Haunting Jordan Read Online Free PDF Page A

stopped by to bring you a few historical documents we thought you might enjoy. They’re on the counter next to the cake. You’ll return them to us at the Society when you’re through with them, won’t you?”
    “Of course. How thoughtful of you. In fact, I’m eager to visit and go through your collection.” Jordan waved a hand. “I’m determined to fix the old place up. I’d love to see some pictures from when it was new, plus any articlesthat might have appeared at the time in the local newspapers.”
    Evidently she’d said the right thing, because both women beamed at her.
    “And we’d love to be of help!” Delia gushed. “It’s so important to preserve our heritage, don’t you think?”
    “Absolutely.” Relieved, Jordan walked them to the door. “Are you sure I can’t interest you in some cake? I can’t possibly eat it all by myself.”
    “No, we’ll … get out of your hair!” Delia giggled, looking pleased with herself, and Nora chuckled indulgently.
    Jordan looked from one to the other, not getting their joke. Did her hair look that bad? She resisted the urge to raise a hand and check. “Well, thanks again. I’ll stop by tomorrow. What time do you open?”
    “Around ten,” Nora replied. “Do you know where the research center is?”
    “I have a map—I’ll find it.”
    Jordan closed the door behind them. Leaning against it, she shook her head, amused. Given their argumentative communication style, she’d wager her Prius that those two had been living together for a very long time.
    Walking back to the kitchen, she spied a cake box on the counter next to a jumble of newspaper clippings and papers. Peeking inside, she swiped a bit of frosting. “Oh. Yum.” Devil’s food with cream cheese fudge frosting.
    One side of the cake was smashed—she wondered whether they’d dropped it on the way over. She shrugged, smiling, and licked more frosting off her finger.
    As she walked back down the hallway to the foot ofthe stairs, she looked up. “You can come out now,” she called. “They’re gone.”
    The dog stuck his head around the banister, unrepentant.
    “Traitor.”
    * * *
    J ORDAN spent the next several hours hauling, sweeping, and mopping. By late afternoon, she had generated a recycle pile of respectable size and felt the need for sustenance that didn’t contain sugar.
    After explaining the concept of leash laws to the dog, who sat and listened with exaggerated patience, she tied a piece of rope she’d found in the butler’s pantry around his neck. He barked at her, no matter how firmly she tugged on the rope, until she folded it and held it out. Taking it gently from her, he held it in his mouth and trotted out the front door, pausing to look over his shoulder. She shook her head and hurried obediently after him.
    “We need to have a discussion regarding names,” she said as they proceeded down the sidewalk. “I refuse to call you Dog—it’s demeaning. What about … hmm … Spike?”
    “Raaoomph!”
    “Hey, he’s a great director—you could do worse. But I’ll keep thinking.”
    The afternoon had turned warm, and she tugged off her sweatshirt and tied it around her waist. As shewalked, she soaked up the atmosphere along with the rays.
    Port Chatham sat on a bluff on the northernmost tip of the Olympic Peninsula, surrounded by the glistening waters of Puget Sound. The town’s historic waterfront faced Port Chatham Bay on a narrow strip of low-lying land only a few blocks wide. The rest of the town—the majority of its residential areas—had been built on the bluffs overlooking downtown.
    Around each corner, Jordan was confronted with yet a different view of the shipping lanes and the islands that dotted Puget Sound. To the east, a few blocks off the brow of the hill, she could see the ferry making its way across Admiralty Inlet to Whidbey Island.
    Her neighborhood consisted of blocks of historic homes surrounding a small, satellite business district that spread