The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

“Ugh. You don’t have Johnny Blue, I take it?”
    Seymour’s shoulders sagged. “Dewar’s White Label. Sorry.”
    “So, Ms. Fabian.” Fiona’s small hands went to her hips. “We’ve determined that you don’t really know much about antiques, but we still don’t know why you’re here.”
    Before the woman could reply, Marjorie Binder-Smith stepped forward. “Charlene and I are old friends. We attended Brown together. She’s visiting from California and staying at my home, just down the block.”
    Fiona frowned. “California? Santa Monica, by any chance?”
    For the first time, Ms. Fabian met Fiona’s gaze. “Why, yes,” she answered in an icy tone.
    Fiona snapped her fingers. “I knew I recognized you. I saw your face on the cover of a magazine. Recently, too.”
    Inside of a nanosecond, Ms. Fabian’s expression moved from stormy to bright. “Last month’s Woman Entrepreneur ran a feature. I was on the cover.”
    Fiona shook her head. “No, that’s not the one. I’m thinking about the story in Modern Innkeeper about the Lindsey-Tilton group. ‘Here Come the McBed-and-Breakfasts,’ I think the article was called. And it was all about you , Charlene Lindsey -Fabian.”
    Ms. Fabian fluffed her hair but said nothing.
    “So, are you here to do a little shopping? Looking for the next hot property to exploit?”
    Seymour practically leapt between the women. “Come on now, ladies, let’s not argue. This is a wake for Miss Todd. How about we do something she would have enjoyed? Let’s team up for charades!”
    But Fiona wasn’t listening. She poked her head around Seymour’s large body. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here, sniffing around like a predator—”
    Seymour held Fiona back. “Or Pictionary. Everybody loves Pictionary!”
    “Now, now,” Councilwoman Binder-Smith said, wagging her finger in Fiona’s face. “That’s no way to treat a guest in our community—”
    “Wheel of Fortune?” Seymour cried, his grin strained. “I have the home edition!”
    “Fiona’s right!” Bud exploded, slamming his bottle down on a side table. “Both of you have got a lot of nerve parking your rear ends here, if you get my drift. Maybe you should ask Seymour for a permit !”
    Seymour snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it! Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon!”
    “If this were my home, I’d throw you bums out on your collective ears, but I guess that will have to wait until November.” Bud rose and adjusted the waistband of his pants. “Unfortunately, this isn’t my damn house, or my damn party, so I’ll just say good night.”
    He strode to the foyer without a backward glance. Stricken, Sadie caught my eye. “I promised Seymour I’d help clean up, but—”
    “Go,” I insisted. “Take care of Bud. I’ll help Seymour.”
    Sadie hurried to catch up with her man. Marjorie Binder-Smith watched them go. When I saw the triumphant smile on her face, I wanted to slap the councilwoman myself.
    Go on, knock her one, toots. Give her the Jack Dempsey treatment. You can blame it on the pickle juice .
    “Couldn’t I be charged with treason or something?” I stifled a hiccup. “I mean, if I assault an elected official?”
    Maybe. But sometimes it’s just good sense.
    After the front door slammed, the frowning councilwoman faced Ms. Fabian. “I’m sorry that had to happen, Charlene. I’ve never been so mortified.”
    “Really?” Hardy Miles said, his eyes a little glazed from the drink. “Guess you don’t get around town much!”
    Seymour dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands. “Why can’t we all just get along?”
    “Well!” The councilwoman tossed her head. “I guess I know when I’m not wanted.”
    “Wanna bet?” Hardy said.
    “Let’s go, Charlene!” Marjorie took Ms. Fabian’s arm.
    “Yes, go!” Fiona said. “And don’t let those mock mahogany doors hit your Johnny Walker Blue rears on the way out!”

CHAPTER 17
     
    Ghost Hunting
     
    We’re ready to believe you!
    —Ghostbusters , 1984
     
     
     
     
    “IS THAT THE doorbell ?” Washing the last martini glass in the joint, I turned from the sink. “What time is it?”
    Seymour checked his watch. “Twelve fifty-five.”
    Bing-bong!
    The second regal ring shot a stream of adrenaline through my dragging limbs. My ears pricked; my spine stiffened. “Who’d be coming to your party at almost one in the morning?”
    “I’ll get it. You stay here.”
    “I don’t think so!” Drying my