The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion (28 page)

“I’ve solved my share of puzzling cases around this little town. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Let’s not.” Jim smiled again, bigger this time. The man’s teeth were nearly as dazzling as his eyes. “Let’s go out sometime. How about it? You can tell me more about your, uh, puzzling cases.”

“I hardly know you.”

“That’s the point of going out, right? Getting to know each other better?”

“Well, stop by my store sometime. Maybe we can go out for coffee.”

“Will do, Mrs. M.” He reached out and touched my hair again. “It’s Penelope, isn’t it?”

“Pen.”

“See you next week then, Pen. Maybe I’ll even break down and buy a book. Three of the guys on my crew are enjoying books you sold them just this week.” He gave me a little wink.

“Really? What books are those?”

“Not books—book. They’re all reading the same one. They say it’s really hot, too.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Sounds like it from the title. It’s called—”

I gritted my teeth, already guessing.

“—
Bang, Bang Baby
.”

CHAPTER 20

Now let’s add it up and don’t interrupt me.

—The Long Goodbye
, Raymond Chandler, 1953

 

 

 

“NO WONDER HE asked me out! He thinks I’m a loose bookseller, peddling pornographic fiction!”

Aunt Sadie smirked at me over the check-out counter. “He asked you out because you’re an attractive redhead who ran into him on the street.”

“Yes,
literally
!”

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, dear, especially when it’s six-three, has sky-blue eyes, and owns its own business.”

I glanced at my watch: eleven thirty A.M. We were due to open in thirty minutes, and I was dead on my feet. I’d already called Eddie and Fiona to tell them the name I’d uncovered (Beatrice Ingram); and with one marathon running of the mouth, I’d brought my aunt up to date on the haunting, Miss Todd’s audiotapes, tonight’s séance, and Jim Wolfe.

Sadie’s reaction wasn’t surprising. My romantic prospects always drew more commentary from her than my investigative ones.

“I’m going to catch a few hours’ sleep,” I finally told her. “Are you sure you’re okay to manage without me this afternoon?”

“Of course. Dilbert’s coming in at one. Then you can relieve us both at five, close up shop at seven, and have plenty of time to attend your séance.” Sadie shook her head. “You really think a medium can help Seymour?”

I was about to tell her that I needed all the help I could get since the only spirit that would talk to
me
was Jack Shepard, but I bit my tongue. “It’s a strange situation. I need to speak to someone who understands more than I do about how this occult stuff works.”

Jack laughed.

“You don’t count,” I whispered. “Since you
are
occult stuff.”

Upstairs, I opened the apartment door, automatically glancing into the living room for Spencer—and then I remembered.

I walked down the hall and into my son’s bedroom anyway. The room was so empty and quiet, with the baseball bat leaning against the wall, the bed perfectly made. Bookmark was sleeping soundly at its foot. I picked up the little orange cat, cuddled her close, and carried her to my own small room.

“Of course.” I rubbed Bookmark’s ears. She yawned and purred.

“I know. He’s a different boy now than a few years ago. Not like his father anymore. He’s happy, energetic. Full of love . . . and a love of life, thank goodness.”

I sighed. “That’s the trouble, Jack. Once they learn to spread their wings, they fly away.”

“I don’t care. I still miss him.”

I thought of Spencer as I changed into my nightshirt, turned down my bedcovers, closed my curtains. My little boy’s auburn hair and freckles were still on my mind as I fluffed my pillow and hugged Bookmark close.

“My way?” The kitty’s purr was soothing; the breezy brush of Jack’s presence more so.

Close your eyes, doll
, the ghost whispered.
Close your eyes and I’ll remind you . . .

 

“HEY, MRS. MCCLURE! What do you know, what do you say?”

I opened my eyes. A little freckle-faced boy was standing in front of me, but it wasn’t my little boy. It was J. J. Conway. His ruddy cheeks appeared freshly washed, his brown hair looked newly trimmed. His shirt and slacks were clean, too, the small tears neatly sewn. He had a big smile for me—and Jack, as it turned out.

