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I recalled the well-dressed older woman we’d passed on our waiv>

My eyes opened wider at that. “Of course—Miss Todd’s sister.”

I cleared my throat. “Mr. Stoddard, I have a question. Isn’t Miss Todd’s sister upset about not being left the Larchmont property? I mean, can’t she contest the will?”

Stoddard nodded. “The woman could take legal action, but I doubt she will. You see, Miss Todd and her sister were estranged for decades—and the sister has told me she wants nothing to do with the house. Although if Seymour were to die before the title is legally transferred, the property would automatically revert to Miss Todd’s closest living relative, which would be her sister.”

“Why doesn’t the woman want anything to do with Todd Mansion?” Sadie asked.

“It’s quite silly, really. You see, she believes that Todd Mansion is, well . . .”

“Yeah,” Seymour piped up. “Todd mansion is what?”

“Cursed.”

“What do you mean ‘cursed’?” Seymour asked.

“Haunted would be more accurate,” Stoddard said. “Haunted by evil spirits.”

For a few seconds no one made a sound. Then I watched Aunt Sadie’s eyebrows lift and Seymour’s jaw literally drop open. My own mind raced back to the expression of mortal dread on the face of Miss Todd’s corpse, along with that chilly cold spot.

Seymour cleared his throat. “Look, Mr. Stoddard, I know you’re a smart guy and all, but I have a suggestion for you. Don’t ever take up real estate as a profession, ’cause you don’t know the first thing about pumping up the property to a prospective owner!”

Stoddard sat back in his leather chair and folded his hands over his belly. “You must understand that I don’t put much stock in Timothea’s sister’s opinion. I merely mentioned the woman’s theory in answer to your question. Remember, Mr. Tarnish, the sisters were estranged for many years. Why, I doubt that Mrs.”—Stoddard caught himself—“excuse me, that Miss Todd’s sister has set foot in the mansion for decades.”

Get her name, baby.

“Excuse me,” I interrupted. “I’m just so curious . . . Can’t you tell us the woman’s name? We’ll keep it confidential.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. McClure. It’s a matter of trust. Miss Todd’s sister insists on privacy. Of course, once I’ve finished executing the will, it shall enter the public record—”

“When will you finish executing the will?” I asked, maybe a little too urgently. Mr. Stoddard’s neutral expression changed.

“Hard to estimate at this time,” he replied, his eyes narrowing on me with open suspicion. “Could be three months, maybe six. There’s quite a bit of paperwork; transfers; and, of course, federal, state, and local taxes to be handled.”

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“I really couldn’t say.” Stoddard shrugged. “I mean, Miss Todd dwelled in that house for years without complaint.”

I frowned. “But Chief Ciders told me that Miss Todd summoned officers to her home a number of times in recent weeks. He said she was complaining of hearing strange noises.”

Stoddard sighed. “Miss Todd discussed the matter with me, as well. She seemed genuinely frightened, though I did my best to soothe her fears. And I believe fears were all they ever were. You see, Timothea’s behavior had become increasingly erratic since a trivial incident that occurred last summer.”

“What incident?” I asked.

Stoddard waved his hand as if dismissing the subject. “It doesn’t much matter now.”

Jump on that, doll. Push him for more. But don’t make him nervous. Keep it conversational.

I cleared my throat, wrinkled my brow. “But I’d like to know,” I said. “Wouldn’t you, Aunt Sadie?”

“Well, yes,” said Sadie. “I suppose so—”

“It was just a problem with the gas main on Larchmont,” Stoddard said.

“Oh, I remember that!” Seymour turned to me and Sadie. “That Wolfe Construction crew resurfacing Larchmont dug a little too deep. A backhoe ruptured the gas main—”

“Yes, I remember, too,” Sadie said. She shook her head. “That’s the same construction company that’s been blocking Bud’s hardware store.”

“They win a lot of the bids for the city,” said Seymour.

Sadie turned to Stoddard. “Weren’t some of those big houses on the avenue evacuated when that gas main was broken?”

“Only one, I’m afraid,” Stoddard replied. “The damaged gas main was right in front of Miss Todd’s gate, so she was forced to leave her home for almost ten days while the leak was capped and the pipes repaired.”

“That would have been a terrible inconvenience,” I conceded. “But why would that have affected Miss Todd?”

“She had a psychological attachment to the mansion,” Stoddard said. “Leaving caused her distress.” Stoddard sighed and looked down, studying the nicked desk. “At first she wouldn’t leave, despite the danger. Volunteer firemen literally had to drag her out. I convinced Timothea not to return for her own safety.”

“Where did you take her?” Sadie asked.

“The Finch Inn was booked, so I found a nice room at a hotel in Newport. But the drive there was difficult. Timothea hadn’t been inside a car in decades, and the farther from Quindicott we traveled, the more agitated she became.”

