Haunting Jordan Read online

  Praise for P. J. Alderman’s

  Haunting Jordan …

  “Lush, descriptive writing is the hallmark of P. J. Alderman’s novel Haunting Jordan.”

  —DIANE MOTT DAVIDSON

  … and her RITA-nominated debut,

  A Killing Tide

  “Tense and riveting, Alderman’s debut delivers.”

  —COLLEEN THOMPSON, bestselling author of Beneath Bone Lake

  “Suspense, romance, and a setting so well-drawn, you’ll feel like you’re there—Alderman delivers it all. An outstanding debut!”

  —MARILYN PAPPANO, award-winning author of Forbidden Stranger

  “Alderman’s debut is a heart-thumping, quick-paced novel that will keep you on your toes. With an intricate plot, a complicated love story, and strong characters, this book possesses the winning formula for this genre.”

  —Romantic Times Book Reviews

  “A phenomenal debut novel combining suspense and romance against the backdrop of the sea.”

  —Amazon (5 stars)

  “You have a winner. … I stayed up until after midnight to finish it. … I love that pooch!!! I’m looking forward to future books by you—write fast!”

  —CINDI STREICHER, Bookseller of the Year Award winner

  To my sister Kathy

  Acknowledgments

  THANKS to the following: Donnell, Kathy, and Julie, for reading and providing invaluable feedback when I most needed it. Thanks also to Margaret Benton, Faren Bachelis, and Randall Klein, for helping me find my way through the editorial process.

  Thanks to Pamela Beason of Sirius Investigations, Bellingham, Washington, for her valuable insight into police investigations and interrogations.

  A very special thanks to Amy Atwell, critique partner extraordinaire and valued friend—I couldn’t have done it without you.

  And last but not least, thanks to Kevan Lyon, my fabulous agent, and to Kate Miciak, my incomparable editor, who believed in this series and provided the support to make it happen.

  The Ransom

  Port Chatham, Washington

  June 6, 1890

  HER satin shoes left damning footprints in the pearlescent dew on the moonlit garden path. The herb beds she fled past announced their presence in cloying waves—the spice of mint here, the pungency of rosemary there. Under the spreading branches of a magnolia tree, she paused, trembling, and glanced over her shoulder. Shadows danced on the breeze, chasing a shower of blossoms across the empty garden.

  He hadn’t followed her.

  Before long, though, she’d be missed. And once Seavey discovered her absence, he’d hunt her down. No one would stop him, she realized bitterly—he was above the law.

  I mustn’t think about that now. I’m Charlotte’s only hope.

  Taking a deep breath, she slipped through the hedge at the back of the garden and crossed to the street, walking rapidly toward the bluff.

  An onshore wind flattened the waves on Admiralty Inlet, blowing the clouds from the sky and chilling her soul. On any other evening, she could’ve counted on Port Chatham’s mercurial weather to camouflage her escape. But not tonight.

  Beneath the brilliance of the stars, the town’s waterfront stretched below her. A dozen schooners anchored in the harbor, rocking gently on a sea of silver, rigging draped from their masts like black filigree. Once upon a time, the stately ships had called out to her, whispering of romance and adventure. Now she couldn’t stand to look at them.

  She turned right at the next corner, breaking into a run before forcing herself to drop back to a more sedate pace. I must act natural. I must look as if I haven’t a care in the world.

  Her neighbors’ cottages stood dark and silent behind picket fences and tidy gardens, their owners still in attendance at the soirée. Though she was more than a block away, she could hear the laughter and music spilling from the Canby mansion, the syncopated rhythms of Scott Joplin’s ragtime pulsing along her raw nerves.

  For the other guests, the party had been an opportunity to share an evening with Port Chatham’s social elite, its powerful politicians and businessmen. But for her, the dinner had turned into an agonizing game of nerves, each course of rich food an obstacle to overcome. And Seavey had relished in her discomfort, leaning back with savage grace in his chair, his pale gray eyes watching her swallow her terror with every bite of salmon in dill sauce, every spoonful of floating island.

