The Ghost and the Haunted Mansion

by Alice Kimberly

  "You mean the very same police who tried to railroad me into a jail cell earlier in the week?"

  "Not everyone on the force is guilty of that. You really should—"

  Just then the doorbell rang. Seymour shook his head and grabbed the plate of my homemade fudge. "Forget it, Pen. At least for tonight, okay?"

  "But—"

  "Come on, let's party!" he exclaimed with a gaiety that sounded a little forced. "This is a wake for Miss Todd, you know. I insist you have a drink. Try the gimlets! They're superb!"

  As Seymour headed out of the kitchen, I took a deep breath. "Jack?"

  The grease monkey wasn't wrong. There's evidence of a crime against your postal pal On the other hand, the mailman wasn't wrong about the local badges, either. Chief Cornpone and Deputy Dawg aren't exactly at the top of my Law Enforcers of the Year list.

  "I'll call Eddie."

  I pulled out my cell and punched in his digits. When he came on the line, I explained the situation.

  Luckily, Eddie was on duty and cruising around in his patrol car. He said it was a quiet night so he'd head over to Ben Kesey's garage and take a look at the VW bus himself. I gave him the name of the state police officer who'd helped me and Sadie on the highway, and Eddie said he'd check in with the Staties, too.

  "Pen, do you have any idea who might have done this?"

  "I have a few theories, Eddie, but no evidence."

  "Let's get together tomorrow, okay?"

  "For sure."

  Feeling relieved, I ended the call. Now I was ready to party—just as Seymour advised.

  CHAPTER 14

  Under the Rug

  The first time we met I told you I was a detective. Get it through your lovely head. I work at it, lady. I don't play at it.

  —The Big Sleep, Raymond Chandler, 1939

  WITH MY WORRIES somewhat lightened, I headed back into the "salon" and wandered over to the small crowd gathered around Seymour's "bar"—really a mahogany table covered with liquor bottles, buckets of ice, and an industrial-sized blender.

  "Borrowed the blender from Seymour's ice cream truck," Hardy Miles informed me when I asked.

  Hardy was tonight's bartender. He was also Seymour's friend and fellow mail carrier. Sadie and I knew him as a good customer. He favored crime novels by Elmore Leonard and Carl Hiaasen. He also spent the busy summer seasons moonlighting weekends at the notorious girly bar out on the highway, so I wasn't surprised to see him moving swiftly and efficiently. The man knew how to mix a drink.

  "What d'ya have, Mrs. McClure?"

  "It's a little warm and I'm plenty thirsty. What do you suggest?"

  His florid face grinned. "How about an iced tea?" "Great. Sounds refreshing," I said—naively, as it turned out The first gulp singed my throat, and I realized Hardy had mixed me a Long Island Iced Tea. "Wow, this drink's strong."

  Hey, doll? Jack piped up in my head.

  "Yes?" I replied between multiple sips.

  Before you start heading down that short road to Stinko, you might want to consider a few things.

  "What things?"

  Just because your pal's taking the night off from worrying doesn't mean your perpetrator's taking the night off from reattempting murder.

  I sputtered, choking on my spiked tea.

  "Let me freshen that," Hardy said, taking the glass from my hand.

  "Okay, Jack," I silently whispered. "What's your theory? Do you suspect the sister? Or do you think Fiona has a point—that someone's got a grudge against Seymour?"

  The grudge theory's possible. But then, what would the person gain, putting the mailman six feet under?

  "Vengeance, I suppose."

  Vengeance don't buy new shoes for baby. I'm bettin' someone's goin'for the big prize.

  "You mean the inheritance? This house and land?"

  Don't you remember what that slip-and-fall jockey said? If your postal pal gets himself croaked before the title officially transfers, the house goes to Miss Todd's next of kin—which would be the old woman's—

  "Sister," I said.

  "A twist?" Hardy said. "Of course you can have a twist, Mrs. McClure." He finished the drink and handed me the newly filled glass.

  "Uh, thanks," I said, then quickly stepped away.

  Get a lead on the sister. Something just don't smell right with her trying so hard to stay anonymous.