Sadie sighed. “The poor woman.”

“When we arrived at the hotel, I nt size="3">“NO!” I said, a little too forcefully.

Seymour stared. “Why the heck not? Listen, after they banish the ‘spirits’ from your bookstore on national television, you’ll be swamped with new customers!”

Jack’s chilly presence was getting colder by the second. Will somebody tell this Alvin to put a sock in it.

As if he’d heard Jack, too, Stoddard loudly cleared his throat. “Yes, well, let’s move on, shall we?” He reached for a second file and handed it to Sadie. “This is a list of the books Miss Todd has bequeathed you. There are several hundred first-edition mystery novels and true-crime volumes dating back to the 1950s. I’ve made arrangements to have them boxed and delivered to your store by the close of business this Friday.”

Sadie placed the file in her lap. “Thank you.”

“I see no reason to dally, do you? Miss Todd’s wishes were clear.”

“Funny,” I told Jack. “Her wishes were clear about the disposition of the house, too, but Mr. Stoddard seems willing to forgo that.”

Yeah, baby. He does.

“It’s obvious Miss Todd didn’t want her house sold to strangers. Yet Stoddard’s ready, willing, and able to broker a deal for Seymour.”

There’s a lot less bucks in old books than in hot real estate.

“And Stoddard keeps pretending the mansion isn’t haunted. But I felt that cold spot myself. Do you think it’s possible for a living person to manipulate a ghost into scaring someone to death?”

Jack didn’t answer.

Emory Stoddard checked his watch again. “That concludes my business with you ladies,” he said, punctuating the point by rising from his executive chair. “I think it would be best if you both departed now and allowed Mr. Tarnish and I to finalize the paperwork. We have several documents, title, and transfers to review, sign, and notarize.”

“But we came with Seymour,” Aunt Sadie said. “He gave us a ride over.”

“Oh, in that case, let me call you a cab,” Stoddard said, reaching for the phone.

“Don’t bother,” Seymour said, rising, too. “This time of night, you can’t get a car service out here in under an hour.” Seymour dug into his pocket for car keys and began to work one key off of it. “Here, Pen, take my extra key and drive the bus back to the bookstore. Just park it by a curb on Cranberry. I’ll take the cab and pick it up when I’m done here.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Tarnish,” Stoddard insisted. “I’d be happy to drive you back to Quindicott once we’re finished here.”

“Great,” Seymour said. “It’s settled then.”

“Mr. Stoddard was a perfect gentleman, dear. What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Stoddard pressuring Seymour into selling Miss Todd’s home.”

“You call that pressuring?” In the dim light of the car, I could see my aunt shaking her head. “It sounded to me like Stoddard was simply explaining that option to Seymour—and he rejected it pretty firmly, too. But, you know . . . maybe Seymour should sell.”

“Why? Do you think Miss Todd’s house really is haunted?”

“Heavens, no.” Sadie waved her hand. “But even if it were, that’s nothing to cause alarm. My word! Look at Finch Inn. It’s supposed to be haunted, yet Fiona and Barney have never seen an apparition. And half the inns in Newport have ghost stories attached to them, not to mention the landmark buildings. Fiona tells me the stories are good for business. And you know that’s one reason we started our occult book section.”

“I know.”

Sadie laughed. “Why, I’ve heard stories that parts of this very road are haunted. Some phantom car, which was run off Buckeye Lane years ago, supposedly comes back to haunt random drivers. And don’t you remember, dear, what Seymour said about our very own bookshop? It’s supposed to be haunted, too!”

“Ah, yes. I do seem to recall something like that—”

“When you first moved in with me, you did mention some strange things happening.”

“True.”

“But then you settled in and that all went away. Now, I’m sure if you actually saw a ghost in our bookshop, or continually heard strange noises, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

“Um—”

“Of course you would! And I’m sure Timothea would have told me if she was afraid of a ghost in her home. No, I’m sorry to say I think the noises she heard were a form of dementia.”

“But I still don’t understand, Aunt Sadie. If you don’t think the mansion is haunted, then why should Seymour sell?”

“Because he’s a bachelor. What’s he going to do all alone in that huge house? His father passed away years ago and his mother’s happy as a clam since she moved to the Florida coast.”

“You don’t think she’ll come up to live with him?”

“Judy Tarnish never did get used to our New England winters. She was raised in the South, and after her husband died, she couldn’t get out of Rhode Island fast enough. In fact, I remember her telling Seymour that the only way she’d come back up here is to attend his wedding.”

“Seymour a groom?” I smiled at that idea. “Can you imagine?”

