The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

Lockhart getting out of this?” Bud asked suspiciously.
    “Brock doesn’t want to be used as a political tool by a certain councilwoman,” Jim replied. “Frankly, neither do I.”
    Bud rubbed his chin. “Can I get a permit to paint yellow lines on the street—lines that’ll keep your vehicles in their assigned spots?”
    “I’ve got Lockhart’s permission to do just that.” Jim smiled again. “But you’ll have to supply the paint.”
    Bud chuckled and extended his hand. “It’s a deal.”
    Scattered applause broke out, increasing in tempo. Jim Wolfe smiled again and I heard female voices whispering—no doubt a few hearts were fluttering, too. Jim noticed me then and gave me a little nod.
    My heart might have fluttered, if I hadn’t been missing Jack so much. My PI spirit hadn’t reappeared this morning. In fact, he hadn’t reappeared all day.
    I knew the dream he gave me would have drained him, but I was beginning to worry there was more going on. Ophelia Tuttle was obviously a powerful psychic and medium—and she knew about Jack. Could she have done something to push him into a cosmic limbo permanently? The image of my PI partner fading into the fog continued to haunt me, along with the words of that threatening note someone had left for me.
    BRAKES AREN’T THE ONLY THINGS THAT CAN GET CUT.
    Did Ophelia or someone else in her RIPS group cut Jack loose from me and my bookshop forever?
    “I apologize for not dealing with this sooner,” Jim was now telling Bud. “I’ve been pretty distracted, trying to replace an electrician I lost in an accident. Sal Gillespie was a good guy. Tough shoes to fill.”
    “Why don’t you hire Leo Rollins?” Bud said. “He’s a licensed electrician and he’s worked for you before.”
    Jim shrugged. “I actually made Leo an offer the other day and he turned me down flat. Said he had found a better-paying job moonlighting. I don’t see him here tonight.” Jim glanced around. “Maybe he’s already working.”
    I was surprised Rollins hadn’t shown up for our “Quibblers” meeting. He was as angry as everyone else about Councilwoman Binder-Smith’s so-called “green” initiatives, not to mention Bud’s parking dilemma. But Leo wasn’t the only absentee Quibbler. Seymour Tarnish hadn’t shown, either, despite the fact that I’d heard he’d made bail sometime today. And Fiona Finch—who usually came early and spoke often—had yet to arrive.
    Jim jerked his thumb toward the door. “Why don’t we check out your storefront right now, Bud? You can show me where I can park my generators, and I’ll have my crew paint lines in the morning.”
    Bud slammed his hammer on the podium, declaring the meeting adjourned. The mob of local business owners stood and moved quickly toward our exit. It was after ten o’clock by now and everyone wanted to get home. Bud and Jim Wolfe followed the crowd to the front door.
    Jim pointed at me before leaving. “Coffee this week, Pen,” he mouthed with a wink. “Remember?”
    I nodded politely, but Jim’s offer didn’t make my pulse flutter—not even a little bit. Jim was a living, breathing hunk, no question. But my heart was already taken with someone else. The fact that the man I cared for was no longer flesh-and-blood didn’t make a difference. Love wasn’t something that stopped for a little thing like death.
    If Jim ever did come by for our coffee date, I’d simply break it to him that I was a confirmed widow, and he was better off taking out one of the half dozen females who were presently giving him the eye all the way out the door.
    The crowd was nearly gone when I felt Chick Pattelli’s callused hand touch my arm. “So, will it be a spring wedding?” the garden store owner asked with a smile. “I can hothouse-grow any flowers you like for the big day.”
    I blinked. “Excuse me?”
    “Let me know,” Chick said before he walked out. I was baffled, but the answer came a moment later.
    “When are you and Seymour Tarnish getting married?” Joyce Koh asked, walking up to me.
    “Must be soon,” said Milner Logan, joining us.
    Quarter-blood Narragansett Native American, Milner was our town baker. He was also a good customer, with a penchant for thrillers and noir crime novels, as well as anything penned by Tony Hillerman and Margaret Coel. A trained pastry chef, he’d fallen in love with an old friend of mine, Linda Cooper, while teaching her in a cooking class. It was Linda’s family who’d