The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

shoved the thing back into the cabinet, right next to the dagger. As he closed the cabinet up again, the grandfather clock in the hallway gonged the hour.
    “Ouch,” I said. “Two in the morning and my head’s still fuzzy.”
    “Then you better sleep over.”
    “I couldn’t impose, really,” I said, even though I was pretty sure my blood-alcohol level was high enough for a DWI charge. The thought brought a vision to mind: Bull McCoy pulling me over and demanding I walk a straight line. Eesh. That did it.
    “Where would I sleep?”
    “Right here in the master bedroom. The same guys who delivered my new king-sized mattress also transported my bed from my old place. I set that one up in one of the guest rooms.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I can sleep in there and you can sleep here in the king canopy bed. It’s where Timothea slept.”
    Just the answer I didn’t want to hear.

CHAPTER 18
     
    Things That Go Bump
     
    I hear voices crying in the night and I go see what’s the matter. [But] You don’t make a dime that way.
    —The Long Goodbye , Raymond Chandler, 1953
     
     
     
     
    LIKE THE LIVING room below, the master bedroom held all the cheer of an upholstered coffin. The windows were covered with bulky brocade, the four-poster bed was topped with a thick velvet canopy, and the weak bedside lamp barely held off the oppressive shadows. Surrounded by dark-stained, ornately carved furnishings, I felt like a fly caught in a gloomy cobweb.
    Seymour pointed to the massive bed set against the wall. “You’ll be sleeping on Superman sheets,” he warned in a sheepish tone. “They’re the only ones I had that were big enough to fit this sucker. Sorry. I should have had king-sized sheets delivered with the mattress.”
    “That’s okay. I always liked the Man of Steel. I feel bad kicking you out of your own bedroom, though.”
    Seymour glanced around. “I actually prefer a northern exposure. I’d planned on moving this bed into the guest room next door, but guess what.” He grabbed one of the bed’s stout mahogany posts with both hands and shook it. The canopy quivered a little, but the bed didn’t budge. “It’s bolted to the floor! The moving guys couldn’t understand it, and they couldn’t move it, either. Saved me some money though.” He tapped the baseboard and grinned. “I didn’t need box springs. It’s a platform bed.”
    He lifted the mattress to show me the wooden planks underneath. “Don’t worry. Even without the springs, the bed seems comfortable enough.”
    “ Seems? Haven’t you slept in it yet?”
    “This is actually my first night in the mansion. I was supposed to stay here last night, but I was packing up my collection at the old place and it got so late I just crashed on the floor of my old room.”
    I got the distinct impression from Seymour’s shaky tone that he wasn’t all that eager to be alone in Miss Todd’s house tonight. This eased some of my guilt about displacing him from the master bedroom—but it failed to mitigate the creepy vibe I was feeling from this space.
    “Most of the drawers and stuff are still filled with Timothea’s things, and my crap is still packed up in bags and boxes.” As he spoke, Seymour fumbled through a pile of clothing on top of a chest of drawers. He tossed me a white T-shirt still wrapped in its original plastic. “It’s extra large, big enough for you to sleep in if you like.”
    “Thanks, Seymour.” I stifled a yawn as I tore open the plastic wrapper around the big shirt. “Well, goodnight.”
    I expected him to leave right then, but he didn’t. He didn’t say anything, either, just stood there in the middle of the bedroom staring at me for an awkward minute.
    “Something on your mind?” I finally asked.
    He shifted from foot to foot. “You’ve been a good friend to me, Penelope.”
    “Thanks. You’ve been a good friend to me, too.”
    “Do you think that you and I should maybe—” He glanced away, then back to me. “I don’t know, maybe be more than that?”
    Uh-oh, said the ghost in my head.
    My entire body went rigid. Maybe sleeping over wasn’t such a good idea. “Um, Seymour, I don’t really feel that way about you.”
    Seymour blew out air. “Oh, good! I mean . . . I really like you and all, Pen, don’t get me wrong, but as a friend . I just don’t feel that romantic chemistry thing, you know?”
    “Chemistry, right.”
    “See, I didn’t want you to think I was insulting you or