She shook her head while she hunted for Malachi’s leash. What a crackpot Walters had turned out to be. Who in his right mind murdered to keep a ghost on the premises to haunt a business, because it was good for the bottom line? Then again, maybe Walters’s reasoning wasn’t all that different from others who had killed for money.
For some reason, though, she felt bugged by the whole situation. All of the recent events—Holt’s discovering historic documents in the wall of the hotel suite, diving to retrieve sunken treasure off the Henrietta Dale, his murder, Walters’s subsequent frantic hunt for those documents—hinged on the events in 1893 leading up to Michael Seavey’s murder. And she still didn’t have a handle on everything that had happened back then. In fact, given how thin the historical sources were for that particular time frame, she might never know.
What had happened to the survivors of the shipwreck? Had Seavey been transported alive back to Port Chatham? If so, and if he had been murdered afterward, why didn’t he remember the time between his rescue and when he was killed? And why did Sam Garrett feel the need to protect the identity of the man he saw shoot Holt?
She yanked open drawers and stopped to peer into cupboards, trying to remember where she’d last stashed the leash. “Where’s your leash?” she asked Malachi.
He gave her The Look. “Roooo.”
“Helpful,” she said, then resumed her hunt.
If Walters was the killer, it seemed to her that her first order of business was to confirm some kind of connection between him and Garrett. She’d found no evidence that Walters could actually see ghosts. As far as she knew, Garrett had nothing to do with the Cosmopolitan Hotel. Which meant Jase might be correct that the connection could be familial. As he’d pointed out, even murderers had families.
She shoved the last drawer shut and straightened to stare at the kitchen while she mulled over that possibility. Both men undoubtedly suffered from mental instability, though in actuality, their formal diagnoses would be quite different: Garrett was clearly a sociopath, while Walters exhibited symptoms of extreme paranoia. Still, a history of inherited mental instability could be indicative of a family connection.
She also needed to see if she could find any further mention of Seavey’s murder. All of which meant she should keep reading through the historical documents she’d filched from the Historical Society.
Finally spying Malachi’s leash on top of the stove—how the hell had it gotten there?—she tucked Eleanor’s memoir and the pages from Captain Williams’s diary under one arm, whistled for Malachi, then headed out the back door.
Though high clouds provided a pale gray cover, the temperature was mild, making for a pleasant walk to their favorite French restaurant. The prospect of a sinfully rich and filling breakfast, caffé breve, and a relaxed perusal of The New York Times struck her as the definition of pure bliss. She owed it to herself, she rationalized, to spend at least some time on those pleasurable pursuits before she cracked open Eleanor’s memoir, which she felt certain would make her want to pull her hair out.
They walked to the corner of her block, passing Jase’s house, which immediately had her feeling guilty that she hadn’t yet thanked him for the roses. He was taking the day off to work with Bill and Tom on the library wall, and therefore certain to be in and out of Longren House. This gave her even more reason to vacate the premises, since she still hadn’t a clue what she wanted to do about him. The man definitely rang all her bells.
Marietta, the plump, fiftyish café owner, who always made certain she had a special treat for Malachi, seated Jordan in the outside courtyard. “The usual on the espresso?” she asked Jordan cheerfully as she handed her a menu and the newspaper.
“That would be marvelous,” Jordan replied with a grateful smile.
Despite the early hour, a number of locals came and went, most stopping in to pick up coffee and one of the restaurant’s fabulous baked goods for their commute. A few lingered, however, taking the time to eat a leisurely breakfast.
When Marietta returned with Jordan’s caffé breve, she ordered an omelet, then settled back in her chair, opening The New York Times to the national news page. Surely some politician’s imbroglio with his mistress would take her mind off whatever was bugging her about the night of the Henrietta Dale’s shipwreck. Something was nagging at her, something she’d originally read, or that Michael Seavey had told her …
Six minutes later, after reading the same headline three times, she tossed down the paper in disgust. Until she figured out what was driving her crazy, she wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything else. Well, except the subjects she wanted to deny, such as the house remodel, the sexy guy currently remodeling it and revving her hormones …
She blew out a breath, picked up Captain Williams’s diary pages, and started skimming. But other than a brief mention of his retirement the first week of September 1893, she found nothing of use. Resigned, she opened Eleanor’s memoir and prepared to read chapter after strident chapter of preachy text, to see if she could find even a hint of something useful.
A third of the way into the small, leather-bound book, she did find a reference to opium smuggling. Jordan was certain it was a rehashing of her editorials, but she forced herself to read the passage.
In hopes of convincing my fellow citizens of the inherent dangers of opium, I decided to one day visit such a den of iniquity, so that I might describe my experience to my readers, thus giving them a real sense of the depravity of the drug’s purveyors. However, even I was unprepared for what awaited me …
In the middle of a bright, sunny day, I traveled down to the seedier section of Port Chatham’s waterfront, where houses of ill repute vie for space with Chinese “laundries” and saloons. Choosing a laundry at random, I entered and proceeded directly to the room in the back, where I felt certain I would discover an opium den.
Immediately upon entering the room, I was assaulted by layer after layer of thick smoke undulating in strata, like waves in the ocean, its pungent odor intensifying as I walked to the center of the room. Though small lamps had been placed throughout the room for illumination, they did little to permeate the gloom.
The room was lined with wooden bunks—pallets really—which were covered with the barest minimum of padding and small, filthy linens stuffed with straw, presumably functioning as a sort of crude pillow upon which the smoker could lay his head once he succumbed to the heinous effects of the drug.
Although many have told me that the atmosphere of an opium den has its own alluring and sensuous qualities, I found the place to be utterly depraved. Men and women with sunken, bruised eyes, dressed in soiled clothing, emaciated from the pernicious effects of the drug, had lit pipes and were passing them amongst one another …
“One omelet, plus an extra stack of whole-wheat toast to share with Malachi, as ordered,” Marietta announced brightly, placing a plate stacked high with food in front of Jordan, forcing her to set aside Eleanor’s memoir.
“Looks fabulous,” she assured the owner, leaning over to breathe in the aroma of grilled veggies, farm-fresh eggs, and homemade hash browns. Forget dieting. She needed her strength to deal with the challenges of the next few days, right? She picked up a fork and dug in.