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Ghost Ship: A Port Chatham Mystery - Softcover

Buch 2 von 2: Port Chatham

Alderman, P. J.

 
9780553592115: Ghost Ship: A Port Chatham Mystery
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0553592114 ISBN 13: 9780553592115
Verlag: BANTAM TRADE, 2011

Inhaltsangabe

When she finds the town's notorious womanizer lying on the beach with a bullet in his head, and is then visited by the ghost of the victim's ancestor--an infamous shanghaier--therapist Jordan Marsh suddenly has two murders to solve while dealing with her growing attraction to a handsome pub owner. By the author of Haunting Jordan. Original.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

P. J. Alderman has lived in the Pacific Northwest for more than twenty-five years. She is the author of A Killing Tide, a RITA finalist for Best First Book, as well as Phantom River. After spending several years on Oregon’s North Coast, she now lives in Washington State with her family. P. J. Alderman is currently at work on her next Port Chatham mystery.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter 1

Dungeness Spit, Admiralty Inlet, Washington

July, present day

Call me crazy, to use an imprecise term," Jordan Marsh huffed as she trudged down the beach, "but you know when your surgeon cleared you to start physical therapy? I don't think she had in mind a ten-mile forced march through sand."

"Is that a whine I'm detecting in your voice?" Darcy Moran's pace showed no sign of moderating. As she was built like a modern-day Valkyrie with the inseam of a pro basketball player, Jordan had to take three steps to Darcy's two.

They'd planned the hike the night before while comfortably ensconced at their favorite pub, listening to live jazz. Darcy had waxed poetic about the trek along the west side of Dungeness Spit. She'd made it sound as if Jordan would emerge from the experience renewed in both body and spirit.

Five miles in length, the spit--a driftwood-strewn, narrow stretch of windswept sand and intrepid beach flora--hooked away from the northern edge of the Olympic Peninsula, into the busy shipping lanes of Admiralty Inlet. Their destination was the area's oldest lighthouse, built in 1857. They had the hike to themselves; Jordan hadn't seen another soul since they'd left the parking lot.

The lack of fellow enthusiasts should have been a sign.

"We have just three hours to reach the lighthouse and make the return trip before the tide comes back in," Darcy pointed out as she attacked the beach with militaristic zeal. Unlike Jordan, she'd dressed practically for the day in a silk turtleneck and Gore-Tex jacket, jeans, and rugged hiking boots. "Do you want to crawl over those stacks of logs, or stroll through this nice, soft sand?"

"Stroll?"

"Besides," Darcy continued, showing no sign she'd caught Jordan's sarcasm, "I thought you said you wanted to lose a few pounds."

"Well, sure, but I hadn't envisioned losing them all in one day."

Their hike was along a gently sloping beach that--by mile two--had threatened to permanently shorten Jordan's uphill leg. She already had blisters, and her calf muscles were screaming. Since mile three, she'd had a clear vision of tomorrow's front-page newspaper headline:

Port Chatham Resident Rescued from Certain Death

Jordan Marsh, the most recent owner of historic Longren House, was found unconscious this morning on Dungeness Spit. She was said to be suffering from advanced hypothermia.

Neighbors expressed shock, though some privately admitted she probably deserved to suffer, since she'd been responsible for the recent wounding of their beloved police chief, Darcy Moran . . .

"This is payback, isn't it?" Jordan demanded. "You still blame me. Not, mind you, that I blame you for blaming me--I blame me."

Darcy stopped, hands planted on her hips. "You had no way of knowing that the man had violent tendencies. A guy who has that many screws loose--"

"Another phrase reviled by the psychiatric community . . ."

"--whatever. A narcissistic stalker can turn on you in the blink of an eye."

"Still, as a psychologist I should've recognized the signs. I didn't, and you paid the price." Jordan doubted many people could claim the distinction--only a few days after arriving in town--of causing the near-mortal shooting of a police chief. One, no less, who had gone out of her way to make Jordan feel welcome, offering both friendship and support.

