The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

envelope came for you, by the way.” Aunt Sadie called from the doorway. “I left it on the dresser.”
    “An envelope?”
    “Yes, Dilbert found it earlier, stuffed in our door’s mail slot.”
    “But this is Sunday. We don’t get mail on Sunday. And we’re open. Why didn’t the person who delivered it just come inside?”
    “Yes, it’s a little mysterious, isn’t it?”
    I could tell my aunt was curious, if not a little worried. I threw off my bedcovers and went to the dresser. The envelope was white and plain with MRS. MCCLURE typed on the front—no address, no stamp, no other markings. I opened it, unfolded the paper inside. There was only one sentence typed: nine black words on a field of white.
    “What is it, dear?” Aunt Sadie could see something was wrong from my expression. She moved back into the room, took the paper from me and blanched at the simple message:
    BRAKES AREN’T THE ONLY THINGS THAT CAN GET CUT.

CHAPTER 21
     
    Happy Medium
     
    She looked a little pale and strained, but she looked like a girl who could function under a strain.
    —The Big Sleep , Raymond Chandler, 1939
     
     
     
     
    “A LITTLE MELODRAMATIC, isn’t it?” I pointed to the burning candle in Fiona Finch’s hand.
    She shrugged. “No electricity. That’s the way they wanted it.”
    “Who’s they?”
    “RIPS—they’re the ones conducting tonight’s séance.”
    “RIPs?” I repeated. “Rest in—”
    Fiona cut me off. “It stands for Rhode Island Paranormal Society. Rachel explained it all to me after checking in this evening.”
    It was close to midnight and I was standing with Fiona in the foyer of Chez Finch. Despite the threatening note, I was determined to attend this séance.
    Of course, I’d already notified Eddie Franzetti about the threat. He’d raced over to the shop as soon as I’d called, impounding the letter as evidence. I doubted he would get any useful fingerprints. He said the state forensic lab could analyze the paper and ink, but I didn’t put much faith in that getting us anywhere, either.
    Aunt Sadie and Dilbert insisted on staying with me until we closed the store. I agreed, but I wasn’t going to cancel my plans for the night. One stupid note wasn’t going to stop me—if anything, it made me more determined than ever to keep digging into this case. My one concession was asking Eddie to have a patrol car include the Finch Inn on its watch as long as Seymour was staying there.
    “RIPS?” I repeated to Fiona.
    She nodded her head. “The group’s been around since the 1920s and the current membership takes this all quite seriously.” She gestured toward the archway that led into the restaurant’s large dining room—completely dark now except for a single taper burning on the room’s largest round table. Two human silhouettes were standing near the wall of windows overlooking Quindicott Pond.
    “Are you going to this thing?” I asked her.
    “Not me. But you can fill me in after the séance is over. I have some other things to discuss with you, as well—”
    Girlish laughter echoed loudly through the darkened dining room, followed by a very familiar guffaw: my mailman.
    “Sounds like Seymour’s getting along pretty well with someone in there.”
    Before Fiona could reply, we both heard the honk of Barney’s electric golf cart. “The other guests are arriving.” Fiona waved me forward. “Go ahead inside, Pen. Seymour will introduce you to Rachel.”
    Beyond the restaurant’s wall of windows, the pond appeared black as outer space, the inn’s solar-powered foot-lights marking nearby trails like tiny stars in the distance. The moon was full tonight, its glow rippling on the dark water and providing much-needed ambient light in the murky room.
    I found Seymour chatting with a young woman dressed casually in a denim skirt and high-top yellow sneakers.
    “Hey, Pen!” he called with an energized grin. “This is Rachel Delve. Rachel, this is my friend Penelope McClure.”
    Smiling, the woman took my hand. Rachel was petite, shorter than me—and I wasn’t very tall to start with. Her freckled face, framed by a tangle of reddish-orange hair, was so round it was almost cherubic. Even in this dim light, I could see her complexion was rosy from laughter.
    “Nice to meet you,” she said, taking my hand.
    At first I doubted Rachel was part of the RIPS group. She seemed so normal, so bubbly. She came off more like a member of the restaurant staff—until I noticed