The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

mirror. It was me all right. I had a strained look. I’d been living too fast.
    —Philip Marlowe in The Little Sister , Raymond Chandler, 1949
     
     
     
     
    MOMENTUM PITCHED ME against the shoulder harness. My nose stopped short of merging with the steering wheel and my vehicle simultaneously rotated, spinning me around like a little girl on the Mad Hatter’s teacups. I swung left, then right, and back against the seat. Finally I heard a disturbing THUMP! The car shuddered and came to a halt.
    In the eerie stillness that followed, I lifted a shaky hand to shield my eyes from the sun. That awful thump was still echoing through my system. Had I actually hit the man who’d dashed out in front of me? Through the glare, I made out a large figure rushing away. This time I saw the man for more than a split second—and I recognized him.
    “That’s Seymour Tarnish!”
    Your letter carrier? The one who navigates an ice cream truck in his spare time?
    I was about to call out, but the mailman was already halfway through a gap in a low stone fence. A second later, he melted into a thicket of trees. Before I lost sight of him, however, I’d spied a large, red blot on the back of his uniform’s light blue shirt.
    “A bloodstain,” I whispered. “My God, I must have hit him!”
    Doubt it. If he was bleeding that badly, your postal pal would be flat on his back, not running as if a junkyard mutt were after him.
    In the quiet, my engine’s purr sounded more like a menacing growl. I pushed up my black-framed glasses, unlocked my shoulder harness, popped the car door, and stepped out onto Larchmont Avenue.
    This area of the town was situated at a higher elevation than the shopping district, allowing it to catch strong breezes, which often escaped Cranberry Street. Apart from the hot wind now whipping at my clothes and hair, however, there was no other movement or sound.
    Thinking maybe a dog had chased my friend, I glanced around the neighborhood, but all I saw beneath the riotously swaying tree limbs were deserted streets and sidewalks. Not one resident even bothered to stick a head out a door or window at the sound of my screeching tires. Seymour was the only person I’d seen.
    “So where was he going in such a hurry? And why was he going in such a hurry?”
    Maybe he’s late for a liquid lunch. In my day, alkies moved like lightning when they needed their fix.
    “That can’t be it, Jack. Ice cream’s his fix. Seymour seldom drinks alcohol. I’ve certainly never seen him drunk.”
    I didn’t know if it was the heat or the adrenaline, but I was beginning to feel queasy. The close call had shaken me. I checked the front bumper and tires. I found no dents, no scratches, no damage of any kind—and, thankfully, no blood, either. When I circled the car, I discovered the rear tire had skidded up against the concrete curb. That explained the thump I’d felt.
    “I guess when the car fishtailed, I hit the sidewalk. Doesn’t look like any damage was done . . .” I opened the door and sat back down, clutching the steering wheel to steady my hand.
    Calm down, baby. You’re in once piece.
    “So far . . .”
    Will you listen to me now and slow your motor already?
    “Okay, Jack. Okay . . .”
    That’s when my cell phone went off. I fished it out of my handbag. “Hello?”
    “Pen. It’s Bud—”
    Bud Napp was the lanky widower currently dating my aunt. He also owned and operated Napp Hardware, and just the sound of his local twang made me feel better. Whatever he’d said after his name, however, was drowned out by the loud noise of heavy machinery.
    “You’ll have to speak up, Bud! Or turn off the machine you’re using!”
    The roar of a motor was the only reply. Suddenly the line went silent, and for a moment I thought I’d lost my connection.
    “Pen! Can you hear me now?”
    Actually, what Bud said was: “Can you hee-ah me nowr ?”
    (Having lived in “N’yawk” for years, I’d lost my Rhode Island accent some time ago. But a number of Quindicott’s older residents still turned their Rs into Ahs : “Pahk the cah .” Replaced W with R : “ lahr school.” And generally pronounced certain phrases their own unique way: “Give me a regla cawfee .” Of course not everyone in my home state could be heard using the local slang. Larchmont Avenue’s tony residents, for instance, turned Rs into Ahs about as often as they drove to Newport in dented, ten-year-old compacts with broken air