P. J. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

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 friendI couldnt 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.

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-choked patch of lawn sat Longren House, the nineteenth-century Queen Anne shed bought on what could only be described asthough she normally tried to avoid the terman insane whim.

Crisp air, washed clean from last nights 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 thatshe tilted her headsagged. 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 dont even own a hammer.

While shed 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 shed planned for herself. A simpler, quieter lifean antidote to the hell shed lived through for the last year. A fantasy of peaceful, solitary days spent wallpapering a few rooms, perhaps rehanging the porch swing shed 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 shed 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 hadnt stopped for her requisite morning cup.

If she gave in to impulse, thats what tomorrow mornings 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. Shed 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 shed fallen in love with that crazy witchs cap perched atop the turret, the arched entryway and the gingerbread trim, the utter wackiness of its architecture. She didnt care whether it tumbled down around herfor 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. Shes a real beauty, isnt she?

Jordan frowned. Even with the aid of fuzzy focus, the house wasnt 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 youll be setting up shop here in town?

No, at least, not right away. Perhaps not ever, though she wasnt admitting that yet, even to herself. Im taking a year off to work on the house.

Youre 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. Hell 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-shockedits 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.

* * *

J ORDAN 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 werent 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 townpeople 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.