The Ghost and the Haunted Mansion

by Alice Kimberly

  "But it is suspicious. You have to admit."

  "I'll only admit I need to get someone reliable to overhaul my VW's brakes."

  Bud and the tow truck had arrived by then. Leo Rollins was already gone. He'd stuck around only long enough to give his statement to the Staties—which, unfortunately, contradicted our statement since he'd said that he sure didn't see any sign of a sedan behind us. Then he'd rumbled away on his bronze Harley.

  Before Leo departed, I'd asked him about the strange design on the hilt of his dagger. He'd claimed he didn't know anything about the design or what it meant—just saw it in the window of a Newport antiques shop one day and picked it up for a steal.

  You believe that? Jack had asked.

  "What else should I believe?" I'd told the ghost. "You still haven't told me your own connection with that odd design."

  Once again, the ghost clammed up.

  Now we were back home, and Bud was pulling up to the curb in front of our bookstore's front window. I jumped down from the van to give my aunt and her sweetheart some privacy for their goodnight. Then she climbed down, too. Bud drove off, and together we pushed through our shop's front door.

  Not bothering with the lights in the main store, I moved through the archway, entering the sizeable space we used for reading groups and author appearances. My aunt was right: I could see right away that the knitting-mystery enthusiasts were gone. Only Bonnie was left.

  "Hi!" she said, glancing up from her floor-sweeping with the apple-cheeked enthusiasm of the unburdened young.

  Like her brother, Bonnie Franzetti had thick, black hair, but where Eddie's was straight, hers was curly. She wore it just past her chin, which flattered her heart-shaped face and big, brown, long-lashed eyes (like her brother's, too). She'd just turned seventeen and her youthful energy, even at this hour, radiated with almost palpable warmth.

  "How was your evening?" she asked.

  "Good," I croaked out, trying to sound pleasant, even though the stress of the failing brakes (not to mention Miss Todd's death, Seymour's near arrest, and the strange meeting with Stoddard) was settling into my bones. "How was yours? Any problems?"

  Bonnie tensed. "Not really. I mean, that depends."

  I frowned, jumping to an unhappy conclusion. "Where's Spencer? Did he come home yet?" I checked my watch again.

  Mr. Keenan was supposed to have driven Spencer back home when the boys were finished playing their video game. For a second, my heart started racing again, and then—

  "Hi, Mom! Hi, Aunt Sadie!" My redheaded eleven-year-old strolled into the room from the back hallway.

  "Spence was helping me," Bonnie explained. "He carried the garbage bag to the cans out back."

  "Oh." I exhaled. "Okay."

  "Thanks, Spence," Bonnie said.

  "No problem." My son's lightly freckled face reddened slightly.

  Okay, I thought, this is new: the obvious blushing, the shy smile, the hands nervously shoved into pockets, the swaying from foot to foot.

  Looks like Junior's sweet on someone.

  "Oh, great. So now you're going to speak up?"

  It's my prerogative, baby. I'm haunting you, remember]

  I gritted my teeth. Not unlike your average, obstinate living man, my dead guy maintained his own rules—which sometimes left me struggling to maintain my equanimity. What was I going to do about it? Miss Manners for Ghosts had yet to be written, although I was seriously considering self-publishing.

  "Spencer can't be sweet on Bonnie," I silently told the ghost. "She's been his babysitter for three years. Consider the first word please: baby.'9

  In my head, Jack laughed. I hate to break it to you, doll-face, but your boy's not in diapers anymore. He's about to go off to boot camp.

  "It's not GI training, for goodness' sake! I told you: It's just a kids' summer camp! Oh, forget it." My shoulders slumped. "I just thought I had plenty of time before Spencer started showing an interest in girls."

  Time's up. And take it from me: Until they get a clue and wise up, boys'11 do just about anything for the girl they're sweet on.

  "Don't remind me."

  My older brother's crush on a girl was what led to his showing off in a drag race. But Peter never finished that race. When his souped-up GTO crashed, he hadn't survived.

