The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion (12 page)

I turned to my aunt. “Are you okay?”

Aunt Sadie’s hand was on her chest; her eyes open wide. “What a ride!”

A few seconds later—after we both assured each other that nothing on either of us was bruised or broken—I unlocked my shoulder harness and tried to pop the door.

“It won’t open! My door’s wedged against some high brush. Try your door.”

“Oh, dear. Mine will only open about five inches.”

Just then, I noticed someone had stopped to help. There was no shoulder on this stretch of road, just a narrow strip of weeds below the steep embankment on which we were now stranded. The driver of a car or van couldn’t fit on the thin strip of land below us, but a motorcyclist could—and that was exactly who’d pulled over.

“That’s Leo Rollins’s motorcycle,” Sadie said, pointing.

I recognized the big bronze Harley. Then Leo lifted off his shiny gold helmet and I knew it was him for sure—no one else in the area had Leo’s shaggy yellow hair and dark blond beard. Leo’s mountain-man build was a giveaway, too; and for a big man, he climbed the steep, uneven embankment with surprising agility.

I rolled down the window. “We need help!”

“I can see that,” he said. “You hurt?”

Leo was a man of few words and when he did speak his voice was so low and deep, I expected the floor to tremble, like it did for those sub-woofers he sold in his electronics store.

I didn’t know the man very well; Sadie didn’t, either. Ever since he moved to our town a few years ago, he pretty much kept his own counsel. The man’s beard was more famous around town than anything he’d ever done or said. It grew in inverse proportion with the length of the New England days—the shorter the days, the longer his beard. By the time Christmas came around, and his whiskers were about down to his pectorals, he always put in a book order with us. Last year’s included Lee Child’s and Michael Connelly’s entire backlists. We fulfilled it the last week of January and by the first week of February he was holed up alone in his Vermont cabin till March. For the past few years, he’d gone every year like clockwork.

“We’re okay,” I assured Leo. “Just a little shaken up.”

“Thank you for stopping,” Sadie called from the passenger seat.

“I saw the whole thing,” Leo told us, pointing to the end of the onramp. “Seymour almost T-boned that Mac truck’s trailer. Where is he?” Leo glanced inside the vehicle.

“Seymour wasn’t driving,” I said.

Leo frowned. “But this is his breadloaf bus.”

“He lent it to us to get home.”

“I’m phoning Bud,” Sadie called to us, pulling out her cell phone. “He can pick us up and take us home. And he’ll know who to call to tow this thing.”

“Good idea.” While Sadie placed her call, I turned back to Leo. “Can you help me get out of here? The door’s wedged shut.”

Mutely, Leo nodded his shaggy lion head. He bent over and lifted up his right pants leg. Strapped around the upper part of his black boot was a leather sheath. He pulled free a fancy-looking dagger and used it to slash at the brush wedged against my door. I pushed the door harder, forced it half open, and squeezed through.

“You said you saw the whole thing, right?” I asked, stumbling out onto the rocky hill.

Leo caught me. “Yep.”

“Then you must have gotten a good look at the car right behind us?”

Leo’s brows knitted. “A car? Behind you?”

“Yes, a dark sedan started tailgating us as soon as we left Millstone. There was just one driver, but the car’s high beams were on, so I couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman. I was hoping you could help me out there. Did you get a look at the car and the driver?”

Leo scratched his temple. “A car? Behind you?”

“Yes! The sedan was right behind us when we turned onto the onramp, so it must have been right behind us as we merged onto the highway. Did you see the driver?”

“I didn’t see any driver, Mrs. McClure, ’cause I didn’t see any other vehicle. The only thing that came hurtling down that onramp was Seymour’s ride here.”

I frowned at that, unable to comprehend how that could possibly be true.

“Pen!”

I wheeled. “What is it, Aunt Sadie? Are you okay?”

Sadie had finished her phone call to Bud and now seemed to be struggling inside the VW. “I can’t unlock my seatbelt. It’s jammed!”

