The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion (11 page)

Jack didn’t answer.

Emory Stoddard checked his watch again. “That concludes my business with you ladies,” he said, punctuating the point by rising from his executive chair. “I think it would be best if you both departed now and allowed Mr. Tarnish and I to finalize the paperwork. We have several documents, title, and transfers to review, sign, and notarize.”

“But we came with Seymour,” Aunt Sadie said. “He gave us a ride over.”

“Oh, in that case, let me call you a cab,” Stoddard said, reaching for the phone.

“Don’t bother,” Seymour said, rising, too. “This time of night, you can’t get a car service out here in under an hour.” Seymour dug into his pocket for car keys and began to work one key off of it. “Here, Pen, take my extra key and drive the bus back to the bookstore. Just park it by a curb on Cranberry. I’ll take the cab and pick it up when I’m done here.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Tarnish,” Stoddard insisted. “I’d be happy to drive you back to Quindicott once we’re finished here.”

“Great,” Seymour said. “It’s settled then.”

I took the keys. “Okay, Seymour, if you’re sure?”

Seymour nodded and Stoddard extended his hand. I shook, feeling the hard square of his reversed gold ring pressing into my palm.

“Good evening, Mrs. McClure, Ms. Thornton.”

Seymour sat back down and smiled up at us. “Listen, you two, keep this Saturday night open, okay?”

“Why?” I asked.

“I’m holding a wake in honor of Miss Timothea, that’s why! I’m not a guy who likes to waste time. I’m moving in ASAP. You’re invited, too, Mr. Stoddard. And so is that cutie secretary of yours!”

“Thank you, I’m sure, Mr. Tarnish,” Stoddard said. “Saturday evening, you say? I’ll see what my schedule is like.”

CHAPTER 8

Trouble. Like the smoke over a cake of dry ice. You can’t smell it but you can see it and know that soon something’s going to crack and shatter.

—Detective Mike Hammer in
Kiss Me, Deadly
, Mickey Spillane, 1952

 

 

 

LEAVING MILLSTONE’S DEPRESSED business district was like emerging out of a godforsaken mausoleum. Aunt Sadie and I didn’t say much as I started up Seymour’s VW bus and rolled through the town’s shadowy lanes. I was still processing everything I’d heard in the lawyer’s office, and I could see my aunt was engrossed in thoughts of her own. Even Jack had gone quiet. After a few minutes, however, my aunt broke the silence.

“That young woman,” she said, her voice sounding almost disembodied in the large, dark vehicle. “She was acting oddly, don’t you think?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Stoddard’s receptionist, or assistant, or whatever she was. You know who I mean: the girl in the black dress.”

“Miss Tuttle?”

“I can’t get over how she stared right at you and said there was a man with you.”

Behind the van’s big steering wheel, I shifted uneasily. “Oh, she probably just noticed Seymour dropping us off.”

“No, that can’t be it. She was engrossed in her book when we walked in. And she was very specific about her description. She said a man in a fedora and double-breasted suit was with
you
. She was extremely clear about that point.”

I forced a laugh—which sounded only slightly less phony than it actually was. “Probably just has an active imagination.”

“You know, I hope she does come to Seymour’s party. I’d like to ask her about that.”

“I wish you wouldn’t, Aunt Sadie. Tonight I found something a lot more disturbing than Miss Tuttle’s confusion.”

“You did?”

I nodded. “Mr. Stoddard’s behavior.”

“Mr. Stoddard was a perfect gentleman, dear. What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Stoddard pressuring Seymour into selling Miss Todd’s home.”

“You call that pressuring?” In the dim light of the car, I could see my aunt shaking her head. “It sounded to me like Stoddard was simply explaining that option to Seymour—and he rejected it pretty firmly, too. But, you know . . . maybe Seymour should sell.”

“Why? Do you think Miss Todd’s house really is haunted?”

“Heavens, no.” Sadie waved her hand. “But even if it were, that’s nothing to cause alarm. My word! Look at Finch Inn. It’s supposed to be haunted, yet Fiona and Barney have never seen an apparition. And half the inns in Newport have ghost stories attached to them, not to mention the landmark buildings. Fiona tells me the stories are good for business. And you know that’s one reason we started our occult book section.”

