The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

Operations Aviation Regiment during Desert Storm,” Milner said.
    Linda faced her husband. “How do you know that?”
    “Guys talk.” He shrugged. “Especially when they drink.”
    Linda scowled. “You went to that girly bar again, didn’t you?”
    “I, uh—”
    “So Leo was a pilot, then?” I cut in before we got off the subject.
    Milner shook his head. “Leo was an infantry scout, a Night Stalker. They’re specially trained to fight in the dark.”
    “It was Leo who found us when the brakes failed on the highway, remember, Pen,” Sadie quickly noted. “He said he was just passing by, but he might have been stalking us to see what happened after he sabotaged the brakes!”
    “You said Leo doesn’t have a stake in this, but someone could have hired him to kill Seymour,” Brainert reminded me.
    “That would explain what Jim Wolfe said to Bud earlier,” Sadie said. “Remember? Jim offered Leo work but he turned it down. Leo said he was making more moonlighting .”
    Milner raised an eyebrow. “A hit man would earn more than an electrician.”
    “And what about that dagger Leo has?” Linda said. “If it looks exactly like the one you found in Todd Mansion, then there must be a connection, right? Maybe Mrs. Fromsette had the dagger all these years and gave it to him to use!”
    Milner nodded. “That’s got to be it. Mrs. Fromsette hired Leo.”
    “But all of this stuff is just conjecture,” I pointed out.
    The ghost of Jack Shepard may not have been with me now, but I could hear his voice echoing through my memories, railing about getting hard proof. Eddie Franzetti and his State Police colleagues would need conclusive evidence—facts that were clear as a glass of gin.
    “All this stuff is circumstantial,” I continued. “There’s no presentable legal evidence against Leo. And the police aren’t going to make an arrest based on our theories.”
    The group glanced at one another sheepishly. They knew I was right.
    “Perhaps we should listen to more of Miss Todd’s tapes,” Brainert suggested. “We might hear something more substantial that implicates Leo.”
    While Sadie cued up another sound bite, I told her I needed to use the phone.
    “Who are you calling at this hour?” she asked.
    “Seymour! He’s in danger. Concrete proof or not, we all believe we know who’s guilty. Someone has to warn Seymour to ignore the stupid haunts in his house and watch out for Leo Rollins!”

CHAPTER 23
     
    Things That Go Boo
     
    Perhaps you have the solution. A few persons of unusual intelligence and scientific knowledge might be able to guess.
    —Nightmare Alley , William Lindsay Gresham, 1946
     
     
     
     
    I DIALED SEYMOUR’S home phone and got a busy signal. Cursing the mailman for being too cheap to invest in a cellular plan, I grabbed my keys and drove out to Larchmont Avenue myself. My handbag was with me, too, Jack’s nickel tucked inside.
    “Jack? Jack Shepard!” I called into the night. “I need you! Can’t you hear me?”
    No answer came. I didn’t hear his voice. I couldn’t feel his presence. He was gone, and all I felt was cold inside, empty and alone and scared. I swallowed back tears in my dark car, forcing myself to believe that my spirit would come back again.
    “You can’t be gone from my life, Jack, you can’t . . .”
    It was close to midnight when I pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Miss Todd’s mansion. Rising up on the hill, the hulking Victorian appeared pitch black; not one window showed a light burning. The regal doorbell didn’t bing-bong when I pressed it. I pressed again. Nothing. Frowning with worry, I gave up and knocked.
    Seymour appeared almost immediately, flashlight in hand. He was surprised to see me. “I just called Bud Napp’s cell fifteen minutes ago,” he said. “Surely he didn’t send you to fix my electricity?”
    “I called you around the same time.”
    Seymour shrugged. “Guess I was on the line with Bud.”
    “What’s the problem?”
    “The new equipment I rented blew a fuse, and—” He shrugged sheepishly. “I can’t find the damn fuse box. I called Bud for help, but he just sat down to have a drink with Jim Wolfe at that new girly bar on the highway, Gentlemen’s Oasis. What’s up with that?”
    “Long story.”
    “Anyway, Bud said he’d send someone by.” Then Seymour brightened. “Come in and I’ll show you my stuff.”
    I was nervous about crossing the threshold of Todd Mansion, but I followed