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“Food.”
    “I’ll put an order in with Kathleen.” Jase headed toward the kitchen, maneuvering past Malachi, who was stretched out and snoring, taking up all the floor space where they needed to work.
    “So.” Bob placed his forearms on the bar. “Jase said you had some questions for me?”
    “Yeah, about the wreck of the Henrietta Dale . I understand she ran aground on Dungeness Spit in 1893, and that it’s rumored she was purposely lured onto the rocks.”
    “Yup.” He handed her his empty pint and pointed to the tap he preferred. “According to my great-great-grandfather’s papers—he was the master ship’s carpenter who handled all the renovations—Michael Seavey purchased the Henrietta Dale from a San Francisco shipping company in 1893 and had her refurbished. He hired a crew and set sail out of Victoria. She never made it to Port Chatham—she ran off course and grounded on the west side of the spit, killing most on board.”
    “ Seavey was the owner?” Jordan digested that bit of news while she drew his beer. “Interesting coincidence, given that he was Holt’s ancestor.”
    “No kidding. History repeating itself and all that.” Bob took a long draw from his new pint. “The lightkeeper and his wife tried to help the few survivors.”
    “Was the weather bad the night of the wreck?”
    “Not that I know of. And that spit is way off the route they should have taken. Seavey didn’t hire fools; his captain had a good reputation. Which is why folks thought he had to have been lured onto the rocks.”
    Jordan ran hot water into the sink, added detergent, then dumped in a tray of empties to soak. “How does one go about luring a ship off course?”
    “Back then, a ship captain would’ve used the lights of Point Wilson—that’s the lighthouse right here in town—and New Dungeness to triangulate his ship’s position. Once he had a position and his speed, he could then use maps to set a heading. If someone purposely changed the location of the light on Dungeness Spit—say, by disabling the lightstation and then putting a bright lantern somewhere farther down the beach—the captain would have triangulated their position incorrectly, adjusted the ship’s course, and then run aground.”
    “She’s a clipper ship, right?” Jordan asked as she handed Bill a tray of drinks to deliver.
    “And a real beauty, according to the articles in the newspapers back then,” Bob confirmed. “Clipper ships had a huge sail area, which made them very fast for the day. If the captain calculated their position incorrectly, by the time he’d realized his mistake, there would’ve been no stopping her—the crew couldn’t have gotten the sails down in time.”
    “So who would have done that?” Jordan asked, intrigued.
    Bob shrugged. “My guess? Maybe a business competitor. A lot of folks wouldn’t have minded if Seavey disappeared off the waterfront.”
    Jase returned with plates for her and Malachi, who miraculously woke up from his coma the moment Jase placed the food under his nose.
    Jordan set her own plate of grilled sturgeon and sautéed greens where she could take bites while mixing the next round of drinks. She picked up a drink slip. “What in the world is a Mexican Martini?”
    “Tequila, Cointreau, lime juice, and sweet and sour …” Her eyes must have glazed over, because Jase took the slip away from her.
    “Seavey’s partner was also a real piece of work,” Tom was saying. “He had a history of violence. I wouldn’t put it past him to have tried to cut Seavey out of their business.”
    Bob looked as if he wanted to disagree, but the front door opened, snagging their attention, and Darcy entered. Acknowledging Jordan’s wave, she came over and took the stool between Bob and Tom.
    She gave Jordan a wary look. “You’re bartending ?”
    “I was properly warned,” Jase said.
    “And still you proceeded.” Darcy shook her head. Her clothes were streaked with sand and mud. She leaned