Haunting Jordan (12 page)

Once she had him settled, she dumped an armload of Hattie’s diaries on the passenger seat, then followed
Darcy’s police cruiser out to the highway on the east side of town, to a location not far from the regional airport. Traffic was light in Jordan’s neighborhood, but when they turned onto the highway linking Port Chatham with the rest of the Olympic Peninsula, Jordan could see the impact tourists had in the summer months. Other than the ferry to Whidbey Island, the highway was Port Chatham’s only link to civilization. As such, it was crowded not only with tourists but with service and logging trucks.

The Historical Society’s building sat on a hillside with towering evergreens surrounding the parking lot. The architecture was plain—a one-story, cement block design. As a testament to the ongoing remodel, a large green construction waste bin sat not far from the front door, but there were no construction crews in sight. They parked their cars, Darcy waiting while Jordan cracked the windows for the dog, then they walked across the lot.

Darcy frowned at the sight of the piece of plywood that had evidently been nailed across the front door but now lay some distance away in the weeds on the edge of the parking lot. “I wonder how that happened.”

Jordan glimpsed a blue dress inside the building. “Maybe one of the crew took it off temporarily,” she prevaricated.

“That must be it.” Darcy produced a ring of keys and unlocked the door.

Inside, the space was dim, musty, and torn apart. Display cases stood empty and shoved to one side, and the carpet had been rolled up, exposing the subflooring. Walls had been ripped open, wiring hanging loose, and
windows had been boarded over, presumably to protect the glass.

Jordan sneezed twice.

“The air in here is a little thick,” Darcy observed.

“So the archives are in the basement?” Jordan asked, waving a hand in front of her face and ignoring Hattie and Charlotte, who were lurking in the gloom on the far side of the room behind a display case.

“Yeah, the stairs to the basement are over there.” Darcy pointed. “I need to make my rounds—will you be okay here by yourself?”

“Sure,” Jordan said, relieved.

“Right. Back in a couple of hours, then?”

After Darcy let herself out, Jordan turned around. “I don’t even want to know about the plywood.”

Charlotte floated over the top of a display case, sniffing. “We were only trying to help.”

Jordan climbed down the stairs, followed by the ghosts. She pushed aside a curtain of heavy construction plastic that had been hung to protect the basement’s contents from the dust and dirt that accompanied any remodel. Charlotte stayed just long enough to retrieve a stack of historical fashion magazines and take them back upstairs.

“Which shelves hold the newspapers?” Jordan asked Hattie once they were standing in the midst of rows of metal stacks filled with boxes, books, and files. The construction of Longren House should have been a newsworthy event back then.

Hattie led her to the row next to the east wall.
“Eleanor Canby’s newspaper—the
Port Chatham Weekly Gazette
—was the only one at the time.”

Jordan ran her fingers along spines of the neatly labeled file boxes. “A woman owned the newspaper?”

Hattie nodded. “Eleanor was editor-in-chief of the
Gazette
, and a very important person in town. She held strong views. You’ve seen the large house down the block from us? The one with the sign out front?”

Jordan
had
noticed the place. Situated on a block of more modest cottages, it was hard to ignore. It was huge—three stories including the attic—and very formal in design. A historic marker graced the front yard. She’d been meaning to check it out but hadn’t yet had the time.

“It’s called Canby Mansion,” Hattie said. “Eleanor’s husband had his ship’s carpenters handle all the finish work inside the house. It was considered a stunning accomplishment in its day. No one has ever figured out how they managed to disguise the support for the staircase. And the windows up above direct the sunlight onto friezes of different mythological figures, based on the month of the year—”

“Which dates should I be looking for?” Jordan interrupted, anxious to start reading.

“May 27, 1890. Charlotte used to love to go to Eleanor’s soirées,” Hattie continued. “They were the highlight of the Port Chatham social season.” Her smile faded, replaced by sadness. “That is, until … well.”

