“Maybe, but history is littered with powerful, ruthless men who also loved obsessively. He might have been capable of employing one set of ethics in business, yet another with a woman he cared about. So he may have been a shanghaier and white slave trader, and he may also have had a hidden agenda during that visit. But the way I see it, he definitely was interested in you.”
“Hidden agenda?” Hattie looked confused.
“An unspoken reason for his visit,” Jordan rephrased.
“Oh, well, yes—he did seem to cut his visit short on that occasion. Then again, I never completely understood what motivated Seavey.” Hattie frowned, her expression turned inward. “I’m hoping his personal papers will reveal more than I wrote in my diary.”
Jordan perked up and began thumbing through the stacks of documents. Seavey’s papers would make fascinating reading. “You put them here?”
Hattie shook her head. “I don’t know where they are—you’ll have to locate them. He must have relatives in town; surely they’ll know what became of them.”
She floated over to the next aisle and a book landed in front of Jordan. “That’s his memoir, but of course you can’t believe a word he wrote in it. It’s merely a justification for his business dealings. He wanted to believe he provided a much-needed service.”
“The author of the history book I have back at the house did claim that many sailors actively participated in the practice of shanghaiing,” Jordan pointed out as she flipped through the pages of the thin memoir.
Hattie snorted. “All that means is that they went along so they wouldn’t be beaten. Seavey always claimed that he never mistreated the sailors unless they resisted his offer.”
Footsteps suddenly reverberated through the ceiling, and they both looked up. It took Jordan a moment to realize that ghosts don’t clomp, that someone must’ve entered the building.
Charlotte flew down the stairwell. “The fuzz! The fuzz!”
Hattie sighed. “She read a Kurt Vonnegut book last week that the prior owners left in the library.”
The footsteps were now on the risers, and Darcy came into view. Jordan’s shoulders sagged in relief. If another of Port Chatham’s finest had appeared, Jordan would’ve ended up justifying her unauthorized presence in court. Ghosts made me do it, Judge. Right. Like that would be admissible anywhere outside of a sanity hearing.
“How’s the research going?” Darcy asked.
“Run!” Charlotte screeched, flying around the basement.
“Fine. Why are you back so early?” Jordan asked, trying not to duck when Charlotte swooped overhead.
“It’s been a couple of hours, actually, and I vary my route. I find it’s always good to keep the perps guessing,” Darcy said, her tone wry. She folded her arms and propped a shoulder against one of the stacks, completely unaware of the ghosts. “Find anything interesting?”
“Not exactly. I’ve been reading about the time frame right before Hattie was murdered.”
Darcy’s eyes lit up. “You’re researching the murder?”
“I can get her gun for you!” Charlotte hissed, hovering behind Jordan’s left shoulder.
Jordan slipped a hand behind her back and made a shooing motion. “How about I tell you all about it over a beer in about an hour?”
Darcy pursed her lips. “So get out of here and let you get back to it, huh? That’s the thanks I get.”
“I promise—”
Darcy held up a hand. “I was kidding, though I’ll expect a full report. You’ll leave the place as you found it, including putting away all those fashion magazines scattered about upstairs? And replace the plywood barricade across the entry?”
“You have my word.”
She tossed Jordan the key to the front door, then paused. “You know, I wouldn’t have thought you’d be the type to spend time reading up on fashions of the rich and famous of yesteryear.” When Jordan remained silent, she muttered something under her breath and turned toward the stairs, almost walking straight through Hattie, who flitted out of the way. “One hour, or I’m coming back.”
“Deal.”
Once Darcy was gone, Jordan turned back to Hattie. “So where were we? Oh, right. So—there’s Frank, who had a history of violence and the physical conditioning to easily murder you, and with whom you’d already had a public confrontation, witnessed by the police chief. That’s the guy you chose to fall in love with. And Clive Johnson hated you and didn’t hesitate to use violence against the crews on your ships. But Seavey, who couldn’t keep his eyes off you and who acted chivalrously toward you, is the one you believe murdered you.”
Hattie shook her head. “You don’t understand—Seavey was evil. Longren Shipping was all that interested him, and I was simply in his way.”
“You’re wrong!” Charlotte cried, and they both looked at her, surprised. “You never saw that he loved you, just like you never saw how much John Greeley loved me!”
“Yeah, Greeley was a real prize,” Jordan observed. “If he were alive today, I’d be warning every single woman within three counties to stay clear of him.”
Charlotte burst into tears and abruptly disappeared in a puff of particles. Jordan raised a brow at Hattie.
“Faulty materialization—her emotions interfere.”
“So I gather she never saw through Greeley, even after you were gone?”
“No. She never believed me when I told her that Greeley was a lot like Charles—cold and controlling. Oh, Greeley was a good enough police chief, I suppose, though he certainly arrested the wrong man for my murder. But he was hard, and cruel.” Hattie looked pensive, then shook her head. “I’ll take her home and settle her down while you finish reading.”
Jordan turned back to Seavey’s memoir, then remembered what she’d wanted to ask. “Wait.” She called Hattie back as she began to fade. “Why are you so convinced that Seavey was evil?”
“Because he kidnapped Charlotte.”
Jordan’s jaw dropped.
“He thought he could force me to cooperate.” Hattie trembled. “His men held Charlotte in the tunnels. She lay in the dark, bound and gagged so no one could hear her terrified screams, soaked in cold, foul-smelling water with rats only a few feet away, waiting for her to fall asleep.”
Hattie drew a breath, her expression distant and filled with loathing. “I have no doubt that Michael Seavey deserved everything he eventually got.”
Soiled Goods
TWO days hence, Hattie received a reply from Mona that included Frank Lewis’s address. She penned a quick note to him, requesting he call upon her that afternoon at Longren House to discuss a business matter.
The night before, she’d found a stack of Seacoast Journal issues and located the “Red Letters” column that had incited Charles’s crew to mutiny. After reading it through, she admitted to herself it was possible the charges Lewis made against Charles and Clive Johnson might have been accurate. They certainly fit with what Mona had hinted, as well as with her own impression of Johnson.
Lewis had published what appeared to be factual accounts of sailors who had been drugged and shanghaied, and then, after having been turned over to Charles, beaten when they tried to escape to shore. Their stories sickened her. Their treatment was as inhumane as Lewis had indicated to her the morning after the fire, and as owner of Longren Shipping, she refused to condone such tactics.
Still, she felt Lewis should have to prove that the company’s practices were as bad as he alleged. And with any luck, his proof would also include the information she needed to understand why the library safe held all that cash.