The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion (18 page)

“It’s his prerogative,” Sadie answered from behind me. “I’m sure Timothea would have been pleased to know that Seymour is holding a wake for her in her beloved Victorian.”

Brainert shook his head. “I wonder why Miss Todd left such a valuable property to a guy like Tarnish?”

“They were friends,” I said. “And she knew how much he appreciated the property.”

Brainert shot me the inscrutable Mr. Spock stare he’d mastered in junior high. “Or perhaps
more
than friends.”

I shook my head. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Seymour Tarnish is an unlikely gigolo, it’s true. But he has a pulse, he bathes semiregularly, and let’s face it: When you’re over eighty, your romantic prospects have narrowed considerably. Even a wealthy woman like Miss Todd can’t afford the luxury of being
too
particular.”

“That will be enough of that!” Sadie snapped, hands on hips.

“You have to admit it’s a puzzle.” Brainert rubbed his chin. “What do either of you know about Miss Timothea Todd, anyway?”

I exchanged a glance with my aunt. “She was a nice woman who lived on Larchmont Avenue,” Sadie replied. “What more is there to know?”

“What more indeed?”

“Sadie and I went to her funeral this morning,” I said. “Did you know she’s supposed to have a sister?”

Brainert shook his head.

“Well, she does, according to the lawyer handling her estate. Also, according to the lawyer, the woman wants to remain anonymous.
But
I may have found a clue to the woman’s identity.”

I leaned across the counter. “There was a viewing at Fontwell and Bradley Funeral Home last night. “When I signed the guest book, I noticed that two people had stopped by to pay their respects. One was a Mrs. Arthur Fromsette, who left a Larchmont Avenue address.”

Brainert nodded. “Obviously a neighbor. And the other?”

“This woman signed the book ‘A. Briggs’ and left
no
address. I checked the phone book, and there are no Briggses listed in the Quindicott or Millstone directories, so she may have come from out of town. I’m betting this person is Miss Todd’s sister.”

“No mysterious strangers at the funeral service?”

“Only Mr. Stoddard, Seymour, Sadie, me, and Eddie Franzetti, who dropped by in uniform. The Reverend Waterman was there with a prayer group from church and he said a few words, but he said he really didn’t know Miss Todd. I saw only three wreaths: one was sent by Seymour, the second came from this store, the third collectively from Miss Todd’s Larchmont neighbors. I sighed, suddenly sad. “I can only assume the estrangement between the sisters lasted beyond the grave.”

Brainert folded his invitation and tucked it into his lapel pocket. “I’ll come to Seymour’s wake for Miss Todd. Actually, I’m surprised he hasn’t asked us to help him move his mountain of junk.”

“I guess Seymour’s housemate is helping him on that score—or I should say, former housemate.”

Brainert sighed. “You haven’t seen Harlan Gilman lately, have you?”

“Come to think of it, I haven’t. He used to be a regular here, too.”

“He also used to
work
, on the loading dock at Brier’s Dairy. But the man hurt his back, so he’s been living on disability payments for six months now.” Brainert lowered his voice. “During that long period of inactivity, Gilman has become a bit chubby.”

“Is that right?”

“Obese, actually.”

“How obese?”

“Morbidly.”

“You mean like the Pillsbury Doughboy?”

“More like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.”

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Seymour’s complained more than once that his housemate hasn’t been pulling his weight—” I closed my eyes. “Did I just say that?”

“You’re not wrong, Pen. Harlan is well enough to do light housework and do grocery shopping but Seymour says he refuses, and they’re fighting like a couple on the verge of divorce. This change is probably good for both of them. So, are you going to this wake tomorrow night?”

“Wouldn’t miss it, for a lot of reasons.” I didn’t want to let Seymour down, of course, but I also wanted to check out the house again.

“It’s potluck, so I’m making fried chicken,” Sadie announced.

I quickly calculated my free time. “I suppose I could mix up a batch of maple-pecan fudge tomorrow morning. Seymour loves fudge.”

