The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion (20 page)

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 lamé 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 light 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.

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

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

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

Meanwhile, Fiona continued her buttering-up of Seymour. “The curtains, the décor, 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 décor.

“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 housewarming 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.”

“Okay,” 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?”

Brainert hesitated a moment, then answered. “Evil spirits. Demons from hell. That sort of thing.”

Harlan Gilman leaned forward on his cane. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

In silence, everyone gazed down at the weird design. I dropped to one knee beside Brainert.

“What are these symbols?” I asked. “They look familiar.”

“Astrological signs. You see them every day in the paper.”

“Oh, yes, I see.”

He pointed. “And over there, those are the Greek symbols for alpha and omega.”

“It looks like these designs were carved into the wood and then painted.”

Brainert gingerly touched the edge of the circle, then sank his index finger into the groove. “No, it’s not painted. I think it’s burned in.”

“Burned?” My aunt gasped. “How?”

“By Hell’s fire—wooo-woooo,” Gilman said in a spooky voice.

“Cut the crap, Gilman,” Bud said. With one arm, he hugged my aunt’s narrow shoulders. “The design was made with a wood burner, honey. Satan had nothing to do with it.”

“How old is this?” Brainert wondered aloud. “I suppose that it’s possible Miss Todd didn’t even know what was under her rug.”

I rubbed my own finger inside a groove and it came away clean. “You’re no housewife, Brainert. Look, there’s no dust. And candles have been burned here.” I pointed to dollops of melted black wax at each point of the star, then rubbed the wax with my thumbnail. “Recently. The wax is still soft.”

“Ah . . . Listen, guys,” Seymour said. “I saw this design somewhere else in the house, besides the wrought-iron fence out front, I mean—”

The doorbell rang, its
bing-bong
startling everyone.

“I’d better get that,” Seymour said. He glanced down at the magic circle. “Cover that up, please!”

Seymour headed off to the foyer and Fiona reached for the carpet. I stopped her and pulled my cell phone out of my pants pocket. After snapping several images of the circle from different angles, I helped Fiona cover it up again.

A minute later, Seymour returned holding a black bottle with a velvet ribbon around its neck. At his side was that intense young woman who’d manned the front desk at Emory Stoddard’s run-down law office.

“Hey, everyone, I’d like you to meet Ophelia Tuttle. Ms. Tuttle works for my lawyer.”

Tonight Ophelia Tuttle wore a form-fitting sleeveless dress of crimson silk. Her dark hair was piled on her head and held in place by a gold clasp in the shape of a scarab. Around her long neck she wore a choker of black velvet. Her sophisticated hair, low-cut dress, black polished fingernails, bloodred lipstick, dark eye shadow, and heavy black liner beneath severe rimless glasses contrasted dramatically with Ophelia’s pale complexion and obvious youth. I saw more than a few of Seymour’s male friends take immediate notice.

I noticed one other thing about her—a very important thing. With her glossy raven hair in an upsweep, I could now see the shape of the tattoo on her upper arm. It was a gold ankh, just like the ankh ring Stoddard had been wearing.

Was it pure coincidence? Or had she gotten the tattoo because of Stoddard’s ring? Had she given him the ring? Either way, it seemed to me Miss Todd’s lawyer and his assistant were more than employer and employee.

“And what’s she doing here anyway?” I silently wondered.

“I remember, Jack, but he invited her to come
with
Stoddard. I don’t see him, do you? As far as I know, Miss Tuttle doesn’t live on Larchmont and she only met Seymour the other day. Why would she come alone?”

My eyes narrowed. “Which makes her a suspect, right? In fact, now that I think about it, didn’t Ophelia Tuttle leave Stoddard’s office before anyone else the other night? As far as she knew, Seymour would be driving himself home in his VW bus.”

“That’s the opportunity—but what about a motive?”

“You’re right. If Miss Todd’s sister wanted Seymour dead, then Ophelia Tuttle is in one of the best positions to help her do the dirty work. That’s
one
. As for
two
: Ophelia’s working for Mr. Stoddard. And it was Stoddard who appeared to be pushing for Seymour to sell this place to the Lindsey-Tilton group for their bed-and-breakfast plan.”

“Yes, which means Stoddard could be in on it, too. In fact, it could be a little conspiracy on the part of the estranged sister—”

“It’s a solid theory, Jack. But how do we prove any of it?”

CHAPTER 15

A bleak house . . . a corpse . . . and three suspects—that’s the problem Detective Mike Hanlon faces!

—Teaser for “Hotel Murder,” Steve Fisher,
Thrilling Detective
, 1935

 

 

 

“MR. STODDARD ASKED me to send his regards and his regrets,” Ophelia announced to Seymour. “Business forced him to Newport, and he won’t return until tomorrow.”

“Sorry he couldn’t make it.” Seymour lifted the champagne bottle. “I’ll have my bartender chill this. May I offer you something in the meantime?”

Ophelia pondered the question. “Green tea on ice with fresh lemon peel,” she said at last.

“I . . . I think we have Lipton in bags.”

The woman smiled. “That will be fine.”

After Seymour scurried off to the kitchen to prepare the Lipton’s tea, I kept a wary eye on Ophelia. A minute passed, then two, and no one approached her—even men who were clearly interested seemed intimidated by her powerful aura. Sadie offered Ophelia a fried mozzarella stick and she declined. I watched while they chatted a moment. Then my aunt moved on with the tray, and Ophelia began to slowly circle the room. I kept moving, too, feeling uneasy about the woman’s ability to see my ghost.

“Maybe. It does give me the creeps that she can see you, Jack. I mean, I can’t even see you—unless I’m dreaming.”

“Well, if she can see you, maybe Ophelia can see other spirits. Maybe she summoned an evil spirit to frighten Miss Todd to death.”

“I have no idea.”

Ophelia paused in the center of the rug, where we’d found the hidden magic circle. The woman blinked in surprise. She stared at the rug under her heels. After a long moment, Ophelia scanned the faces in the room. Then she stepped right over the spot, in the middle of the circle, where Miss Todd’s body was found.

I held my breath, waiting to see her reaction. Would the young woman feel the cold spot the way I did when I found Miss Todd’s body?

It was obvious she didn’t. After glancing at the faint bloodstains, Ophelia turned around and moved to another part of the room, where Seymour approached her with a tumbler of tea on ice. I moved close enough to eavesdrop.