The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion (19 page)

“You’re calling about my breadloaf?”

“That’s right.”

“What did Paddy Scotch do to my vintage VW?”

“Gad knows Paddy’s my competitor, but you can’t fault him for what happened. Found two neat punctures in the brake fluid cylinder. That’s why you lost your brakes, see, ’cause you lost your brake fluid. Be ’bout a week till I can fix it. Need a new cylinder, and parts for a VW this old are hard to come by.”

I spoke up. “What about the punctures, Mr. Kesey? How did that happen?”

There was a pause. “Is that Missus Tarnish? Well, there’s a funny thing ’bout those punctures, Missus Tarnish—”

Seymour chuckled when Ben Kesey pronounced us married, but I didn’t waste time correcting him. I was too anxious to hear his reply.

“Those holes were real neat,” the mechanic said. “Like they were made deliberate. You don’t see that kind of damage from road debris.”

Seymour looked at me with a mixture of worry and disbelief.

“In my opinion, those brakes were interfered with on purpose. If you or the missus has an enemy, I’d think about lettin’ the police know.”

“Thanks, Ben,” Seymour said. “Let me know when the VW’s fixed.” Frowning, Seymour ended the call and turned to me. “I can’t believe anyone would want me dead!”

“Someone might have a serious grudge against you,” I told Seymour.

“For what?”

“Inheriting this house, for one—Miss Todd has a living sister. The two women were estranged for years, but the sister may have been expecting to gain this property. There could be another reason, too. Fiona suggested it to me the other day.”

“Fiona? Fiona Finch?!”

“The rumor’s already gotten around town that Chief Ciders suspects you of being responsible for scaring Miss Todd to death. Maybe someone thinks you really
are
responsible. He or she could be trying to exact revenge.”

Seymour looked afraid for a moment. “I liked Miss Todd, Pen. I had nothing to do with her death. You know that, don’t you?”

“Of course!”

“Well, I’m not going to turn into a paranoid rabbit over this.” His eyes narrowed with resolve. “Nobody’s going to spook me, do you hear? Nobody.”

“But you
are
going to call the police, right?”

“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?”

“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

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.

“What things?”

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?”

“Vengeance, I suppose.”

“You mean the inheritance? This house and land?”

“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.

“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.”

“Surely not anyone Sadie and I know.”

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 cluster 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.

“Shhhh, Jack. I’m trying to contact the spirit world . . .”

He laughed.

“Okay, the
rest
of the spirit world!”

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 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.”

“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.