Brainert raised an eyebrow. “So does Harlan Gilman. Better make two batches.”

CHAPTER 13

“This is a rich town, friend,” he said slowly. “I’ve studied it. I’ve boned up on it. I’ve talked to guys about it . . . If you want to belong and get asked around and get friendly with the right people you got to have class.”

—Playback
, Raymond Chandler, 1958

 

 

 

“WELCOME TO TARNISH Mansion,” Seymour said, dipping in a fair imitation of a courtly bow.

I gaped at the apparition greeting me on the columned porch of Miss Todd’s Victorian. Seymour’s pencil-thin moustache was so new it was barely filled out. A smoking jacket of royal blue silk was draped over his bulky, mail handler’s shoulders, and an apricot-hued ascot circled his beefy neck. If I’d been met by the ghost of the late Timothea herself, complete with flowing shroud and rattling chains, I couldn’t have been more stunned.

What the hell happened to your letter carrier? He’s decked out like a low-rent bed warmer stalking widows at a Bowery dance hall
.

“Jack!”

Seymour eyeballed me. “No, Pen. It’s me, Seymour Tarnish.” He grinned as he smoothed his lapels. “Didn’t recognize me in my evening attire, did you? Well, I guess you’ll just have to get used to the new me.”

I nodded, swallowing my reply—at least to Seymour. Inside my head I couldn’t wait to ask the ghost: “Where have you been?”

“No, Jack, you haven’t! I was beginning to think you’d been exorcised or something.” I searched my mind. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“That was three nights ago!”

“Maybe in your time, doll. To me it was just three seconds ago.”

Beside me on the porch, Brainert Parker was now gazing at Seymour with a deadpan stare. Finally, he folded his arms and tilted his head. “That’s a new look for you,” he said dryly, then made a show of sniffing the cologne-scented air. “And a new smell, as well, unless I’m mistaken.”

Seymour beamed. “You like it? Ralph Lauren Purple Label: the essence of elegance, custom-blended with notes of suede and tobacco flower.” He adjusted his apricot ascot. “I wanted to blend in with my new neighbors, and Larchmont is
very
exclusive.”

“What do
you
think, Pen?” Brainert asked, raising the old Spock eyebrow.

“I, uh . . .” I bit my cheek for a moment. “I brought fudge!”

“Ah, Penelope, how thoughtful.” Seymour took the Tupperware container from my hands. “Won’t you come in? Your aunt and her beau have already arrived. Everyone is assembled in the salon.”

Brainert’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you talking that way?” He gestured to the half-filled martini glass dangling by its stem in Seymour’s hand, little finger extended. “And since when do you drink martinis? I hardly recall you drinking at all, and when you do it’s usually Budweiser—from the can.”

Seymour tossed Brainert a superior smirk. “I am now part of the
smart
set that lives on Larchmont. We do not swill cheap beer from an aluminum can. We savor blended cocktails.”

Brainert glanced at me. “Tarnish seems to be channeling some sort of stereotypical Hollywood version of the wealthy class, gleaned from a Three Stooges short, no doubt.” He sighed, returning his gaze to our martini-sipping host. “The reality is quite different, Seymour. I doubt even one of your neighbors owns a polo pony or a yacht, just as I’m sure plenty of them enjoy a cold beer.”

“If you prefer the taste of hops, I’ve stocked imported Heinekens and Sam Adams Summer Ale.” Seymour sniffed. “Otherwise, the bartender will be happy to mix you a cocktail.”

“We’re not in my dreams right now, Jack.”

“Well, we’re not taking the night off,” I told the ghost. “I’ve got a lot of questions for you—about that case of yours and that odd dagger we found.”

“I’d like to know exactly what’s connecting your case and mine.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Pen? Didn’t you hear me?” Seymour said.

I blinked. “Oh, sorry, Seymour. Were you speaking to me?”

“Yes. I asked if you’d like the grand tour?”

“Oh!” I said. “Yes! That would be great!”

