The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

whatever theater he was working for.”
    “Wait. He was an actor?” I said, glancing at Jack again. “I thought he was supposed to be an electrician.”
    “He works stagecraft, miss,” Dolly said. “Does lighting, special electric effects, whatever the show’s director wants.”
    “Who was the guy working for lately?” Jack asked.
    She shrugged. “Some big producer. Don’t know his name but he gave us a lot of business through Frankie. He was the man who paid the bills for the props. It was Frankie who placed all the orders and picked up the stuff. He said their show was still in rehearsals.”
    “Can you give us the address where the bills were sent?” Jack asked.
    “Maybe. If there’s something in it for me.”
    Jack slid a five-dollar bill across the counter. Dolly slid an address over to him. We left the dim interior of Broadway’s Best Jewelers and stepped into the blazing September afternoon.
    I squinted up at Jack, my white-gloved hand shading my eyes. “Where’s the address?”
    “Great Neck.”
    “Guess we have to take a train ride.” I started down the block. Jack stopped me.
    “Your next move is all the way out to Long Island? You’re all done with your business in the city? Is that right?”
    I smirked up at the man. “From that tone, I’m guessing I’m not.”
    Jack tilted back his fedora. “You sure got a lot to learn, honey.”
    “Give me that photo!”
    Jack raised a sandy eyebrow but he didn’t argue, just handed it over.
    “Come on!” I said. This time, I grabbed his arm and tugged him up the block. I turned into the first burlesque show I saw. There were girlie pictures plastered under the marquee; billboards with half-dressed cuties; and a big, ugly-looking bouncer at the door. He stopped us with a giant hand, pointed to the ticket booth.
    “We’re not here to see the girls,” I said. “We’re looking for this woman. Know her?”
    The big man frowned at the photo of Mable Conway and shook his head. Then he pointed to the booth and folded his massive arms. “Thirty-five cents each.”
    “Come on!” I pulled Jack to the next theater.
    The burlesque houses were mostly clustered along Eighth Avenue and Forty-second. I showed Mable Conway’s photo to the next bouncer and then a third. None of them recognized her. But the fourth one said she looked familiar.
    “She ain’t a blonde, though. She’s a brunette. And she’s about fifteen years older than that photo.”
    “Did she work here?” I asked, excited to find a lead.
    The bouncer nodded. “You should talk to the girls inside.”
    Jack flashed his PI license and the bouncer waved us in. A sultry brunette was onstage, peeling off opera gloves to a slow-playing sax. Men sat in the dark, sipping drinks, hats pulled low.
    We found our way backstage, and I showed the photo around.
    “Yeah, I know Princess,” one of the performers finally said. The woman was stunningly tall and very well built, wearing what looked like nothing but a robe, and smoking a cigarette. Her face was heavily made up, probably to hide her age. From a dim distance she looked maybe twenty-nine; in stronger light, she was closer to forty.
    “Princess?” I repeated.
    “That’s what she called herself. Her real name’s Mable.”
    The woman confirmed everything. Mable Conway had a little boy. She lied to him, telling him she was a teacher, didn’t want him to know what she was really doing.
    “Mable was a legit dancer back in the day.” The woman took a long drag, blew out a white plume. “Couldn’t make it out of the chorus line, you know? A real looker so she did leg shows, then waited tables, then ended up here.”
    “Did you know her boyfriend, Frankie?”
    “Sure. Frankie and her were cozy and all that mush. He’s the one got her out of this hole. Got her some job working a legit show again. Don’t know much about it. Just that some rich guy on Long Island’s producing.”
    I glanced at Jack. “See,” I whispered. “Long Island again.”
    Jack nodded. “Keep going, doll.”
    “Got any idea where we can find Frankie?” I asked.
    “Why?” the woman asked. “He disappear or somethin’?”
    I nodded. “He disappeared two weeks ago, along with Mable.”
    “He probably skipped town,” the woman said. She paused and frowned at me at Jack. “You’re not working for Curly, are you?”
    “No,” Jack said abruptly.
    “Curly who?” I asked, but Jack was already pulling me toward the stage door. “Thanks,” he