The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion (31 page)

 

THE AMBULANCE CAME and went, spiriting the medium to the emergency room. Seymour wanted to follow Rachel to the hospital, but was detained by an angry Chief Ciders who, after interviewing the séance members for less than five minutes, promptly arrested Seymour Tarnish.

“This time, I
know
it’s the victim’s blood on your clothes,” the chief declared.

Seymour pleaded his innocence even as he was cuffed and dragged away by Bull McCoy. Stoddard was torn between going to the hospital to be with Rachel or arranging bail for Seymour.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve spent the night in Ciders’s hoosegow before,” Seymour told the man. “You go to the hospital. Make
sure
the docs take good care of Rachel!”

Miss Tuttle and Stoddard left immediately for the ER, and the other séance members departed. April Briggs was sobbing and clinging to her mother on the way out.

“I was just so frightened,” she said, sounding like a believer now.

I looked around for Leo, wanting to ask why it took him nearly thirty seconds to turn on the lights after Stoddard called out. But before I could locate the man I heard his Harley cough to life in the parking lot. He was speeding away as I stepped outside.

I found Fiona standing there, her face unnaturally pale.

“I can’t believe Ciders arrested Seymour,” I told her.

“It’s awful what happened,” she said. “Rachel’s such a sweet girl.”

“You don’t think Seymour did it, do you?”

“No, of course not. But the chief can’t hold Seymour long. He’ll make bail in the morning. Let’s just hope Miss Delve revives quickly and can tell us whatever she can about who really assaulted her.”

“How long have you known Rachel, anyway?”

“Over a year now. I met her when I purchased her beautiful set of seafaring paintings. You’ve seen them, in our lighthouse bungalow. Seymour liked them so much that I bought one for him, too, as a housewarming gift.”

“So
Rachel’s
the mysterious artist ‘RD’?”

Fiona shrugged. “I didn’t want to introduce her to Seymour for fear he’d make an ass of himself. Who knew they’d hit it off?”

I glanced at my watch and groaned. “I can’t believe it’s nearly two in the morning—”

“You can’t leave yet.” She took my arm. “We have to talk. Remember you asked me to find out what I could about Todd Mansion?”

“Yes!”

Fiona led me back up to the inn and into her private office. “Sit,” she said, pointing out a comfortable old leather chair.

As I settled in, I noticed she had a pot of jasmine tea already brewed and sitting on a small service cart beside her mahogany desk.

“I did a bit of snooping,” Fiona began, as she poured our tea and handed me a bone china cup and saucer. “The local library’s records weren’t any help, but I called a friend at the Rhode Island Preservation Society in Providence. Folks there have long memories—”

“And?”

“And she e-mailed me a number of documents from their records. I printed them out.” Fiona settled herself behind her desk, placed a pair of delicate reading glasses on the tip of her nose, and shuffled through a pile of papers. “The real history of the Todd house began back in 1948. Before that, the house was owned by the Philips family. Old Jeremiah was a banker hit hard by the Great Depression. Then he lost both boys in the war. He managed to hang on to the family homestead until he died in 1946, when the mansion fell into receivership.”

Fiona paused to sip her tea. “The house was purchased after that but my contact is still digging for a copy of the deed.”

“Who purchased it? Timothea Todd?”

Fiona shook her head. “My contact believes the purchaser was a man named Gideon Wexler.”

My spine stiffened. “Did you hear that, Jack!” I shouted in my head and then remembered. Because of the séance, I’d intentionally left his buffalo nickel on my dresser. Swallowing, I simply repeated the name aloud: “Gideon Wexler, you say?”

“Yes, apparently there was a chapter written on Wexler in a book about Newport spiritualists. It’s long out of print, but it’s in the Preservation Society’s library and my contact scanned some relevant pages. Now let’s see . . .” Fiona shuffled more papers. “Apparently, after the Second World War, Gideon Wexler was a big hit among high-society types in New York City. Here’s his photo—”

She handed me a printout. Wexler was the fat man in the portrait over the mantel, all right, as well as the ghost I’d seen floating across Miss Todd’s living room. He was also the man in the newspaper Jack had shown me—the one whose mansion had burned, killing eight people, including J. J. Conway’s mother.