  "Anything else you need?" Spencer asked Bonnie, his eyes darting back and forth from the pretty teenager to the hardwood floor.

  "No, thanks," she said brightly. "I'm almost through."

  "Oh, that's all right, Bonnie," Aunt Sadie said, waving her hand. "You've stayed late enough. Get home safe now. We'll lock up."

  "Okay. If you're sure?" Bonnie said. She put the broom away and headed for the door. "Well, goodnight, everyone!"

  "Wait a sec there, Bon," I called. "Just one last thing. What did you mean when I asked you if there were any problems tonight?"

  Bonnie tensed as I walked up to her.

  "You said, 'not really, that depends,'" I reminded her. "You want to elaborate on that?" (I didn't like putting the girl on the spot. But given the day I'd had, I wanted to be as fully prepared as possible for any unpleasantness coming our way.)

  "Well, something did happen, uh, while the Yarn Spinners were meeting," Bonnie replied.

  Her tone wasn't jocular, but Spencer suddenly started giggling. He exchanged a look with Bonnie and she bit her lip—apparently to keep from laughing, too.

  I folded my arms. "Okay, spill it. What happened tonight?"

  "It's the display," Bonnie said. "The Zara Underwood standee."

  "Uh-oh." Sadie shook her head. "Here we go again." "Again?" I frowned at my aunt. "What's wrong with the standee?"

  Sadie shrugged. "One or two people complained to me about it earlier today."

  "Complained?" I said. "About a cardboard cutout? What's the issue?"

  Spencer started laughing harder. In fact, he laughed so hard he doubled over. Then I heard a deeper voice laughing inside my head. "Jack!?"

  Great, I thought, even the ghost knows what they're talking about!

  "Okay," I said. "Will somebody tell me what's so funny?"

  "Just look, Mom! Look for yourself!"

  I followed my son's pointing finger, striding back through the archway that led to the bookstore's dark aisles. I flipped on the lights, which not only activated the recessed lighting but also turned on the many floor lamps throughout the aisles.

  The lamps were actually a part of our business strategy. When I'd first moved back to Quindicott from New York City, I'd used my late husband's life insurance check to completely remake the dusty old shop. Sadie had been all for it, so we'd replaced the heavy metal shelves with hardwood bookcases, restored the woodplank floor, added colorful throw rugs, and placed easy chairs, Shaker-style rockers, and a variety of floor lamps throughout the shop. Jacking up the "comfy" factor had increased shop traffic significantly. Tourists found the bookstore "quaint," like stepping into a New Englander's private library, and locals found the atmosphere so comfortable they browsed longer and bought more.

  For all of the store's casual coziness, however, we were still a business. We used display tables, cardboard book dumps, window clings, shelf-talkers, eye-catching standees, and signage near the picture window to inform local customers and window-shoppers alike what was new in stock.

  As I stepped past the cardboard displays for the newest front-list releases from Dean Koontz, Jacqueline Winspear, and Alexander McCall Smith, I finally saw the Zara Underwood standee.

  I'd put the thing together, and I well remembered what the two-dimensional cut-out of the stripper-turned-actress-turned-writer was supposed to look like. The big-breasted blond had posed holding a revolver against her thigh. She wore high heels, white stockings held up with a garter belt, a powder-blue bustier, and matching frilly panties. The outfit was the exact same one described in a key scene of Bang, Bang Baby, Zara's debut crime novel.

  At the moment, however, I couldn't tell what the woman was wearing. Her entire bo
dy from her neck to her ankles had been wrapped like a mummy in four different kinds of yarn.

  "Oh, for pity's sake."

  Bonnie quickly stepped up. "I'm sorry, Mrs. McClure. But I couldn't stop them."

  "Them being the Yarn Spinners?" I pointed to the fuzzy threads of lemon yellow, turquoise blue, neon pink, and white cashmere crisscrossing Zara Underwood's cardboard torso. "I mean, who else, right?"

  Bonnie nodded and Jack started laughing again in my head.

  "What's so funny?" I silently snapped.

  The cardboard dame's holding the rod. But she's the one who got covered!