“Here,” Leo said, holding out his knife for me. “Cut the strap and get her out.”

I nodded, took the dagger, and squeezed back into the front seat.

“Oh, thank you!” Sadie said as I easily sliced the thick seatbelt strap.

“Don’t thank me. Thank Leo for keeping this blade of his razor-sharp.” I smiled at Sadie and she glanced at the weapon. The steel blade felt heavy in my hand; the hilt slightly bumpy, as if it had been embossed with a design.

I heard the ghost’s cool whisper in my head, but I didn’t know what he meant. “A closer look at what?”

It was too dark in the front seat of the VW to see it clearly, so I leaned forward, opened the glove compartment, grabbed the flashlight inside, and turned it on.

“Penelope?” Aunt Sadie said. “What are you doing?”

“Just taking a look at Leo’s knife,” I whispered, flipping on the light. I directed the bright beam onto the blade and my brows drew together.

“Yes,” I told the ghost.

Under the white beam of the flashlight, the hilt of the steel dagger appeared distressed, like a decades-old antique. Embossed on the metal surface was a five-pointed star with a fleur-de-lis at its center. I’d only seen the design once before—on the gate of Miss Todd’s mansion.

“Where?” I asked the ghost. “And when exactly? Who had it? And what does it mean?”

But the ghost didn’t have time to answer any of my questions. An approaching siren on the highway interrupted our little supernatural chat.

“Staties here!” Leo called from the hillside.

The patrol car arrived a few moments later, carrying two well-pressed officers beneath matching Smokey the Bear hats. It was time to explain this “accident” to the Rhode Island State Police.

CHAPTER 9

She had the look around the eyes and a set of the mouth that spelled just one thing: She was for sale cheap.

—My Gun Is Quick
, Mickey Spillane, 1950

 

 

 

BY THE TIME Bud Napp turned his van onto Cranberry Street, it was close to ten thirty in the evening. Compared to the dead village of Millstone, the hustle and hum of Quindicott’s shopping district, even at this late hour, felt like another world—and I was extremely relieved to be back in it.

A screening had just let out of the Movie Town Theater and small, laughing clusters of people were heading for Franzetti’s Pizza, the Seafood Shack, and Donovan’s Pub. Young couples were cuddled up on benches along the commons, where the Chamber of Commerce had just installed new faux Victorian street lamps. Older pairs were meandering down sidewalks, gazing into store windows, many of which were still glowing brightly as shopkeepers completed their final transactions on this lovely summer night.

I glanced at my aunt, who was sitting snugly between me and Bud in his van’s front seat. Relief was evident in her face. Sadie was glad to be home, too.

As we rolled up to 122, I checked my watch. We’d closed our bookstore early, but the Community Events room in the adjoining storefront was often occupied at this hour.

“Do you think the Yarn Spinners are still meeting?” I asked my aunt.

“Doubt it,” she said. “I know most of those ladies from church. They’re early risers.”

We’d already phoned Seymour to give him the bad news about his vintage VW bus. He was relieved that we were okay but furious about the brakes failing. Cursing a blue streak, he vowed to us he’d just had the thing inspected at Scotch Brothers Motors.

“Wait till I get my hands on Patrick Scotch!”

“Don’t be too sure it’s Patrick’s fault,” I told him.

“Why?” Seymour asked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I think it’s awfully coincidental that your brakes failed right after you inherited Miss Todd’s mansion. That’s what I mean.”

Seymour told me to chill out. “Don’t go all conspiracy theory on me, Pen. The bus is pretty old.”

“But you just had it inspected, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,
supposedly
,” Seymour said. “But Patrick Scotch is turning into a real rip-off artist. He charged me an arm and a leg for dubious repairs to my ice cream truck, and I wouldn’t be surprised if his inspection on my breadloaf was slipshod. It’s time for me to find a new mechanic.”

“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.

“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
.”

In my head, Jack laughed.
I hate to break it to you, dollface, 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.”

“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?”