I glanced to my side. My bad-boy partner was standing there in his sharply tailored double-breasted, a fedora slanted over the hard planes and angles of his lived-in face.

“Find my mom yet?”

“Not yet, kid,” Jack replied.

His slate gray gaze slid over me. Self-conscious, I glanced down at myself, saw I was now wearing a cute little navy suit with matching round-toed pumps at the end of my stocking-clad legs. I touched my hair, felt the rolled bangs, the sleekly styled pageboy.

Jack gave me a wink and addressed J. J. again. “How’s things working out with Mrs. Dellarusso?”

“Swell! She sure is a good cook!”

“Pack on a few pounds then, kid. You can use it.”

Glancing around me, I recognized the busy Third Avenue street corner where J. J. Conway had worked in 1947. Mac Dougherty’s newsstand stood a few feet away.

“So, Mrs. McClure, you got any leads?” J. J. asked.

“Uh . . .” I looked to Jack.

“We’re on the job today,” he told the boy. “We’ll get back to you.”

“Okay,” J. J. said with a little military salute.

“Got that photo I asked you for?”

J. J. nodded. He dug a hand into his pocket. “Here it is, Mr. Shepard. A picture of my mom, Mable Conway.”

“Thanks, kid.” I moved to look at the woman’s picture, but Jack quickly stuffed the small photo inside his jacket. “See you later, J. J.”

“Not if I see you first!” He smiled, then turned his voice to the sidewalk crowds. “ ‘Killer Fire! Accident or Arson?’ Read all about it!”

Jack took my arm and pulled me up the block.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Remember my case?”

“Barely.”

“We’re heading to the jewelry store, doll. We found an empty box in the bedroom of the kid’s mother. It had a card inside—”

“That’s right! The mother’s boyfriend was Frankie Papps. He bought her a pair of pearl earrings. The jeweler’s card was in the box.”

“Broadway’s Best Jewelry,” he said as he pulled me along. “Shake a leg.”

 

“THE GREAT WHITE Way” is a phrase supposedly coined in 1901 by an ad man named O. J. Gude, who foresaw the awesome possibilities of the electric display. It started with one sign on Broadway—an advertisement for an ocean resort. By the early twenty-first century, digital billboards half the size of skyscrapers were flashing real-time images from cable TV.

At the moment, however, we weren’t that far in the future. We were in Jack’s time, mid-twentieth century, and the ads weren’t quite as massive in size, but they were plenty ubiquitous in scope. As we skirted crowds of pedestrians to cross the intersection of Broadway and Forty-second, a field of billboards urged me to chew gum, drink beer, and eat Planters Peanuts.

Nighttime was always magic in Times Square, with the glow of theater and movie marquees giving everything a glittery, electric feel. Daytime wasn’t quite so spectacular—and right now it was high noon.

The midday sun’s unforgiving spot exposed the dinginess of the old buildings here. The side streets appeared drab, the ticket offices tired. Grand hotel lobbies and theater entrances were dark; life swarmed instead around cheap lunch counters, cut-rate haberdasheries, and novelty concessions.

Broadway’s Best Jewelers sounded like a glamorous shop, but when we arrived at the address—closer to Eighth Avenue than the actual Broadway—we found a dingy storefront with a faded sign. A bell clanged loudly above us as we pushed open the glass door.

The place smelled of must and old wood with theater posters covering the paneled walls. There was a counter—not glass but scarred oak—and no jewelry of any kind was on display; no watches, rings, or pendants, just fat catalogs with plain covers. The shop ran deep. Behind the counter, a number of men and women were bent over craft tables, bright lights shining on their work areas.

“I’m Dolly. Can I help you two?”

A heavyset woman in a black suit and wearing horn-rimmed glasses approached us from the other side of the counter.

“We’re private detectives,” Jack said. He showed her his license. “We’re looking for Frankie Papps. Know him?”

Dolly shook her head. “I haven’t seen Frankie in weeks.”

“Two weeks?” I asked.

“Yeah, why? What’s it to you, miss?”

“To me, nothing,” I said. “But there’s a little boy worried about his mother. She disappeared two weeks ago. Frankie gave her pearl earrings, which you sold to him.” I showed her the card we’d found inside the jewelry box.

