Clearly, her next order of business needed to be to join a health club. Espresso infused with cream and served in a bowl, lemon pancakes topped with raspberry puree, French toast soaked in vanilla, cinnamon, and orange custard, then grilled—she could feel the pounds leaping off the page and onto her hips. Then again, she had a long day ahead of her, unpacking and moving furniture, right?
Rationalization in place, she ordered espresso and French toast. The dog propped his chin on her shoulder, his tail sweeping the flagstones.
“How about Marley? You know, after Bob Marley?” she asked, rubbing his ears while she waited for her coffee to arrive. “You seem like you’d be more into reggae than jazz, am I right?”
“Raaooomph!” He closed his eyes, obviously expecting her to continue her ministrations.
The owner returned with the steaming bowl of coffee adorned with a decorative pattern in the cream and mocha-colored foam floating on top, and set it before her. “You’re trying too hard,” she advised. “He’ll eventually tell you what name he wants.”
“Rooooo.” He yawned in agreement, then closed his eyes again.
The woman chuckled, giving his head a pat before she headed back inside.
Jordan took her first gulp, letting the caffeine reach her brain, then picked up the book she’d brought on renovation. The introduction, which went into mind-numbing detail about the National Register of Historic Homes, had her eyes immediately glazing over. Leafing through a few more chapters, she skimmed enough to determine that the entire book was written in the same manner, so she flipped it shut. This morning wasn’t the time for complex subjects.
Succumbing to temptation, she pulled out the smaller book she’d brought with her, John Greeley’s memoir. She’d perused enough of it yesterday to note it contained a discussion of Hattie’s murder investigation by the Port Chatham Police Department. Evidently, Greeley had headed up the investigation himself, which made sense. Back then, they would’ve had a small police department—there wouldn’t have been homicide detectives.
Flipping to the table of contents, she located the chapter on the murder investigation and hunted for the page. After another fortifying sip of espresso, she started to read.
Though I am a man whose work exemplifies sobriety and industry, I feel it necessary to record the investigation that resulted in the arrest of the individual who was responsible for the terrible murder of Mrs. Charles Longren on that tragic night of June 6, 1890. It is my intent by recording the details of this horrendous crime that others may learn from the straightforward and thorough work of the Port Chatham Police Department, and that this learning will influence future investigations, providing a good example for generations to come.
The victim, Mrs. Charles Longren, had been recently widowed from one of Port Chatham’s most respected businessmen, who was rumored to have perished at sea at the hands of a mutinous crew. This unfortunate incident marked the beginning of a period of extreme mental instability for his widow, who it can be said then made several ill-advised decisions, resulting in her reckless and inappropriate behavior on more than one occasion, and ultimately leading to her own murder, as well as the ruination of her younger, innocent sister, Miss Charlotte Walker. Be that as it may, the Port Chatham Police Department did not shirk in its duties, as you, dear reader, will soon surmise.
Jordan rolled her eyes. The man’s gargantuan sense of self-importance was enough to almost, but not quite, trigger her gag reflex. She refrained from speculating about the borderline personality required to write such pompous drivel and continued to read.
At twelve minutes before midnight on that fatal night, this author was called upon to examine the body of Hattie Longren, whom it appeared had been bludgeoned with an auger. Within hours of the commission of the crime, I had vigorously pursued and arrested Mrs. Longren’s murderer, one Frank Lewis, a union representative with a history of violence who also may have been her illicit lover …
The restaurant owner set Jordan’s breakfast before her, the aromas of warm citrus and maple syrup jerking her back to the present. She marked her place with a torn corner of her napkin and shut the book, thinking about what she’d learned as she dug in.
According to Greeley’s version of events, Hattie had been hit from behind with an iron hand auger, described as a vise with long handles on either side, weighing approximately eight pounds. Greeley had found it lying next to her body, one handle smeared with blood. Given Greeley’s description of the tool, it was obviously heavy enough to have split open Hattie’s skull when wielded with sufficient force. Using recently imported European techniques in the science of fingerprinting, Greeley had identified a bloody print on the master bedroom door as Frank Lewis’s.
Frank claimed to have been drugged and unconscious in the library at the time of the murder. When he’d regained consciousness, he’d immediately looked for Hattie, concerned for her safety. He’d discovered her body, tried to revive her, then contacted Greeley. Frank had admitted he was woozy from the effects of whatever drug someone had slipped into his tea and was not thinking clearly—he thought he might’ve left the bloody print on the door handle as he ran out of the room to contact the police.
Greeley had written that he hadn’t believed Frank’s version of events. Based on Frank’s presence at the crime scene and the bloody print, Greeley had immediately arrested him.
Though Frank had vehemently denied killing Hattie and claimed that Greeley should investigate Clive Johnson, the police chief had dismissed his arguments. In the weeks before the trial, Greeley had gone on to establish Frank’s motive by interviewing witnesses from the neighborhood who claimed to have heard frequent arguments between Hattie and Frank, though the substance of those arguments was unknown.
Jordan frowned as she chewed. Even with the fingerprint, the evidence seemed circumstantial at best, though perhaps back then it would’ve been considered sufficient to gain a conviction. However, given what she’d already learned about Hattie’s life and her strained relationships with her neighbors, Jordan thought it entirely possible some hadn’t given truthful statements—or, at the very least, had been influenced by circumstances to believe the worst. She made a mental note to ask whether any signed statements or witness testimony from the trial might still exist.
What bothered her the most, though, were the parallels between Hattie’s murder investigation and Ryland’s. In both cases, an arrogant cop was in charge, and in both cases, one suspect had been the focus from the very beginning. Why hadn’t Greeley looked at other possible suspects? Surely Charlotte and the housekeeper had told him about Michael Seavey and Clive Johnson, even if they wouldn’t have thought to mention Eleanor Canby. Then again, according to Hattie’s diary, Greeley had held Johnson in high regard, and his relationship with Seavey was unknown. Greeley therefore might have discounted what the women had told him; he certainly made a habit of discounting what any woman said.
Perhaps Seavey’s papers would shed further light on the investigation—that is, if he’d written about it. And Jordan would have to ask Hattie what Frank had been doing in the house that night—why he’d been in the library, and whether she knew who could have drugged him. But no matter how Jordan looked at it, Greeley seemed to have focused on Frank from the very beginning, having arrested him the very same night, then concentrated on building the case against him.
She pushed her plate away, her appetite gone. From what Darcy and Carol had told her, Drake seemed to have focused exclusively on her since the night of Ryland’s murder. Did that mean Drake was building a case against her, compiling what he believed to be strong evidence that she’d tampered with Ryland’s Beemer? Had people like Didi Wyeth manipulated the facts out of spite? The thought that someone might be deliberately encouraging Drake’s tunnel vision …