The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

surprising. My romantic prospects always drew more commentary from her than my investigative ones.
    “I’m going to catch a few hours’ sleep,” I finally told her. “Are you sure you’re okay to manage without me this afternoon?”
    “Of course. Dilbert’s coming in at one. Then you can relieve us both at five, close up shop at seven, and have plenty of time to attend your séance.” Sadie shook her head. “You really think a medium can help Seymour?”
    I was about to tell her that I needed all the help I could get since the only spirit that would talk to me was Jack Shepard, but I bit my tongue. “It’s a strange situation. I need to speak to someone who understands more than I do about how this occult stuff works.”
    Jack laughed.
    “You don’t count,” I whispered. “Since you are occult stuff.”
    Upstairs, I opened the apartment door, automatically glancing into the living room for Spencer—and then I remembered.
    He’s at boot camp, baby.
    I walked down the hall and into my son’s bedroom anyway. The room was so empty and quiet, with the baseball bat leaning against the wall, the bed perfectly made. Bookmark was sleeping soundly at its foot. I picked up the little orange cat, cuddled her close, and carried her to my own small room.
    Miss him, huh?
    “Of course.” I rubbed Bookmark’s ears. She yawned and purred.
    But you know he’s having fun with his pals.
    “I know. He’s a different boy now than a few years ago. Not like his father anymore. He’s happy, energetic. Full of love . . . and a love of life, thank goodness.”
    That’s right, doll. The kid’s just spreading his wings.
    I sighed. “That’s the trouble, Jack. Once they learn to spread their wings, they fly away.”
    Flying away is good, baby. It’s how boys become men.
    “I don’t care. I still miss him.”
    I thought of Spencer as I changed into my nightshirt, turned down my bedcovers, closed my curtains. My little boy’s auburn hair and freckles were still on my mind as I fluffed my pillow and hugged Bookmark close.
    There’s plenty of ways a boy can lose his mother, honey. Believe me, your way’s better.
    “My way?” The kitty’s purr was soothing; the breezy brush of Jack’s presence more so.
    Close your eyes, doll , the ghost whispered. Close your eyes and I’ll remind you . . .
     
    “HEY, MRS. MCCLURE! What do you know, what do you say?”
    I opened my eyes. A little freckle-faced boy was standing in front of me, but it wasn’t my little boy. It was J. J. Conway. His ruddy cheeks appeared freshly washed, his brown hair looked newly trimmed. His shirt and slacks were clean, too, the small tears neatly sewn. He had a big smile for me—and Jack, as it turned out.
    I glanced to my side. My bad-boy partner was standing there in his sharply tailored double-breasted, a fedora slanted over the hard planes and angles of his lived-in face.
    “Find my mom yet?”
    “Not yet, kid,” Jack replied.
    His slate gray gaze slid over me. Self-conscious, I glanced down at myself, saw I was now wearing a cute little navy suit with matching round-toed pumps at the end of my stocking-clad legs. I touched my hair, felt the rolled bangs, the sleekly styled pageboy.
    Jack gave me a wink and addressed J. J. again. “How’s things working out with Mrs. Dellarusso?”
    “Swell! She sure is a good cook!”
    “Pack on a few pounds then, kid. You can use it.”
    Glancing around me, I recognized the busy Third Avenue street corner where J. J. Conway had worked in 1947. Mac Dougherty’s newsstand stood a few feet away.
    “So, Mrs. McClure, you got any leads?” J. J. asked.
    “Uh . . .” I looked to Jack.
    “We’re on the job today,” he told the boy. “We’ll get back to you.”
    “Okay,” J. J. said with a little military salute.
    “Got that photo I asked you for?”
    J. J. nodded. He dug a hand into his pocket. “Here it is, Mr. Shepard. A picture of my mom, Mable Conway.”
    “Thanks, kid.” I moved to look at the woman’s picture, but Jack quickly stuffed the small photo inside his jacket. “See you later, J. J.”
    “Not if I see you first!” He smiled, then turned his voice to the sidewalk crowds. “ ‘Killer Fire! Accident or Arson?’ Read all about it!”
    Jack took my arm and pulled me up the block.
    “Where are we going?” I asked.
    “Remember my case?”
    “Barely.”
    “We’re heading to the jewelry store, doll. We found an empty box in the bedroom of the kid’s mother. It had a