Jordan located several boxes for that year and pulled them off the shelf to stack them on a small desk next to the back wall. She blew dust off the desk and set down
the materials. The only light came from a window high up on the wall, and since the lamp on the desk didn’t work, she surmised that the electricity was turned off. Hunting through her purse, she located the small penlight she kept for such occasions, praying the batteries were still good.

Opening the first box, she carefully pulled out the stack of yellowed papers and set them down, gingerly leafing through them. By the time she realized Hattie had pointed her to a date right after the fire she’d read about the day before—not the date Longren House had been built—she was so engrossed in an editorial written by Eleanor Canby that she forgot all about her original quest.

Fall from Grace

May 27, 1890

Fiery Conflagration Consumes Two Waterfront Blocks

It has been nearly six years since this community has been rocked by a deadly fire on the waterfront. Yet two nights ago we were once again confronted with the horrific consequences of the licentious behaviors of our waterfront denizens.

Certain residents of this town have suggested that this week’s fire was started by businessmen who were “encouraging” waterfront proprietors to pay promptly on accounts due, “or else.” Such residents would do well to get their facts straight before making these outlandish accusations against our upstanding businessmen. For it was revealed to this newspaper’s reporter late yesterday morning that the fire was indeed started as the result of the actions taken by a woman of the most degraded form of humanity.

It is now known that a young man from an honorable family had been frequently observed in the company of the soiled dove and become completely besotted. Two nights ago, in a fit of lovesick delirium and insane with liquor no doubt supplied by her, the young man killed the fallen woman, then set fire to the bed on which she lay. One can only assume he was subsequently overcome with guilt for the shame his family would have to endure when the truth came out, for he then effectually killed himself by blowing his brains out. The resulting conflagration was responsible for the taking of seven other lives and untold losses to many of our businessmen.

Let this tragedy serve as a warning to residents who sympathize with the women who engage in such scarlet sins. Public sentiment should see to it that these women who entice our young men to the waterfront pay dearly for this recent, tragic turn of events.

Hattie set the editorial next to her coffee cup on the dining room table and rubbed her throbbing temples. Eleanor might as well have mentioned her by name. A number of their neighbors had witnessed her argument with Eleanor the night before last—they would have no trouble putting together that incident with Eleanor’s pointed editorial.

The housekeeper placed an eggcup before Hattie, then arranged plates of orange wedges and biscuits within easy reach.

“Thank you, Sara.” Though food held no appeal, she
managed a smile. Since Charles’s death, Sara had made it her personal duty to look after Hattie and Charlotte.

The stout housekeeper frowned. “You’d best eat—it’s past your normal breakfast time, and you’re looking mighty peaked.”

“It’s just a slight headache. Perhaps you could bring me some of that new powder Eleanor smuggled in from Canada?”

Sara shook her head. “No, ma’am! My friend Alice who works for the Canbys? I set store by what she says, and she told me the smugglers sometimes substitute a much more dangerous drug, or even talcum powder. Why, just this last week, Mrs. Canby sickened from a bad batch. I’ll brew you a cup of willow bark tea, instead.”

“Very well,” Hattie sighed, resigning herself to the bitter taste of the concoction.

The housekeeper stood, arms folded and gazing pointedly at Hattie’s breakfast, leaving only after Hattie picked up her knife.

She sliced off the top of the boiled egg, salting it. But she found she couldn’t stand the smell of it, so she moved it aside and added a small teaspoonful of the black currant jam they’d put up last fall to one of Sara’s fluffy baking powder biscuits. Hattie clearly remembered the outing into the foothills of the Olympic Mountains to gather the precious wild berries—it had been one of the last times Charles had seemed relaxed in her company.

After only one small bite, however, she pushed back from the table, too restless to remain seated. Walking
around the table to the matching oak sideboard, she retrieved a tray of small crystal vases and the basket of sweet peas she’d gathered from the garden before breakfast. She arranged the fragrant sprigs among the vases, then set a bouquet by each place setting, hoping the routine task would soothe her frazzled nerves.