  "Well, whoever she is, she can't be here now," I silently whispered. "I know everyone in this room. They're all friends of Seymour or town locals I've known for some time as customers."

  That doesn't mean they're clean, doll Lift up the rug of most Johnny Do-Rights and you'll find some amount of dirt. Plenty of people will do just about anything for a big enough payoff.

  "Surely not anyone Sadie and I know."

  The person who sabotaged those brakes might very well be in this room.

  I noticed Seymour approaching with a well-built older man. He had a sturdy jawline and a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair, and gave off an air of affable confidence. His blue blazer, khaki pants, and open-necked button-down were neatly pressed and obviously expensive, yet he still appeared approachably casual. I recognized him immediately as the master of ceremonies from our recent Film Noir festival, but he was better known in Quindicott as the dean of St. Francis's School of Communications.

  Brainert moved up to us, obviously surprised to see his superior at the party. "Dean Pepper? What are you doing here?"

  "I dropped by to greet my new neighbor!" Wendell Pepper replied. "But then, we've already had a few rollicking conversations, haven't we, Seymour? Mr. Tarnish and I share a true love—old movies and film memorabilia."

  Brainert turned to Seymour. "Anyone else from Larchmont dropping in?"

  "I delivered invitations to every house on the avenue. Wait and see." Seymour faced Dean Pepper again. "Care for a drink, Dr. Pepper! Or maybe you'd care for another brand?" Seymour winked and Brainert cringed, but Dean Pepper laughed and slapped Seymour's back.

  "I haven't heard that one in years!"

  "Well, I'm not kidding about the drink." Seymour gestured toward Hardy. "Have a gimlet, or try a martini. My bartender's reputation is legendary."

  "Cocktails! How civilized." Pepper's eyes lit up like a Broadway billboard. "Don't mind if I do."

  As Dean Pepper crossed to the bar, Seymour leaned close to Brainert. "See, I told you," he whispered, raising his martini glass. "Rich guys lap this stuff up."

  Brainert smirked and glanced at me. "Seymour neglected to mention that his bartender's 'legendary' reputation was garnered among a collection of middle-aged, dollar-bill-waving men ogling half-naked women."

  My reply was cut off by the regal bing-bong of Miss Todd's doorbell.

  "Excuse me," Seymour said.

  "Can't fault his manners," Aunt Sadie observed, offering Brainert some buttermilk fried chicken from a tray. "Have a piece. I got this recipe from Judy Tarnish before she moved to Florida. It's Seymour's favorite."

  Brainert's eyes lit up as he looked over the crisp, golden-brown pieces of chicken. "Hmmm. Don't mind if I do."

  I glanced behind Sadie but didn't see Bud Napp. "Where's your date?"

  She and Bud had arrived early for the party so they could help Seymour set up. I'd stayed behind at the bookshop to help Bonnie ring up the last customers of the day.

  Still holding the tray of chicken with two hands, Sadie gestured toward the large-screen television with her chin. "Bud's over there, playing with Seymour's new toy. You know men and their gadgets."

  Suddenly the massive HDTV screen sprang to life. Russell Crowe appeared in Roman gear and began dispatching a horde of barbarians.

  "Where's the sound?" Harlan Gilman complained.

  Leo Rollins's bearded face flashed with annoyance. "I told you not to put in the DVD. I haven't attached the speakers yet."

  Even without the sound, the widescreen images were hypnotic enough to draw the partygoers like zombies to a warm body. My aunt moved to another clust
er of guests, tray of fried chicken in hand. I turned around and walked slowly in the opposite direction.

  The movement of the people suddenly exposed the floor in the center of the room. I recognized the pattern of the lush area rug, and with a rather ugly jolt remembered what I'd seen less than a week ago at the center of this room.

  Cautiously, I approached the spot where I'd found Miss Todd's corpse. There was almost no trace of the violent scene I'd witnessed; only a faint bloodstain marred the carpet. I wasn't surprised, and it didn't matter. I wasn't looking for physical evidence. I was searching for signs of something else.

  I hovered over the spot where I'd found the dead woman and waited for the frigid stab of air I'd felt that awful afternoon. It never came.