  God damn his soul. Had his men beaten Charlotte, or worse? Was Charlotte lying right this moment, bound and gagged, in the filth and pitch-black terrors of the tunnels?

  Reaching into the hidden pocket she’d sewn into her skirt, she clutched the roll of money. She couldn’t let her imagination run wild with possibilities—she knew what she had to do.

  At the top of the bluff, she stepped onto the footbridge that would take her down to the waterfront, treading carefully on dew-slick wood. The wind howled, buffeting the trestle. A gust tore at the silk skirts of her evening gown as if it were trying to drag her back from an unknown precipice. Drunken sailors and soiled doves are the denizens of the waterfront, it seemed to scream, not decent-people like you.

  Leaving the footbridge behind, she crossed the two blocks to the bay. Choosing the muddy streets over the louder boardwalks that fronted the business establishments, she used the faint illumination of the occasional gaslight lantern to light her way.

  Honky-tonk and laughter spilled from a saloon, and she avoided the pool of light from its open doors. At the end of the wharf, a six-masted schooner towered over her, armed thugs patrolling its decks to keep the crew from deserting. When a guard stopped and stared down at her, shifting his rifle, she quickened her pace.

  She darted past abandoned buildings charred by fire, all too aware she was most exposed in this recently leveled stretch of waterfront. The stench of scorched wood and damp ash assaulted her, forcing her to breathe through her mouth. The tragedy marked the beginning of her nightmare, she realized. If only I’d stayed home that night.

  The odor of brackish salt water was stronger now. Out on the bay, the oars of an unseen Whitehall boat slapped the water rhythmically. She could make out dark, prone forms on the beach, revelers blinded or passed out from one too many glasses of the corn liquor served by saloons and houses of ill repute. A shadowy figure moved among them, rifling through pockets. Farther down, two people lay entwined, groping silently and urgently. Heat warmed her cheeks, and she averted her gaze.

  Turning away from the water, she slipped past a deserted City Hall, clinging to the buildings’ shadows. When a group of sailors approached, shouting and staggering, she ducked into the alley. Catching a glimpse of their faces in the moonlight, she had to stop herself from gasping. They were so young, their faces still unlined in the innocence of youth. Just boys, perhaps thrilled to taste their first hint of danger, heedless of the perils.

  A shoe scraped on gravel, and she whirled, peering into the darkness. Had Seavey followed her after all? Had he tracked her down like an animal, intending to corner her in the darkened alley? Oh, how he’d like that. She’d seen it in his eyes every time he’d looked at her. She was his prey—she’d known the moment they first met.

  A shadow shifted.

  She leapt across the alley, into the pool of green light at the rear entrance of Port Chatham’s most infamous house of ill repute. Her pursuer’s footsteps quickened until he was directly behind her.

  Raising her fists, Hattie Longren pounded on the door, her screams rending the hushed violence of the night.

  Chapter 1

  Port Chatham, Washington

  June, present day

  JORDAN Marsh stood in the middle of the street, staring aghast at her new home. Across twelve feet of uneven pavement and a weed-choke
d patch of lawn sat Longren House, the nineteenth-century Queen Anne she’d bought on what could only be described as—though she normally tried to avoid the term—an insane whim.

  Crisp air, washed clean from last night’s rain, brought into sharp relief decorative tracery hanging askew from the domed turret. Bright sun highlighted chunks of paint peeling from the columns of the wraparound porch that—she tilted her head—sagged. Behind a railing missing every third baluster, a broken swing had been shoved against the front bay window, which sported an ugly crack running diagonally its entire length.

  Holy God. I don’t even own a hammer.

