"Oh, my God, I'm going to hit that man—"
LOOK OUT, BABE!
I slammed the brakes and cut the wheel at the same time. Both of my actions were too fast I was thrown forward and my car began to fishtail on the pavement.
CHAPTER 2
Hit and Run
I looked at my face in the flawed mirror. It was me all right. I had a strained look. I'd been living too fast.
—Philip Marlowe in The Little Sister, Raymond Chandler, 1949
MOMENTUM PITCHED ME against the shoulder harness. My nose stopped short of merging with the steering wheel and my vehicle simultaneously rotated, spinning me around like a little girl on the Mad Hatter's teacups. I swung left, then right, and back against the seat. Finally I heard a disturbing THUMP! The car shuddered and came to a halt.
In the eerie stillness that followed, I lifted a shaky hand to shield my eyes from the sun. That awful thump was still echoing through my system. Had I actually hit the man who'd dashed out in front of me? Through the glare, I made out a large figure rushing away. This time I saw the man for more than a split second—and I recognized him.
"That's Seymour Tarnish!"
Your letter carrier? The one who navigates an ice cream truck in his spare time?
I was about to call out, but the mailman was already halfway through a gap in a low stone fence. A second later, he melted into a thicket of trees. Before I lost sight of him, however, I'd spied a large, red blot on the back of his uniform's light blue shirt.
"A bloodstain," I whispered. "My God, I must have hit him!"
Doubt it. If he was bleeding that badly, your postal pal would be flat on his back, not running as if a junkyard mutt were after him.
In the quiet, my engine's purr sounded more like a menacing growl. I pushed up my black-framed glasses, unlocked my shoulder harness, popped the car door, and stepped out onto Larchmont Avenue.
This area of the town was situated at a higher elevation than the shopping district, allowing it to catch strong breezes, which often escaped Cranberry Street Apart from the hot wind now whipping at my clothes and hair, however, there was no other movement or sound.
Thinking maybe a dog had chased my friend, I glanced around the neighborhood, but all I saw beneath the riotously swaying tree limbs were deserted streets and sidewalks. Not one resident even bothered to stick a head out a door or window at the sound of my screeching tires. Seymour was the only person I'd seen.
"So where was he going in such a hurry? And why was he going in such a hurry?"
Maybe he's late for a liquid lunch. In my day, alkies moved like lightning when they needed their fix.
"That can't be it, Jack. Ice cream's his fix. Seymour seldom drinks alcohol. I've certainly never seen him drunk."
I didn't know if it was the heat or the adrenaline, but I was beginning to feel queasy. The close call had shaken me. I checked the front bumper and tires. I found no dents, no scratches, no damage of any kind—and, thankfully, no blood, either. When I circled the car, I discovered the rear tire had skidded up against the concrete curb. That explained the thump I'd felt.
"I guess when the car fishtailed, I hit the sidewalk.
Doesn't look like any damage was done ..." I opened the door and sat back down, clutching the steering wheel to steady my hand.
Calm down, baby. You 're in once piece.
"So far..."
Will you listen to me now and slow your motor already? "Okay, Jack. Okay..."
That's when my cell phone went off. I fished it out of my handbag. "Hello?" "Pen. It's Bud—"
Bud Napp was the lanky widower currently dating my aunt. He also owned and operated Napp Hardware, and just the sound of his local twang made me feel better. Whatever he'd said after his name, however, was drowned out by the loud noise of heavy machinery.
"You’ll have to speak up, Bud! Or turn off the machine you're using!"
The roar of a motor was the only reply. Suddenly the line went silent, and for a moment I thought I'd lost my connection.
"Pen! Can you hear me now?"
Actually, what Bud said was: "Can you hee-ah me nowr?’
(Having lived in "N'yawk" for years, I'd lost my Rhode Island accent some time ago. But a number of Quindicott's older residents still turned their Rs into Ahs: "Pahk the cahr Replaced W with R: "lahr school." And generally pronounced certain phrases their own unique way: "Give me a regla cawfee” Of course not everyone in my home state could be heard using the local slang. Larchmont Avenue's tony residents, for instance, turned Rs into Ahs about as often as they drove to Newport in dented, ten-year-old compacts with broken air conditioners.)
Anyway, I could finally hear Bud again. "You're coming through loud and clear," I assured him over my cell phone.
"I had to go in the John and shut the door to get some quiet!" he shouted.
"You don't have to yell anymore. What's going on? Where are you?"
"In my store. There's a (expletive deleted) of construction equipment parked on my sidewalk, blocking my loading dock, and even my front door. They're part of Jim Wolfe's crew working on the new sewage system."
"Tell them to move, for goodness' sake! Jim's a nice guy. Why would he do that to you?"
"I talked to Wolfe himself first thing this morning," Bud replied. "He apologized, but he said his hands are tied. He has to park some of his equipment on Cranberry to do the sewage job, and the town council gave him permission to park one place and one place only—in front of my hardware store!"
I sighed, rubbed my eyes. "By 'town council' I take it you really mean Marjorie Binder-Smith?"
"It's retaliation, Pen, pure and simple. That witch is trying to ruin my business because I'm running for her seat this November."
