The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

had started glancing at him with a different kind of smile, flirty little flashes that promised a grown woman might be smoldering somewhere beneath that pink, frilly tent of an apron, one that came out when the sun went down.
    “You’re missing a real catch here, you know,” Jack told her. “I just got paid.”
    “Is that right?”
    “Sure. And I got big plans for us tonight. Interested?”
    Birdie arched a blond eyebrow. “My friend Viv warned me about you, Jack Shepard.”
    “Viv?” he said, considering Birdie’s bountiful curves—what he could see of them, anyway, on his side of the counter. “You mean Vivian Truby? The cocktail waitress at the Mayfair up the block?”
    Birdie nodded. “She said she had a real good time with you, all right. But then after . . .” She shook her head. “You never called her again.”
    Jack worked his iron jaw. Dames never complained when they were with him. Why wasn’t that enough?
    “Tell you the truth, Birdie, I called Viv plenty. She just had the wrong idea about me.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean I’m a taxi, honey. I’ll give you the best damn ride in the city. But you can’t lock me up in your garage. Not with so many of you dolls needing my services around town. Just wouldn’t be fair.”
    Birdie laughed so hard a few customers looked their way. “Jack, you’re terrible!”
    Jack shrugged his acre of shoulders. “Listen, honey, you want a proper boyfriend? Go find a nice church social, or better yet move to some little cornball town where the Alvins all buy you malteds and bore you to tears. But, honey, if you want a good time”—he threw her another wink—“you know where to find me.”
    By now, everyone in the building knew Jack’s office was five floors up. He tipped his scarred chin north, just to remind her.
    For a curious moment Birdie studied that dagger-shaped scar—a souvenir from his four hard years “over there” for Uncle Sam. Her gaze dropped down to the broad T of his shoulders, followed the line of his double-breasted as it tapered to his still-narrow waist. Finally her baby blues returned to the hard planes and angles of his nearly forty face.
    “I’ll think about it,” she said, but the hot stare said something a whole lot more encouraging.
    Jack almost smiled. Catching dames was no different than catching grifters. You just had to throw out your bait and wait. Birdie here was nearly ready to bite; she just wanted to be fed a few more lines. Jack was all set to oblige; then he’d reel her in with a nice, firm tug. He opened his mouth to make his play when the tug came to his coat sleeve instead.
    “Hey, mister. You Jack Shepard?”
    The voice was high-pitched, but it wasn’t a dame. Jack turned on his stool to find a scruffy little runt standing behind him. The kid was young—eleven, twelve maybe. His freckled face could have used a good scrubbing. Ditto for his wrinkled clothes. And his shaggy brown hair was in sore need of a boot-camp razor. Jack recognized the kid from somewhere . . .
    “You’re a gumshoe, ain’t you? You got an office right upstairs?”
    “What’s it to you, kid?”
    “I need to hire a private dick. And you’re as good as anybody. That’s what my boss says.”
    “Your boss?” That was when the light dawned. This kid worked the corner, hawking headlines every afternoon.
    “My boss is Mr. Dougherty,” the kid said, pointing out the window. “He runs the corner newsstand.”
    “Sure, kid, I know Mac Dougherty. But I’m trying to get some lunch here.” Among other things . . . “So do me a favor and shove off, okay? You can tell me to ‘Read All About It’ some other time.”
    Jack turned back to Birdie, but she’d disappeared on him. He glanced down the counter to find her five seats away, waiting on some salesman with a plastic grin and a dime-store tie. Jack cursed softly, stubbed out his cigarette.
    “You got it all wrong, mister,” the boy said.
    “You still here?”
    “I’m not trying to sell you a paper.”
    Not only did the kid fail to shove off, he climbed aboard the empty stool next door. “What’s the big idea, junior? You’re ruining a perfectly good lunch hour.”
    “I told you, Mr. Shepard. I want to hire you. It’s a finder’s job. Should be easy for someone like you. Mr. Dougherty said you used to be a copper. He said you was a war hero, too.”
    Jack looked away. “Gunning men down doesn’t make you a hero, kid. Not in my book.”
    “I got money