“What about the ballistics?” Jase asked. “And the fact that Holt was shot execution-style? That tells me the shooter was probably a man, and professional. I’ve heard of professionals using silenced .22s.”
“The ballistics report came back this morning—no match to anything in the criminal databases. So whoever our shooter is, he’s not in the system.”
“It’s possible that he hasn’t been caught yet,” Jase pointed out.
“Yeah, but I think Holt knew his shooter, and that the bullet-in-the-forehead thing is misleading. An amateur can take aim and fire, hitting in that location simply out of sheer luck.”
“What’s the ME say about angle of entry?”
“What’s that?” Jordan asked.
“Determines height of the shooter,” Jase briefly explained.
“Nothing, yet,” Darcy answered him. “The autopsy report isn’t back.”
“Do you intend to ask Crazy Clive whether he owns a .22?” Jordan asked.
“Yeah, but he isn’t known for being cooperative, so we’ll see if he deigns to give me an answer. The man is paranoid as hell—it never occurs to him to simply tell the truth.”
“People who suffer from severe paranoia read all kinds of meaning into other people’s statements that isn’t there,” Jordan said. “He probably counters every question you ask with a question, the purpose of which is to figure out your hidden agenda, right?”
“Yep.” Darcy gave a silent nod to the lab tech, who had appeared in the kitchen doorway. She stood and stretched. “I’ve got to go. You coming by the pub tonight?” she asked Jordan.
“Bartending,” Jordan replied. “But I want to hear all about this meeting with Crazy Clive. That’s what constitutes entertainment for us therapists.”
“As long as he doesn’t decide on a repeat performance,” Jase warned.
“Not to worry,” Darcy said. “If he darkens the pub’s doorstep, I’ll shoot him. Nobody messes with my downtime two nights in a row.”
AFTER Darcy left, they reconvened in the library. While Tom and Jase examined the bookcase and determined the best way to dismantle it without causing damage, Jordan cleaned up more of the mess the burglar had made. Tom set to work with a drill and hand carpentry tools, and after observing for a few minutes, Jase wandered over to help her reshelve books.
“Humor me and summarize what happened yesterday,” he said. “I’d like to see if anything pops out at me.”
She described her trip to the Historical Society, the articles she found, then her visits to the Cosmopolitan and Bob MacDonough at the Wooden Boat Society headquarters. She also told him about her conversations with the ghost of Michael Seavey and agreeing to take on the investigation of his murder in 1893. “He was on the Henrietta Dale the night she went down,” she said, handing over a stack of books. “He believes he died in the shipwreck, but the old newspaper articles list him as a survivor.”
“Have you been able to figure out who his competitors would have been back then?”
“So far, I have two names—Sam Garrett, who was his business partner in the opium smuggling and, according to Seavey’s personal papers, a growing problem, and the Customs inspector back then, a man by the name of Yardley. Seavey and Garrett were convinced that Yardley was running his own smuggling business on the side. So Yardley might not have appreciated the competition.” She remembered something else. “This was interesting: Bob’s great-great-grandfather was the one who built the secret compartments into the hull of the Henrietta Dale, where the opium was hidden. I don’t think Bob believed me, actually—he sounded a bit put out when I mentioned it.”
Tom had been listening to their conversation while he removed shelves and set them on the floor. “Sounds like Bob,” he remarked. “How’d you find out about the secret compartments?”
“Seavey wrote about his plans for the Henrietta Dale. He’s got an entry in his papers discussing his trip down to the docks to direct Grady MacDonough to construct the secret compartments. MacDonough was concerned that the extra weight would slow down the ship.” She rehung an ancestral portrait with Jase’s help. “I don’t see what the big deal is, really. So Bob’s ancestor helped someone smuggle contraband. Sounds to me like something that would be entertaining to tell your houseguests.”
“Actually, I’ll bet it frosted Bob big time,” Jase said.
She gave him a questioning look, but Tom was the one to explain. “Bob takes his role at the society real seriously. His reputation in the community is a big deal to him. The fact that he descends from a line of famous ship’s carpenters is something he’s quite proud of.”
“A bit too proud,” Jase replied.
Jordan remembered another tidbit she’d read. “And get this: Charlotte and Jesse Canby knew each other back then. Seavey was worried about her association with a man who was slowly succumbing to his opium addiction. So was the owner of the brothel where Charlotte worked, Mona Starr.”
“Remind me who Jesse Canby was?” Jase asked.
She explained about Eleanor Canby, the ownership of the newspaper, and Jesse’s addiction.
“I remember now. And weren’t Mona and Hattie briefly friends right before Hattie was murdered?” Jase asked.
“Yes,” Jordan replied. “Mona tried to help her get Charlotte back from the kidnappers.”
“Pretty interesting stuff you’re digging up,” Tom said. “I didn’t know half of it, and I’ve read fairly extensively about that time period.”
“Which reminds me,” Jordan said. “I’ve been meaning to ask if you knew of any other major players in the opium smuggling back then.”
Tom frowned as he used a crowbar, leveraged against a block of wood that protected the plaster, to gently pry a section of the bookcase away from the wall. “Well, obviously, you know two of them—Seavey and Garrett. And I knew about the rumors surrounding the Customs Service. I’m pretty certain there were some Asian players—folks who ran ‘laundries’ on the waterfront. I read a newspaper article from that period about a huge sale of opium to one of the people who owned the most prosperous opium den. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.” Jordan picked up another painting and replaced it on the wall. “Seavey stopped his partner from hanging a Chinese farmer—I think I mentioned that to you. There was some question as to what the man was doing on the beach that night when Garrett brought the contraband ashore. Garrett initially thought he stole the shipment, but Seavey believed otherwise.”
“I suppose he could have sold it to one of the opium den owners, so it’s possible,” Tom mused. “But why take the risk? Seavey and Garrett were known to be scary dudes you didn’t ever want to cross.”
“What strikes me about everything you’ve turned up so far is that your investigation—even just into the murder of Michael Seavey—is potentially putting you in harm’s way,” Jase said. “You go out to Holt’s house to return papers and look for the ones you claim he might have removed from the hotel, and someone attacks you because he doesn’t want you to know he was there. You visit the Cosmopolitan and get assaulted by Walters after the fact. And then last night, someone breaks into your home.”
“The attack at Holt’s could have been just pure bad luck,” Jordan pointed out. “If I’d been a few minutes later, my attacker might have been gone. He wasn’t necessarily there for any reason related to what I’ve been investigating.”
Tom pulled the last board off the wall, setting it aside. Jordan stared at the small wall safe he had uncovered, stunned. “I don’t believe it! Hattie was right—it really is there.”
“Of course I’m right,” Hattie said from beside her. Jordan, who was becoming more used to the ghosts’ sudden appearances, didn’t even jump. “Did you think I had lied to you? I kept track over the years—none of the other owners ever thought to look behind there, thank goodness.”