“I know.”

Sadie laughed. “Why, I’ve heard stories that parts of this very road are haunted. Some phantom car, which was run off Buckeye Lane years ago, supposedly comes back to haunt random drivers. And don’t you remember, dear, what Seymour said about our very own bookshop? It’s supposed to be haunted, too!”

“Ah, yes. I do seem to recall something like that—”

“When you first moved in with me, you did mention some strange things happening.”

“True.”

“But then you settled in and that all went away. Now, I’m sure if you actually saw a ghost in our bookshop, or continually heard strange noises, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

“Um—”

“Of course you would! And I’m sure Timothea would have told me if she was afraid of a ghost in her home. No, I’m sorry to say I think the noises she heard were a form of dementia.”

“But I still don’t understand, Aunt Sadie. If you don’t think the mansion is haunted, then why should Seymour sell?”

“Because he’s a bachelor. What’s he going to do all alone in that huge house? His father passed away years ago and his mother’s happy as a clam since she moved to the Florida coast.”

“You don’t think she’ll come up to live with him?”

“Judy Tarnish never did get used to our New England winters. She was raised in the South, and after her husband died, she couldn’t get out of Rhode Island fast enough. In fact, I remember her telling Seymour that the only way she’d come back up here is to attend his wedding.”

“Seymour a groom?” I smiled at that idea. “Can you imagine?”

“You know what they say, Pen. There’s someone for everyone.” Sadie paused and leaned back in her seat. “Now that you mention it, didn’t you get the feeling Seymour was kind of sweet on that strange Miss Tuttle?”

“I’m glad there’s no traffic tonight,” I said, attempting to change the subject while
still
trying to get used to the acre of distance between me and the road. My compact car was a lot smaller than Seymour’s VW bus. Between the mass of lime-green metal around me and the height of the front seat, I felt like I was steering an army tank down Buckeye Lane.

“Traffic’s never a problem around here anymore.” Sadie peered out the side window. “It’s sad what’s happened to Millstone.” She shook her head at the empty storefronts, the GOING OUT OF BUSINESS signs. “When I was a little girl, this town was such a pleasure to visit, so alive.”

I slowed to a stop at an intersection, although there was no need. The crossroads were empty. I forged ahead, the tarred road getting blacker by the yard. Not only were storefronts dark; corner streetlamps weren’t always working. Every few blocks, one was either flickering or entirely burned out, which certainly didn’t help the sense of bleak gloom. The uncertain light didn’t make driving Seymour’s VW bus any easier, either.

“This thing is so much harder to handle than my little Saturn.”

“Just go slow, dear. There’s no one behind us.” Sadie glanced into her sideview mirror. “Oh, I’m sorry. I spoke too soon. Someone’s coming up on you now.”

I glanced in the rearview and saw a sedan with a single person visible in the car. I barely glimpsed the driver’s shadowy silhouette before a brilliant light blinded me.

“That driver’s turned on the car’s high beams!”

We were just entering the two-mile stretch that led from the town to the highway’s onramp. Averting my eyes from the mirror, I stuck my hand out the window and waved the car forward. But the stubborn driver just kept rolling along behind me, blasting those high beams.

“What’s that idiot doing?”

Sadie glanced in her side mirror. “I can’t see a thing. Those high beams are too bright!”

I waved again and even hit the horn, but the sedan refused to pass.

“Maybe the driver’s afraid of passing here,” Sadie said.

“Fine then.”

I pressed harder on the gas pedal, increasing my speed to put more distance between Seymour’s vintage van and the tailgater with the high-beam issue.

Sadie leaned over to check the speedometer. “I thought you said you weren’t comfortable driving this thing?”

“I’m not! But Speed Racer here is breathing down my tailpipe!”

Sadie glanced in the mirror again. “Be careful, Penelope. Never let someone else drive your car for you.”

“Jack! Where’ve you been?” I asked the ghost.

