The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

Parker was now gazing at Seymour with a deadpan stare. Finally, he folded his arms and tilted his head. “That’s a new look for you,” he said dryly, then made a show of sniffing the cologne-scented air. “And a new smell, as well, unless I’m mistaken.”
    Seymour beamed. “You like it? Ralph Lauren Purple Label: the essence of elegance, custom-blended with notes of suede and tobacco flower.” He adjusted his apricot ascot. “I wanted to blend in with my new neighbors, and Larchmont is very exclusive.”
    “What do you think, Pen?” Brainert asked, raising the old Spock eyebrow.
    Listen, baby, I got a new theory now. I think maybe your mailman pal might have been giving old lady Todd a joy ride through the tunnel of love.
    “I, uh . . .” I bit my cheek for a moment. “I brought fudge!”
    “Ah, Penelope, how thoughtful.” Seymour took the Tupperware container from my hands. “Won’t you come in? Your aunt and her beau have already arrived. Everyone is assembled in the salon.”
    Brainert’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you talking that way?” He gestured to the half-filled martini glass dangling by its stem in Seymour’s hand, little finger extended. “And since when do you drink martinis? I hardly recall you drinking at all, and when you do it’s usually Budweiser—from the can.”
    Seymour tossed Brainert a superior smirk. “I am now part of the smart set that lives on Larchmont. We do not swill cheap beer from an aluminum can. We savor blended cocktails.”
    Brainert glanced at me. “Tarnish seems to be channeling some sort of stereotypical Hollywood version of the wealthy class, gleaned from a Three Stooges short, no doubt.” He sighed, returning his gaze to our martini-sipping host. “The reality is quite different, Seymour. I doubt even one of your neighbors owns a polo pony or a yacht, just as I’m sure plenty of them enjoy a cold beer.”
    “If you prefer the taste of hops, I’ve stocked imported Heinekens and Sam Adams Summer Ale.” Seymour sniffed. “Otherwise, the bartender will be happy to mix you a cocktail.”
    I’ll take Scotch, baby. Straight up.
    “We’re not in my dreams right now, Jack.”
    I know. I was just getting into the party mood.
    “Well, we’re not taking the night off,” I told the ghost. “I’ve got a lot of questions for you—about that case of yours and that odd dagger we found.”
    Shoot.
    “I’d like to know exactly what’s connecting your case and mine.”
    So would I, doll.
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    It means I have some hunches, but I don’t know for sure. We have to start looking for concrete evidence. This joint’s gotta have some leads. Start sniffing around—that is, if you can smell anything besides your host here. What did he do, dump the whole bottle of tulip water down his pants?
    “Pen? Didn’t you hear me?” Seymour said.
    I blinked. “Oh, sorry, Seymour. Were you speaking to me?”
    “Yes. I asked if you’d like the grand tour?”
    “Oh!” I said. “Yes! That would be great!”
    Seymour guided Brainert and me through the decorated foyer, past the cascading staircase, and into the main room, proudly describing what he loved about each space. The “salon” (really the living room, where I’d found Miss Todd’s corpse) was crowded with Seymour’s friends, most of whom I recognized. I doubted the mansion had hosted this many guests in decades.
    But more than that had changed. The heavy antique chairs, love seat, overstuffed couch, dark wood end tables, doilies, knickknacks, and thick curtains were all still in place, but now twin halogen floor lamps glowed with enough brilliance to pierce even Miss Todd’s gloomy Victorian clutter. On the mantel above the marble fireplace, a photo of Miss Todd in a silver frame was given a place of honor between two lava lamps, roiling in a violet glow.
    I recalled the portrait that Miss Todd had kept over the hearth—a corpulent man in a three-piece banker’s suit with a jowly face, large, dark, staring eyes, and rather longish black hair swept back off his face. I’d assumed the man was her father or some other Todd patriarch, but the formal painting was gone now, replaced with a vintage 1940s poster from a Fisherman Detective serial titled Buccaneers of Fire Island . I asked Seymour about the change.
    “I hated the picture of that fat guy, so I moved it to the attic,” said Seymour with a shrug. “The movie poster was the only thing I owned big enough to