The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

modern examples, there’s the poet William Butler Yeats, who belonged to the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, along with fellow scribblers Algernon Blackwood and Arthur Machen. Mark Twain was active in the Society of Psychical Research. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle believed in fairies and earth spirits and tried to communicate with them. And some of psychologist Carl Jung’s writings about the collective unconscious could be mistaken for a mystical treatise.”
    “Really?”
    “Oh, yes!”
    For the next two minutes, my academic friend continued to talk—lecture, actually. The one-sided discussion included grimoires, alchemy, and highlights of the life story of Cornelius Agrippa.
    I nursed my drink, which only slightly impaired my ability to follow his conversation. I do remember that at some point, Seymour swept back into the party like a Nor’easter hitting the Rhode Island shoreline.
    “Everyone!” he announced with a huge grin on his face. “I’m pleased to introduce you to an unexpected guest. Ms. April Briggs.”
    All male eyes, once again, turned toward the new female arrival clinging tightly to the arm of Seymour’s royal blue smoking jacket.
    “Briggs,” I silently repeated to myself. “Now why does that name ring a bell?”
    Maybe she’s a Feline Friend or a Yarn Spinner or one of the other half dozen groups of yakking dames you’ve got traipsing through my habitat.
    “Oh, my God, Jack, I think I know who April Briggs is.”
    Who?
    “There was an ‘A. Briggs’ who signed Miss Todd’s funeral home guest book. No address, just the first initial and last name.”
    So she knew the old woman?
    “She must have. Why else would she have come to the funeral home!”
    You better brace her then, doll, ’cause except for me, the spirits ain’t talking in this haunted house and you need all the leads you can get.
    Having lived in Manhattan, I immediately recognized April Briggs as an obvious come-from-money type. So chicly thin she could have been a poster child for Tom Wolfe’s “social X-rays,” she possessed matinee starlet teeth, high cheekbones, and long, model-straight blond hair—which may well have been brunette and kinky before the salon got finished with her. She had runway height, health-club muscular legs, and leather sandals that were hand-tooled in Italy or my son doesn’t have red hair and freckles.
    April’s crepe party dress appeared to be designer quality. The turquoise color perfectly matched her eyes—which may or may not have been sporting contacts to enhance the electric blue-green shade. Her tasteful string of pearls gave off the whiff of money, too. The woman’s appearance was so polished I had to get a bit closer before I could pinpoint her age, which (once I saw the fine lines around the edges of her mouth and eyes) I pegged at closer to fifty than forty.
    “She’s not old enough to be Miss Todd’s sister,” I whispered to Jack. “But she could still be related—a niece or cousin, some relative who has an interest in Seymour’s inheritance.”
    Just then, an elderly woman strolled in. Her slender frame was elegantly sheathed in a finely tailored navy pantsuit of summer silk. Her eyebrows were lightly drawn in with pencil, her shoulder-length hair dyed a rich chestnut and smoothed into a neat ponytail, and a delicate black lace shawl was draped around her narrow but still-straight shoulders.
    Dean Pepper approached her. “Ah, Mrs. Fromsette, how have you been?”
    My eyebrows rose. “Jack, that must be the other woman who signed the book at Miss Todd’s funeral: Mrs. Arthur Fromsette . She also wrote down a Larchmont Avenue address.”
    Though advanced in years, Mrs. Fromsette’s blue eyes were bright and her movements vigorous. As Dean Pepper took the older woman’s hand, I edged closer to the couple.
    “I haven’t seen you since, well . . .” His voice trailed off.
    “Yes, Wendell, not since Mr. Fromsette’s funeral. How are you, Professor? And how are things at Mr. Fromsette’s alma mater?”
    “Very well, thank you. And as always, St. Francis is on the move. Have you come tonight to greet our new neighbor?”
    Mrs. Fromsette nodded. “My daughter saw the invitation I received and insisted we drop by. She’s happy to see this old house lit up again.” Lifting a wrinkled hand, she gestured to the attractive blonde attached to Seymour’s side. “You know my daughter, of course, April Briggs. She’s visiting again from Boston.”
    “Yes, April