  I closed my eyes and shut my ears to the sound of laughter and buzz of conversation. I did my best to block out my physical surroundings, and tried to tap into a sixth sense. Finally, after a few moments of intense concentration, a trickle of cool air raised the tiny hairs on the nape of my neck.

  Nobody here but us spooks, dollface.

  "Shhhh, Jack. I'm trying to contact the spirit world ..."

  He laughed.

  "Okay, the rest of the spirit world!" Knock yourself out.

  Again I concentrated. This time I tried to visualize the horrible tableau I'd stumbled upon: the blood-spattered corpse, the expression of stark horror frozen on the dead woman's face. I tried to recall every detail, and then I tried to imagine what had happened to Miss Todd in her final terrible moments.

  "Can you hear me, Timothea?" I whispered in my mind. 'Tell me what you know. Did someone or something really scare you to death? Do you know who's trying to hurt Seymour?"

  There was a long moment where I sensed nothing. Then suddenly I felt icy-cold fingers touch my arm. "Ahhhhh!" "Goodness!" Sadie stepped backward, nearly spilling the chilled bowl of chocolate-covered strawberries. My aunt had snuck up on me with the stealth of an apparition!

  "I only wanted to know if you'd like to try a hand-dipped strawberry. Mr. Koh's daughter made them."

  I glanced at the bowl. The chocolate-enrobed fruit did look delicious, but considering my memories of this particular spot in the room, I couldn't raise much of an appetite.

  "I'll have one later," I told my aunt. Sadie gave me a strange look. "Are you okay, Pen?" "Fine, Aunt Sadie, really. You just startled me. That's all."

  My aunt nodded and drifted off. Looks like I'm the only haunter showing up for this soiree.

  "Looks that way." Disappointed, I headed back to the bar. "I'm not giving up yet," I told the ghost. "I'm going to try again later."

  That'll be good for a laugh.

  "Another iced tea," I told Hardy. "But this time just tea, okay?"

  "What a lovely room!" Fiona Finch loudly announced as she swept into the party. "Fiona!" "Fiona's here!" "Hi, Fiona! Come on over!"

  Amid the din of greetings, Hardy cupped his ear. "Say again, Mrs. McClure?"

  "Tea," I said, louder. He nodded.

  Fiona quickly circled the living room, her eagle eyes scanning the walls, curtains, furniture, and fixtures. As a veteran antiques collector, she was obviously appraising each item in her head.

  Hardy slipped a fresh glass into my hand. "Here you go"

  "Thanks." I took a sip, tasted alcohol. I realized Hardy hadn't heard me ask for tea only. Unfortunately the bartender was swamped now, so instead of asking for a replacement I vowed to nurse this second cocktail for the rest of the night.

  "Seymour, you are a lucky man," Fiona declared. "This place is glorious. A real treasure."

  Quindicott's premier innkeeper had dressed quite strikingly this evening in a black lame pantsuit and black silk blouse, the brooch on her lapel a shiny black raven perched on a bone-white skull.

  "Fiona's dressed for a haunted house party, all right," whispered Sadie, as she passed by on her way to the kitchen.

  Of course, my aunt and I had worn black outfits to Miss Todd's viewing and funeral, but this evening's wake was a celebration to honor her life, and we'd both decided to wear fight summer slacks and pastel blouses. But then, Fiona hadn't made the viewing or the funeral. To her, the black was probably her way of showing respect for the dead.

  "The dead," I repeated on a mumble, my mind trying to consider who'd want Seymour that way. I absently sipped my Long Island Iced Tea—gulped it, really. This stuff went down far too smoothly.

  Easy, doll. Go easy on the sauce.

  I frowned, not appreciating the nanny treatment. "You know what, Jack? You're starting to sound like a hypocrite."

  You 're bananas.

  "You kept a bottle of Scotch in your desk." I took another sip. "You drank on the job all the time, didn't you?"

  ‘I could hold my liquor, baby. You get blotto on three tablespoons of cough syrup.

  "Only once—and that particular brand had a sedative in it!"