“You know what they say, Pen. There’s someone for everyone.” Sadie paused and leaned back in her seat. “Now that you mention it, didn’t you get the feeling Seymour was kind of sweem">“I’m glad there’s no traffic tonight,” I said, attempting to change the subject while still trying to get used to the acre of distance between me and the road. My compact car was a lot smaller than Seymour’s VW bus. Between the mass of lime-green metal around me and the height of the front seat, I felt like I was steering an army tank down Buckeye Lane.

“Traffic’s never a problem around here anymore.” Sadie peered out the side window. “It’s sad what’s happened to Millstone.” She shook her head at the empty storefronts, the GOING OUT OF BUSINESS signs. “When I was a little girl, this town was such a pleasure to visit, so alive.”

I slowed to a stop at an intersection, although there was no need. The crossroads were empty. I forged ahead, the tarred road getting blacker by the yard. Not only were storefronts dark; corner streetlamps weren’t always working. Every few blocks, one was either flickering or entirely burned out, which certainly didn’t help the sense of bleak gloom. The uncertain light didn’t make driving Seymour’s VW bus any easier, either.

“This thing is so much harder to handle than my little Saturn.”

“Just go slow, dear. There’s no one behind us.” Sadie glanced into her sideview mirror. “Oh, I’m sorry. I spoke too soon. Someone’s coming up on you now.”

I glanced in the rearview and saw a sedan with a single person visible in the car. I barely glimpsed the driver’s shadowy silhouette before a brilliant light blinded me.

“That driver’s turned on the car’s high beams!”

We were just entering the two-mile stretch that led from the town to the highway’s onramp. Averting my eyes from the mirror, I stuck my hand out the window and waved the car forward. But the stubborn driver just kept rolling along behind me, blasting those high beams.

“What’s that idiot doing?”

Sadie glanced in her side mirror. “I can’t see a thing. Those high beams are too bright!”

I waved again and even hit the horn, but the sedan refused to pass.

“Maybe the driver’s afraid of passing here,” Sadie said.

“Fine then.”

I pressed harder on the gas pedal, increasing my speed to put more distance between Seymour’s vintage van and the tailgater with the high-beam issue.

Sadie leaned over to check the speedometer. “I thought you said you weren’t comfortable driving this thing?”

“I’m not! But Speed Racer here is breathing down my tailpipe!”

Sadie glanced in the mirror again. “Be careful, Penelope. Never let someone else drive your car for you.”

Listen to your auntie, baby. Slow it down.

“Jack! Where’ve you, use your head.

I felt my aunt’s hand on my shoulder. “Keep the wheel steady, Pen.” Her voice was much calmer all of a sudden. “Keep your eyes on the road.”

“Okay.”

My fingers were wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel, my knuckles looked white in the VW’s dim interior. My face was probably just as blanched. But this trip wasn’t over. We were speeding along at close to fifty, and that last turn put us down the steep hill that served as the highway’s onramp.

I could see the heavy traffic just ahead. “There’s no shoulder! I’m going to have to get on!”

“Activate your emergency flashers,” said Sadie, her voice still amazingly steady.

I glanced down for a moment, pushed the hazard button. “Okay! They’re on!”

“Good,” Sadie said. “Just do your best to merge into the highway traffic. The van will slow down on its own as soon as we hit level ground.”

That sounded all well and good, but there was no place to merge. We blew right by the YIELD sign and were now speeding toward the highway’s crowded right lane.

Honk the horn, baby! Warn these people away from you!

Good idea! I pumped the horn, sent out a succession of nasal VW beeps.

For a second, the lane showed me an opening, and I thought we were in the clear. Then I saw it: a giant Mac tractor, pulling a dozen cars on its ten-ton trailer. There was no way this massive truck could slow down fast enough. A fog-horn bellow blasted my eardrums.

“Oh, my goodness!” Sadie shouted again. “Look out!”

The onramp ended and the truck’s stack of new cars filled the windshield of the VW. We’re dead, I thought, bracing for the crash—

But it didn’t come.

The wheel in my hand cut sharply to the right. Beneath my fingers, it kept on turning. The stacked cars disappeared as the van’s high beams illuminated high weeds and brush. We bounced so violently, my head bumped the van roof. The turn had slowed us, but we were still moving fast. My hands were still on the wheel but some other force was handling it now, steering the van up a bumpy hillock. The wheel turned again to prevent us from plummeting over the other side.

For a few yards more, we rolled along the high, narrow strip of brush-covered earth, parallel to the highway. Then like the end of a roller-coaster ride from hell, we finally came to a full stop.

I closed my eyes. “Thank you, Jack,” I silently whispered.

My pleasure, baby.

I turned to my aunth,t="6" width="1em">A few seconds later—after we both assured each other that nothing on either of us was bruised or broken—I unlocked my shoulder harness and tried to pop the door.

