The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

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.”
    The old girl might cheer you up.
    “Who?”
    The one you came all the way up here to see.
    “Oh, right! Miss Todd!” I threw the car into gear and started speeding away.
    Geez, Louise! Slow down, will ya ?! You want to run over the milkman, too!
    Jack was right. I gritted my teeth and eased up on the gas.
    That’s more like it . . .
    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