The woman frowned. “You’re talking about his girlfriend, then? The burlesque dancer? She has a kid, huh?”

I exchanged a glance with Jack. “J. J. said his mother was a schoolteacher,” I whispered. “Do you have that photo J. J. gave you?”

Jack pulled the picture out, showed it to the woman behind the counter. She shrugged. “Sorry, I never saw her. Just heard Frankie mention her a few times.”

When she handed the photo back, I finally gave it a look. The picture showed a stunning platinum blonde no older than twenty. She wore a huge smile and a tight, low-cut sweater—very low-cut. The woman wasn’t built like any schoolteacher I’d ever known. She wasn’t dressed like one, either.

“Did Frankie have more than one girlfriend?” I asked.

“How should I know?” Dolly said. “He buys a lot of stuff from us, but it’s usually for the shows, not the showgirls.”

“Shows?”

“The shows!” Dolly gestured to the Broadway posters on the walls. Then, as if I were thick-headed, she rolled her eyes and shoved over one of the catalogs on the counter. “We make costume jewelry for the theater people—legit, burlesque, magic shows. You name it, we make it.”

I paged through the catalog, seeing tiaras, fake strands of pearls, diamond chokers, even stage weapons—fancy swords and daggers.

“Did Frankie ever have you make daggers for him?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah. We made daggers for him, tiaras, costume jewelry—”

I glanced at Jack. “Sounds like all the stuff that burglar was trying to steal from J. J.’s basement apartment.”

“Did he pay you in cash or with some kind of check?” Jack asked.

“He didn’t pay. He bought his stuff for whatever theater he was working for.”

“Wait. He was an actor?” I said, glancing at Jack again. “I thought he was supposed to be an electrician.”

“He works stagecraft, miss,” Dolly said. “Does lighting, special electric effects, whatever the show’s director wants.”

“Who was the guy working for lately?” Jack asked.

She shrugged. “Some big producer. Don’t know his name but he gave us a lot of business through Frankie. He was the man who paid the bills for the props. It was Frankie who placed all the orders and picked up the stuff. He said their show was still in rehearsals.”

“Can you give us the address where the bills were sent?” Jack asked.

“Maybe. If there’s something in it for me.”

Jack slid a five-dollar bill across the counter. Dolly slid an address over to him. We left the dim interior of Broadway’s Best Jewelers and stepped into the blazing September afternoon.

I squinted up at Jack, my white-gloved hand shading my eyes. “Where’s the address?”

“Great Neck.”

“Guess we have to take a train ride.” I started down the block. Jack stopped me.

“Your
next
move is all the way out to Long Island? You’re all done with your business in the city? Is that right?”

I smirked up at the man. “From that tone, I’m guessing I’m not.”

Jack tilted back his fedora. “You sure got a lot to learn, honey.”

“Give me that photo!”

Jack raised a sandy eyebrow but he didn’t argue, just handed it over.

“Come on!” I said. This time, I grabbed his arm and tugged him up the block. I turned into the first burlesque show I saw. There were girlie pictures plastered under the marquee; billboards with half-dressed cuties; and a big, ugly-looking bouncer at the door. He stopped us with a giant hand, pointed to the ticket booth.

“We’re not here to see the girls,” I said. “We’re looking for this woman. Know her?”

The big man frowned at the photo of Mable Conway and shook his head. Then he pointed to the booth and folded his massive arms. “Thirty-five cents each.”

“Come on!” I pulled Jack to the next theater.

The burlesque houses were mostly clustered along Eighth Avenue and Forty-second. I showed Mable Conway’s photo to the next bouncer and then a third. None of them recognized her. But the fourth one said she looked familiar.

“She ain’t a blonde, though. She’s a brunette. And she’s about fifteen years older than that photo.”

“Did she work here?” I asked, excited to find a lead.

The bouncer nodded. “You should talk to the girls inside.”

Jack flashed his PI license and the bouncer waved us in. A sultry brunette was onstage, peeling off opera gloves to a slow-playing sax. Men sat in the dark, sipping drinks, hats pulled low.