few hours ago in a different location. If she had them, she wouldn’t have been looking for them, now would she?”
“She would if she wanted you to think she hadn’t stolen them,” he argued. “What kind of a law-enforcement officer are you? Totally incompetent?”
“Oh, for … I didn’t steal your damn papers!” Jordan snapped. “Have you sought the advice of a professional therapist regarding your extreme paranoia? Because you really need to, you know—” The rest of what she’d planned to say was stifled by Jase clapping his hand over her mouth.