Seymour guided Brainert and me through the decorated foyer, past the cascading staircase, and into the main room, proudly describing what he loved about each space. The “salon” (really the living room, where I’d found Miss Todd’s corpse) was crowded with Seymour’s friends, most of whom I recognized. I doubted the mansion had hosted this many guests in decades.

But more than that had changed. The heavy antique chairs, love seat, overstuffed couch, dark wood end tables, doilies, knickknacks, and thick curtains were all still in place, but now twin halogen floor lamps glowed with enough brilliance to pierce even Miss Todd’s gloomy Victorian clutter. On the mantel above the marble fireplace, a photo of Miss Todd in a silver frame was given a place of honor between two lava lamps, roiling in a violet glow.

I recalled the portrait that Miss Todd had kept over the hearth—a corpulent man in a three-piece banker’s suit with a jowly face, large, dark, staring eyes, and rather longish black hair swept back off his face. I’d assumed the man was her father or some other Todd patriarch, but the formal painting was gone now, replaced with a vintage 1940s poster from a Fisherman Detective serial titled
Buccaneers of Fire Island
. I asked Seymour about the change.

“I hated the picture of that fat guy, so I moved it to the attic,” said Seymour with a shrug. “The movie poster was the only thing I owned big enough to fill the empty space. So I bought a do-it-yourself frame from the craft store and voila! Problem solved!”

“I see.”

But the picture swap wasn’t the most dramatic change in the space. Neither was it the room’s single concession to modernity (besides the purple lava lamps). A massive flat screen, high-definition television was now parked in the corner. It was obviously brand-new and just out of its carton—I noticed the packing material peeking out from behind the couch, along with part of Seymour’s old lime green bean bag chair. The TV was mounted on a black steel platform, which also held a DVD player and a bank of audio speakers.

Standing on either side of the giant screen, Harlan Gilman and Leo Rollins bickered about the best place to position the entertainment system. I realized Brainert had been right about the girth of Seymour’s former roommate. In the six months since I’d last seen him, Harlan had become so heavy he now had to lean on a cane to stand.

As for Leo, he obviously wasn’t intimidated by the posh Larchmont address. Unlike our host, who’d dressed for the occasion, Leo wore the same flannel shirt and frayed jeans he sported at his electronics store every day, though I noticed his mountain man beard had been trimmed attractively short and was neatly combed. I couldn’t help wondering if he was once again carrying that suspicious dagger with the odd pentagram design on its hilt.

“I’m going to put your fudge on a plate,” Seymour told me.

“I’ll go with you,” I said.

I followed Seymour to a vast kitchen, which appeared to be state of the art for the 1940s. Okay, the refrigerator and range were modern, but everything else dated from a time when Miss Todd was young. The cabinets were white metal with chrome handles. The Formica countertops were cherry red. The linoleum floor sported a red-and-white checkerboard pattern. The red-and-white theme continued with the café curtains and the chrome-and-red kitchen table set. Metal bread baskets and canisters sat on the counter, and an old-style wash tub and hand-cranked wringer stood in the corner.

“Isn’t this kitchen great?” Seymour said as he piled the fudge in neat rows on a rectangular party platter. “So retro!”

I ignored Jack and asked Seymour, “What are the outbuildings like?”

Seymour shrugged. “One’s just a big brick shed filled with tools and a push-powered lawn mower. The other building looks like ruins.”

“Oh. Too bad.”

“No, Pen, you don’t get it. The building’s a folly. It was meant to look like ruins on purpose. Real gothic, you know.” Finishing the platter, Seymour washed the sticky fudge off his hands. “Actually, a lot of English manor houses had fake ruins like that, back in the day.”

A phone warbled beside the sink. “My hands are wet, Pen. Would you punch the speaker button for me?”

“Sure.” I hit the switch.

“Hello!” Seymour called, drying his hands. A gruff voice spoke over the line with a heavy Rhode Island accent.

“Mr. Tah-nish?

“Yes.”

“This is Ben Kesey at Warwick Motors.”