The first bite registered with her taste buds. “This is good.”
Darcy nodded, her mouth already full.
Once Jordan had sated the worst of her hunger and was willing to talk between bites, she continued. “I read that in the 1890s, Port Chatham was the second-largest port on the West Coast behind San Francisco. And that it had all the prostitutes, smuggling, et cetera, et cetera, you typically find in a port town.”
Darcy sprinkled sea salt on her olive oil and dipped the bread into it. “Yeah, the waterfront was literally lawless.”
“And yet, if the editorial I read today was any indication, Port Chatham did have an upper-crust society.”
“As far as I know, that’s accurate. I’ve heard mention of a group of women, referred to as Mercer Girls, who would’ve been the matrons of Port Chatham society by the time Hattie arrived.”
“Was Eleanor Canby one of them?”
Darcy looked toward the bar. “Tom! Eleanor Canby, Port Chatham Weekly Gazette—Mercer Girl?”
“Yep.” He picked up a box that had been sitting on the bar and brought it over to the table. “Back in the 1860s, William Mercer, the president of the University of Washington, realized how scarce marriageable women were in the region, so he traveled back East and returned with young, single, educated women from good families.” Tom placed the box on the floor beside Jordan’s chair, then pulled up his own. “Several Mercer Girls married ships’ captains in the area and went on to become socially powerful in their communities.”
“That explains the moralistic tone of Eleanor’s editorials,” Jordan said.
Tom pointed to the box. “My great-granddaddy’s diaries. Jase said you wanted to take a look at them.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Jordan put down her fork and carefully wiped her hands on her napkin before removing the box lid. The cardboard was the acid-free type used for storing rare documents. Inside, each small volume had been sealed in plastic to keep out dust and mildew. Jordan picked up the top one and carefully slid it out of its wrapping. Using the tips of her fingers, she flipped through page after page of neat cursive script. Excitement curled along her spine.
“These should be fascinating. I’ve got Greeley’s memoir, but his personal diaries might provide more insight into his true feelings about the events.”
Tom raised a brow.
“Thanks a lot,” Darcy said. “You’d think a psychologist would know how to keep her mouth shut.”
Jordan realized she’d as much as admitted she’d been at the Historical Society, and that Darcy was complicit. It was too late to do anything but dig herself in deeper, so she gave Tom her most charming smile. “Feel free to forget I said that.”
He grinned. “Nah, I think I’ll tuck that little tidbit away so I can use it as leverage against Ms. Law and Order over here.”
Quickly redirecting the conversation, Jordan said, “No offense, but from what I’ve read about your ancestor so far, he was a bit on the controlling side.”
Tom nodded. “That comes across in his writing. Of course, a police chief in his day would have to be made of pretty stern stuff.” He swiped a chunk of bread from the basket and reached over to dip it into Darcy’s olive oil. “So your plan is to come up with an alternative theory for Hattie’s murder?”
Jordan glanced at him to see whether he looked offended, but he only seemed curious. “From what I’ve read so far, it’s possible the murder could be linked to the practice of shanghaiing,” she admitted. “Hattie wanted to eradicate the use of shanghaiers by Longren Shipping, and she was meeting with strong resistance.”
Tom frowned. “My great-granddaddy felt Hattie’s murder was a crime of passion, pure and simple.”
“I’m not ruling that out,” Jordan hastily assured him. “God knows, Frank Lewis was capable of it. And to be honest, I still have my doubts about his innocence. If someone is bludgeoned to death, that indicates spur-of-the-moment passion, just as your ancestor assumed.” She noticed the speculative looks from Tom and Darcy and stopped herself. “Not that I have any firsthand knowledge of crimes of passion, of course.”
“Right,” Darcy said.
Moving right along, Jordan said, “These diaries should give me more facts about the events after Hattie’s death, which will be very useful. Everything I read today had to do with the time leading up to the murder, and with Hattie’s attempts to take control of Longren Shipping.” She remembered Hattie’s comment about Seavey’s family papers. “Do either of you know whether the shanghaier Michael Seavey has any living relatives still in town? I have his memoir—” She winced, then shrugged. “It’s possible his personal papers might be worth reading, if any exist.”
Darcy exchanged a look with Tom. “That would be Holt Stilwell.”
“Oh.” Muscle shirt macho guy. Great.
“Seavey had an estranged sister who married into the Stilwell clan and produced several offspring,” Tom said. “Holt’s the only child of the son of the daughter of one of those offspring, if you followed that. Holt’s parents are dead, along with most of his cousins. And the family wasn’t exactly into preserving their heritage, for reasons you can probably surmise. But you never know, he might have a box of stuff somewhere at his place. That is, if the rats haven’t chewed the contents.”
“Yuck,” Jordan said, earning a grin from Tom.
“I can ask him, if you want. Holt is less likely to be difficult if the request comes from me.”
“And I don’t like the idea of you driving out to his place by yourself,” Darcy added. “You’re Stilwell’s type—he’s partial to women who are still breathing.”
Jordan sputtered out a laugh. “Thanks, but I can handle him. To be safe, though, I’ll approach him here at the pub.”
“By the way,” Darcy said, “I looked through the incident reports this afternoon down at the station. Nothing popped. So if someone is making a habit of watching, they haven’t been reported by anyone else.”
“Which rules out your garden-variety sex offender.”
Darcy shrugged. “Only if they’ve been at it long enough to get caught. You still getting an itch between your shoulder blades?”
“Sometimes, but it’s probably just my overactive imagination.”
“Yeah, well, I have the utmost respect for those little itches, so keep your eyes open.”
“How’s it going with Hattie and Charlotte?” Tom asked with a grin.
Jordan narrowed her eyes. “How come no one in this town seems concerned that I can supposedly talk to ghosts? Even the neighbors are showing up in droves to lend their support.”
“Hey, you’re big news,” Darcy pointed out. “That has a lot of weight around here.”
“And if you think about it,” Tom said, “you’re providing a much-needed community service. Historical preservation and righting old wrongs are important community issues in this town.”
“Uh-huh.” Jordan’s tone was skeptical.
Jase came by with a full tray of empties, stopping to pick up Jordan’s.
“Right, Jase?” Tom asked.
“Right.” He smiled at Jordan. “Another?”
“Yes, thanks,” she said, throwing sobriety to the wind.
“May take a few minutes to get it to you,” he muttered, looking harried.
“Are you short a waitress tonight?” Always aware of where he was in the room, she’d noticed him delivering multiple trays of drinks while they’d been talking and eating.
“Yeah. Honeymoon.”