The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

exchange and looked me over again.
    “You gonna have anything, sister? Or you just gonna sit there takin’ up a seat at my counter?”
    “Um—”
    “Do me a favor, doll,” Jack murmured. “Don’t order a damn Vesper this time. Go for something that’s been invented in this century.”
    “The Vesper was created in this century, Jack. Don’t you remember? Casino Royale , Ian Fleming, 1952.”
    “At the moment, dollface, 1952 is still five years away.”
    The waitress put a hand on her hip. “Lady, are you gonna order or what?”
    “Yes,” I said. “A cup of coffee, please.”
    The waitress shook her head. “Big spender,” she muttered, then sashayed away, putting far more swing into her hips (in my opinion) than was necessary for simple locomotion to a coffeemaker. I glanced down the counter and sighed. Jack’s gaze was exactly where I figured it would be—glued to her caboose.
    “Ah-hem!” I said.
    “Yeah, baby?” Jack asked without breaking his focus. “You got something to say?”
    “Yes. Were you often in the habit of picking up luncheonette waitresses?”
    Jack smirked my way. “You got something to say about the case ?”
    “As a matter of fact, I do. I think we should begin our investigation by calling New York’s Board of Education. If the little boy here doesn’t know where his mother teaches, then we can ask them to look up her name. Next we go to the woman’s school and question her boss and coworkers, find out what they know.”
    “Uh-huh.” Jack lit a second cigarette. He didn’t appear impressed with my logic.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Plenty.” Jack said, blowing out a snow-white cloud of carcinogens. “Your first and best witness is sitting right beside you. Don’t you want to find out what else the kid knows before you start charging up my phone bill?”
    “Oh. Right. Of course.” I turned to the little boy who’d just about licked Jack’s plate clean. “J. J., what else can you tell me about your mother?”
    “What else you wanna know?”
    “Well . . .” The waitress returned with my coffee and a little air-kiss for Jack before sashaying away again. I concentrated on my young client. “Did she say anything special to you on the morning she disappeared?”
    J. J. shook his head. “She just went off to work as usual.”
    “Did she have any special friends?”
    J. J. shrugged. “Just Frankie.”
    “Frankie?” I repeated. “And who is he?”
    “Frankie Papps. He’s her boyfriend.”
    “Do you know how to reach this man? Where he lives? What he does for a living?”
    J. J. shook his head. “I don’t know where he lives. But my mom told me he’s an electrician.”
    I motioned to Jack, then leaned around the boy’s back to whisper: “Shouldn’t we go to the police with this?”
    “Police!” J. J. cried. “Hey, what’s the big idea, Mr. Shepard? No police. You promised!”
    “That’s right, kid, take it easy.” Jack met my eyes. “He says he’ll run away if we bring the police in. He doesn’t have any other family and he knows they’ll stash him in an institution if they find out he’s living on his own.”
    “But, Jack,” I whispered, “he’s only twelve.”
    “I can take care of myself!” J. J. declared. “I’ve got a job at the newsstand and everything. Jiminy crickets, Mr. Shepard, I already paid you twenty dollars. You’re not going back on your promise, are you?”
    “No, kid, I’m not. We’ll find out what happened to your mother.”
    I frowned at Jack. “You took twenty dollars from this little boy?”
    “Sure,” Jack said, stubbing out the butt of his cigarette. “I’ve got bills to pay, you know. I can’t let it get around that I do charity work.”
    “Well, it’s not very nice.”
    “Nice?” Jack grunted. “On these streets, baby, a ‘nice guy’ rep will land you six feet under. Wake up and smell the coffee.”
    I knew Jack wasn’t being literal, but at the mention of coffee I remembered my cup. Birdie had served it to me black, and I really preferred milk and sugar. I was about to ask for some when Jack lifted his scarred chin and yelled—
    “Hey, Birdie! Check!”
    The PI reached for his wallet and Birdie sashayed back over, scribbling as she walked. “There you go, Jack,” she said, sliding the check to him facedown.
    As she sauntered away, I noticed something was written on the back.
    “What’s that she wrote?” J. J. asked, curiously craning his neck. “Plaza-3367.”
    Jack slapped down