Ghost Ship: A Port Chatham Mystery Read Online Free Page B

Jordan turned her head toward the voice.
    The gardener stood beside the picnic table. She lifted a hand to point at the ship.
    “Oh! Yes.” Jordan smiled. “I hear there’s quite an active wooden boat society in this area, dedicated to refurbishing old ships.”
    The woman hesitated. “I suppose that’s true, yes.” When Jordan gave her a questioning glance, she shrugged. “I don’t get to town much.”
    “That’s understandable. If I lived out here, I wouldn’t want to leave, either. It’s an arduous hike.”
    “Oh, I’d take a boat,” the gardener replied matter-of-factly. “Nevertheless, I find it difficult to leave.”
    Jordan turned back in the direction of the ship, which was very close now. The wisps of fog in its path near the water’s surface dispersed, making the air around the ship seem brighter. “It must be quite expensive to maintain a ship of that size. Are you familiar with this one?”
    The woman pursed her lips. “I believe she was originally built in the mid-1800s and used as a passenger ship between China and the West Coast. For a short time until the steamers came along, clipper ships were the fastest vessels on the ocean. They had wonderfully plush accommodations for their passengers.”
    “You seem to know a lot about them,” Jordan noted, curious.
    “Yes, it’s an interest of mine. The ship ran aground not far from here in 1893,” the woman continued. “Most of the crew and passengers died in the wreck.”
    “How tragic.” Jordan winced at the vision of such a beautiful ship breaking up in the surf, then paused, confused. “But she couldn’t have been completely destroyed if someone restored her, right?”
    “No, I guess not,” the woman murmured, her gaze distant.
    The ship really was coming quite close to shore, almost bearing down on them. “She’s not going to repeat history, is she?” Jordan asked worriedly.
    The woman gave her an odd look. “She’ll turn at the last minute, running along the tip of the spit. I’ve seen her do this dozens of times. It’s beautiful to watch.”
    The ship did indeed change course and sail past to the north. It was so close that Jordan could hear the clanking of its rigging and the swish of water as it cut through the waves. Someone out of sight, perhaps one of the crew, was singing a song. Jordan caught a phrase here and there in a deep, lilting baritone, but she didn’t recognize the tune. It must have been the misty air, or perhaps the angle, but she couldn’t quite make out the name painted on the stern. “Do you know what she’s called?”
    “She was renamed the Henrietta Dale by her new owner in 1893.” The woman drew on her gardening gloves and began to turn away. “Supposedly, he had her completely rebuilt for the purpose of making trips between here and Canada. Not that he ever had the chance.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “She ran aground the night of her maiden voyage.” When she looked back over her shoulder, the woman’s expression had become grim. “Some say she was deliberately lured onto the rocks.”

Chapter 3
    A NOTHER hour passed. Jordan soaked up the sun, hoping to offset the chill that had settled deep inside her after learning the story of the Henrietta Dale . She’d heard that drowning was a particularly horrible way to die.
    There had to have been numerous local shipwrecks over the past 150 years. After all, the area had thriving ports that had harbored substantial criminal activity. And the local waters were known for their dangerous currents, dense fog, and unpredictable weather. But how many of the ships that had gone down had been deliberately sunk? It was a terrible thought.
    She watched Coast Guard lifeboats arrive and anchor offshore from Darcy’s crime scene. A helicopter hovered for a time. Jordan could just make out the tiny shapes of a number of law-enforcement types working the area, probably gathering evidence and preparing Holt’s body for transport to the morgue. At least,