Authors: P. J. Alderman

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths

Haunting Jordan (41 page)

Jordan and Tom grinned.

* * *

J
ORDAN
parked the car at the curb in front of her house and sat for a moment with the car door open, petting Malachi. She didn’t relish the task ahead of her. It had been hard enough to explain to Tom.

“Have you told them yet?” The deep voice brought Jordan out of her thoughts. She turned to find Frank Lewis standing about ten yards away, hands in his pockets, watching her.

“You mean Hattie and Charlotte?” Jordan shook her head. “I’m headed in to talk to them now.”

“Hattie will be upset that she misjudged Seavey so badly.” Frank grimaced. “I can’t say I like that he never tried to stop my hanging, though.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call him an angel,” Jordan agreed. “It’s hard to tell from his papers, but I suspect he was responsible for more than a dozen deaths over the years.”

“Then again, if he killed Clive Johnson, he just might’ve redeemed himself for the rest.”

“There you go.” Jordan paused. “Are you coming inside? Hattie could use the company after I tell her, I’m certain. And she’ll have her hands full, caring for Charlotte.”

Frank shook his head. “My reasons haven’t changed.”

Jordan studied him. “As a psychologist, I can recommend you’ll be far healthier if you let go of all that guilt.”

“And I don’t remember asking your opinion,” Frank retorted.

“‘Guilt upon the conscience, like rust upon iron, both
defiles and consumes it, gnawing and creeping into it, which eats out the very heart and substance of the metal.’” She shook her head. “That was close, anyway. And being an old-time union man and sailor, you should relate.”

He scowled. “Who said that?”

She shrugged. “Some British bishop from the seventeenth century. It’s one of my favorite quotes, actually.”

“Yeah, well, most ships in my time were made of wood, so I can’t relate all that well.”

She gave up and climbed out of the car, heading toward the house. “Just think about it,” she said over her shoulder.

* * *

S
HE
found Hattie and Charlotte waiting for her in the kitchen. After fixing the espresso she was convinced she couldn’t survive without, she knew she couldn’t stall any longer. She sat them both down and explained what she’d discovered in Michael Seavey’s papers.

Hattie sat quietly, her expression horrified. “I had it all wrong.” She pressed her lips together. “I treated Michael Seavey horribly.”

“Let’s keep a little perspective,” Jordan countered. “He propositioned you, pressured you to drop your plans to unionize Longren Shipping, took your money, and watched Frank hang without a qualm, all to save his own skin. It’s not like he was the model of an upstanding citizen.”

Charlotte had started crying, and her sobs showed no
signs of abating. “This is all my fault,” she wailed. “If I hadn’t encouraged John, he wouldn’t have murdered you.”

Hattie put an arm around her shoulder. “Nonsense. You did nothing wrong.”

“But you suspected how bad he was, and I didn’t listen!”

“Once you become the obsession of a pathological personality,” Jordan said gently, “there’s almost nothing you can do to alter his behavior. And it’s very hard to see the behavior for what it is, unless you’ve got specific training.”
And not even then
, she thought. She’d never seen the pattern in Ted at all; she’d simply thought he was suffering from transference.

“So he never loved me.” Charlotte sniffled.

Jordan shot a glance at Hattie, who frowned. “He loved you,” Jordan explained, “but his love wasn’t very healthy.”

They were interrupted by a knock at the back door and Jordan got up to answer it. Frank stood on the back steps, his hands fisted at his sides, his expression tortured.

Jordan smiled and turned. “Hattie? There’s someone at the door for you.”

Hattie floated out of her chair, her expression confused. When she saw Frank, she gave an inarticulate cry, her hands covering her mouth.

She flew into his arms.

* * *

G
IVING
them some privacy, Jordan called to Malachi, and the two of them retired to the front porch to sit in the
early morning sunshine. They settled on the top step, and she closed her eyes, propping her shoulder against a column and raising her face to the warmth of the rays.

Jase sat beside her on the step.

He handed her a latte. “So about this Four-Point Plan of yours.”

Jordan let out a small laugh. “Fuck the FPP. Of course, I still talk to ghosts, and I don’t know what I’m doing with my life, or what I’ll want to do after I fix up the house.”

He didn’t even blink. “We admire ‘quirky’ around here—you’ll do just fine. And personally, I think you should revamp the FPP and stick with it.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “Really?”

“Really.” He paused for a moment, as if he were gathering his thoughts. “You’ve had a lot of turmoil in your life in the last year. You lost your husband, and you were stalked by a psychopath. And those are just the normal-world stresses you’ve faced.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I’m serious—you should take all the time you need to come to terms with the changes in your life.” He shot her a grin. “In the meantime, I’ll hire you to tend bar and keep me informed about the needs of my spectral customers.”

“Since I can’t exactly charge my clients my normal fee, I probably will need the money.” She took a sip of her latte, a new thought occurring to her. “Oh, hell. I think Ted was the one who got into my underwear drawer.”

Jase raised a brow.

“The ghosts were at a telekinesis seminar,” she explained, getting another grin out of him, “and Malachi
was at the vet’s. Ted must’ve gotten into the house and rifled through my clothing. I found it all rearranged, and Hattie swore they hadn’t done it.” She shuddered as she pictured Ted pawing through her lingerie.
Major ick
. “I think I need to buy all new underwear.”

“Hmm. The purchase of lingerie is a symbolic act and not to be taken lightly.” Jordan narrowed her gaze. Jase’s expression was solemn, but his eyes held a twinkle. “There’s this great shop downtown,” he added. “Talk to Mary Ann—tell her I sent you.”

“Right.” Amused, Jordan leaned back, closing her eyes.

They sat together, not speaking, listening to the neighborhood wake up. And for the first time in a very long time, she felt at peace.

Haunting Jordan
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

A Bantam Books Mass Market Original

Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

eISBN: 978-0-553-90692-9

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