Darcy heaved a sigh. "Look, I knew the guy was acting weird as hell, but even with all my law enforcement training, I didn't put it together, either. I see no reason why you should shoulder all the blame."

"Hmph." Jordan waved off a pesky black fly suicidally attracted to the fragrance of her shampoo. "So explain to me again why we're out here? We could have hiked North Beach, or taken any number of nice walks closer to town. Locations," she emphasized, "that don't require calling out a medevac helicopter when you collapse at my feet."

Darcy shrugged and continued down the beach. "Chalk it up to having to play the invalid for the last several weeks. I wanted to get out of town, and I like to set challenging personal goals."

"Right." Jordan shook her head and slogged through more sand.

A hundred yards out, a seagull dipped in and out of a layer of fog floating just above the water's surface. They were surrounded by three mountain ranges--the rugged peaks of the Olympics to the southwest, the British Columbia Coastal Range to the north, and to the east, the more gently formed, tree-covered Cascades, over which towered Mount Baker's giant snow-covered cone.

Other than the occasional cry of an eagle perched on a piece of driftwood, the only sound was of the waves lapping soporifically against the sand. Jordan indulged in a moment's fantasy of lying down in the sun and taking a nice, long nap.

Tragically, Darcy's voice intruded. "A hike such as this requires discipline, planning, and timing." She was once again warming to her favorite subject since The Incident: extreme goal-setting plus rigid control of every minute of every day. Jordan figured Darcy would eventually adjust, but it was a toss-up whether Jordan would expire before that blessed day arrived. "Discipline," Darcy continued in a lecturing tone, "that is sadly lacking in your own life."

"Did I mention that I read an article just the other day about the dangers of Americans' obsession with discipline? Europeans focus on living life to the fullest, giving greater priority to such indulgences as relaxation and fine foods and wines. Go figure, but they have longer life spans than we do."

Darcy's only response was a loud snort.

"Besides which," Jordan persisted, "Malachi and I walk every day."

"Yeah, you walk to that French restaurant three blocks over to have breakfast."

"Hey. Don't knock it--that restaurant has great espresso and The New York Times. Neither of us sees the point in extreme exercise."

"As far as I can tell, that mutt of yours doesn't see the point in anything except a nap in the sun."

Precisely. Smart dog.

As Darcy picked up the pace, Jordan lagged farther behind. "And do not malign Malachi," she said in a raised voice. "He's been a great comfort to me."

The stray dog had adopted her immediately upon her arrival, supporting her during a less-than-smooth transition. Within days, she'd had to deal with a century-old murder, an embittered LAPD detective intent on arresting her for killing her husband, and, well, other things. Things she'd given herself permission to deny.

Catching movement out of the corner of her eye, she turned, her footsteps faltering. A few yards offshore, a man rose up from the ocean, wearing a loosely fitted, rubberized gray suit that draped in folds over his rugged build. Seawater poured off him as he sloshed through the waves and onto the beach, removing a metal, helmetlike mask. In his other hand, he held an ornately decorated tin box.

He grinned, revealing crooked teeth. "Nice day for a dive!"

"I guess." Jordan was perplexed. "Isn't the water awfully cold around here, though?"

"Not if you don't stay down long," he replied cheerfully. Nodding politely, he stomped down the beach in his flippers, heading toward the peninsula.

"Hey," Darcy called out, looking irritated as she turned back. "Make more of an effort, will you?"

"I was just . . ." Jordan's gaze slid from the retreating figure of the diver to Darcy, who gave no indication that she'd seen him. "Never mind." Jordan broke into a jog.

"So how's it going with the ghosts?" Darcy asked uncannily as Jordan caught up.

"I don't want to talk about them." Or the fact that seeing them made her question her own sanity.

So far, Jordan hadn't discovered anyone else who could see and converse with both communities in Port Chatham--one human, the...

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Verlag
BANTAM TRADE
Erscheinungsdatum
2011
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0553592114
ISBN 13 
9780553592115
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
356
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