“Metalworking,” they answered in unison.
Jase added, “You don’t have any metalwork on this house. Why do you ask?”
She explained that she’d seen a picture of one when she looked up hand augers, the supposed weapon of choice for bludgeoning in 1890.
“You had a chance to look at my great-grandfather’s diaries?” Tom asked.
“Not yet, though I was able to read a few pages over breakfast from his memoir about the murder investigation. And Holt Stilwell approached me with some papers last night after I left the pub.” She caught Jase’s frown. “I handled him, don’t worry. He gave me what turned out to be portions of Michael Seavey’s diary, which I was reading when you arrived. Seavey indicated that Clive Johnson, Hattie’s business manager, was the one who started the fire on the waterfront in 1890, and that he’d helped Johnson by covering it up.”
Tom raised his brows. “Interesting.”
“Yeah.”
She handed him an espresso, then turned back to pull another one for Jase. While they’d been talking, the Goth kid had delivered two dish packs of her china and kitchen utensils to the center of the room. She finished Jase’s espresso, then slit open the dish packs with a box cutter, so that she could hunt for the plates, mixing bowl, and pans she’d need to fix everyone breakfast. She’d bought supplies at the grocery store the night before, in anticipation of today’s crowd.
“According to Eleanor Canby’s editorial, which it now appears she may have been pressured to write, the fire originated in a brothel,” she said, placing her griddle on the stove to heat while she pulled the ingredients for buttermilk pancakes from the cupboards and fridge. “Hattie may have been right all along—she believed the fire had been deliberately set to send a message.”
“What kind of message?” Jase asked.
“Don’t know, I haven’t read that far yet.” She pulled a pint of fresh, local strawberries and a package of organic bacon from the fridge, setting the bacon on to fry. “The rest of today’s a lost cause, what with the movers here. I won’t get back to my research until tonight at the earliest.”
As if she’d conjured them up, two movers appeared in the kitchen doorway, asking for instructions. She dealt with their logistical issues, then returned to mixing the pancake batter, talking while she worked. “I have to admit, after reading about the murder investigation in Greeley’s memoir, I’m wondering whether he got the right man. The evidence was mostly circumstantial.” She filled them in on Frank Lewis’s claim that he’d been drugged and the bloody fingerprint. “I haven’t asked Darcy whether that would’ve been enough to convict in the nineteenth century, but I’ll run it by her tonight.”
Tom looked troubled. “Have you read about the trial itself?”
“No, just portions of the investigation so far. I had hoped to find trial information, either in Greeley’s memoir or at the Historical Society.” She flipped bacon and pancakes, then washed strawberries. “It would be nice to read the actual witness statements. Depending on who gave damning evidence against Frank, I would be swayed one way or the other. Eleanor Canby, for example, probably wouldn’t have hesitated to make things look bad for Frank and Hattie.”
“More evidence could’ve come out during the trial that swayed the jury,” Tom argued, accepting plates of pancakes from her.
He was right, she realized as she poured more batter onto the griddle. But if she couldn’t find the trial transcripts, it was a moot point. And though she wasn’t yet willing to admit as much to Tom, she had a bad feeling about the veracity of Greeley’s account. The police chief had clearly felt the need to prove he’d built an airtight case against Frank Lewis. If he’d had doubts at any time, he wouldn’t have admitted to them or documented them.
Then again, what would have been his motive to bungle the investigation? Had someone who wanted Lewis out of the way put pressure on him? Had Michael Seavey seen an opportunity too good to pass up?
Evidently, the food smells had reached the backyard—Amanda entered through the back door, giving Tom and Jase high fives.
“So you guys know each other,” Jordan said, handing Amanda plates of food with instructions to deliver them to the movers.
“Tom tips me off about which houses are haunted,” said Amanda over her shoulder.
“Of course he does,” Jordan agreed faintly, and Jase grinned. She busied herself with mixing more batter.
“How does the fire tie in with the murder?” Jase asked as he ate.
“What fire?” Amanda asked as she stepped back into the kitchen.
Jordan handed Amanda a plate while she described the 1890 waterfront fire, then answered Jase’s question. “I’m not certain yet, but my gut is telling me it’s related.” She flipped more pancakes. The dog nudged her thigh, and she fed him a slice of bacon. “I’ll search the library and see how many of Hattie’s diaries I can find. Maybe if I put her account side by side with your great-grandfather’s, I can track through the events from the two different perspectives.”
“Hattie’s would have ended before the murder, whereas Tom’s great-grandfather’s probably wouldn’t have mentioned Hattie until he investigated the murder,” Jase pointed out.
“Damn. You’re right.” She’d been counting on reading both to see whether she could pinpoint any discrepancies that would lead her to other avenues of research.
“What about Charlotte? Did she have a diary?” Tom asked.
The possibility hadn’t even occurred to her. “I don’t know. I’ll …” Her voice trailed off as she realized she’d been about to say, “I’ll ask her,” and Jase grinned, following her train of thought. She finished gamely, “… hunt through Charlotte’s old room and see whether I can come up with anything. I found a doll hidden in the back of the closet—it’s possible I’ll discover more.”
“Have you searched the attic yet?” Tom asked. “The former owners may have stored it away, not understanding its historical significance.”
“Or tossed it in a fit of pique, after being endlessly harassed by a couple of ghosts?”
“That, too.” Tom smiled.
“They’re already harassing you?” Amanda popped a strawberry into her mouth. “Cool.”
“In any event,” Tom continued, “you’d be surprised what people around here find in their attics. We could take a look.”
Jordan folded her arms. “Are you here to help with the murder investigation or discuss the plan for the renovation?”
Tom looked sheepish. “Both. You gotta admit, the old murder is exciting stuff.”
“I might be getting a little hooked,” Jordan allowed, then shrugged. “I haven’t even stuck my head inside the attic door—I don’t even know where the attic is. Wait, I think I saw a closed door next to Charlotte’s room that could hide a set of stairs.”
Tom gave her a curious look. “You didn’t go up there before you bought the house?”
“No, I left that to the guy who conducted the structural and pest inspections.”
He and Jase exchanged a look that clearly said “first-time home buyer.”
Tom stood and carried his dishes over to the sink. “That was delicious. You mixed those pancakes from scratch, didn’t you?” At her nod, he placed his hand over his heart. “Will you marry me?”
“Now, that’s just pitiful,” Amanda declared, polishing off her fourth pancake.
* * *
AFTER Amanda left to prune the bushes she thought could be saved, Jordan led the men up to the second floor. When she opened the door she thought would lead to the attic, it revealed a second bathroom with a huge claw-foot tub, a pedestal sink, oak wainscoting, and a cracked black and white tile floor. She had an immediate vision of soaking in the tub, surrounded by the soft glow of candlelight, after a hard day’s work on the house.