  "After the Spinners left," Bonnie said in a rush, "I tried to undo it and pull it all off, but those ladies are really good at making knots! I didn't want to risk damaging the standee, so I just left it—"

  "It's okay." I patted her shoulder and dug out my keys. "Spencer, unlock the stock room and bring me a box cutter."

  "Okay, Mom," Spencer said, stifling giggles as he hurried away.

  Bonnie went home, and Spencer returned to the front of the shop not only with the box cutter but also with an armload of Bang, Bang, Baby.

  "The dump's almost empty, Mom."

  "Thanks, honey. I'll take those." I grabbed the stack of hardbacks. "Now go upstairs and get ready for bed. You have a big day tomorrow. Your bus for camp leaves at nine."

  "I know, Mom."

  When Spencer was finally out of earshot, I faced my aunt. "Why didn't you tell me there were complaints about the standee?"

  "Because they weren't worth wasting my breath over. This is a mystery bookstore, not a monastery. The standee's racy, but so what? So is the book. So are a lot of the crime novels in our stock. That standee is appropriate advertising for the product. It lets readers know what's on sale and what to expect from the book they purchase."

  I shook my head as I bent down to refill the display. "It is a terrible book."

  "Maybe to you, Penelope. But did you know that Bud is reading it right now and enjoying it?"

  "He is? Really?"

  "Yes! He thinks it's a hoot. And before you let a few opinionated customers tell you how to run your business, I suggest you check today's receipts. We've sold more copies of Bang, Bang Baby than any other hardcover front-list book in the store."

  "You're joking."

  Sadie folded her arms. "I've been in this business a lot of years, dear. And when a loudmouthed customer complains about a book I'm carrying, do you know what I ask myself? 'Sadie, are you a literary critic or a bookseller?'"

  "But look at her!" I pointed to the yarn-wrapped cardboard. "She's practically mummified!"

  Sadie shrugged. "We've gotten complaints about our new occult books, too. Over the years I've gotten complaints about any number of authors: James Ellroy, Philip Pullman, even Mickey Spillane. Do you remember what CNN said about Spillane the day he died?"

  "Yes, I remember," I said with a sigh. "Nobody liked him—except the reading public."

  "And our reading public—our customers—are the ones who'll tell us what they want through their purchases."

  "But the people who complained about Bang, Bang Baby are our customers, too!"

  "And they're perfectly free to purchase what they like to read. In this store everyone is, and no one will ever be made to feel bad about reading whatever speaks to them, whatever makes them happy. Did you know a St. Francis Ph.D. candidate once asked me in serious, earnest tones why I sell cozy mysteries?" "What?!"

  Sadie snorted. "Apparently this young man hadn't heard that Agatha Christie is one of the most widely read authors in the English language, and the genre in which she excelled is still very much alive and loved, not to mention one of our most popular sales categories."

  She shook her head and continued. "Should I stop selling the Yarn Spinners their favorite books because some young man, paying oodles of money to read a professor's syllabus, has an opinion about what some of my very best customers 'should' be reading?"

  "Of course not. That's ridiculous."

  "I'm not saying Zara Underwood and her ghostwriter are geniuses, or even that this year's roster of bestselling authors will stand the test of time. But, you know, the novel itself was once considered a 'disreputable' genre; and some of the greatest books ever written—in my humble opinion—would be dismissed today as 'popular' fiction, given the literary theories of the moment. And I do mean moment, dear."

  "You don't have to tell me. Brainert Parker's made the point dozens of times. He still hasn't gotten over the Norton Anthology leaving out Robert Louis Stevenson from 1968 to 2000."

  "My point exactly! Academia can be as changeable and trendy as the rest of society in what it decides to deem worthy, and people who go out of their way to make others feel bad about their enjoyment of a particular book, even an entire genre, are missing the bigger picture."

  "Which is?"

  "At a time when fewer and fewer adults are reading anything, we should be celebrating enthusiasm, not condemning it."

  Flipping the trigger on the box cutter, I exposed the

  sharp razor. Now I could easily slice through the tangle in front of me.