“Okay, okay.”

For the last two miles, we’d been on a long, slowly descending grade, and I’d picked up a lot of speed. Ahead was the onramp to the highway, a steep, hilly decline, so it made sense to slow down anyway. I pulled my sandal off the gas, shifted my foot to the brake, and pushed down on the pedal—

“Why is it so spongy?” I muttered.

“Spongy?” Aunt Sadie echoed. “What do you mean?”

I pushed the brake pedal again, but there was too much give to feel right, and the bus was failing to slow.

“Penelope, we’re going awfully fast.” I could hear the tension in my aunt’s voice. “I think you better slow us down.”

“I’m trying!” I slammed the pedal as hard as I could, but it was no use.

I did, but that didn’t work, either. “The brakes are out!”

“Out?!”

“Gone, Aunt Sadie! They’re not working!”

My fingers tightened on the VW’s wide steering wheel. We were well beyond the town’s buildings now and there were no street lamps out here. I flipped on my high beams. The brilliant light illuminated the black tar. In the twin moving spotlights I saw the angle of our descent was quickly getting steeper. Ahead of us the road was beginning to bend.

I had two choices: turn with the road or plow straight into the back end of Prescott Woods. There were no airbags in this vintage bus, and a head-on collision with a three-hundred-year-old tree trunk probably wasn’t survivable. If we wanted to live, there was only one way to go—

The trees came up faster than I anticipated. I cut the wheel, felt the VW shudder. Tires squealed and Sadie and I screamed as the bus tipped slightly. Sadie’s palms flew up to the roof for balance. I gripped the wheel, certain we were going to roll over, but then the heavy vehicle righted itself. With a loud
thud,
we dropped back to four wheels again.

“Oh, my goodness!” cried my aunt.

I tried the brakes again—and again and again and again.

“I can’t slow us down!”

“Oh, my goodness!”

“You said that already!”

“I’m not panicking!”

“I didn’t say you were panicking!” my aunt shouted.

I felt my aunt’s hand on my shoulder. “Keep the wheel steady, Pen.” Her voice was much calmer all of a sudden. “Keep your eyes on the road.”

“Okay.”

My fingers were wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel, my knuckles looked white in the VW’s dim interior. My face was probably just as blanched. But this trip wasn’t over. We were speeding along at close to fifty, and that last turn put us down the steep hill that served as the highway’s onramp.

I could see the heavy traffic just ahead. “There’s no shoulder! I’m going to have to get on!”

“Activate your emergency flashers,” said Sadie, her voice still amazingly steady.

I glanced down for a moment, pushed the hazard button. “Okay! They’re on!”

“Good,” Sadie said. “Just do your best to merge into the highway traffic. The van will slow down on its own as soon as we hit level ground.”

That sounded all well and good, but there was no place to merge. We blew right by the YIELD sign and were now speeding toward the highway’s crowded right lane.

Good idea! I pumped the horn, sent out a succession of nasal VW beeps.

For a second, the lane showed me an opening, and I thought we were in the clear. Then I saw it: a giant Mac tractor, pulling a dozen cars on its ten-ton trailer. There was no way this massive truck could slow down fast enough. A fog-horn bellow blasted my eardrums.

“Oh, my goodness!” Sadie shouted again. “Look out!”

The onramp ended and the truck’s stack of new cars filled the windshield of the VW.
We’re dead,
I thought, bracing for the crash—

But it didn’t come.

The wheel in my hand cut sharply to the right. Beneath my fingers, it kept on turning. The stacked cars disappeared as the van’s high beams illuminated high weeds and brush. We bounced so violently, my head bumped the van roof. The turn had slowed us, but we were still moving fast. My hands were still on the wheel but some other force was handling it now, steering the van up a bumpy hillock. The wheel turned again to prevent us from plummeting over the other side.

For a few yards more, we rolled along the high, narrow strip of brush-covered earth, parallel to the highway. Then like the end of a roller-coaster ride from hell, we finally came to a full stop.

I closed my eyes. “Thank you, Jack,” I silently whispered.