The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

978-1-440-65833-4
     
    BERKLEY ® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY ® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA)
Inc.
     

     

     
    http://us.penguingroup.com

For their “spirited” support over the years,
this book is affectionately dedicated to
the inspiring, creative, and dangerously intelligent
J. J. and Marcia Pierce.
Thanks for reading—and for caring.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
     
    Once again, the author tips her fedora to
Wendy McCurdy, executive editor,
and
John Talbot, literary agent.
Class acts from start to finish.
     
    And a very special thank-you to Allison Brandau
for her valuable editorial input.

Don’t you see . . . if everyone rushes off at the slightest sound, of course the house gets a bad name. It’s too ridiculous, really, in the twentieth century to believe in apparitions . . .
     
    —The Ghost and Mrs. Muir by R. A. Dick
(a.k.a. Josephine Aimée Campbell Leslie)

PROLOGUE
     
    “So you’re a private detective,” she said. “I didn’t know they really existed, except in books.”
    —The Big Sleep , Raymond Chandler, 1939
     
     
     
     
    Third Avenue Lunchroom
New York City
September 10, 1947
     
    “WHAT’S GOOD TODAY, Birdie?”
    “It’s all good.”
    “You say that every day.”
    “It’s all good every day.”
    Jack Shepard tossed his fedora onto the dull green counter and stifled a yawn. It was close to noon already, but he’d been on a tail much of the night.
    One more cheating Charlie , he thought, only this time Charlie wasn’t stepping out on his Park Avenue wife. This genius came all the way from Pittsburgh to sample the side dish.
    Jack had been hired by a PI in PA who didn’t feel like riding the rails all the way to the Big Apple. Jack filed his report by phone and collected his dough by wire. Now the job was over.
    Another “happy” marriage right down the drain . . .
    At least the case was open-and-shut, which was fine with Jack now that he’d lost a night’s shut-eye over it. Anyway, he had a payday in his pocket, he’d earned a night off, and he was hoping to spend it with something a whole lot softer than a whiskey bottle.
    Jack dragged out a fresh deck of Luckies, shook one clear. While Birdie went for his coffee, he lit up and took a drag. Someone had left a Times behind and he skimmed the page one headlines—“Butter Rises to 90 Cents a Pound,” “Truman Hails National Guard,” “Long Island Fire Kills 8” . . .
    “So what else is new?” Jack turned on his stool and cased the rickety wooden tables.
    Same old tired crew, except for the little twerp from that Midtown blab sheet. Most days, Timothy Brennan drank his lunch at the hotel bar up the block. The newshound only showed here when he was down on his luck—or angling for a story.
    “Hey, Shepard,” Brennan called from across the lunchroom. “What do ya know, what do ya say?”
    To you? Nothing, Jack thought.
    The last time he’d answered “a few questions” for Tim Brennan about a case he was working, the little punk put it in print. Jack figured “off the record,” “in confidence,” and “private” were words the little snot-nosed scribbler had failed to learn at that upstate college. Brennan got a bonus for his article. Jack nearly got killed. So he made sure Brennan got an extra-special bonus from Jack personally: a nice black one around the vicinity of his eye in the blab sheet’s back alley.
    “Why aren’t you at the Mayfair, kid?” Jack called. “Lose on the ponies again? Or was it the fights this time?”
    “Got a hot tip, Jack?”
    “Yeah, you’re a degenerate gambler. Quit while you’re behind.”
    “Thanks but no thanks, Shepard. I’ll stop up to see you later.”
    “Sure, you do that,” Jack called. ’Cause I won’t be there.
    “So what’ll you have today?” Birdie asked as she poured his coffee.
    “Your Blue Plate.”
    “Wow, a big spender.”
    “Yeah, two whole bits for roast beef and smashed potatoes.” Jack threw her a wink.
    Birdie was new behind the counter. Jack liked her butter-scotch curls and bluebonnet eyes. Only one thing bugged him: She grinned too much—like those Square Jane cheer-leader types who didn’t have a clue how the world really turned. For all their giggling, Jack found them about as much fun as a sober sunrise. But the last few days, Birdie