I couldn't disagree with Bud's assessment. The council-woman Binder-Smith had done her level best to take the widower down, ever since he declared his intention to defend the small-business owners of Quindicott instead of sticking it to them with draconian parking regulations, littering fines, and ill-considered taxes. She began by targeting Bud's business through a legislative proposal called the "Binder-Smith Green Initiative."
On the face of it, the legislation sounded reasonable. I mean, everyone wants clean air, clean water, and clean sources of energy, and the woman's "Green Initiative" promised to deliver all of that in time. But when Bud read the fine print of Marjorie's legislation, he discovered that the council-woman's "initiative" was placing a 10 percent surcharge on the sale of all "fossil fuel-powered lawn mowers, generators, heaters, and lanterns, as well as all propane gas and outdoor cooking and camping equipment." (Marjorie well knew that Bud Napp was Quindicott's only propane dealer and the town's first destination for outdoor cooking supplies, too.)
The Quindicott Bulletin fully supported these measures— actually, its long-time editor simply reprinted Marjorie's "press release" word for word. Thankfully, both proposals were ultimately defeated, mostly because Bud pointed out to the town's taxpaying consumers that they would be the ones hurt most by such legislation.
Bud also pointed out that Marjorie's primary rationale for the tax monies was to "discourage" the use of carbon-based products, and the money itself wasn't going directiy toward alternative fuels, or planting trees, or anything specific. It was simply going into the city council's special slush fund to be used at the council's "study" of alternative energies.
Bud did a little more investigating and let the community know that this was the same "special slush fund" that the council had used for a junket to Marin County, California, the year before to "study solar energy at a national seminar." The seminar included trips to the local spa, and a tour of wine country in a rented luxury bus.
Bud pointed out that the carbon footprint for crossing the country on jet-fueled aircraft, not to mention tooling around in a gas-powered monster vehicle, was pretty major. In a self-distributed flyer (the Quindicott Bullentin refused to print Bud's findings, calling them "partisan"), Bud even revealed that the inn where the
council members stayed included personal fireplaces in every room, and during their trip they'd had several gourmet dinners at an Italian restaurant with a wood-burning oven.
The political hypocrisy was off the charts. The town's citizens were furious. Bud became more visible, and even more popular with the locals.
Binder-Smith's initiatives also helped to forge an alliance between Bud Napp and his former business rival, Leo Rollins, owner of Rollins Electronics (and seller of gas-powered electric generators). Leo, the big, bearded Desert Storm vet, motorcyclist, and self-described loner, even joined the Quindicott Business Owners Association, an organization he'd shunned since he opened his store a few years ago.
"Apparently the councilwoman hasn't exhausted her bag of tricks," I said.
"I'm calling an emergency meeting of the Business Association," Bud declared. "When is your community event space available? I can't get anything but voice mail on your store's phone."
I chewed my lip, guessing that my aunt was too busy to answer. "That's a problem, Bud. The Yarn Spinners are meeting tonight—"
"Who?"
"The knitting-themed mystery enthusiasts. And Feline Friends are meeting on Wednesday."
"What? You're a pet store now?"
"They fancy cat mysteries."
"Okay. What about Thursday?"
"No good," I said. "We have an author signing, then the Culinary Cozy Crew meets, and Friday is the Hard-Boiled Buddies—those are the guys who read the gritty, alcoholic ex-cops-turned-private-investigators mysteries."
"Didn't that tough-guy reading group used to meet at the girly bar on the highway?"
"Yeah, they did. Until their wives found out."
Bud sighed. "Well, the weekend's no good. The store owners are too busy to meet on weekends. What about Monday?"
"We have the Seekers until nine or so. If you want, the Quibblers can meet after that, say ten or ten thirty."
"If we meet that late, we're sure to have a lot of no-shows. Who are these Seekers? Maybe you can convince them to reschedule or move their event."
"The Seekers are a new occult reading group, and this is their first ever meeting. I can't just kick them out."
In the background I heard the beep, beep, beeping of heavy trucks backing up. "Okay, Pen. Monday at ten. I'll pass the word."
"I'm sorry about what's happening to you, Bud."
"Me, too, Pen. I thought we threw spiteful aristocrats the hell out of here two hundred years ago!"
Bud ended the call and I tucked the phone in my bag. "I really need some good news." The old girl might cheer you up. "Who?"
The one you came all the way up here to see.
"Oh, right! Miss Todd!" I threw the car into gear and started speeding away.
Geez, Louise! Slow down, will ya?! You want to run over the milkman, too!
Jack was right. I gritted my teeth and eased up on the gas.
That's more like it...
I rolled down Larchmont, the only moving vehicle in the exclusive neighborhood—the oldest and cheapest car, too, given the late-model Mercedes, BMWs, and sports coups parked in the half-moon driveways. No two dwellings looked the same on Larchmont and none of the homes was built later than the 1920s—mainly because once the Great Depression hit, no one in Quindicott could afford to build so lavishly again. Even today, they were occupied by the wealthiest residents in the area—lawyers, doctors, entrepreneurs, deans from nearby St. Francis College, and the children and grandchildren of those who'd inherited fortunes.