  Meanwhile, Fiona continued her buttering-up of Seymour. "The curtains, the decor, it's all so tastefully done. Miss Todd certainly maintained the authentic Victorian feel of the place. I'm glad you decided not to change it"—she spied the twin purple lava lamps and nearly gagged hiding her reaction—"too much."

  Seymour stood behind Fiona, both hands clutching a large painting in a frame of carved dark wood that perfectly matched the room's decor.

  "Wait till you see what Fiona's brought me!"

  The woman smiled and spoke to the rest of us. "I remembered how much Seymour admired the nautical paintings in the Finch Inn's restored lighthouse bungalow, so I bought this new work from the same artist as a house-warming present for him."

  Seymour held the painting up and studied it. "Thank you! This is so amazing!" Beaming, he hurried across the room and propped the oil painting on an oak sideboard. A curious group clustered around to study the images: a tall sailing ship foundering in a terrible storm, massive waves towering over the broken vessel. There were no human figures, but if you gazed deeply into violet sky and green roiling waters, you could make out the ghostly faces of drowning sailors.

  "A powerful rendering," Dean Pepper said. "Powerful and grim."

  "Haunting," Brainert said, nodding his head. "The colors are so vibrant they're almost surreal, yet the overall effect is so authentic I can almost smell the sea." Brainert glanced at me. "Almost," he mouthed and pointed to Seymour's cologne-drenched form.

  "Cool," Leo Rollins said, stroking his trimmed beard. "What kind of ship is that?"

  "A nineteenth-century Yankee clipper," Dean Pepper replied. "I know because Bill Wheatley, another one of Seymour's new neighbors, is a real sailing buff. He's a retired importer. That man has a den full of nautical paintings. I'll introduce you, Seymour. Perhaps I can persuade Bill to take us out on his yacht."

  Seymour shot Brainert another "I-told-you-so" look. Then he directed Fiona's attention to the bottom-right corner of the canvas. "The painting is only initialed 'RD.' What's the artist's name?" he asked.

  "If she wanted to be known, the artist would have signed with more than her initials," Fiona replied.

  Seymour's eyes widened with interest. "She. Are you saying a woman painted this? I've got to meet her!" "Out of the question," Fiona stated flatly. "Aw, come on, Finchy—"

  A blast of sound exploded suddenly, filling the room with a howling roar and terrified screams. On the television screen, a man in a Nazi uniform melted like a wax doll.

  'The climax of Raiders of the Lost Ark in THX," Harlan Gilman bellowed over the wall of noise. 'This and the Death Star battle at the end of Star Wars are the two best audio checks known to man!"

  "Turn that off!" Seymour yelled.

  The roar vanished and the screen went black. Harlan Gilman smirked. "Just like I said before. The television should be over there." He pointed to the opposite side of the room with his aluminum cane. "Otherwise the sound reverberates in the stairwell like a cheap echo chamber."

  Leo Rollins shrugged. "He's got a point. Let's move this thing."

  "Oka
y," Gilman said, leaning on his cane. "Who's going to push?"

  Seymour, Rollins, Bud Napp, and Dean Pepper each gripped a corner of the huge entertainment system.

  "It has wheels so it's easy to move," Bud said. "But we have to get that rug out of the way so it will roll on the hardwood."

  "I'll get it," Fiona said, dropping to one knee.

  "Need help?" I asked.

  Fiona grabbed a corner of the fabric. "That's all right, Pen," she said. "This rug is much lighter than it looks."

  In a flash, Fiona pulled the carpet aside—and the room exploded with shocked gasps.

  "My God! Look at that," Dr. Pepper cried, staring at the newly exposed floor.

  "What is it?" Seymour asked, staring at the bizarre design etched into the floorboards.

  I stepped forward, examined the strange circle on the hardwood, and immediately recognized the familiar pentagram pattern with the fleur-de-lis center. The star design was surrounded with weird symbols.

  "It's a magic circle," Brainert said in a tone of amazed disbelief.

  "A magic circle?" Bud scratched his head. "Just looks like a star design to me. The same one that's on the fence outside. What the hell's it for?"

  "People who practice the occult arts use the magic circle for protection against harm," Brainert replied.

  Seymour's eyes bugged. "Protection? Protection from what?"