The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

report.”
    “Well, that’s no surprise, but I already know what the town’s M.E. is going to say. Dr. Rubino is ruling that Miss Todd died of natural causes. I doubt the autopsy will alter his opinion. And even if the state comes back with evidence that Seymour was in the house, it doesn’t prove any guilt. He already admitted that Miss Todd permitted him to step inside to leave the mail on the foyer table.”
    Fiona smirked. “But you think something’s wrong with the way Miss Todd died, don’t you?”
    “I’m no doctor, but . . .” I told Fiona about the state of Miss Todd’s corpse when I found it, the expression of horror on her face, and about the weird cold spot that seemed to hover near the body.
    “Goodness,” she whispered.
    “I’m sure ‘goodness’ had nothing to do with it. I know Seymour and I’m positive he had nothing to do with it, either.”
    “How does Seymour feel about all this?”
    “As far as I can tell, he’s stunned that Miss Todd remembered him in her will. And he can’t wait to become a resident of Larchmont Avenue.”
    Fiona met my eyes. “That’s good. Then he probably won’t sell the estate.”
    “I know, and that’s what worries me. I think maybe whoever had a hand in killing Miss Todd might have been trying to get possession of her place. Seymour’s a wild card. Now that he has possession of it, I’m worried his life might be in danger.”
    “That’s an awfully big leap, Pen. I mean, you said it yourself, the medical examiner doesn’t even think there was foul play surrounding Miss Todd’s death.”
    “Well, something else happened. Something you don’t know about. Last night, while Sadie and I were driving home . . .”
    I told Fiona about the VW breadloaf bus losing its brakes. I mentioned the mysterious phantom car behind us, and Leo Rollins showing up right after the accident with an elaborate dagger that had the exact same markings as Todd Mansion’s wrought-iron fence.
    Fiona frowned and shook her head. “I don’t know what to make of all that. I mean . . . are you saying Leo had something to do with those brakes failing?”
    “No. I mean, I don’t want to accuse the man . . . I don’t have any evidence, and even Seymour thinks it’s his mechanic’s fault. He’s waiting to hear from the garage on what went wrong.”
    “You mean, you’re waiting to hear whether or not the brakes were sabotaged?”
    I nodded. “If they were, then it’s just too much of a coincidence, don’t you think? I mean, it happened right after he inherited the mansion.”
    “And right after he was accused of murdering Miss Todd. Don’t forget that!”
    “What are you saying?”
    “That someone may be trying to exact revenge.”
    “Revenge?” I hadn’t thought of that. “Who would want to avenge Miss Todd’s murder—if she even was murdered?”
    I thought back to our meeting with Mr. Stoddard. He’d mentioned Miss Todd having a sister, who insisted on remaining anonymous. I asked Fiona what she knew about that—after all, the innkeeper had dug up enough town dirt over the years to fill Quindicott Pond—but Fiona shook her head (which was obviously still focused on one thing).
    “I didn’t know the old lady except by reputation; and of course her property is well known. That Larchmont Victorian’s a real jewel. And if Seymour Tarnish sells to the Lindsey-Tilton group, they’ll turn it into our competition! When is he moving in?”
    “He signed papers last night, and he plans to have a wake for Miss Todd on Saturday night.”
    Fiona bit her thumbnail. “That doesn’t give me much time.”
    “Time to do what?”
    “To bribe that stubborn mailman into staying at Todd Mansion, and not selling out to my competition!”
     
    “DO YOU REALLY think that . . . that thing ”—the woman punched her index finger at the Zara Underwood display—“is appropriate for our town’s bookstore?”
    It was now Friday afternoon; I still hadn’t heard from Jack, but at least I’d made it to three P.M. before I received the first complaint of the day. This time it came from Binky Stuckey, wife of Quindicott’s premier car dealer, Scott Stuckey of Stuckey Motors. Binky had just caught her eight-year-old twins ogling the provocative standee. After sending the boys scampering to the children’s section, the angry mother called me to the front of the store to voice her protest.
    Smiling politely, I shrugged. “I admit it’s not wholesome, but it’s not