“He told fortunes,” Fiona explained, “helping wealthy war widows contact their dead spouses—for substantial fees. His occult group, called the Order of the Old Ones, was so popular that Wexler purchased and refurbished an estate on Long Island. It became the group’s ‘spiritual retreat.’ And according to witnesses, strange things happened at that house. People reported hearing odd noises, cold spots, ghostly lights, and frightening apparitions.”

“
That
sounds familiar.” I pointed to the papers. “Is there anything in there that shows that symbol on the Todd fence—a pentagram with a fleur-de-lis in the center?”

Fiona nodded and handed me one of the papers. “It’s the symbol for their order, Pen.”

I frowned, seeing the design and caption, thinking again of Leo’s dagger.

“Wexler claimed he had the power to raise spirits of the dead to act as his personal supernatural guides,” Fiona continued.

“But he operated in New York, right? And then Long Island. What brought him up here?”

“I’m getting to that—in 1947 his mansion on Long Island burned to the ground.” Fiona flashed a familiar-looking newspaper clipping. “Several of his employees died in the fire, along with a few of the wealthy folks who had joined his group. The fire was deemed suspicious, but Wexler was out of town when it happened and was never charged with a crime.”

“That’s when he came to Quindicott?”

“Not directly,” Fiona said. “After the fire, Wexler resettled in Newport—lots of money there, so it was a good location for him to start pulling in rich widows again. He started his Order of the Old Ones up in a town house but it wasn’t big enough. He wanted a fresh location, a big place with lots of grounds and somewhat isolated, much like the house he’d refurbished on Long Island. That’s how he came to purchase the house in Quindicott. He began remodeling it, put up the fence, and made other improvements. But within a year of moving in, he died of a heart attack.”

“So Gideon Wexler bought Miss Todd’s mansion. But how does Timothea fit in? How did she come to live there? Did they have a relationship? Or did she purchase it after Wexler?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t know any of that, but my contact is still digging, trying to find a record of the latest deed. As soon as she comes up with any new information, I’ll get it to you.”

I thanked Fiona and asked Barney to walk me to my car. Then I headed back to the bookshop and locked myself in—glad that Seymour was locked in, too.

I hated that he was under arrest, but at least I could be sure he’d be safe, for tonight at least. There were a lot of pieces to this ghostly puzzle, and I still couldn’t put it all together.

“Jack?” I whispered into the dark bedroom air.

But the air didn’t stir and his voice didn’t answer. I closed my eyes again, disturbed by the image of my PI partner fading into the fog.

CHAPTER 22

Dike was firmly opposed to the granting of contracts and concessions to those who enjoyed political pull.

—Honest Money
, Erle Stanley Gardner,
Black Mask
, November 1932

 

 

 

THE FOLLOWING EVENING, Bud Napp hadn’t even banged the gavel (or in his case, the ball peen hammer) on the Quindicott Business Owners Association meeting, when the subject of the gathering sauntered in to Buy the Book’s Community Events space. As Bud’s hammer hung in midstrike, I turned and gaped with everyone else at Jim Wolfe’s six-foot-three form striding down the center aisle.

The contractor wore tight denims, spotless white sneakers, and a beige summer sport jacket over a V-neck black T-shirt. “Hello, everyone,” he said with a friendly smile.

“Hello, back!” called Joyce Koh, daughter of the local grocer, her voice full of naked flirtation. Sitting next to her, Mr. Koh scowled and whispered something—then they quietly began to argue.

Jim cleared his throat, continued up to the raised dais, and faced Bud. “I think I have a solution to your problem,” he said loud enough for the entire room to hear.

“I’ll be happy to hear you out,” Bud replied warily.

“Councilman Lockhart and I have worked out a plan, but I want to hear your input before it gets implemented.”

I was surprised to hear that. Previously, Brockton Lockhart had always backed Councilwoman Binder-Smith. Was what passed for a political machine in Quindicott actually breaking down? If so, then Bud’s announced candidacy had already made a difference.

For the next ten minutes, Jim Wolfe outlined a plan to shift most of his construction fleet to an empty lot owned by Lockhart. “The generators will have to stay,” he warned. “But we’ll park them so they won’t block your entrance. Line them up catty-corner, maybe.”

“What’s Lockhart getting out of this?” Bud asked suspiciously.

“Brock doesn’t want to be used as a political tool by a certain councilwoman,” Jim replied. “Frankly, neither do I.”

