The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

that’s what I thought, too, and look where it got me.
    “Someone might have a serious grudge against you,” I told Seymour.
    “For what?”
    “Inheriting this house, for one—Miss Todd has a living sister. The two women were estranged for years, but the sister may have been expecting to gain this property. There could be another reason, too. Fiona suggested it to me the other day.”
    “Fiona? Fiona Finch?!”
    “The rumor’s already gotten around town that Chief Ciders suspects you of being responsible for scaring Miss Todd to death. Maybe someone thinks you really are responsible. He or she could be trying to exact revenge.”
    Seymour looked afraid for a moment. “I liked Miss Todd, Pen. I had nothing to do with her death. You know that, don’t you?”
    “Of course!”
    “Well, I’m not going to turn into a paranoid rabbit over this.” His eyes narrowed with resolve. “Nobody’s going to spook me, do you hear? Nobody.”
    “But you are going to call the police, right?”
    “You mean the very same police who tried to railroad me into a jail cell earlier in the week?”
    “Not everyone on the force is guilty of that. You really should—”
    Just then the doorbell rang. Seymour shook his head and grabbed the plate of my homemade fudge. “Forget it, Pen. At least for tonight, okay?”
    “But—”
    “Come on, let’s party!” he exclaimed with a gaiety that sounded a little forced. “This is a wake for Miss Todd, you know. I insist you have a drink. Try the gimlets! They’re superb!”
    As Seymour headed out of the kitchen, I took a deep breath. “Jack?”
    The grease monkey wasn’t wrong. There’s evidence of a crime against your postal pal. On the other hand, the mailman wasn’t wrong about the local badges, either. Chief Cornpone and Deputy Dawg aren’t exactly at the top of my Law Enforcers of the Year list.
    “I’ll call Eddie.”
    I pulled out my cell and punched in his digits. When he came on the line, I explained the situation.
    Luckily, Eddie was on duty and cruising around in his patrol car. He said it was a quiet night so he’d head over to Ben Kesey’s garage and take a look at the VW bus himself. I gave him the name of the state police officer who’d helped me and Sadie on the highway, and Eddie said he’d check in with the Staties, too.
    “Pen, do you have any idea who might have done this?”
    “I have a few theories, Eddie, but no evidence.”
    “Let’s get together tomorrow, okay?”
    “For sure.”
    Feeling relieved, I ended the call. Now I was ready to party—just as Seymour advised.

CHAPTER 14
     
    Under the Rug
     
    The first time we met I told you I was a detective. Get it through your lovely head. I work at it, lady. I don’t play at it.
    —The Big Sleep , Raymond Chandler, 1939
     
     
     
     
    WITH MY WORRIES somewhat lightened, I headed back into the “salon” and wandered over to the small crowd gathered around Seymour’s “bar”—really a mahogany table covered with liquor bottles, buckets of ice, and an industrial-sized blender.
    “Borrowed the blender from Seymour’s ice cream truck,” Hardy Miles informed me when I asked.
    Hardy was tonight’s bartender. He was also Seymour’s friend and fellow mail carrier. Sadie and I knew him as a good customer. He favored crime novels by Elmore Leonard and Carl Hiaasen. He also spent the busy summer seasons moonlighting weekends at the notorious girly bar out on the highway, so I wasn’t surprised to see him moving swiftly and efficiently. The man knew how to mix a drink.
    “What d’ya have, Mrs. McClure?”
    “It’s a little warm and I’m plenty thirsty. What do you suggest?”
    His florid face grinned. “How about an iced tea?”
    “Great. Sounds refreshing,” I said—naively, as it turned out. The first gulp singed my throat, and I realized Hardy had mixed me a Long Island Iced Tea. “Wow, this drink’s strong.”
    Hey, doll? Jack piped up in my head.
    “Yes?” I replied between multiple sips.
    Before you start heading down that short road to Stinko, you might want to consider a few things.
    “What things?”
    Just because your pal’s taking the night off from worrying doesn’t mean your perpetrator’s taking the night off from reattempting murder.
    I sputtered, choking on my spiked tea.
    “Let me freshen that,” Hardy said, taking the glass from my hand.
    “Okay, Jack,” I silently whispered. “What’s your theory? Do you suspect the sister? Or do you think Fiona