The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion (32 page)

“Whoa!” I told Milner and Linda. “The only Mrs. Tarnish I know lives in Florida, and I doubt there’ll be another one anytime soon.”

“Just going to live together?” Linda asked.

“No!”

“Methinks she doth protest too much,” Brainert Parker quipped from behind me.

Milner laughed and shook his head, his wiry black-and-gray ponytail shaking in the process.

I scanned the expectant faces around me, shocked to realize they all believed this crazy rumor. “Just because I spent the night at Seymour’s house—I mean, as his
guest
. Okay, I slept in his bed, but Seymour stayed in another room—” I threw up my hands. “You’re all mistaken. You’re putting me into some kind of an
imaginary
relationship.”

I bit my cheek, thinking of Jack. What would their reaction be if they knew the real truth?
Oh, God.

“Come, Joyce!” Mr. Koh called.

The Kohs left and Sadie locked the door behind them. Then she joined me. I glanced around. Everyone was gone except our closest circle of friends—Milner and Linda, Brainert, and Fiona Finch, who must have arrived while all the others were leaving. She stepped up to me with arms folded and lips pursed.

“I tried to straighten them out, Pen,” Fiona insisted. “But apparently I’m no longer a reliable source of gossip.”

“What does Pen expect after that crazy ghost story we heard she was telling?” Linda asked.

“But it’s true,” I said. “I know Todd Mansion is haunted because I’ve seen the ghost with my own eyes.”

Stunned silence and wide eyes greeted my statement.
Great.

“Okay. You’ve got our attention,” Brainert said.

It took twenty minutes, but with Fiona’s help I brought Brainert, Milner, and Linda up to speed. I told them about Miss Todd’s will, the mysterious Ophelia Tuttle, the sabotaged brakes, Seymour’s wake for Timothea, the magic circle under the rug, and the aggressive moves by the Charlene Lindsey-Fabian on behalf of her Lindsey-Tilton group.

I described the supernatural events of the other night, told them about the weird tapes Miss Todd recorded, and the hidden history of Todd Mansion that Fiona uncovered. Fiona stepped in at that point and told them about the house’s connection to spiritualist Gideon Wexler, the séance she hosted at Chez Finch, and the assault on medium Rachel Delve right before she was about to name Arthur Fromsette’s killer.

When Fiona was finished, I saw only dubious expressions on everyone’s face.

“If Seymour were here, he’d back me up,” I insisted.

“Where is Seymour?” Sadie asked.

My aunt had been quiet up to now, but I knew she was worried. That threatening note addressed to me had really gotten her back up. She’d wanted to help catch whoever had written it (no doubt the same person who’d put our lives in danger on the road out of Millstone), so I handed her the audiotapes that Miss Todd had made. I still hadn’t listened to them all, and I asked her to play them and make notes of anything, well,
noteworthy
.

“After he made bail, Seymour came to my inn around two o’clock today to pick up his things,” Fiona informed us all. “He told me he was driving to Providence to pick up equipment. Special equipment, he called it. Seymour mentioned something about not waiting six months for help, and that he’d solve his ghost problem himself.”

“Pen, what do you think is happening?” Brainert asked.

I took a deep breath. “As crazy as it sounds, I believe someone is manipulating the ghosts in that house. I saw the specter of spiritualist Gideon Wexler floating across the living room. I didn’t imagine it. And I’m convinced something frightened Miss Todd to death.”

Brainert frowned. “Who would be manipulating these spirits and for what purpose?”

“I believe Ophelia Tuttle is doing it—or someone else in her Rhode Island Paranormal Society. Mr. Stoddard may even be involved. I also believe Miss Todd’s living sister is behind this, too. Her name is Mrs. Beatrice Ingram. She lives in Newport and had a meeting just yesterday with Charlene Lindsey-Fabian and Jim Wolfe about doing work on a ‘property’ to turn it into a B and B. I think that property is Todd Mansion, and she’s arranging to either scare Seymour out of it or kill him so the property will legally fall to her and she can sell it for a million dollars to the Lindsey-Tilton group.”

“Wait, Pen. I think you’re wrong about Mrs. Ingram. You need to see this.”

“What?”