Out in the front hall, the grandfather clock chimed nine times, its pendulous ticking unnaturally loud in the ensuing silence. In the back of the house, Hattie could hear Sara talking softly to Tabitha, instructing her to take a tray of tea up to Charlotte. It all seemed so normal, and yet Hattie felt as if everything had changed in some way she had yet to understand.

The events of the night of the fire still plagued her.
Had
the fire been started as Eleanor had reported? Hattie couldn’t bring herself to believe it. And even if the fire had originated in a house of ill repute, it could’ve been started there with the intent of misleading the authorities. Placing the blame on the prostitutes ran counter to what she’d seen with her own eyes. And many illegal activities were carried out daily on the waterfront, any of which could’ve provided a motive for arson.

But why had Eleanor felt the need to publicly chastise her? Perhaps her mention of corruption had threatened Eleanor in some way. Or maybe Eleanor’s pride had been damaged, and she’d simply wanted a public venue in which to retaliate.

Hattie stopped to consider, then shook her head. Though Eleanor was overly rigid and moralistic, she’d never been petty. No, it seemed far more likely that she
had a stronger motive, and that she knew more about the activities on the waterfront than she let on.

As Hattie placed the last of the vases on the table, the image of Frank Lewis’s expression of pity resurfaced. She hugged herself, turning to stare out the dining room window at the dew-laden garden, still untouched by the morning sun.

Though she’d been deeply offended by Lewis’s accusations, he had raised questions in her mind about Charles—about his business and how he had treated people. And those questions were all jumbled together with her memories of her struggle to make their marriage work, of her resultant confusion when nothing she did seemed to get through to him.

Had she known Charles at all? Had she thirsted so much for adventure, as her mother had suggested, that she’d been blind to the kind of person he was? She could only hope she hadn’t been that naïve or self-absorbed, but how could she be certain?

She’d found it puzzling that once they’d recited their vows, Charles had become distant and cold, the antithesis of the handsome, charming man who had courted her so determinedly in Boston. Yet it didn’t necessarily follow that acting aloof or abrupt with her meant he would’ve done what Mona Starr and Frank Lewis claimed. And she could hardly take Lewis’s word as gospel—he’d written the “Red Letters” column that had incited the crew on board Charles’s ship to mutiny.

She worried her lower lip as she mentally reviewed the events of two nights ago. What she needed was proof.
She needed to know what kind of man she’d fallen in love with—whether Charles had been honorable, whether she was right to blame herself for having failed in their marriage. She wouldn’t be capable of moving on until she had answers, and that meant taking a closer look at Charles’s activities and business dealings, however distasteful she found the task to be.

She turned from the window to pace the length of the elegantly appointed room. This restlessness within her—her constant chafing against the restrictions of the mourning period and her overwhelming sense of being stifled—simply wouldn’t ease. Was she merely being reckless, as it now appeared she’d been the night of the fire? Or were the questions that swirled through her mind, keeping her sleepless, legitimate?

The front door slammed, jolting her from her thoughts, and Sara entered the dining room carrying a huge package. “For you and the girls, Mrs. Longren,” she said, placing it on the oak sideboard.

Curious, Hattie examined the parcel, which was wrapped in brown paper and tied with a pale pink ribbon. She opened the accompanying white linen envelope and withdrew a card.
To replace the dresses you ruined
, the scrawled message said, accompanied by Mona’s bold signature at the bottom of the card.

Hattie placed it on the sideboard and unwrapped the package. Bolts of fabric tumbled into her arms—black mousseline de soie silk, blue India silk, forest-green French cashmere—all of the finest quality. Stunned, Hattie set them down and reached out a hand to the back
of the closest chair to steady herself. The gift was extravagant … and yet thoughtful. Mona had included the mousseline de soie in deference to her mourning period, the more vibrant colors for the girls.

Charlotte chose that moment to sweep into the room, a carefree vision in her cheerful lemon-yellow muslin gown, her elaborately styled cascade of blond ringlets no doubt the result of Tabitha’s painstaking efforts. The poor girl was probably slumped over the kitchen table, exhausted and useless to Sara for the foreseeable future, Hattie thought, sighing inwardly.