Despite the quiet luxury of manicured lawns and precisely pruned shrubbery, I sorely missed my Cranberry Street. The hustle and hum of life, albeit a hard-working one, was a much more appealing alternative to the stillness of this particular plot.
A few minutes later, I spotted our destination. "That's Miss Todd's mansion, up ahead." I nodded at the massive home on the high hill at the end of the development.
Though everyone referred to the Todd place by the catch-all term mansion, a more accurate term was "Second Empire mansard-style Victorian." (I'd picked up a few things about Victorian architecture from Fiona Finch, who ran the town's only bed-and-breakfast with her husband, Barney.)
Miss Todd's Second Empire was nowhere near as cheery as the Finches' Queen Anne. It wasn't that the Todd mansion was in disrepair. The place was in good enough shape—although the overgrown grounds didn't appear to be feeling the love from anyone. No, it was the overall impression of Miss Todd's house that made me uneasy.
The Finches' Queen Anne began its welcoming impression with a wide, wooden wraparound porch. The colorful flower boxes, stained-glass front door, and romantic comer turret all extended the feeling of warmth and whimsy.
By contrast, Miss Todd's Victorian was a severe box of cold gray stone. There were four floors total: a high attic with dormer windows just under the mansard roof; a second and third story with wrought-iron railed balconies; and a grand first floor. The windows of the main floors were tall and narrow, their stone arches overhanging the stingy plates of glass like an old man's disapproving eyebrows.
The entire place appeared to be designed with off-putting pretension. Take the cupola crowning the roof. I usually liked cupolas. The doming tops of cathedrals always reminded me of the top tier of a wedding cake. But the trapezoidal shape of the cupola on the roof of this Victorian was an Addams Family fright.
The worst detail was the decorative wrought iron, spiking out of the roof's upper cornices like a punk rocker's overgelled hair. Almost as bad, in my opinion, was the porch.
The Finches' wraparound veranda was as wide and open as a grandmother's arms. The narrow deck of stone on the Todd mansion appeared to be demanding references. A pair of Ionic stone columns felt intimidating, and the triangular gable that sat above them completed the sort of formal, Greek Revival style one usually saw in government buildings. The effect was chilly and forbidding, a theme echoed in the rusting, eight-foot fence built around the perimeter of the large property.
Miss Todd's was the oldest house on Larchmont. Its grounds were also the largest since it was built well away from the rest of the neighborhood, the last home in the development. Larchmont Avenue kept going after Miss Todd's place, wending its way down, down, down, the countryside, through a densely wooded area until it finally turned into Mill Run Road, and connected to a large highway, which led to Millstone, the next town over.
As we approached Miss Todd's drive, I took a closer look at the wrought-iron fencing around the property. The design in the fence always caught my eye—not because I liked it. The motif was one I'd never seen before or since: a continuous pattern of five-pointed stars, each with a fleur-de-lis in the center.
"You know, I've seen pentagrams before—especially in our occult book section. But I never saw one with a fleur-de-lis at its center. This is the only place I've ever seen that design."
Oh, yeah? Well, I've seen it before. "You have? Where?"
It's a long story, honey. Ask me when you have time to listen.
Jack was right. I had books to deliver and errands to run, and I was already turning my car through the gated entrance to Miss Todd's mansion. The heavy iron doors were open wide, and I suspected they'd rusted in place. My car's tires bumped and rumbled up the cobblestones. I cut the engine and climbed out.
The wind was still strong, but it was a hot wind, offering little relief from the warm day. I redid my ponytail, securing the flyaway auburn strands. That was when I noticed the double doors at the front of the house standing wide open.
"I guess Timothea is expecting me."
Even as I said it, I found the sight of the open doors disturbing. But it was Jack who gave voice to my buried suspicions.
Something's wrong, dollface. A dame who's got a phobia about going outside isn't about to leave her front doors like that.
Deep inside I knew Jack was right. But a more shallow part of me wasn't in the mood to foresee gloom ahead.
"Maybe the house just got stuffy!" I chirped, elec
ting to believe my sunny side. "It is awfully hot."
Uh-huh. Sure you want to go in there?
"Either that or I drove up here for nothing." I reached for the carton of books in the backseat, only to find they'd tumbled onto the floor. "Great."
Leave the kindling. Keep your hands free.
"For what?"
The ghost did not reply. With an exhale of frustration, I slung my bag over my shoulder and dropped my car keys into my pocket.
"Okay" I told the ghost, whether he was listening or not. "I'll come back for the books. But I'm sure nothing's wrong."
I reassessed that opinion a few moments later, after I passed through the towering Ionic columns of the formal front porch and discovered the mess inside the mansion's foyer.
Not good, baby. Looks like signs of a struggle.
Mail was scattered all over the hardwood floor, and a delicate little black-lacquered table had tumbled onto its side.
Nervous now, I remained outside and began ringing the doorbell. Its electronic buzz sounded from somewhere deep inside the massive house. I knocked loudly and called out: "Miss Todd!"
Silence.
"Jack?" I whispered.
Go inside, honey, but be careful. Keep your peepers open.
The Ghost and the Haunted Mansion Page 3