  While she’d been going through the inevitable hassles of closing down her therapy practice in Los Angeles and packing to move, Longren House had been a daily reminder of the new life she’d planned for herself. A simpler, quieter life—an antidote to the hell she’d lived through for the last year. A fantasy of peaceful, solitary days spent wallpapering a few rooms, perhaps rehanging the porch swing she’d always dreamed of owning.

  What on earth had she been thinking? That watching a few reruns of This Old House qualified her to handle a historic-home remodel?

  She counted the faded colors gracing the exterior, punctuating each numeral with a fingertip pointed midair at a section of siding, or what was left of it. “Thirteen goddamn colors of paint!” Just the thought of matching such a color scheme in modern paints had her lightheaded.

  A huge, shaggy dog lying in front of the door raised its head and grinned at her, tail thumping, looking for all the world as if it belonged there. And for a brief moment, she could envision the house as she’d dreamed it would look after it was refurbished. “Like a real home,” she murmured. “With a front porch swing for visiting neighbors and a friendly dog.”

  A door slammed down the block, and a dark-haired man wearing a cable-knit sweater and jeans jogged down the front steps of the house on the corner. Zeroing in on the tray of coffee cups he balanced in one hand, she recalled that in her haste to hit the road, she hadn’t stopped for her requisite morning cup.

  Local Man Assaulted by Caffeine-Deprived Lunatic

  If she gave in to impulse, that’s what tomorrow morning’s newspaper headlines would read. Not, she reminded herself firmly, that she was a person who typically gave in to impulses.

  Caffeinated beverages notwithstanding, though, he looked … interesting. Broad shoulders, and a confident, ground-eating stride. Definitely …

  She gave herself a shake. Nope. Gazing was not in the cards. According to her Four-Point Plan for Personal Renewal, gazing was on hold for at least six months. Then she could look but not touch for another six. She’d laid it all out, written it all down. She had a plan, and she was sticking to it. Remodel first.

  As soon as she bought a hammer. And a paintbrush or three.

  She forced her attention back to her house. Leaning forward on her toes, she squinted to see whether lack of focus improved it. The driver of an approaching car tapped its horn, evidently afraid she would fling herself into its oncoming path.

  The idea had merit.

  Okay, so the house needed a little work. But she’d fallen in love with that crazy witch’s cap perched atop the turret, the arched entryway and the gingerbread trim, the utter wackiness of its architecture. She didn’t care whether it tumbled down around her—for the first time in her life, she had a real home.

  Complete with a dog, it seemed.

  “Nice bones.”

  Her head whipped around. Her new neighbor stood just a few feet away.

  He gestured with the tray. “The house,” he clarified in a deep baritone, smiling slightly, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “One of the few examples of stick-built Queen Anne architecture left standing in Port Chatham. She’s a real beauty, isn’t she?”

  Jordan frowned. Even with the aid of fuzzy focus, the house wasn’t yet close to a “beauty.” But, hey, maybe he was an architect who recognized potential.

  The aroma of fresh-roasted coffee and steamed milk wafted over her, and her eyes crossed.

  “Can I ask what your interest is in her?” he asked.

  “What? Oh.” Jordan cleared her throat. “I bought her.”

  “Ah.” He looked squarely at Jordan, not concealing his curiosity. Up close, his face was rugged and lived-in … and appealing. “You must be the psychologist from Los Angeles.”

  Her surprise must have shown on her face.

  “Sorry.” He shrugged, smiling sheepishly. “Small towns and all that.” He extended a hand. “Jase Cunningham.”

  “Jordan Marsh.” His grip was warm and firm.

  “So you’ll be setting up shop here in town?”

  “No, at least, not right away.” Perhaps not ever, though she wasn’t admitting that yet, even to herself. “I’m taking a year off to work on the house.”

  “You’re planning to fix her up?”

  She nodded.

  “Good.”

  “I need to buy a hammer,” she blurted out.

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “The purchase of a hammer is a symbolic act. It is not to be taken lightly.”