“It won’t open! My door’s wedged against some high brush. Try your door.”

“Oh, dear. Mine will only open about five inches.”

Just then, I noticed someone had stopped to help. There was no shoulder on this stretch of road, just a narrow strip of weeds below the steep embankment on which we were now stranded. The driver of a car or van couldn’t fit on the thin strip of land below us, but a motorcyclist could—and that was exactly who’d pulled over.

“That’s Leo Rollins’s motorcycle,” Sadie said, pointing.

I recognized the big bronze Harley. Then Leo lifted off his shiny gold helmet and I knew it was him for sure—no one else in the area had Leo’s shaggy yellow hair and dark blond beard. Leo’s mountain-man build was a giveaway, too; and for a big man, he climbed the steep, uneven embankment with surprising agility.

I rolled down the window. “We need help!”

“I can see that,” he said. “You hurt?”

Leo was a man of few words and when he did speak his voice was so low and deep, I expected the floor to tremble, like it did for those sub-woofers he sold in his electronics store.

I didn’t know the man very well; Sadie didn’t, either. Ever since he moved to our town a few years ago, he pretty much kept his own counsel. The man’s beard was more famous around town than anything he’d ever done or said. It grew in inverse proportion with the length of the New England days—the shorter the days, the longer his beard. By the time Christmas came around, and his whiskers were about down to his pectorals, he always put in a book order with us. Last year’s included Lee Child’s and Michael Connelly’s entire backlists. We fulfilled it the last week of January and by the first week of February he was holed up alone in his Vermont cabin till March. For the past few years, he’d gone every year like clockwork.

“We’re okay,” I assured Leo. “Just a little shaken up.”

“Thank you for stopping,” Sadie called from the passenger seat.

“I saw the whole thing,” Leo told us, pointing to the end of the onramp. “Seymour almost T-boned that Mac truck’s trailer. Where is he?” Leo glanced inside the vehicle.

“Seymour wasn’t driving,” I said.

Leo frowned. “But this is his breadloaf bus.”

“He lent it to us to get home.”

“I’m phoning Bud,” Sadie called to us, pulling out her cell phone. “He can pick us up and take us home. And he’ll know who to call to tow this thing.”

“Good idea.” While Sadie placed her call, I turned back to Leo. “Can you help me get out of here? The door’s wedged shut.”

Mutely, Leo s about his vintage VW bus. He was relieved that we were okay but furious about the brakes failing. Cursing a blue streak, he vowed to us he’d just had the thing inspected at Scotch Brothers Motors.

“Wait till I get my hands on Patrick Scotch!”

“Don’t be too sure it’s Patrick’s fault,” I told him.

“Why?” Seymour asked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I think it’s awfully coincidental that your brakes failed right after you inherited Miss Todd’s mansion. That’s what I mean.”

Seymour told me to chill out. “Don’t go all conspiracy theory on me, Pen. The bus is pretty old.”

“But you just had it inspected, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, supposedly,” Seymour said. “But Patrick Scotch is turning into a real rip-off artist. He charged me an arm and a leg for dubious repairs to my ice cream truck, and I wouldn’t be surprised if his inspection on my breadloaf was slipshod. It’s time for me to find a new mechanic.”

“But it is suspicious. You have to admit.”

“I’ll only admit I need to get someone reliable to overhaul my VW’s brakes.”

Bud and the tow truck had arrived by then. Leo Rollins was already gone. He’d stuck around only long enough to give his statement to the Staties—which, unfortunately, contradicted our statement since he’d said that he sure didn’t see any sign of a sedan behind us. Then he’d rumbled away on his bronze Harley.

Before Leo departed, I’d asked him about the strange design on the hilt of his dagger. He’d claimed he didn’t know anything about the design or what it meant—just saw it in the window of a Newport antiques shop one day and picked it up for a steal.

You believe that? Jack had asked.

“What else should I believe?” I’d told the ghost. “You still haven’t told me your own connection with that odd design.”

Once again, the ghost clammed up.

Now we were back home, and Bud was pulling up to the curb in front of our bookstore’s front window. I jumped down from the van to give my aunt and her sweetheart some privacy for their goodnight. Then she climbed down, too. Bud drove off, and together we pushed through our shop’s front door.

Not bothering with the lights in the main store, I moved through the archway, entering the sizeable space we used for reading groups and author appearances. My aunt was right: I could see right away that the knitting-mystery enthusiasts were gone. Only Bonnie was left.

“Hi!” she said, glancing up from her floor-sweeping with the apple-cheeked enthusiasm of the unburdened young.

