The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

the other?”
    “This woman signed the book ‘A. Briggs’ and left no address. I checked the phone book, and there are no Briggses listed in the Quindicott or Millstone directories, so she may have come from out of town. I’m betting this person is Miss Todd’s sister.”
    “No mysterious strangers at the funeral service?”
    “Only Mr. Stoddard, Seymour, Sadie, me, and Eddie Franzetti, who dropped by in uniform. The Reverend Waterman was there with a prayer group from church and he said a few words, but he said he really didn’t know Miss Todd. I saw only three wreaths: one was sent by Seymour, the second came from this store, the third collectively from Miss Todd’s Larchmont neighbors. I sighed, suddenly sad. “I can only assume the estrangement between the sisters lasted beyond the grave.”
    Brainert folded his invitation and tucked it into his lapel pocket. “I’ll come to Seymour’s wake for Miss Todd. Actually, I’m surprised he hasn’t asked us to help him move his mountain of junk.”
    “I guess Seymour’s housemate is helping him on that score—or I should say, former housemate.”
    Brainert sighed. “You haven’t seen Harlan Gilman lately, have you?”
    “Come to think of it, I haven’t. He used to be a regular here, too.”
    “He also used to work , on the loading dock at Brier’s Dairy. But the man hurt his back, so he’s been living on disability payments for six months now.” Brainert lowered his voice. “During that long period of inactivity, Gilman has become a bit chubby.”
    “Is that right?”
    “Obese, actually.”
    “How obese?”
    “Morbidly.”
    “You mean like the Pillsbury Doughboy?”
    “More like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.”
    “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Seymour’s complained more than once that his housemate hasn’t been pulling his weight—” I closed my eyes. “Did I just say that?”
    “You’re not wrong, Pen. Harlan is well enough to do light housework and do grocery shopping but Seymour says he refuses, and they’re fighting like a couple on the verge of divorce. This change is probably good for both of them. So, are you going to this wake tomorrow night?”
    “Wouldn’t miss it, for a lot of reasons.” I didn’t want to let Seymour down, of course, but I also wanted to check out the house again.
    “It’s potluck, so I’m making fried chicken,” Sadie announced.
    I quickly calculated my free time. “I suppose I could mix up a batch of maple-pecan fudge tomorrow morning. Seymour loves fudge.”
    Brainert raised an eyebrow. “So does Harlan Gilman. Better make two batches.”

CHAPTER 13
     
    No Place Like Home
     
    “This is a rich town, friend,” he said slowly. “I’ve studied it. I’ve boned up on it. I’ve talked to guys about it . . . If you want to belong and get asked around and get friendly with the right people you got to have class.”
    —Playback , Raymond Chandler, 1958
     
     
     
     
    “WELCOME TO TARNISH Mansion,” Seymour said, dipping in a fair imitation of a courtly bow.
    I gaped at the apparition greeting me on the columned porch of Miss Todd’s Victorian. Seymour’s pencil-thin moustache was so new it was barely filled out. A smoking jacket of royal blue silk was draped over his bulky, mail handler’s shoulders, and an apricot-hued ascot circled his beefy neck. If I’d been met by the ghost of the late Timothea herself, complete with flowing shroud and rattling chains, I couldn’t have been more stunned.
    What the hell happened to your letter carrier? He’s decked out like a low-rent bed warmer stalking widows at a Bowery dance hall .
    “Jack!”
    Seymour eyeballed me. “No, Pen. It’s me, Seymour Tarnish.” He grinned as he smoothed his lapels. “Didn’t recognize me in my evening attire, did you? Well, I guess you’ll just have to get used to the new me.”
    I nodded, swallowing my reply—at least to Seymour. Inside my head I couldn’t wait to ask the ghost: “Where have you been?”
    What do you mean? I’ve been with you.
    “No, Jack, you haven’t! I was beginning to think you’d been exorcised or something.” I searched my mind. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
    You and I getting cozy in Mrs. Dellarusso’s Second Avenue lobby. I was just getting around to inviting you back to my place, where I figured we could—
    “That was three nights ago!”
    “Maybe in your time, doll. To me it was just three seconds ago.”
    Beside me on the porch, Brainert