  She narrowed her gaze. Okay, scratch architect. Maybe he was one of those artisans who worked on historic homes. Maybe he had a lot of hammers. Maybe he named them.

  He came to some kind of conclusion with a nod. “Talk to Ed at Port Chatham Hardware out on the highway, and tell him I sent you. He’ll get you set up properly.”

  “Um, thanks.”

  He pried one of the cups from its holder and handed it to her. She clutched it with both hands, giving him a look of such profound gratitude that he grinned. “You seem a little shell-shocked—it’s the least I can do. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

  “Thanks again.”

  He waved a hand as he started down the street.

  “Hey,” she yelled, and he turned back, raising an eyebrow. “Do you know who owns the dog?”

  “Nope. Never seen him before.”

  * * *

  JORDAN watched for a moment longer, then shook her head. Four-Point Plan for Personal Renewal. Time to review the salient points.

  As she walked over to her Toyota Prius, she took a sip of the coffee, which she discovered was an excellent latte. The man obviously knew his java. Shifting the cup to her left hand, she opened the trunk and hauled out her bag.

  The hairs on the back of her neck suddenly rose, and she glanced around. The neighborhood of turn-of-the-twentieth-century homes seemed unusually deserted, the street empty and desolate with its cracked pavement and faded markings. Why weren’t more people outside, taking advantage of the fine summer day?

  She studied the vacant windows of the surrounding houses, keeping her expression nonchalant. No doubt a neighbor was watching her from inside one of them. After all, this was a small town—people were bound to be curious about the recently widowed psychologist moving to their neighborhood.

  From the foliage of the maple tree, a songbird trilled enthusiastically, mocking her uneasiness. Shrugging, she gripped the handle of her bag and rolled it across the uneven lawn, banging it up the front steps.

  The dog scrambled to its feet, ears perked. It had the black and tan coloring of a German shepherd, but its blocky build and thick, shaggy hair reminded her of a much larger breed. Definitely a classic mutt. A very large male mutt. She held out her hand for him to sniff.

  Setting her bag down, she hunted through her pockets for the key the real estate agent had given her. After several tries, the lock gave with a screech and the beveled-glass door swung inward.

  She looked down at the dog. “Excuse me.”

  He cocked his head.

  “Shoo?” She wiggled her fingers, and when that had no effect, she managed to look stern. “Go home!”

  He didn’t budge.

  She sighed. “I absolutely cannot get attached to you—someone owns you, I’m sure of it. I’m not letting you inside.”

  He barked, and she jumped a foot. Then he trotted in
to the foyer.

  “Right,” she muttered.

  She set her bag inside the door, then slowly turned in a semicircle. The carved mahogany staircase that had made her hyperventilate when she’d first laid eyes on it rose in a graceful curve to the second floor, its risers covered by a faded, robin’s-egg-blue runner worn through at the front edges. To her right stood the parlor with its bay window looking onto the front porch; to her left, the library that had been the second reason she’d lost her mind and written an obscenely large check.

  “God.” She sagged against the arched doorway to the library, staring at the cream-colored area rug. “That may be an Aubusson. Did I even notice that when I was here before?”

  Nails clicking on the oak parquet flooring, the dog came to stand next to her, sniffing the stale air. She rubbed his head. “If you pee on that rug,” she warned, “we’ll have words. No marking your territory, even if it is the male imperative.”

  He looked insulted and returned to lie down by the front door.

  The house had the empty silence of disuse, as if it had been waiting far too long for her arrival. She climbed the stairs, brushing cobwebs off the dusty railing. High up in the stairwell, sun shone through a small dormer window, turning the tracks her fingers made a burnished gold. Dust motes spiraled upward, floating on air currents warmed by shafts of sunlight.

  She walked into the front bedroom, a giant, dimly lit cavern, the formality of its frescoed ceiling relieved by the cozy window seat in the turret. The room stood empty, its wide-planked floor scratched and bare, and the air was even staler than it had been downstairs.