Like her brother, Bonnie Franzetti had thick, black hair, but where Eddie’s was straight, hers was curly. She wore it just past her chin, which flattered her heart-shaped face and big, brown, long-la thrs, Shaker-style rockers, and a variety of floor lamps throughout the shop. Jacking up the “comfy” factor had increased shop traffic significantly. Tourists found the bookstore “quaint,” like stepping into a New Englander’s private library, and locals found the atmosphere so comfortable they browsed longer and bought more.

For all of the store’s casual coziness, however, we were still a business. We used display tables, cardboard book dumps, window clings, shelf-talkers, eye-catching standees, and signage near the picture window to inform local customers and window-shoppers alike what was new in stock.

As I stepped past the cardboard displays for the newest front-list releases from Dean Koontz, Jacqueline Winspear, and Alexander McCall Smith, I finally saw the Zara Underwood standee.

I’d put the thing together, and I well remembered what the two-dimensional cutout of the stripper-turned-actress-turned-writer was supposed to look like. The big-breasted blond had posed holding a revolver against her thigh. She wore high heels, white stockings held up with a garter belt, a powder-blue bustier, and matching frilly panties. The outfit was the exact same one described in a key scene of Bang, Bang Baby, Zara’s debut crime novel.

At the moment, however, I couldn’t tell what the woman was wearing. Her entire body from her neck to her ankles had been wrapped like a mummy in four different kinds of yarn.

“Oh, for pity’s sake.”

Bonnie quickly stepped up. “I’m sorry, Mrs. McClure. But I couldn’t stop them.”

“Them being the Yarn Spinners?” I pointed to the fuzzy threads of lemon yellow, turquoise blue, neon pink, and white cashmere crisscrossing Zara Underwood’s cardboard torso. “I mean, who else, right?”

Bonnie nodded and Jack started laughing again in my head.

“What’s so funny?” I silently snapped.

The cardboard dame’s holding the rod. But she’s the one who got covered!

“After the Spinners left,” Bonnie said in a rush, “I tried to undo it and pull it all off, but those ladies are really good at making knots! I didn’t want to risk damaging the standee, so I just left it—”

“It’s okay.” I patted her shoulder and dug out my keys. “Spencer, unlock the stock room and bring me a box cutter.”

“Okay, Mom,” Spencer said, stifling giggles as he hurried away.

Bonnie went home, and Spencer returned to the front of the shop not only with the box cutter but also with an arm-load of Bang, Bang, Baby.

“The dump’s almost empty, Mom.”

“Thanks, honey. I’ll take those.” I grabbed the stack of hardbacks. “Now go upstairs and get readyity’s sre geniuses, or even that this year’s roster of bestselling authors will stand the test of time. But, you know, the novel itself was once considered a ‘disreputable’ genre; and some of the greatest books ever written—in my humble opinion—would be dismissed today as ‘popular’ fiction, given the literary theories of the moment. And I do mean moment, dear.”

“You don’t have to tell me. Brainert Parker’s made the point dozens of times. He still hasn’t gotten over the Norton Anthology leaving out Robert Louis Stevenson from 1968 to 2000.”

“My point exactly! Academia can be as changeable and trendy as the rest of society in what it decides to deem worthy, and people who go out of their way to make others feel bad about their enjoyment of a particular book, even an entire genre, are missing the bigger picture.”

“Which is?”

“At a time when fewer and fewer adults are reading anything, we should be celebrating enthusiasm, not condemning it.”

Flipping the trigger on the box cutter, I exposed the sharp razor. Now I could easily slice through the tangle in front of me.

“Be careful, Penelope. ‘My books are good and yours are bad’ is a dangerous Animal Farm game . . .” Sadie’s voice drifted off as she moved to lock the front door.

“What do you mean?” I called.

“For some people, ‘erudition’ is nothing more than a vehicle for hostility and arrogance; ‘good taste’ merely an excuse for condescension—or worse, censorship.”

“Weren’t you two worried about the brakes on that thing?”

“Pen was. Big-time,” Seymour said, waiting for me to pop the Saturn’s trunk. “She made me drive to your place at about five miles an hour.”

“And I made him stop every twenty feet, just to be sure.”

“Good.” Eddie nodded, folding his arms. “Because the sabotaged brakes of Seymour’s VW worry me a lot more than this alleged haunted house.”

“The brakes,” I said. “That’s right. You were going to stop by Ben Kesey’s garage.”

“I did. Ben had Seymour’s bus on a lift, showed me the damage. I took digital photos, picked up some prints under the vehicle, too.”

Seymour frowned. “But you’ll just get Ben’s greasy fingerprints, won’t you?”

“I took Ben’s prints so we can eliminate him, sent what I got to the state police. They’re analyzing them now. It’s a long shot but you never know. The undercarriage was unusually clean.”

Seymour nodded. “I clipped a coupon a few weeks ago for that new Auto Wash by the Sleepy-Time Motel: half-price engine and undercarriage steaming with the purchase of a hot wax.”

