The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion (4 page)

On the face of it, the legislation sounded reasonable. I mean, everyone wants clean air, clean water, and clean sources of energy, and the woman’s “Green Initiative” promised to deliver all of that in time. But when Bud read the fine print of Marjorie’s legislation, he discovered that the councilwoman’s “initiative” was placing a 10 percent surcharge on the sale of all “fossil fuel-powered lawn mowers, generators, heaters, and lanterns, as well as all propane gas and outdoor cooking and camping equipment.” (Marjorie well knew that Bud Napp was Quindicott’s only propane dealer and the town’s first destination for outdoor cooking supplies, too.)

The
Quindicott Bulletin
fully supported these measures—actually, its longtime editor simply reprinted Marjorie’s “press release” word for word. Thankfully, both proposals were ultimately defeated, mostly because Bud pointed out to the town’s taxpaying consumers that they would be the ones hurt most by such legislation.

Bud also pointed out that Marjorie’s primary rationale for the tax monies was to “discourage” the use of carbon-based products, and the money itself wasn’t going directly toward alternative fuels, or planting trees, or anything specific. It was simply going into the city council’s special slush fund to be used at the council’s “study” of alternative energies.

Bud did a little
more
investigating and let the community know that this was the same “special slush fund” that the council had used for a junket to Marin County, California, the year before to “study solar energy at a national seminar.” The seminar included trips to the local spa, and a tour of wine country in a rented luxury bus.

Bud pointed out that the carbon footprint for crossing the country on jet-fueled aircraft, not to mention tooling around in a gas-powered monster vehicle, was pretty major. In a self-distributed flyer (the
Quindicott Bullentin
refused to print Bud’s findings, calling them “partisan”), Bud even revealed that the inn where the council members stayed included personal fireplaces in every room, and during their trip they’d had several gourmet dinners at an Italian restaurant with a wood-burning oven.

The political hypocrisy was off the charts. The town’s citizens were furious. Bud became more visible, and even more popular with the locals.

Binder-Smith’s initiatives also helped to forge an alliance between Bud Napp and his former business rival, Leo Rollins, owner of Rollins Electronics (and seller of gas-powered electric generators). Leo, the big, bearded Desert Storm vet, motorcyclist, and self-described loner, even joined the Quindicott Business Owners Association, an organization he’d shunned since he opened his store a few years ago.

“Apparently the councilwoman hasn’t exhausted her bag of tricks,” I said.

“I’m calling an emergency meeting of the Business Association,” Bud declared. “When is your community event space available? I can’t get anything but voice mail on your store’s phone.”

I chewed my lip, guessing that my aunt was too busy to answer. “That’s a problem, Bud. The Yarn Spinners are meeting tonight—”

“Who?”

“The knitting-themed mystery enthusiasts. And Feline Friends are meeting on Wednesday.”

“What? You’re a pet store now?”

“They fancy cat mysteries.”

“Okay. What about Thursday?”

“No good,” I said. “We have an author signing, then the Culinary Cozy Crew meets, and Friday is the Hard-Boiled Buddies—those are the guys who read the gritty, alcoholic ex-cops-turned-private-investigators mysteries.”

“Didn’t that tough-guy reading group used to meet at the girly bar on the highway?”

“Yeah, they did. Until their wives found out.”

Bud sighed. “Well, the weekend’s no good. The store owners are too busy to meet on weekends. What about Monday?”

“We have the Seekers until nine or so. If you want, the Quibblers can meet after that, say ten or ten thirty.”

“If we meet that late, we’re sure to have a lot of no-shows. Who are these Seekers? Maybe you can convince them to reschedule or move their event.”

“The Seekers are a new occult reading group, and this is their first ever meeting. I can’t just kick them out.”

In the background I heard the
beep, beep, beeping
of heavy trucks backing up. “Okay, Pen. Monday at ten. I’ll pass the word.”

“I’m sorry about what’s happening to you, Bud.”

“Me, too, Pen. I thought we threw spiteful aristocrats the hell out of here two hundred years ago!”

Bud ended the call and I tucked the phone in my bag. “I really need some good news.”

“Who?”

“Oh, right! Miss Todd!” I threw the car into gear and started speeding away.

Jack was right. I gritted my teeth and eased up on the gas.

I rolled down Larchmont, the only moving vehicle in the exclusive neighborhood—the oldest and cheapest car, too, given the late-model Mercedes, BMWs, and sports coups parked in the half-moon driveways. No two dwellings looked the same on Larchmont and none of the homes was built later than the 1920s—mainly because once the Great Depression hit, no one in Quindicott could afford to build so lavishly again. Even today, they were occupied by the wealthiest residents in the area—lawyers, doctors, entrepreneurs, deans from nearby St. Francis College, and the children and grandchildren of those who’d inherited fortunes.

Despite the quiet luxury of manicured lawns and precisely pruned shrubbery, I sorely missed my Cranberry Street. The hustle and hum of life, albeit a hard-working one, was a much more appealing alternative to the stillness of this particular plot.

A few minutes later, I spotted our destination. “That’s Miss Todd’s mansion, up ahead.” I nodded at the massive home on the high hill at the end of the development.

Though everyone referred to the Todd place by the catch-all term
mansion
, a more accurate term was “Second Empire mansard-style Victorian.” (I’d picked up a few things about Victorian architecture from Fiona Finch, who ran the town’s only bed-and-breakfast with her husband, Barney.)

Miss Todd’s Second Empire was nowhere near as cheery as the Finches’ Queen Anne. It wasn’t that the Todd mansion was in disrepair. The place was in good enough shape—although the overgrown grounds didn’t appear to be feeling the love from anyone. No, it was the overall impression of Miss Todd’s house that made me uneasy.

