Free Ghost Ship: A Port Chatham Mystery by P. J. Alderman Page B

a sheaf of pages dated 1893.
    Before she had a chance to search for a mention of the Henrietta Dale , a diary entry from the month before Seavey’s death caught her eye:
    July 8, 1893: I found much in the events of this evening to be cause for increased concern. Garrett grows ever bolder, taking unwise risks, even flaunting our successes in front of the Customs agents …
    Jordan looked up from the page long enough to adjust the light from the bedside lamp, then settled in to read.

Lost Nerve
    July 8, 1893
    ( one month earlier )
    M ICHAEL propped a shoulder against the back wall of Mayor Payton’s luxuriously appointed parlor, sipping after-dinner port from Baccarat crystal and listening to the evening’s guest performer, Payton’s unmarried sister. A quiet mouse of a woman dressed in a dull green gown that did nothing for her sallow coloring or plump figure, she’d been seated next to Michael during dinner. She moved effortlessly between Bach, Schumann, and more contemporary ragtime songs, displaying a far better command of the pianoforte than she had of polite dinner conversation.
    Michael’s fellow dinner guests, polished in deportment yet woefully uneducated in the fine arts, ignored Miss Payton’s stunning musical talent in favor of consuming large amounts of the admittedly excellent Duoro port the mayor imported for his frequent fund-raisers. Drowning out the music with chatter, the guests bemoaned the cool, wet summer weather that had ruined the Independence Day fireworks display; worried aloud about their risky investments in the proposed railroad between Port Chatham and Portland, Oregon; and vociferously predicted the demise of the local shipping industry. The latter was based on the increased business that lately had gone to that “upstart” port town of “heretics and hedonists,” Seattle.
    Michael found it all intolerably boring. Savoring another sip of the port, he wondered whether he could manage a glance at his pocket watch without appearing rude. And whether, if he found enough time had passed, he could slip away without drawing unwanted attention.
    Loud laughter erupted from the opposite corner of the room, causing Miss Payton to falter in her otherwise flawless execution of a Bach cantabile. More than one set of eyes averted as Jesse Canby staggered then fell onto a velvet settee. His silk cravat wine-stained and askew, his legs splayed, he raised his head to lock gazes with his mother, Eleanor, who stood rigid with embarrassment. Jesse’s eyes were feverishly bright, his laughter uncaring as the effort to hold his head up became too much.
    As owner of the Port Chatham Weekly Gazette , Eleanor Canby held sway over the opinions of the town’s social elite. She’d made it clear that Jesse, an unrepentant alcoholic who had taken an unhealthy interest in the waterfront’s opium-smoking parlors, not to mention its brothels, was no longer welcome in her home. And recently, she’d become ever more strident in her stand on her editorial page, railing against the evils of such licentiousness. Indeed, given the potential for offending Eleanor, Michael was surprised that Payton had allowed Jesse to attend this evening’s event.
    Then again, when one craved the heavenly demon, all else took a backseat. Jesse was quietly supplying the good mayor with contraband, thus minimizing the risk that someone would witness Payton’s visit to a known opium den.
    Michael was careful to keep his expression bland, not allowing his amusement to show. Payton was in a delicate position: he couldn’t slight Eleanor without suffering political repercussions, yet neither could he publicly snub his supplier. Nevertheless, Eleanor possessed a keen intelligence—it wouldn’t take long for her to piece together the reason for Jesse’s presence tonight.
    The irony was that half the guests this evening, including Jesse, were Michael’s regular customers. The new pastime of Port Chatham’s social elite was a visit to