Fiona handed me a sheet of paper. “The preservation society e-mailed me a copy of the latest deed to Todd Mansion.” The photocopy wasn’t the best, but the signatures were legible. “Along
with
Gideon Wexler, the house’s owners were Timothea Todd and Wilomena Field.”

“Oh, my God. Mrs. Fromsette’s maiden name is Field!”

Fiona nodded. “And her first name is Wilomena.”

“So Mrs. Fromsette is the mysterious sister?” I said. “But she has a different name.”

“She’s a half-sister—” Fiona said.

“She’s
also
active in a spiritualist community,” I broke in. “Mrs. Fromsette
must
be the one who arranged the manipulation of the ghosts in that house! She has the most to gain by her sister’s and Seymour’s deaths.”

Milner shook his head. “But spooks don’t sabotage brakes.”

“And no spirit put poor Rachel in the hospital,” Fiona reminded me.

“If Mrs. Fromsette had inherited the house in the first place, none of this would have happened,” Aunt Sadie said. “I wonder what could have come between the sisters to estrange them so?”

“I believe I know the answer to that!” Fiona proudly declared. She produced a copy of an old black-and-white photo from the preservation society’s files. It showed Gideon Wexler flanked by two adoring young women. The three of them stood in front of the open wrought-iron gates of Todd Mansion.

“That must be Timothea on the right!” Sadie cried. “I saw her wearing that very tiara once.”

Fiona nodded. “The other woman is Wilomena Field—the future Mrs. Arthur Fromsette. This photo came from a pamphlet about Gideon Wexler’s spiritualist society. In the caption, the women are identified as Timothea Todd and her
half-sister
, Wilomena Field! Both met Gideon in Newport and clearly fell under his spell. Just look at the way those young women are gazing up at the man. Look at the way his arms are around them both. I think there may have been a love triangle. I think Miss Todd and her sister may have fought over Gideon Wexler’s attentions, and that’s why the sisters had their falling-out.”

“I guess Miss Todd got her man—or got his ghost, anyway,” Milner said.

Sadie shuddered. “You wouldn’t take this so lightly if you heard Miss Todd’s tape recordings.”

Brainert practically jumped out of his seat. “You’ve heard the tapes?”

Sadie nodded. “I’ve been listening to them all day.”

“For heaven’s sake, play them for all of us!” Brainert said.

Milner, Linda, and Fiona nodded with fascinated interest.

Sadie brought out the tapes and played them back through the Community Events PA system. In stereo, coming through recessed speakers around us, the creepy, unnatural sounds were even more unsettling. Sadie cued up some of the most dramatic sections. They obviously left an impression on the skeptical group.

As Sadie fast forwarded through the final tape, she stopped too soon and the room filled with a familiar, high-low rumble.

“That again,” Sadie said, annoyed. “At first I thought it was part of the supernatural phenomena because it’s on every tape. Then I realized it was just traffic noise.”

“Play that again, Aunt Sadie,” I said.

Sadie did, and my suspicious were confirmed.

“That’s Leo Rollins’s Harley!” I realized.

“Sure is,” Milner said. “That’s his customized engine. I’d recognize it anywhere. And didn’t you say that Leo was at the séance, too?”

“Yes,” I said.

Milner nodded. “Like I said. No
spirit
slugged that medium.”

“But Leo’s got no stake in this property fight,” I said. “And it was Mrs. Fromsette who was seated inside the séance circle. She was closer to Rachel than Leo—”

“Pen, Mrs. Fromsette comes into our bakery all the time. And I can tell you that old woman could hardly give someone a black eye, let alone knock them out.”

“But I don’t think Leo could have been close enough to do it. The room was pitch-dark after the candle was knocked over. How could he have found Rachel to punch her?”

“Actually, Leo served with the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment during Desert Storm,” Milner said.

Linda faced her husband. “How do you know that?”

“Guys talk.” He shrugged. “Especially when they drink.”

Linda scowled. “You went to that girly bar again, didn’t you?”

“I, uh—”

“So Leo was a pilot, then?” I cut in before we got off the subject.

Milner shook his head. “Leo was an infantry scout, a Night Stalker. They’re specially trained to fight in the dark.”

“It was Leo who found us when the brakes failed on the highway, remember, Pen,” Sadie quickly noted. “He said he was just passing by, but he might have been stalking us to see what happened after he sabotaged the brakes!”

