"Do you think that burglar had the mother's key, Jack?"
He nodded.
"Well, I'd like to know where J. J.'s mother got that dagger with the Todd Mansion design on its hilt. Is it just some random purchase? Or did someone give it to her? And who are these 'people' that J. J. mentioned, the ones supposedly helping his mom with her new occult powers? Did they give her the dagger? The boyfriend is bound to know more."
Jack folded his arms and gazed down at me. "So what's your next step?"
"We go to the Broadway jewelry store and find out if anyone knows Frankie Papps."
With a single finger Jack pushed back the brim of his fedora. Then he rested an arm on the wall near my head. "It's pretty late, honey. Store's probably closing up by now. How about you and I go back to my place and"—he winked— "wait till morning."
I raised an eyebrow. "Is that what your big plans were with that well-endowed luncheonette girl?"
"Aw, baby, that was a long time ago ... before I met you."
"Aw, Jack. Are you going soft on me?"
"Naw, sweetheart." He smiled. "Must be your imagination."
Maybe this was just a dream, but Jack sure felt real, standing close, leaning closer, until I felt a hard tug on my arm.
What the... ?
Another tug.
"Mom!"
A child's voice. A boy was calling for his mother. Was it J. J. calling? "Mooooom!"
I opened my eyes. My son was standing next to my bed.
"Get up, Mom!"
"Spencer?"
"You have to drive me to the bus by nine, remember? I'm going to camp today!"
CHAPTER 12
Limbo
After that nothing happened for three days. Nobody slugged me or shot at me or called me up on the phone and warned me to keep my nose clean. Nobody hired me to find the wandering daughter, the erring wife, the lost pearl necklace, or the missing will. I just sat there and looked at the wall.
—Philip Marlow in The Long Goodbye, Raymond Chandler, 1953
THAT MORNING'S EVENTS blew me around like an Atlantic gale. After getting Spencer packed off to camp, I drove back to the store to find a waiting sales rep from a new regional publisher. I'd no sooner said goodbye to him than a female customer—one I hadn't seen in months—began loudly complaining about the Zara Underwood display. After finally calming her down, a bestselling author dropped in unexpectedly to sign all of her stock and I had to run to Cooper Family Bakery to pick up refreshments for the Tea and Sympathy book club—a local group of working women who met during lunch breaks to discuss British mysteries. Next a cluster of touring seniors descended on me with dozens of questions about our events schedule while a rather large group of men I'd never seen before lined up to buy Bang, Bang Baby.
All of that took place amid the typical increased traffic
Sadie and I handled this time of year of young people in search of beach books, and loyal customers wanting advice for vacation reading.
My few minutes of free time I used to search the Internet for any image matches on the Todd Mansion pentagram. Unfortunately, I could find nothing that even came close to matching the unique design.
By seven o'clock, Sadie was more than ready for her dinner date with Bud and I was holding the literary fort with Bonnie Franzetti and our new part-timer, Dilbert Randall, a St. Francis history major with brown wavy hair, an easy-going smile, and glasses of the small, round, Harry Potter variety.
As far as I could tell, Dilbert's entire wardrobe consisted of worn blue jeans, Hush Puppies, and pastel-colored Izod shirts. His passion for historical mysteries, on the# other hand, ranged from Lynda S. Robinson's lively Egyptian mysteries—set in the time of Tutankhamun—to Ellis Peters's twelfth-century Brother Cadfael chronicles and the Victorian cases of Anne Perry's Inspector Thomas Pitt.
More than once during my crazy-busy workday it occurred to me that Jack Shepard hadn't said boo to me. But then I remembered what the ghost had told me the day before in my car—that I'd been moving too fast to hear him—and I began to think the communication problem was mine.
I was just about ready to take a short break and finally slow down enough to maybe hear my ghost's voice when a hip, young, bohemian crowd descended on us. They'd just exited a showing of Mulholland Drive at the Movie Town Theater's David Lynch retrospective and flooded the aisles to check out the stock. Even after viewing the surreal Lynch film, however, the sight of an overexcited Fiona Finch rushing through the front door in an atomic yellow pantsuit managed to attract a few stares.