The Finches’ Queen Anne began its welcoming impression with a wide, wooden wraparound porch. The colorful flower boxes, stained-glass front door, and romantic corner turret all extended the feeling of warmth and whimsy.

By contrast, Miss Todd’s Victorian was a severe box of cold gray stone. There were four floors total: a high attic with dormer windows just under the mansard roof; a second and third story with wrought-iron railed balconies; and a grand first floor. The windows of the main floors were tall and narrow, their stone arches overhanging the stingy plates of glass like an old man’s disapproving eyebrows.

The entire place appeared to be designed with off-putting pretension. Take the cupola crowning the roof. I usually liked cupolas. The doming tops of cathedrals always reminded me of the top tier of a wedding cake. But the trapezoidal shape of the cupola on the roof of this Victorian was an
Addams Family
fright.

The worst detail was the decorative wrought iron, spiking out of the roof’s upper cornices like a punk rocker’s overgelled hair. Almost as bad, in my opinion, was the porch.

The Finches’ wraparound veranda was as wide and open as a grandmother’s arms. The narrow deck of stone on the Todd mansion appeared to be demanding references. A pair of Ionic stone columns felt intimidating, and the triangular gable that sat above them completed the sort of formal, Greek Revival style one usually saw in government buildings. The effect was chilly and forbidding, a theme echoed in the rusting, eight-foot fence built around the perimeter of the large property.

Miss Todd’s was the oldest house on Larchmont. Its grounds were also the largest since it was built well away from the rest of the neighborhood, the last home in the development. Larchmont Avenue kept going after Miss Todd’s place, wending its way down, down, down, the countryside, through a densely wooded area until it finally turned into Mill Run Road, and connected to a large highway, which led to Millstone, the next town over.

As we approached Miss Todd’s drive, I took a closer look at the wrought-iron fencing around the property. The design in the fence always caught my eye—not because I liked it. The motif was one I’d never seen before or since: a continuous pattern of five-pointed stars, each with a fleur-de-lis in the center.

“You know, I’ve seen pentagrams before—especially in our occult book section. But I never saw one with a fleur-de-lis at its center. This is the only place I’ve ever seen that design.”

“You have? Where?”

Jack was right. I had books to deliver and errands to run, and I was already turning my car through the gated entrance to Miss Todd’s mansion. The heavy iron doors were open wide, and I suspected they’d rusted in place. My car’s tires bumped and rumbled up the cobblestones. I cut the engine and climbed out.

The wind was still strong, but it was a hot wind, offering little relief from the warm day. I redid my ponytail, securing the flyaway auburn strands. That was when I noticed the double doors at the front of the house standing wide open.

“I guess Timothea is expecting me.”

Even as I said it, I found the sight of the open doors disturbing. But it was Jack who gave voice to my buried suspicions.

Deep inside I knew Jack was right. But a more shallow part of me wasn’t in the mood to foresee gloom ahead.

“Maybe the house just got stuffy!” I chirped, electing to believe my sunny side. “It is awfully hot.”

“Either that or I drove up here for nothing.” I reached for the carton of books in the backseat, only to find they’d tumbled onto the floor. “Great.”

“For what?”

The ghost did not reply. With an exhale of frustration, I slung my bag over my shoulder and dropped my car keys into my pocket.

“Okay,” I told the ghost, whether he was listening or not. “I’ll come back for the books. But I’m sure nothing’s wrong.”

I reassessed that opinion a few moments later, after I passed through the towering Ionic columns of the formal front porch and discovered the mess inside the mansion’s foyer.

Mail was scattered all over the hardwood floor, and a delicate little black-lacquered table had tumbled onto its side.

Nervous now, I remained outside and began ringing the doorbell. Its electronic buzz sounded from somewhere deep inside the massive house. I knocked loudly and called out: “Miss Todd!”

Silence.

“Jack?” I whispered.

I took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold. “Miss Todd?” I called again.

My voice echoed back to me. I took another step, moving into the hallway. There was nobody on the staircase; nobody lying at the base of the steps, either.

“At least she didn’t fall and break her neck,” I murmured, recalling a terrible incident, not too long ago, involving an elderly Newport man.

I glanced into the dimly lit living room next, past the fireplace with the formal portrait of a heavyset man above it, past the Victorian clutter of dark wood furnishings, brass lamps, lace doilies, and knickknacks—and that was when I saw her.

Miss Timothea Todd was sprawled in the center of a plush, jewel-toned area rug. Crimson stained the bodice of her nightgown. Her hands, blanched almost as white as her gown, were covered with blood and still frozen into a position clutching at her throat. Bloody foam flecked the woman’s pale, still lips, and her white hair seemed to be standing on end.

I stumbled backward. “My God, I think she’s . . .”

I wanted to run, to flee, but I fought the urge, my fingers curling into hard fists. I took a breath and surveyed the scene. The most upsetting thing about Miss Todd’s corpse was the obvious expression of stark fear on the dead woman’s face. Her sightless eyes were wide and staring; her mouth twisted into a final, frozen scream.

“Look at her face, Jack,” I whispered into the still room. “It’s like . . . like . . .”

CHAPTER 3

Death tugs at my ear and says, “Live, I am coming.”

—Oliver Wendell Holmes

 

 

 

I WAS NO stranger to the dearly departed. As a young widow I’d not only seen my share of death, I was beginning to consider myself a magnet for it. Certainly by now I’d witnessed more crime scenes than your average American single mom. So Jack’s next piece of advice seemed almost unnecessary to me—if not a tad insulting.

“I know,” I told the ghost. “You’re not dealing with a rookie anymore.”

“The wha—Oh! The cell phone!”