The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

statements went back up the ramp to check the road and woods nearby. He said there was no crashed car. And nobody else reported seeing an accident, either. That car just vanished. And don’t you find it a tad suspicious that the brakes on Seymour’s VW failed right after he inherited Miss Todd’s mansion?”
    Hey, maybe it was just a coincidence.
    “You’re kidding, right?”
    Only your postal pal’s mechanic can tell you whether his brakes were tampered with. If he finds no physical reason, then you’ll have to consider other theories.
    “Like?”
    Like you said it yourself. The car vanished. What else vanishes?
    “I don’t know what you mean.”
    Didn’t your old auntie say something about that road being haunted?
    “The phantom car story?”
    Seems to me I’m not the only spook in this neighborhood.
    I groaned and pulled a pillow over my head. “Are you telling me a phantom driver in a phantom car made Seymour’s brakes fail?”
    You may not want to consider it—I know I didn’t, back in my day. But on one of my cases, I had to consider it.
    “Consider what?”
    You’ll see. It was part of my case.
    I pulled the pillow off my head. “Which case? Tell me.”
    Close your eyes, baby. Go to sleep . . .
    “No. First tell me about your case.”
    I’m going to show you. Close your eyes.
    “Jack, I really don’t think that’s going to work tonight.”
    Why the hell not? We’ve done it before.
    “I know. But right now I’m just too wired. There’s no way I’ll be able to nod off.”
    Deep male laughter resounded in my head, loudly at first; then it slowly faded, getting weaker and weaker until it diminished completely. Jack’s cool presence receded along with it, and the room became warm again.
    I sighed and turned over, feeling frustrated and alone. Lying still in the darkness, I replayed the long day’s events—thought about Seymour and Miss Todd, Mr. Stoddard and his strange assistant, Leo and the failed brakes. Disembodied heads floated in my mind like pieces of a puzzle, but I couldn’t fit them together. As I groaned and turned over again I realized a cool breeze had begun to circle my bedpost. I glanced at the window. My curtains weren’t moving. Neither were the tree limbs outside.
    The breeze grew stronger, lifted strands of my auburn hair. I felt the energy, the familiar presence.
    Close your eyes, Penelope . . .
    “I told you already, Jack, I’m too wired. I can’t fall—”
    Don’t argue.
    “Fine!” I said, humoring the dead man. “Okay, they’re closed! But I told you—” I paused to yawn. “I’m not at all”— yawn —“sleepy . . .”
     
    I OPENED MY eyes.
    “Ordering! Two Blue Plates; one ham and Swiss, whiskey down; one bowl of red, make it cry; and burn the British with two eggs—wreck ’em!”
    I was sitting on a stool at the counter of an old-time diner. Let me be clear: This was not some retro eatery in a suburban strip mall—a diner built two years ago to appear old. This place actually was old. The olive-green linoleum counter was wash-worn, the tables and chairs visibly rickety. Behind the counter a Caucasian waitress was shouting orders to two black cooks in grease-stained aprons, their white cardboard hats bobbing back and forth in the ordering window like props in a foodie puppet show.
    Up front the customers in the place were mostly white men in suits. The few women in the diner wore hats and belted dresses, which fell past their knees. I glanced down at myself and saw that I was dressed just like them—in a light green print dress with short sleeves and a thin, black patent leather belt. I felt stockings on my legs and saw peep-toed pumps on my feet. Someone had given me a pedicure, too, with deep red polish.
    I checked my fingers but couldn’t see the nails. My hands were sheathed in white cotton gloves. A patent leather pocketbook with a little black strap sat primly on my lap. I noticed a mirrored case behind the counter, which displayed desserts. I caught a glimpse of my reflection between the cream pies and fruit tarts. My auburn hair, which I usually wore tied back into a no-fuss ponytail, was now hanging down to my shoulders in a sleek, glossy pageboy, the bangs rolled as perfectly as Barbara Stanwyck’s in Double Indemnity . My cheeks were rouged, my eyes (sans glasses) were heavily made up, and my mouth outlined with a lipstick redder than a hazard light. As my finely plucked eyebrows rose, I heard a child’s high-pitched