“You said Leo doesn’t have a stake in this, but someone could have
hired
him to kill Seymour,” Brainert reminded me.

“That would explain what Jim Wolfe said to Bud earlier,” Sadie said. “Remember? Jim offered Leo work but he turned it down. Leo said he was making more
moonlighting
.”

Milner raised an eyebrow. “A hit man
would
earn more than an electrician.”

“And what about that dagger Leo has?” Linda said. “If it looks exactly like the one you found in Todd Mansion, then there must be a connection, right? Maybe Mrs. Fromsette had the dagger all these years and gave it to him to use!”

Milner nodded. “That’s got to be it. Mrs. Fromsette hired Leo.”

“But all of this stuff is just conjecture,” I pointed out.

The ghost of Jack Shepard may not have been with me now, but I could hear his voice echoing through my memories, railing about getting hard proof. Eddie Franzetti and his State Police colleagues would need conclusive evidence—facts that were
clear as a glass of gin.

“All this stuff is circumstantial,” I continued. “There’s no presentable legal evidence against Leo. And the police aren’t going to make an arrest based on our theories.”

The group glanced at one another sheepishly. They knew I was right.

“Perhaps we should listen to more of Miss Todd’s tapes,” Brainert suggested. “We might hear something more substantial that implicates Leo.”

While Sadie cued up another sound bite, I told her I needed to use the phone.

“Who are you calling at this hour?” she asked.

“Seymour! He’s in danger. Concrete proof or not, we all
believe
we know who’s guilty. Someone has to warn Seymour to ignore the stupid haunts in his house and watch out for Leo Rollins!”

CHAPTER 23

Perhaps you have the solution. A few persons of unusual intelligence and scientific knowledge might be able to guess.

—Nightmare Alley
, William Lindsay Gresham, 1946

 

 

 

I DIALED SEYMOUR’S home phone and got a busy signal. Cursing the mailman for being too cheap to invest in a cellular plan, I grabbed my keys and drove out to Larchmont Avenue myself. My handbag was with me, too, Jack’s nickel tucked inside.

“Jack? Jack Shepard!” I called into the night. “I need you! Can’t you hear me?”

No answer came. I didn’t hear his voice. I couldn’t feel his presence. He was gone, and all I felt was cold inside, empty and alone and scared. I swallowed back tears in my dark car, forcing myself to believe that my spirit would come back again.

“You can’t be gone from my life, Jack, you can’t . . .”

It was close to midnight when I pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Miss Todd’s mansion. Rising up on the hill, the hulking Victorian appeared pitch black; not one window showed a light burning. The regal doorbell didn’t
bing-bong
when I pressed it. I pressed again.
Nothing.
Frowning with worry, I gave up and knocked.

Seymour appeared almost immediately, flashlight in hand. He was surprised to see me. “I just called Bud Napp’s cell fifteen minutes ago,” he said. “Surely he didn’t send
you
to fix my electricity?”

“I called you around the same time.”

Seymour shrugged. “Guess I was on the line with Bud.”

“What’s the problem?”

“The new equipment I rented blew a fuse, and—” He shrugged sheepishly. “I can’t find the damn fuse box. I called Bud for help, but he just sat down to have a drink with Jim Wolfe at that new girly bar on the highway, Gentlemen’s Oasis. What’s up with that?”

“Long story.”

“Anyway, Bud said he’d send someone by.” Then Seymour brightened. “Come in and I’ll show you my stuff.”

I was nervous about crossing the threshold of Todd Mansion, but I followed Seymour to the red-and-white-checkerboard kitchen, now illuminated by the flickering glow of a dozen candles. I hadn’t seen Seymour since he was hauled off to jail, and he looked tired. There was also a fresh bruise under his left eye.

“Courtesy of that moron Bull McCoy,” he explained before directing my attention to an array of electronic devices piled on the counter.

“What’s this stuff for?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“It’s everything you need to track down ghosts. Here’s an EMF detector.” Seymour displayed a small, handheld device. “And this is a temperature gauge to locate cold spots—I have a handheld model, too. Here’s a set of infrared cameras and a bunch of voice monitors and stuff to record electronic voice phenomena. The guys at Tech Squad even rented me a laptop to track my results.”