The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

leave the events space by nine. We can start the meeting then.”
    “Great!” I could hear the relief in Bud’s voice. “Most everyone has agreed to show up. If the Business Owners Association presents a united front, we can push back against the council’s move. Otherwise I’m bankrupt by the end of summer.”
    Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my aunt’s worried expression.
    “We’ll fix this,” I said into the receiver, loud enough for Sadie to hear. “I promise.”
    On the other end of the line, Bud sighed heavily. “I could end this mess tomorrow if I pulled out of the election and let Marjorie Binder-Smith run unopposed.”
    “But you’re not going to do that, are you?”
    “Damn right I’m not.” His tone was steely. “Pass the word to any holdouts. The Quibblers meet Monday at nine.”
    I set the receiver on its cradle, and looked up to find J. Brainert Parker leaning against the counter, a frown on his fine-boned, patrician face.
    “You heard?”
    He nodded. “Bud told me all about it. He can count on me to help any way I can.”
    A professor of literature at St. Francis, J. Brainert Parker had been a friend of mine since childhood. Although he’d been involved with the Quindicott Business Owners Association (a.k.a. The Quibblers) since the organization’s inception, Brainert felt himself above such petty concerns as zoning laws, parking restrictions, and littering fines. Or he did, until he and his business partner, Dr. Wendell Pepper, dean of St. Francis’s School of Communications, refurbished and reopened the town’s previously broken-down Art Deco movie theater.
    Now, with one tenuous foot in the world of capitalism, Brainert (a proud member of the “ivory tower” set, as Seymour referred to the academic class) suddenly found common ground with the rest of us poor working stiffs who plied our trades on Cranberry Street. And it was just like my old friend to jump into the fray with both feet and arms swinging. In fact, Brainert was now the most vocal backer of Bud Napp’s campaign for Marjorie’s council seat.
    “This will all be over when Bud triumphs in November,” he crowed. “Now, on a stranger note, the reason for my visit. I found this bizarre missive in my mailbox this morning.”
    Brainert reached a slender, long-fingered hand into the pocket of his tweed jacket. I glanced at the letter he produced. It was an official invitation to Seymour’s party on Saturday—“to honor the esteemed Miss Timothea Todd.”
    “Seymour certainly isn’t wasting any time moving in on the new domicile, is he?” Brainert said.
    “It’s his prerogative,” Sadie answered from behind me. “I’m sure Timothea would have been pleased to know that Seymour is holding a wake for her in her beloved Victorian.”
    Brainert shook his head. “I wonder why Miss Todd left such a valuable property to a guy like Tarnish?”
    “They were friends,” I said. “And she knew how much he appreciated the property.”
    Brainert shot me the inscrutable Mr. Spock stare he’d mastered in junior high. “Or perhaps more than friends.”
    I shook my head. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
    “Seymour Tarnish is an unlikely gigolo, it’s true. But he has a pulse, he bathes semiregularly, and let’s face it: When you’re over eighty, your romantic prospects have narrowed considerably. Even a wealthy woman like Miss Todd can’t afford the luxury of being too particular.”
    “That will be enough of that!” Sadie snapped, hands on hips.
    “You have to admit it’s a puzzle.” Brainert rubbed his chin. “What do either of you know about Miss Timothea Todd, anyway?”
    I exchanged a glance with my aunt. “She was a nice woman who lived on Larchmont Avenue,” Sadie replied. “What more is there to know?”
    “What more indeed?”
    “Sadie and I went to her funeral this morning,” I said. “Did you know she’s supposed to have a sister?”
    Brainert shook his head.
    “Well, she does, according to the lawyer handling her estate. Also, according to the lawyer, the woman wants to remain anonymous. But I may have found a clue to the woman’s identity.”
    I leaned across the counter. “There was a viewing at Fontwell and Bradley Funeral Home last night. “When I signed the guest book, I noticed that two people had stopped by to pay their respects. One was a Mrs. Arthur Fromsette, who left a Larchmont Avenue address.”
    Brainert nodded. “Obviously a neighbor. And