Fiona's eyes flashed wildly as she began to shout, "Pen! Pen!" while waving her arm so frantically she scattered the pack of teenage boys that had gathered around the Zara Underwood dump.
"Where's Sadie?!" she asked breathlessly after finding me behind the check-out counter.
"Sorry, Fiona," I said, ringing up the next customer. "Sadie's at the Seafood Shack having dinner with Bud. What's got you so excited?"
"I just heard about Miss Todd's legacy! She left you mystery and true-crime first editions dating back to the 1950s?!"
Frankly, I was surprised it took Fiona twenty-four whole hours to uncover what was supposed to be completely confidential information.
"I simply must see that list!" Fiona gestured so suddenly that the crested cockatoo brooch pinned to her lapel nearly took flight.
"It's upstairs, Fiona. Sadie's still going over it. I'm sure she'll share it with you when she's ready."
"So is it true what else I heard? Has Seymour Tarnish actually inherited the Todd place?"
I handed the change back to my customer, bagged up her purchases, and turned to Fiona. "Miss Todd left him her house, everything inside it, the land around it, and the two outbuildings."
"That place is a wholly unique Second Empire. I'm dying to see the interior. You've been there. Do think the furniture is authentic Victorian?"
"Looks like it to me, but I'm no antiques expert. I'm sure Seymour will be happy to show you around once he takes over."
Fiona turned her eyes to the ceiling. "Now what is that silly mailman going to do with a fine old Victorian treasure, I wonder? Sell it?"
I leaned closer. "It's better for you if Seymour keeps the place."
She blinked. "What have you heard, Pen? Tell me."
I called Bonnie over and asked her to handle the check-out line. Then I spoke to Dilbert, who was assisting customers on the floor. "I'm going to set up the events room for the Feline
Friends reading group. Keep an eye on the counter and help Bonnie if she gets jammed up."
"No problem, Mrs. McClure."
I turned to Fiona. "Okay, follow me."
I led her through the archway to our events space, turned up the lights on the darkened area, and took down two folding chairs from the stack.
We sat down face to face, and I began to tell Fiona all about the Lindsey-Tilton group's offer to purchase the Todd place, with an eye toward transforming it into our town's second bed-and-breakfast—in direct competition to Fiona's already established inn.
"That's the trouble with being a pioneer," Fiona said. "You end up getting scalped! It took Barney and me fifteen hard years to establish Finch Inn, and now some international bunch with a big war chest is going to try squeezing us out!"
'Take it easy. Seymour probably won't sell. Or at least that's what he told Mr. Stoddard."
That did little to reassure Fiona. "A million bucks is a lot of money to a mailman who thinks a wise investment for thirty thousand in Jeopardy! winnings is an ice cream truck. Do you think he'll hold out?"
I took a deep breath. "Well... there's another reason Seymour might sell. One that's got nothing to do with money."
"What?" Fiona snorted. "Is the place supposed to be haunted?"
I let her quip hover in the air for a moment, and then I said, "Yes."
Fiona's eyes widened and (no surprise) the true-crime reader in her instantly came out. "Do you think Miss Todd's death is connected to the haunted
house rumor?! Did you know that some in town are wondering if Seymour had a hand in scaring her to death?"
"Let me guess: The rumor came out of Chief Ciders's office?"
"Of course! I ran into Debra Lane in Leo Rollins's electronics shop. She talked to her cousin Joyce, who's Chief Ciders's secretary. Joyce told her the chief nearly arrested the mailman for murder, and Ciders hasn't given up yet! He's waiting for the state forensics and the medical examiner's final report."
"Well, that's no surprise, but I already know what the town's M.E. is going to say. Dr. Rubino is ruling that Miss Todd died of natural causes. I doubt the autopsy will alter his opinion. And even if the state comes back with evidence that Seymour was in the house, it doesn't prove any guilt. He already admitted that Miss Todd permitted him to step inside to leave the mail on the foyer table."