“Well, it’s a good thing. I’m pretty sure I got some prints that weren’t Ben’s. In the meantime, watch your back, Seymour. You be careful, too, Pen.”

I nodded. “I will.”

As Seymour stashed his suitcase in my trunk, I stepped closer to Eddie. “If you want my theory,” I told him quietly, “I think Miss Todd’s living sister has the most to gain if something happens to Seymour.”

“You know her name?”

I shook my head. “Emory Stoddard does. But he won’t divulge it. He says she wishes to remain anonymous and he’s under no legal obligation to reveal it at the moment. All I know is that she may be living in Newport under a married name.”

Eddie frowned, remained silent for a minute. “Let me see what I can find out.”

I thanked Eddie and slid behind the wheel of my Saturn. Seymour climbed in beside me. I noticed Eddie didn’t go back to his own car until we drove away. And yes, even though it made Seymour crazy, I braked the car every ten yards for the first half mile, just to be on the safe side.

I drove slowly after that, turning onto Dogwood from Larchmont. We didn’t say a word as we rolled under the shade trees, along the stone wall, and past the gates of the “Old Farm.” Finally, we left the site of the town’s graveyard and continued on the road to Cranberry.

I drove to the far end, just past the business district, and turned onto a long drive lined with century-old weeping willows. The Finches’ bed-and-breakfast stood at the end, its brick chimneys, windows, shingle-covered gables, and corner turret making for a much cheerier picture than the Todd mansion—to my relief.

Fiona and Barney had researched their Queen Anne thoroughly, even repainting the house in its original high-Victorian colors: reddish-brown on the main body’s clapboards, and a combination of olive green and old gold on the moldings and the spindlelike ornaments that served as a porch railing.

There were four floors of rooms, each with its own fireplace and most with breathtaking views of Quindicott Pond, a good-sized body of saltwater fed by a narrow, streamlike inlet that raced in and out with the nearby Atlantic’s tides.

A nature trail circled the pond, stretched into the backwoods, and branched off to paths that led all the way to the shoreline. The inn rented bicycles for the trail and rowboats for the pond, which was usually pretty well stocked with fish. A dozen or so local fisherman even docked small boats here and used the inlet to reach the open ocean.

The inn’s French restaurant was housed in a separate, smaller building, which featured a large dining room partially built right over the pond. Chez Finch was a little too pricey for most of the town’s residents, but the raves from papers in Providence and Newport were bringing in plenty of foodie tourists with deep pockets.

As I climbed out of my car, the June sun felt warm on my face. Seymour joined me and we walked across the small parking lot, feeling the breeze off the pond—brisk and fresh with the tang of brine. We ascended the Queen Anne’s six long steps, moved across the wide, wraparound porch, and through the open stained-glass doors.

Fiona noticed us strolling past her palm trees in her dark-paneled entranceway and waved us over to the inn’s hospitality table. “Morning, you two! Care for a snack?” She was just transfering the last breakfast pastries from the white bakery box to a decorative plate. “I stopped by Cooper’s after church.”

Without a word, Seymour dropped his suitcase and stuffed a hot glazed circle of fried dough into his maw. “Thannns, Finnna,” he mumbled between chews.

Unfortunately, my stomach wasn’t up for Milner Logan’s lighter-than-air doughnuts, mouthwatering maple-glazed banana muffins, or any of the delicious-looking fare from Cooper Family Bakery. Coffee was about all I could handle. So I moved to the urn on the table and helped myself.

Have two, baby, the ghost advised. Between last night’s drinking and your funhouse scares, I’m surprised you’re still walking upright.

“Me, too,” I whispered, stifling a yawn.

“Now, tell me exactly what this is all about,” Fiona said, pointing to Seymour’s suitcase.

“I told you over the phone. I need a place to stay for a little while,” Seymour said, his thick fingers selecting an apple turnover even before he’d swallowed the last of the doughnut.

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I could already hear the ghost laughing.

“Listen, Fiona. Todd Mansion really is haunted.” I pulled out my cell phone and showed her the digital photo of the old portrait. “Seymour and I saw the ghost of this man. Miss Todd must have seen him, too. That’s what scared her to death.”

Fiona’s jaw dropped as I went through the entire tale, including the audiotapes we’d uncovered. “. . . and I want to find out more about this dead man. Do you recognize him?”

Fiona shook her head. “He’s likely a Todd patriarch, don’t you think? Miss Todd’s father or grandfather?”

“Would you look into the history of Todd Mansion for me? I know you have the connections with the historical society.”

“Of course.”

“Find out everything you can. Who built the house, who lived there before Miss Todd, everything. And while you’re at it, ask around. See if you can find anyone who knows or remembers Miss Todd’s sister.”