  "Be careful, Penelope. 'My books are good and yours are bad' is a dangerous Animal Farm game..." Sadie's voice drifted off as she moved to lock the front door.

  "What do you mean?" I called.

  "For some people, 'erudition' is nothing more than a vehicle for hostility and arrogance; 'good taste' merely an excuse for condescension—or worse, censorship."

  CHAPTER 10

  Tossed and Turned

  Stories of rugged Adventure, and real Romance, rare Western yarns, weird, creepy Mystery tales and the only convincing Ghost Stories to he found anywhere.

  —Opening editorial, Black Mask magazine, October 1, 1923 (The same issue that published "Arson Plus," the first Continental Op story by Dashiell Hammett)

  "BE CAREFUL, PENELOPE." "Careful of what?"

  It was night-time, and I couldn't see much: a shadowy dashboard, part of a windshield, gray landscape speeding by like frames from a film noir reel. I was sitting in the front of a large van, but I wasn't driving.

  "Be careful, Penelope," the voice repeated. It was a male voice. Beyond that, I didn't recognize it.

  I tried swiveling my head toward the driver's seat, but my neck refused to obey; I turned the other way instead. Now I was looking out the passenger side window, at trees and brush; at weeds flying by.

  A large mirror was mounted to the door. High beams appeared in its reflective glass. The glare of headlights was coming up fast.

  "Be careful, Penelope," the voice repeated. "Never let someone else drive your car for you."

  I faced front again, saw a massive tree trunk looming like a solid, black wall.

  "Stop!" I shouted. "We're going to crash!"

  Tires squealed like a woman screaming. Then I started screaming and—

  My eyelids lifted.

  I was lying down. The room around me was small and dark. My own bedroom. "A dream," I whispered. It was just a dream. Yet it felt real enough to make my heart race.

  I swallowed, licked dry lips, kicked off bedcovers. I sat up, chugged spring water from the bottle on my nightstand, forced myself to take conscious deep breaths. Finally I calmed.

  Two hours ago, before I'd climbed into bed, the evening breeze had been gusty, ruffling my window curtains, cooling the air; but the night had gone still. Now the room felt warm. The bedside clock read 2:15. I punched my pillow and flopped back down.

  I tried to relax but my mind was too active. After a few minutes, I heard footsteps. My aunt was walking into the kitchen. She ran water, jostled pans.

  "Must be having trouble sleeping," I mumbled.

  Like you.

  The cool air against my warm cheek sent a shiver through me. "Jack?"

  Well it ain't Humphrey Bogart.

  I smiled against the pillow.

  Why's your auntie making a racket in the kitchen?

  "Probably br
ewing some chamomile tea."

  That's not what I meant.

  "If I didn't know her better, I'd say she's as disturbed as I am about our close call on the highway." She's not?

  "No. I'm sure it's that stupid standee that's still got her riled."

  The cardboard cutout?

  "Sadie never could put up with being pressured or bullied into what to think, say, or read. It really makes her blood boil."

  I considered getting up to join her, but I turned over instead. As much as I admired my aunt's spirit of independence, the right of our customers to purchase Bang, Bang Baby was pretty far down on my list of worries right now, and I had a lot of thinking to do.

  You want some help in that department, baby?

  "Absolutely."

  Okay, doll, shoot.

  I exhaled warm air into the newly cooled room. "Leo Rollins said there was no car behind us tonight. But I saw it in the mirror. A luxury sedan was tailgating us. Sadie saw it, too."

  And Leo didn't?

  "He said he didn't. But the sedan was right behind me when I turned onto the highway's onramp—and that road doesn't lead to anyplace but the highway. So where did the tailgater go?"

  You're sure the car didn't crash?

  "That's what I thought. But one of the state police officers who took our statements went back up the ramp to check the road and woods nearby. He said there was no crashed car. And nobody else reported seeing an accident, either. That car just vanished. And don't you find it a tad suspicious that the brakes on Seymour's VW failed right after he inherited Miss Todd's mansion?"