Jase read the names on the slip of paper, then added Drake’s. “When a homicide detective in a case holds a personal grudge, I want to know why,” he said by way of explanation when he saw her questioning look. “It could come in handy if we ever have to go to trial.”
Jordan reflected on it, then nodded. “Go for it.”
“No more Ms. Nice Guy, huh?” Darcy asked.
“No more Ms. Nice Guy, no more Ms. Gullible. Someone killed Ryland, and though he had many faults, he didn’t deserve it. The least I can do is find his murderer. Then maybe I can put this behind me.”
“As long as you’re being proactive, I don’t much care why,” Darcy said, “though I’d rather you were doing this for yourself, not Ryland.”
“I am, believe me.”
* * *
DARCY left them outside the restaurant with the explanation that she had paperwork to catch up on. Jordan walked with Jase a half block to the wharf on the waterfront. She stood leaning against the railing, watching wisps of fog float on the waters of the bay. A refurbished nineteenth-century clipper ship was tied to the end of the wharf, and Jordan took a moment to study its intricate rigging and graceful lines.
“They use it to take tourists out at sunset during the warmer months,” Jase explained, following her gaze. “Port Chatham has its own Wooden Boat Society, dedicated to keeping alive the art of building wood-hulled boats and refurbishing the historic ships.”
She knew he was giving her time to say whatever was on her mind. “I’m sorry,” she said again.
Jase nodded, then said in an even tone, “I’ll cut you slack on this one. But for the record, if you continue to keep me in the dark, I’ll encourage the prosecutor to toss you in jail. If I’m to defend you to the best of my ability, I need to know everything.”
“I didn’t want you to think badly of me,” she admitted.
He gave her a chiding look, but his tone remained businesslike. “I’ll call JT and get him started on the investigation.”
“Do you think he’ll have time in his schedule?”
“He’ll have to make time. I doubt Drake is going to wait long before he returns to town, this time armed with an arrest warrant.”
Chapter 13
JORDAN swung by the vet’s office on her way back to the house, arriving hours later than she’d promised the dog and feeling more guilt than she’d ever felt over the failure of her marriage. At the sound of her voice, the dog started howling from the back area.
The receptionist grinned. “He’s been despondent since you dropped him off yesterday. I think you just reaffirmed his faith in human beings.” She told the technician who was sitting beside her to bring him out. “You didn’t give us his name though. We need it for our records.”
Jordan felt her face heat. “We haven’t agreed on one yet.”
The receptionist didn’t seem to find her comment the least bit odd. “Then we’ll use your name for now. But call us when you decide so we can properly file his records.”
Jordan handed her a credit card to pay the bill, then quickly braced as the dog exploded through the door from the kennel area, dragging two people in his wake. He ran straight at her, planting his paws on her shoulders. Jordan staggered under the impact, laughing and letting him lick her face and neck.
“Aren’t you gorgeous!” She hugged him, stunned by the change in his appearance.
The vet, a trim woman in her midforties and attractive in a natural, farm-girl sort of way, helped pull him off Jordan. “I’m so sorry—he’s a little hard to control once he gets an idea in his head. You didn’t leave a leash—”
“He doesn’t like them,” Jordan explained. “Any health problems?”
“None that we found.” The vet rubbed his head. “He’s around four years old and in good health, other than being underweight. We brought him current on his shots, so he may sleep a little more than usual today. I’ve prepared a list of foods and supplements you’ll want to consider, to bring his weight back to normal and boost his immune system.”
Jordan signed the credit card receipt, then leaned down to give him another hug. “I can’t believe how handsome he is, now that he’s clean.”
“He’s a mix of Great Pyrenees, Saint Bernard, and German shepherd, all smart breeds. He’s very gentle and intelligent, and—we seem to have established—loyal.”
“I’d already figured out the intelligent part,” Jordan said wryly. “So you have no idea who owned him before me?”
“Nope.” The vet smiled. “And it doesn’t really matter, does it? He’s chosen the person he wants to be with.”
* * *
AFTER loading the dog plus all the food and supplements she’d purchased into the Prius, she drove to the house. The men were gone, along with the detritus from the wisteria. Though Amanda’s tent was still in the backyard, she was nowhere to be found. Tom had left notes taped to a kitchen cupboard indicating he’d get back to her within a couple of days with the remodeling plan.
When Jordan stuck her head into the library, she found Hattie and Charlotte still mysteriously absent, which had her wondering whether they were occasionally called back to wherever ghosts came from, for some kind of confab with their superiors. Surely there was some sort of society, complete with its own laws that ruled the spectral realm. It made sense, didn’t it?
Feeling antsy and unable to settle, she headed for the kitchen to retrieve her portable CD player. She’d take advantage of the ghosts’ absence while keeping her mind off the meeting with Drake by putting some work into those stacks of books in the library. Restoring a sense of order to the room would make her feel as if she’d accomplished something productive for the day.
She put one of Ted’s CDs in and set the player atop the stacks of newspapers on the corner of the old oak desk. With the trio playing in the background, she started sorting through piles of books. The dog collapsed on the floor, stretching out to sleep with a grateful sigh.
Ancient, leather-bound volumes of classics had been heaped together with modern fiction—everything from The Complete Works of Henry James to Vonnegut and Grisham. Alphabetizing the collection, which had to number in the thousands, was out of the question, though she actually considered it for a brief, insane moment. The thought of establishing that level of control over even a small corner of her life held great appeal. In the end, she settled for sorting out the worst of the moldy volumes to be taken to a used-book dealer for assessment, then dusting and stacking the others in the bookcases.
At dinnertime, having organized one entire wall, she knocked off for the day. She was about to wake up the dog when she spied a stack of small, thin volumes that she’d set aside while filling the last bookcase. They didn’t look like published books. Curious, she picked one up and flipped through it. They were diaries—more of Hattie’s, by the look of the writing. She picked them up and headed upstairs to add them to the growing pile of reading materials next to her bed.
Fifteen minutes later, she and the dog were on their way to the pub. Though clouds were building to the southwest, she decided they could both use the walk to stretch their legs. If they were caught in the rain on the way home, it was only a few blocks—they wouldn’t melt.
As they walked, Jordan realized she was feeling more confident, and less panicked, now that she’d decided to hire a private investigator. Despite the nerve-wracking interview with Drake, and despite knowing he had every intention of arresting her for Ryland’s murder, she felt, well, good. Charged up. Ready to take on the world.
She shoved both hands into her jeans pockets, frowning. Over the last year, she’d become far more insular than she’d been at any other point in her life. She’d always been a planner, but she’d never been one to avoid problems. Her MO was to analyze, consider alternative strategies, then take action. Since when had she become so passive, so willing to rely on others to come up with solutions?