“I promise I’ll find out what I can.” She eyed me. “Stick around a few minutes, okay?”

I nodded, downing another cup of java as Fiona showed Seymour to his room upstairs. When she came down, a few of the inn’s guests were eating pastries and drinking coffee. She smiled, greeted them warmly, and took me by the arm.

“Let’s step outside,” she whispered.

We moved through the stained-glass doors, clomping across the floorboards, and stopped in the far corner of the wide wraparound porch. The day was growing warmer but the awning kept us well shaded.

“Tell me the truth, Pen,” Fiona said quietly. “What’s going on with Seymour? Has he been spooked enough to give up the mansion? Is he going to sell to that vampire who crashed his party with the councilwoman last night?”

“You mean Charlene Fabian?”

“Lindsey-Fabian,” Fiona noted. “Of the Lindsey-Tilton group; let’s not forget that.”

“The McBed-and-Breakfasts, I know.”

“You should also know that I don’t buy that ridiculous story Marjorie Binder-Smith told about Charlene being an old friend staying with her for a visit. That woman might be a college chum, but she was there last night to get a good look around. Probably would have greased the wheels with Seymour, too, if I hadn’t been there to run interference.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“Of course I am! And I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts that there’s a financial reason Marjorie’s involved—probably a political contribution or even a quiet kickback under the table if the councilwoman agrees to steamroll through re-zoning of Larchmont for a B and B.”

I nodded.

Fiona shook her head. “You know, I saw her again been s>

“Who? Marjorie?”

“No, Charlene Lindsey-Fabian. She was going into Cooper’s as I was heading out. It took every ounce of willpower for me to bite my tongue and not tell her off again.”

“Listen, Fiona, after last night, you better prepare yourself for the possibility. Seymour may decide to sell. He’s pretty upset about the whole haunting business. Even before we witnessed the manifestation, he contacted the Spirit Zappers.” I explained who they were and what they did. “But they’re backed up for months. And right now I’m more worried about someone trying to hurt him—even kill him—over that property. Eddie Franzetti confirmed what Ben Kesey found: The brakes on Seymour’s VW bus were sabotaged.”

Fiona’s eyes bugged a moment. Then she folded her arms and tapped her foot in thought. A cool breeze off the pond blew the line of Shaker rockers back and forth as if a group of ghostly guests were taking it easy, biding their time till midnight when they’d rise up and haunt the town.

“What the Todd house needs is a séance,” Fiona finally said. “An authentic medium might be able find out some key information from the spirit or spirits lodged there.”

“A séance . . .” I thought it over. “That’s not a bad idea. The house is very old, yet the manifestations began only recently. Why? What’s behind it? What made the activity start?”

“If a medium can help Seymour answer those questions, maybe even exorcise those spirits and prevent him from selling, then I’m going to introduce him to one.”

“You know a medium?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. She’s going to be leading a séance in my restaurant tonight at midnight.”

“Chez Finch?”

Fiona nodded. “She belongs to a spiritualist group based out of town. A small number of them are coming to stay the night at the inn.” She glanced at her watch. “They’re all due to check in before sunset.”

“But why hold a séance at Chez Finch? It’s too new to be haunted, isn’t it?”

“It’s not the restaurant they’re interested in. It’s the pond, which the dining room is partially built right over.”

“Why is that significant?”

“Apparently they’re going to try to reach the spirit of a man who may have drowned in the ocean waters connected to the pond.”

“I see. And what’s the name of this group?”

“I don’t know yet. It’s all very secretive. The reservations and arrangement were made by the medium herself: Rachel Delve. I actually know Rachel from another business transaction. She’s very nice and quite trustworthy. She’s the real thing, Pen. Maybe she can help Seymour.”

“Jim! You came from the bakery? Just now?”

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 div>

“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.”The men exchanged words about some big boxing match. Then Jack grabbed my gloved hand and pulled me along like a little coal car behind a massive steam engine.

The apartment was shotgun style, with one room leading into another. Each was full of smoke—cigarette and cigar. A radio was playing loudly somewhere, the announcer calling a horse race. A dozen men were sitting around on easy chairs, reading papers and drinking. A half dozen more sat around a table playing cards, also drinking. We plowed through room after room until we came to a closed door. Jack knocked three times.

“Come!”

Curly the Bookie didn’t have any curls. He didn’t have any hair, either. In an irony that didn’t get past the Three Stooges, “Curly’s” head was shaved clean as a billiard ball. He had a bulky, half-muscular body, as if he’d been a boxer once and had gone a little to pot—but only a little. The man’s bulldog face and ham-sized biceps didn’t look worth challenging in the ring or out.

He greeted Jack with a stern but not unfriendly, “Howya doin’, Shep?” The men exchanged some views on a race-horse and more on the same boxing match Jack had discussed with the muscle-bound doorman.

