The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

wheeled. “What is it, Aunt Sadie? Are you okay?”
    Sadie had finished her phone call to Bud and now seemed to be struggling inside the VW. “I can’t unlock my seatbelt. It’s jammed!”
    “Here,” Leo said, holding out his knife for me. “Cut the strap and get her out.”
    I nodded, took the dagger, and squeezed back into the front seat.
    “Oh, thank you!” Sadie said as I easily sliced the thick seatbelt strap.
    “Don’t thank me. Thank Leo for keeping this blade of his razor-sharp.” I smiled at Sadie and she glanced at the weapon. The steel blade felt heavy in my hand; the hilt slightly bumpy, as if it had been embossed with a design.
    Take a closer look, baby.
    I heard the ghost’s cool whisper in my head, but I didn’t know what he meant. “A closer look at what?”
    That fancy gut-ripper, what do you think?
    It was too dark in the front seat of the VW to see it clearly, so I leaned forward, opened the glove compartment, grabbed the flashlight inside, and turned it on.
    “Penelope?” Aunt Sadie said. “What are you doing?”
    “Just taking a look at Leo’s knife,” I whispered, flipping on the light. I directed the bright beam onto the blade and my brows drew together.
    Strange coincidence, don’t you think?
    “Yes,” I told the ghost.
    If it is a coincidence.
    Under the white beam of the flashlight, the hilt of the steel dagger appeared distressed, like a decades-old antique. Embossed on the metal surface was a five-pointed star with a fleur-de-lis at its center. I’d only seen the design once before—on the gate of Miss Todd’s mansion.
    I saw that design before, too, baby, a long time ago.
    “Where?” I asked the ghost. “And when exactly? Who had it? And what does it mean?”
    But the ghost didn’t have time to answer any of my questions. An approaching siren on the highway interrupted our little supernatural chat.
    “Staties here!” Leo called from the hillside.
    The patrol car arrived a few moments later, carrying two well-pressed officers beneath matching Smokey the Bear hats. It was time to explain this “accident” to the Rhode Island State Police.

CHAPTER 9
     
    Who’s Got Her Covered?
     
    She had the look around the eyes and a set of the mouth that spelled just one thing: She was for sale cheap.
    —My Gun Is Quick , Mickey Spillane, 1950
     
     
     
     
    BY THE TIME Bud Napp turned his van onto Cranberry Street, it was close to ten thirty in the evening. Compared to the dead village of Millstone, the hustle and hum of Quindicott’s shopping district, even at this late hour, felt like another world—and I was extremely relieved to be back in it.
    A screening had just let out of the Movie Town Theater and small, laughing clusters of people were heading for Franzetti’s Pizza, the Seafood Shack, and Donovan’s Pub. Young couples were cuddled up on benches along the commons, where the Chamber of Commerce had just installed new faux Victorian street lamps. Older pairs were meandering down sidewalks, gazing into store windows, many of which were still glowing brightly as shopkeepers completed their final transactions on this lovely summer night.
    I glanced at my aunt, who was sitting snugly between me and Bud in his van’s front seat. Relief was evident in her face. Sadie was glad to be home, too.
    As we rolled up to 122, I checked my watch. We’d closed our bookstore early, but the Community Events room in the adjoining storefront was often occupied at this hour.
    “Do you think the Yarn Spinners are still meeting?” I asked my aunt.
    “Doubt it,” she said. “I know most of those ladies from church. They’re early risers.”
    We’d already phoned Seymour to give him the bad news 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