Fiona smirked. "But you think something's wrong with the way Miss Todd died, don't you?"
"I'm no doctor, but..." I told Fiona about the state of Miss Todd's corpse when I found it, the expression of horror on her face, and about the weird cold spot that seemed to hover near the body.
"Goodness," she whispered.
"I'm sure 'goodness' had nothing to do with it. I know Seymour and I'm positive he had nothing to do with it, either."
"How does Seymour feel about all this?"
"As far as I can tell, he's stunned that Miss Todd remembered him in her will. And he can't wait to become a resident of Larchmont Avenue."
Fiona met my eyes. "That's good. Then he probably won't sell the estate."
"I know, and that's what worries me. I think maybe whoever had a hand in killing Miss Todd might have been trying to get possession of her place. Seymour's a wild card. Now that he has possession of it, I'm worried his life might be in danger."
'That's an awfully big leap, Pen. I mean, you said it yourself, the medical examiner doesn't even think there was foul play surrounding Miss Todd's death."
"Well, something else happened. Something you don't know about. Last night, while Sadie and I were driving home..."
I told Fiona about the VW breadloaf bus losing its brakes. I mentioned the mysterious phantom car behind us, and Leo Rollins showing up right after the accident with an elaborate dagger that had the exact same markings as Todd Mansion's wrought-iron fence.
Fiona frowned and shook her head. "I don't know what to make of all that. I mean... are you saying Leo had something to do with those brakes failing?"
"No. I mean, I don't want to accuse the man... I don't have any evidence, and even Seymour thinks it's his mechanic's fault. He's waiting to hear from the garage on what went wrong."
"You mean, you're waiting to hear whether or not the brakes were sabotaged?"
I nodded. "If they were, then it's just too much of a coincidence, don't you think? I mean, it happened right after he inherited the mansion."
"And right after he was accused of murdering Miss Todd. Don't forget that!"
"What are you saying?"
"That someone may be trying to exact revenge."
"Revenge?" I hadn't thought of that. "Who would want to avenge Miss Todd's murder—if she even was murdered?"
I thought back to our meeting with Mr. Stoddard. He'd mentioned Miss Todd having a sister, who insisted on remaining anonymous. I asked Fiona what she knew about that—after all, the innkeeper had dug up enough town dirt over the years to fill Quindicott Pond—but Fiona shook her head (which was obviously still focused on one thing).
"I didn't know the old lady except by reputation; and of course her property is well known. That Larchmont Victorian's a real jewel. And if Seymour Tarnish sells to the Lindsey-Tilton group, they'll turn it into our competition! When is he moving in?"
"He signed papers last night, and he plans to have a wake for Miss Todd on Saturday night."
Fiona bit her thumbnail. 'That doesn't give me much time."
'Time to do what?"
"To bribe that stubborn mailman into staying at Todd Mansion, and not selling out to my competition!"
"DO YOU REALLY think that... that thing"—-the woman punched her index finger at the Zara Underwood display— "is appropriate for our town's bookstore?"
It was now Friday afternoon; I still hadn't heard from Jack, but at least I'd made it to three P.M. before I received the first complaint of the day. This time it came from Binky Stuckey, wife of Quindicott's premier car dealer, Scott Stuckey of Stuckey Motors. Binky had just caught her eight-year-old twins ogling the provocative standee. After sending the boys scampering to the children's section, the angry mother called me to the front of the store to voice her protest.
Smiling politely, I shrugged. "I admit it's not wholesome, but it's not really offensive, either. Miss Underwood is wearing clothes, and we've both seen more exposed flesh at the beach."
"A nude beach, perhaps," Mrs. Stuckey countered. "Can't you get rid of that? Cover it up."
Dilbert Randall's head popped up from behind a stack of Stuart Woods's latest. "It wouldn't matter anyway, Mrs. Stuckey. The same author picture is on the book's cover."
Mrs. Stuckey glanced at the standee. "But she's so ... so big."