“. . . but I’m not here to lose my money today, Curly,” Jack said all of a sudden. “Got a girl partner here today wants to ask you a few questions. That okay?”

I tensed. Curly’s bulldog face didn’t move but his black eyes narrowed on me from behind his desk. “Depends on the questions.”

Jack stepped back and pressed me forward. “You’re on, baby.”

“Crap,” I muttered.

“Excuse me?” Curly said.

“I was wondering, Mr. . . . uh, Curly, if you know a man named Frankie Papps?”

“Why?”

“I, uh, need to find him for a little boy who wants to locate his mother. Frankie was the woman’s boyfriend. And she’s disappeared. Can you help me find Frankie?”

Curly took a long time looking me over. He took a long drag on the stub of a cigar. “Frankie places bets here,” he finally said. “Does it once a week, like clockwork. He ain’t been here in two.”

“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

“He mentioned his boss owed him a big cut of back pay and he was sick of waitin’ for it. He was going out there to collect so he could place a nice big bet on Graziano vs. Zale at Yankee. Frankie don’t show soon, he’s gonna miss the book.”

“You said he was going ‘out there’—where is that? Long Island?”

Curly nodded. “Said his girlfriend worked for this rich guy, too, and they were both going to get their cut, quit while they were ahead.”

“What does that mean? What were they doing for this man?”

“From what Frankie told me, t were running some kind of elaborate scam. There were whales involved, a big payoff.”

I glanced at Jack. “Whales?” I whispered.

“Rich people were being scammed, baby. Very rich people.”

“So that’s it,” Curly said. “That’s all I know.”

We were clearly dismissed and Jack led me out again, back through the shotgun rooms. We were almost to the door when someone stopped him.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite slugger. What brings you here, Jack? A bet or a case?”

“I’m done talking to you about cases, Brennan. Unless you want another shiner?”

My ears pricked at the name. “Timothy Brennan?” I leaned my head around Jack’s wide shoulders and my jaw dropped. The famous late author of crime novels (in my time) was standing in front of us, now very much alive—much younger than I remembered, too, and about a hundred pounds leaner. But then, the man wouldn’t be keeling over at my in-store appearance for another sixty years.

“Who’s the cutie?” Tim Brennan winked at me. “Introduce me, Shepard. Don’t be a cad.”

“This is Penelope. She’s helping me out today.”

“Charmed.” Brennan winked again, but this time it was more of a leer. “And what exactly are you helping our Mr. Shepard with, Red?”

“The case of a missing mother.” I sniffed.

Beneath a boyish shock of hair, Brennan’s eyes lit up. “Really? Sounds like great copy.”

“Don’t tell him a thing,” Jack warned.

“Okay, then,” I said. “I guess we’re off to Great Neck then.”

“Great Neck?” Brennan echoed as we began to move past him. “You two investigating the deaths in that fire?”

“What fire?” Jack asked.

Brennan slapped a newspaper into Jack’s hand. “Read all about it, buddy. Eight dead in mansion land. Rich guy’s place burned to the ground. Could be arson. And if it is, it’s eight counts of homicide.”

“I’ll read it,” Jack said, then hustled me out of the bookie’s lair.

When we hit the street, I asked Jack how we were getting to Long Island. The weather was looking pretty lousy by now; clouds were smothering the sun. The daylight was dying.

“Close your eyes, baby. We don’t have much time left.”

“We’re not done, are we? I still haven’t solved the case!”

“Close your eyes.”

I did and all of a sudden the balmy="6">

I rubbed my eyes, feeling groggy. Part of my mind was still stuck in the past—Gideon Wexler was the name of the man in the portrait. But that name didn’t mean anything to me. And it made no sense. Who was Miss Todd to this man? A relative? A friend? A lover? And what did it matter, anyway?

I called silently to Jack, but he was gone. Once again, reliving his past memories had exhausted him.

“An envelope came for you, by the way.” Aunt Sadie called from the doorway. “I left it on the dresser.”

“An envelope?”

“Yes, Dilbert found it earlier, stuffed in our door’s mail slot.”

“But this is Sunday. We don’t get mail on Sunday. And we’re open. Why didn’t the person who delivered it just come inside?”

“Yes, it’s a little mysterious, isn’t it?”

I could tell my aunt was curious, if not a little worried. I threw off my bedcovers and went to the dresser. The envelope was white and plain with MRS. MCCLURE typed on the front—no address, no stamp, no other markings. I opened it, unfolded the paper inside. There was only one sentence typed: nine black words on a field of white.

“What is it, dear?” Aunt Sadie could see something was wrong from my expression. She moved back into the room, took the paper from me and blanched at the simple message:

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