The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

at the mailman through furrowed brows. “I still suspect you, Tarnish.”
    “Of what?!”
    “Of causing those noises Miss Todd reported. I don’t know why you’d want to scare the old woman to death, but I’m keeping my eye on you.”
    “You’re crazy, Ciders. Why would I want to scare a nice old lady like Miss Todd?”
    “Who knows why you do anything, Tarnish. You’ve been a bad seed since I hauled you in for setting Montague’s Woods on fire—”
    “I was in the eighth grade! Me and Keith Keenan were shooting off bottle rockets. One of them got away from us!”
    “You started an illegal fire, drank beer while you were still underage, and you were in possession of pornography—”
    “Porno? It was a Playboy magazine me and Keith found in the trash, for cripes’ sake!”
    “Plus you were cutting school.”
    “Just gym class,” Seymour said. “It sucked, and do you know why?” He stepped up to Chief Ciders and poked his finger into the man’s barrel chest. “Because it was full of a-holes like your Neanderthal nephew over there! And that’s the problem with bullies like him—and you —more brawn than brains. Just think about this logically for a second. What possible motive would I have for frightening poor old Miss Todd to death?”
    Ciders’s face reddened. He didn’t have an answer. The room fell silent. No one moved. And then the doorbell loudly buzzed. We all tensed. Ciders gestured to the front door with an angry jerk of his thumb.
    “Eddie! See who that is!”
    He did. And a moment later he reappeared with a small, middle-aged man at his side.
    Ciders faced the newcomer with zero patience. “Who are you and what do you want?!” he roared.
    “My name is Emory Philip Stoddard, Esquire,” the little man said, clearing his throat. “I am, or rather . . . I was Miss Todd’s legal representative. I received a call from your dispatcher to come immediately—”
    Ciders cursed. “Sorry, Mr. Stoddard. Sorry about the yelling there. My bark is worse than my bite sometimes. I forgot I told Joyce to call your office.”
    Seymour rolled his eyes. “I get strip-searched, falsely accused of murder, and prevented from doing my job, but the lawyer gets a formal apology over a little harsh language?”
    Ciders shook the lawyer’s hand, and introductions were made all around—though the chief pointedly neglected to introduce Seymour.
    As I greeted the man, it occurred to me that Mr. Stoddard was the polar opposite of Dr. Rubino. Where the doctor was a tanned, toned GQ -type clad in rough-looking outerwear, Mr. Stoddard was a rough-looking character swathed in a GQ package.
    About five-foot-two, he had a ruddy complexion with a receding blond hairline, a hawkish nose beneath smallish light eyes, and a pudgy body immaculately wrapped in a tailored cobalt suit. His Windsor knot was perfect, the thin silver bar gleaming as it held his Italian silk tie firmly in place along his opalescent dress shirt. He wore matching cuff links, too, with which he continually fidgeted.
    “I guess Joyce explained the situation,” Ciders said.
    Mr. Stoddard nodded. “I understand that Miss Todd has passed. Can you tell me what happened?”
    “Yeah, Chief,” Seymour piped up. “Tell the man what happened.”
    Ciders scowled. “Mr. Tarnish here was just leaving .”
    “Tarnish?” Mr. Stoddard repeated. “Are you by any chance Mr. Seymour Tarnish?”
    Seymour nodded. “The one and only. What’s it to you?”
    “It so happens that you’re mentioned in Miss Todd’s last will and testament,” Mr. Stoddard replied.
    Seymour’s jaw went slack. “Huh?”
    “You’re a beneficiary, man.”
    Chief Ciders’s eyes widened for a moment before narrowing down to tiny pinholes. “Tarnish here is inheriting something as a result of Miss Todd’s death?”
    Mr. Stoddard nodded. “And so is Mrs. McClure and her aunt. I’ll be holding a meeting in my office forthwith.”
    “What exactly is this man getting?” Ciders asked with naked suspicion.
    “Oh, I am sorry, Chief, but for now that’s confidential.”
    Ciders folded his arms and smirked. “Well, whatever the hell Miss Timothea Todd left her mailman, it better not be valuable. Because if Mr. Tarnish here winds up inheriting anything more than a souvenir ashtray and some dusty old books, I’d say that’s a motive for murder.”

CHAPTER 6
     
    Beneficiaries
     
    I loathe these dives . . . They look as if they only existed after dark, like