Bud rubbed his chin. “Can I get a permit to paint yellow lines on the street—lines that’ll keep your vehicles in their assigned spots?”

“I’ve got Lockhart’s permission to do just that.” Jim smiled again. “But you’ll have to supply the paint.”

Bud chuckled and extended his hand. “It’s a deal.”

Scattered applause broke out, increasing in tempo. Jim Wolfe smiled again and I heard female voices whispering—no doubt a few hearts were fluttering, too. Jim noticed me then and gave me a little nod.

My heart might have fluttered, if I hadn’t been missing Jack so much. My PI spirit hadn’t reappeared this morning. In fact, he hadn’t reappeared all day.

I knew the dream he gave me would have drained him, but I was beginning to worry there was more going on. Ophelia Tuttle was obviously a powerful psychic and medium—and she knew about Jack. Could she have done something to push him into a cosmic limbo permanently? The image of my PI partner fading into the fog continued to haunt me, along with the words of that threatening note someone had left for me.

BRAKES AREN’T THE ONLY THINGS THAT CAN GET CUT.

Did Ophelia or someone else in her RIPS group cut Jack loose from me and my bookshop forever?

“I apologize for not dealing with this sooner,” Jim was now telling Bud. “I’ve been pretty distracted, trying to replace an electrician I lost in an accident. Sal Gillespie was a good guy. Tough shoes to fill.”

“Why don’t you hire Leo Rollins?” Bud said. “He’s a licensed electrician and he’s worked for you before.”

Jim shrugged. “I actually made Leo an offer the other day and he turned me down flat. Said he had found a better-paying job moonlighting. I don’t see him here tonight.” Jim glanced around. “Maybe he’s already working.”

I was surprised Rollins hadn’t shown up for our “Quibblers” meeting. He was as angry as everyone else about Councilwoman Binder-Smith’s so-called “green” initiatives, not to mention Bud’s parking dilemma. But Leo wasn’t the only absentee Quibbler. Seymour Tarnish hadn’t shown, either, despite the fact that I’d heard he’d made bail sometime today. And Fiona Finch—who usually came early and spoke often—had yet to arrive.

Jim jerked his thumb toward the door. “Why don’t we check out your storefront right now, Bud? You can show me where I can park my generators, and I’ll have my crew paint lines in the morning.”

Bud slammed his hammer on the podium, declaring the meeting adjourned. The mob of local business owners stood and moved quickly toward our exit. It was after ten o’clock by now and everyone wanted to get home. Bud and Jim Wolfe followed the crowd to the front door.

Jim pointed at me before leaving. “Coffee this week, Pen,” he mouthed with a wink. “Remember?”

I nodded politely, but Jim’s offer didn’t make my pulse flutter—not even a little bit. Jim was a living, breathing hunk, no question. But my heart was already taken with someone else. The fact that the man I cared for was no longer flesh-and-blood didn’t make a difference. Love wasn’t something that stopped for a little thing like death.

If Jim ever did come by for our coffee date, I’d simply break it to him that I was a confirmed widow, and he was better off taking out one of the half dozen females who were presently giving him the eye all the way out the door.

The crowd was nearly gone when I felt Chick Pattelli’s callused hand touch my arm. “So, will it be a spring wedding?” the garden store owner asked with a smile. “I can hothouse-grow any flowers you like for the big day.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Let me know,” Chick said before he walked out. I was baffled, but the answer came a moment later.

“When are you and Seymour Tarnish getting married?” Joyce Koh asked, walking up to me.

“Must be soon,” said Milner Logan, joining us.

Quarter-blood Narragansett Native American, Milner was our town baker. He was also a good customer, with a penchant for thrillers and noir crime novels, as well as anything penned by Tony Hillerman and Margaret Coel. A trained pastry chef, he’d fallen in love with an old friend of mine, Linda Cooper, while teaching her in a cooking class. It was Linda’s family who’d started Cooper’s. Now she and Milner ran it as a married couple.

“What gives, Pen?” Linda demanded, the bangles on her wrist jangling as she ran a hand through her short, spiked, Annie Lennox-style platinum hair. “My mechanic at Warwick Motors mentioned you’re already calling yourself ‘Mrs. Tarnish.’ How could you not tell me what was up with you two!”