“Sometimes.”
“Have you told Darcy?”
“Not since she reported that she’d been through the incident reports and hadn’t found anything suspicious.”
“I don’t like it—let’s mention it to JT and see whether he can send someone up for security detail.”
Jordan rolled her eyes. “Please. I’ve got at least three ghosts hovering, and Darcy’s already tracking my every move for Drake. And let’s not forget the dog. I think I’m covered.” She reached a hand back to rub his head. “Speaking of whom, how about Malachi?”
The dog barked, then attempted to climb over the seat and lick her face, grinning and showing his huge canines. His tail thumped against the back window.
“That would be a yes vote,” Jase said wryly. He turned into Stilwell’s driveway. “How’d you come up with that name?”
“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
As they drove up and parked, Holt was coming out his front door. He paused on the front porch of his rundown rambler, looking surprised to see them.
Jordan was out of the truck before Jase had the engine shut off. “I need you to help me search for some missing papers,” she told Stilwell without preamble. “It’s important.”
He rocked back on his heels. “Looks like those favors you’re gonna owe me just keep piling up.”
“Can we cut the crap?” she asked as Jase reached her side. “Your act isn’t all that convincing.”
Holt’s expression turned wary.
“For your information, your ancestor wasn’t nearly the bad guy you and the rest of the town seem to think he was. So you can quit trying to live down to your family’s reputation. You do not descend from the long line of thieves and murderers you think you do.”
She felt Jase’s sidelong glance. “If you’d let us search for more family papers,” he said to Holt, “we’d appreciate it.”
Holt shrugged. “Whatever. I gotta get to work, but go for it. The place is unlocked.”
“Of course it is,” Jordan muttered, noting the rotting porch, peeling paint, and moss on the roof. “Anyone knows better than to burglarize it.”
“Hey, if you’re gonna criticize my house—”
She shook her head. “Where would the papers be stored? I don’t have much time.”
“The attic—boxes along the far wall.”
“Thanks.” They left Holt standing in the driveway as they headed into the house.
“Enjoy my housemates,” Holt called after her.
While Jordan checked out filthy rooms on the main floor, Jase located the stairs to the attic, which were in the kitchen next to the back door. She walked past kitchen counters filled with dirty dishes and boxes of half-eaten pizza that had been there awhile, wrinkling her nose. Darcy hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d described the state of the place.
The attic proved to be equally scary. She climbed the sagging stairs with trepidation. Jase shoved aside piles of boxes and other debris scattered on the floor to get to the piece of string that hung down from the single lightbulb at the peak of the ceiling. The bulb put out low wattage, so turning it on didn’t help dispel the gloom.
Jordan stayed where she was, searching along the far wall until she identified several boxes that might be the right ones. She had to climb over broken chairs and piles of old clothes to get to them.
Kneeling, she opened the cardboard flaps of the first box, then fell back with a yelp. A mouse nest made from chewed bits of paper and filled with tiny, squirming babies sat right on top. The answers she needed might have been torn into insulation. She ground her teeth while Jase used an old rag to carefully move the nest aside, trying not to worry about contracting hantavirus.
That box yielded nothing of interest. Halfway down into the second box, however, she found what she was looking for underneath a stack of old photos of stern-looking family members. Tucking those under her arm for future perusal, she lifted out sheets of paper covered with cursive handwriting that looked like it matched Seavey’s.
She carefully shuffled through them, looking for dates. She found them: June 6, 1890, June and July of the same year, all the way through August 1893. Bingo.
She held up the papers. “Let’s go.”
* * *
As they drove back to All That Jazz, Jordan forced herself to set aside Seavey’s papers and focus on the upcoming conference call.
“So JT is a good friend? Tell me about him.”
“Used to have a gold shield with the NYPD.” Jase turned onto the main drag that ran through their neighborhood. “JT left to go into security work about five years ago. My dad’s firm has used him on some large cases. Then last year, he moved to the West Coast to escape the bad weather.”
Jase parked the truck in its designated slot behind the pub and climbed out. “JT and I go way back—we grew up in the same neighborhood. I went to Harvard, and he went into the police academy.”
Jordan whistled at the dog to follow them. “I can trust him?”
“Yeah, and you can assume the information he digs up is solid.”
Jase unlocked the back door and was opening it when Ted drove into the small lot, parking next to Jase’s truck.
“Hey, Jordan,” Ted said, getting out of his car. He walked over to them, his attire as immaculate as usual. She felt decidedly grungy standing next to him.
“I’m glad I caught you, man,” he said to Jase, perfunctorily patting the dog’s head, which earned him The Look. “I have to supervise the guys while they knock down our equipment. It needs to go back to the sound studio at the house today.”
Jase held the door open wide. “Not a problem. If you need anything, Jordan and I will be in my office on a conference call.”
Jase led the way through the back of the building, past the kitchen where Kathleen was already hard at work chopping vegetables. The smells emanating from the sauté pan on the stove were enough to make Jordan’s mouth water and remind her that she hadn’t eaten since the evening before.
Jordan entered Jase’s office, curious about his work environment. The room was utilitarian, with bare walls and simple fixtures. A small table holding an espresso machine sat in the corner. Natural light came from a bank of windows up high on the wall. The desk was large and modern, and held a state-of-the-art computer, fax machine, and printer. A phone system similar to ones in most small businesses, with a larger base unit and multiple phone lines, sat next to the desk blotter.
Jase logged on to his computer and pulled up JT’s email, then called the number he’d been sent, placing the phone in speaker mode. He leaned back in his chair, propping his running shoes on the desk. Jordan chose a captain’s chair across the desk from him.
“Speak.” The gruff voice came on the line after only two rings.
“JT,” Jase said. “I’ve got Jordan Marsh with me.”
“Hi, JT.”
“Ahh, nice voice. Once this case is closed, you let me give you a call, sweetheart. I’m a lot cuter than that glorified barkeep you’ve hooked up with.”
Jase merely shook his head. “What’ve you got for us?” he asked.
“Right.” JT rustled some papers. “Okay, first off, Jordan’s assumption was correct—her husband was dead broke after the civil suits were adjudicated. Sorry, sweetheart—your granny’s inheritance was the most likely motive for his suggested reconciliation.”
“Didi Wyeth intimated as much,” Jordan replied.
“Yeah? Speaking of her, her alibi doesn’t check out. She told the cops she was at a party at some big-shot producer’s place out in Beverly Hills, but no one remembers seeing her there. Her name also never got checked off the list at the gate.”