I exchanged a glance with Dilbert. "Don't worry, Mrs. Stuckey," I said. "At the speed Bang, Bang Baby is selling, by next week we won't have enough copies to stock the display, and down it will come."
"That woman's book is pure rubbish," she huffed. "Neither the New York Times nor the Boston Globe chose to review it; therefore, it must not have any literary merit."
Dilbert raised an eyebrow. "Clearly you haven't read B. R. Myers." "Who?"
"B. R. Myers, author of A Reader's Manifesto: An Attack on the Growing Pretentiousness in American Literary Prose" "Excuse me?"
I took a deep breath and did my best to channel my battle-hardened aunt. "You know what, Mrs. Stuckey? I'm not a book critic. I'm a bookseller."
"Fine, Mrs. McClure! I won't come back until next week, then." The woman gathered her boys and pushed them toward the exit. "Or perhaps I won't come back at all!"
As her boys stumbled through the front door, I heard one of them declare, "But I like the big girl's picture, Mommy!"
Dilbert turned to me. "She seemed pretty upset."
"We'll see Mrs. Stuckey again. I guarantee it."
"What makes you so sure?"
"I sold a copy of Bang, Bang Baby to Mr. Stuckey two hours ago."
Dilbert laughed and I automatically braced for a quip from my resident ghost, but none came. Jack had disappeared on me. Completely disappeared. On Wednesday I'd practically passed out the moment I hit the mattress. I didn't dream that night, but I wasn't all that surprised, given my level of exhaustion. Thursday night, however, was another matter.
Sadie and I had gone to the funeral home, where Miss Todd's remains were on view. I could have used Jack's opinion on what I'd observed there. But he hadn't made contact. He hadn't shown in my bedroom hours later, either, even though I lay there wide awake, just waiting to feel his cool breeze across my cheek.
This abrupt disappearance of my ghost had happened many times before, especially after an intense trip into his memories, but it had never been this long a lag.
I began to worry—seriously worry—that Seymour had contacted those Spirit Zappers people. He'd mentioned something about de-ghosting all of Quindicott. Maybe the Zappers had visited Miss Todd's mansion in the dead of night, performed some exorcism ritual, and then moved on to zap all of Cranberry Street. Could they have turned on some sort of anti-haunting equipment and scared Jack into limbo for good?
I couldn't help choking up at the thought. The dead PI may have started out as an annoyance in my life but he'd become a comforting, cheering ... okay, even an exciting presence. With my son off to camp, I was starting to feel abandoned. I even began to wonder whether Spencer had swiped that old buffalo nickel of Jack's, the one I carried with me outside the store to give his spirit passage beyond these walls. But when I checked the little pillbox on my dresser, I found the nic
kel still safely tucked inside.
The worst part about Jack's absence, I realized, was that I couldn't even tell anyone about missing him; and as I fretted in private, I began to open up the roadblocks on some old mental avenues: Maybe the ghost isn't gone. Maybe he was never here. Maybe Jack Shepard was—and always has been—nothing but a construct of my imagination...
The phone rang behind the checkout counter and Sadie called me off the selling floor. "It's Bud," she said, frowning as she passed me the receiver. "He wants to speak with you."
I nodded, happy at least to speak with a living man. "Hi, Bud."
"Pen, the city council just refused to rescind the parking permit they granted to Jim Wolfe's construction company. That damn equipment of his will block my business all summer unless we can do something about it!"
"Good news on that front. I've already spoken with the coordinator of the Seekers reading group and they're willing to leave the events space by nine. We can start the meeting then."
"Great!" I could hear the relief in Bud's voice. "Most everyone has agreed to show up. If the Business Owners Association presents a united front, we can push back against the council's move. Otherwise I'm bankrupt by the end of summer."
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my aunt's worried expression.
"We'll fix this," I said into the receiver, loud enough for Sadie to hear. "I promise."
On the other end of the line, Bud sighed heavily. "I could end this mess tomorrow if I pulled out of the election and let Marjorie Binder-Smith run unopposed."
"But you're not going to do that, are you?"
The Ghost and the Haunted Mansion Page 13