The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

myself a soft drink. “Dr Pepper!” I giggled. “Oops! He already left!”
    “Here you go, Mrs. M., have a nice cold Coke, okay?”
    I nodded and sipped. The drink was sweet and cold and sadly bereft of that sweet little stinging buzz.
    Get a grip, doll. Don’t turn into an alkie on me.
    About an hour after Brainert departed, Seymour said goodnight to April Briggs and Mrs. Fromsette. Then the doorbell rang again. The party was winding down, and I was surprised anyone would arrive so late. But the bing-bong appeared to reenergize Seymour and he moved quickly to greet the newcomers.
    He returned with a bundle of flowers under his arms and a bemused expression on his face. I understood Seymour’s reaction when, seconds later, Councilwoman Marjorie Binder-Smith strode past her host and into the room on patent leather power pumps.
    Newly svelte after a monthlong spa vacation, Quindicott’s longest-sitting and most powerful political player wore a form-fitting scarlet suit and floral scarf. Her dyed brown hair framed a suspiciously dewrinkled forehead. Appearing jovial (her one and only job skill, as far as I could see), a wide smile remained plastered on her middle-aged face despite the coolly calculating look in her eyes.
    “I think . . .” Seymour began, a bit uncertainly. “I think you all know the councilwoman.”
    The room fell silent—except for the sound of Bud Napp choking on his Sam Adams. I figured the councilwoman was in for a hailstorm of grief, but then a brassy voice cut through the tension.
    “What a charming place! Absolutely charming.”
    A fortysomething woman swept into the room—and I do mean swept . Knee-length white halter dress flaring around her tanned legs, the woman strode to the center of the space like Jackie O. making her debut.
    “Hey, everyone,” Seymour announced. “I’d like you to meet—”
    “I’m Charlene Fabian!” the woman interrupted, offering us all a wave. “What a pleasure it is to meet you all. This town is just so quaint, and it’s wonderful to see this old rickety house filled with life!”
    Ms. Fabian spoke with a vague, English accent, her eyes obviously bypassing the people to appraise the room, the furniture, and all of the fixtures. She continued to chatter as she circled the space, gushing about the marble fireplace, the brass lamps, the chandelier, the handmade doilies, the magnificently preserved wainscoting.
    When Ms. Fabian strode past Fiona Finch, I saw my friend blink with something like recognition. Then Fiona’s eyes narrowed like a seasoned cop who’d just spotted a known crack dealer. She glared openly as Ms. Fabian plopped down on the red velvet cushions of the ornately carved claw-footed love seat.
    “You must be very proud of your acquisition, Mr. Tarnish,” Ms. Fabian said, crossing her tanned legs. “And you must also feel very fortunate to inherit such a lovely and valuable property.”
    “Uh, yes. Yes, I am,” Seymour replied. “Would you like a drink, Ms. Fabian?”
    The woman tossed her short, black, perfectly layered do and batted her eyes at Seymour. “Johnny Walker Blue. Straight up.”
    Seymour cleared his throat. “I’ll see what I can find.”
    Across the room, Fiona stared at the stranger with naked hostility. Then I watched as she set her cocktail down on a mahogany end table and approached Ms. Fabian.
    “Hello, I’m Fiona Finch. The owner of the Finch Inn on Quindicott Pond,” she said, crossing her arms. “Are you one of Seymour’s new neighbors? I’m asking because you seem very familiar to me. Like I’ve seen your picture somewhere.”
    Charlene Fabian barely acknowledged Fiona’s presence. Instead she ran her French-tipped fingers along the velvet upholstery.
    “This rosewood love seat is genuine Victorian,” she murmured. “And I’m certain that solid mahogany cabinet against the wall is a valuable antique, too.”
    Fiona’s eyes narrowed. “Actually, the love seat is a copy of a Victorian, manufactured in the 1920s. And that ‘solid’ mahogany cabinet over there is anything but. It’s veneered, and shoddy work at that. By the way, the cabinet also dates from the twenties, as does most of the furniture in this house, which is Depression-era mock Victorian!”
    Ms. Fabian’s face went rigid. Everyone was staring at the two. Seymour practically bolted from the bar to the loveseat.
    “Your Scotch!” he said.
    The woman accepted the amber liquid without thanks. She sipped and made a face.