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Authors: Alice Kimberly

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BOOK: The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion
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“Here you go, Mrs. M., have a nice cold Coke, okay?”
I nodded and sipped. The drink was sweet and cold and sadly bereft of that sweet little stinging buzz.
Get a grip, doll. Don’t turn into an alkie on me.
About an hour after Brainert departed, Seymour said goodnight to April Briggs and Mrs. Fromsette. Then the doorbell rang again. The party was winding down, and I was surprised anyone would arrive so late. But the
bing-bong
appeared to reenergize Seymour and he moved quickly to greet the newcomers.
He returned with a bundle of flowers under his arms and a bemused expression on his face. I understood Seymour’s reaction when, seconds later, Councilwoman Marjorie Binder-Smith strode past her host and into the room on patent leather power pumps.
Newly svelte after a monthlong spa vacation, Quindicott’s longest-sitting and most powerful political player wore a form-fitting scarlet suit and floral scarf. Her dyed brown hair framed a suspiciously dewrinkled forehead. Appearing jovial (her one and only job skill, as far as I could see), a wide smile remained plastered on her middle-aged face despite the coolly calculating look in her eyes.
“I think . . .” Seymour began, a bit uncertainly. “I think you all know the councilwoman.”
The room fell silent—except for the sound of Bud Napp choking on his Sam Adams. I figured the councilwoman was in for a hailstorm of grief, but then a brassy voice cut through the tension.
“What a charming place! Absolutely charming.”
A fortysomething woman swept into the room—and I do mean
swept
. Knee-length white halter dress flaring around her tanned legs, the woman strode to the center of the space like Jackie O. making her debut.
“Hey, everyone,” Seymour announced. “I’d like you to meet—”
“I’m Charlene Fabian!” the woman interrupted, offering us all a wave. “What a pleasure it is to meet you all. This town is just so quaint, and it’s wonderful to see this old rickety house filled with life!”
Ms. Fabian spoke with a vague, English accent, her eyes obviously bypassing the people to appraise the room, the furniture, and all of the fixtures. She continued to chatter as she circled the space, gushing about the marble fireplace, the brass lamps, the chandelier, the handmade doilies, the magnificently preserved wainscoting.
When Ms. Fabian strode past Fiona Finch, I saw my friend blink with something like recognition. Then Fiona’s eyes narrowed like a seasoned cop who’d just spotted a known crack dealer. She glared openly as Ms. Fabian plopped down on the red velvet cushions of the ornately carved claw-footed love seat.
“You must be very proud of your acquisition, Mr. Tarnish,” Ms. Fabian said, crossing her tanned legs. “And you must also feel very fortunate to inherit such a lovely and valuable property.”
“Uh, yes. Yes, I am,” Seymour replied. “Would you like a drink, Ms. Fabian?”
The woman tossed her short, black, perfectly layered do and batted her eyes at Seymour. “Johnny Walker Blue. Straight up.”
Seymour cleared his throat. “I’ll see what I can find.”
Across the room, Fiona stared at the stranger with naked hostility. Then I watched as she set her cocktail down on a mahogany end table and approached Ms. Fabian.
“Hello, I’m Fiona Finch. The owner of the Finch Inn on Quindicott Pond,” she said, crossing her arms. “Are you one of Seymour’s new neighbors? I’m asking because you seem very
familiar
to me. Like I’ve seen your
picture
somewhere.”
Charlene Fabian barely acknowledged Fiona’s presence. Instead she ran her French-tipped fingers along the velvet upholstery.
“This rosewood love seat is genuine Victorian,” she murmured. “And I’m certain that solid mahogany cabinet against the wall is a valuable antique, too.”
Fiona’s eyes narrowed. “Actually, the love seat is a
copy
of a Victorian, manufactured in the 1920s. And that ‘solid’ mahogany cabinet over there is anything but. It’s veneered, and shoddy work at that. By the way, the cabinet also dates from the twenties, as does most of the furniture in this house, which is Depression-era
mock
Victorian!”
Ms. Fabian’s face went rigid. Everyone was staring at the two. Seymour practically bolted from the bar to the loveseat.
“Your Scotch!” he said.
The woman accepted the amber liquid without thanks. She sipped and made a face. “Ugh. You don’t have Johnny Blue, I take it?”
Seymour’s shoulders sagged. “Dewar’s White Label. Sorry.”
“So, Ms. Fabian.” Fiona’s small hands went to her hips. “We’ve determined that you don’t really
know
much about antiques, but we still don’t know
why
you’re here.”
Before the woman could reply, Marjorie Binder-Smith stepped forward. “Charlene and I are old friends. We attended Brown together. She’s visiting from California and staying at my home, just down the block.”
Fiona frowned. “California? Santa Monica, by any chance?”
For the first time, Ms. Fabian met Fiona’s gaze. “Why, yes,” she answered in an icy tone.
Fiona snapped her fingers. “I knew I recognized you. I saw your face on the cover of a magazine. Recently, too.”
Inside of a nanosecond, Ms. Fabian’s expression moved from stormy to bright. “Last month’s
Woman Entrepreneur
ran a feature. I was on the cover.”
Fiona shook her head. “No, that’s not the one. I’m thinking about the story in
Modern Innkeeper
about the Lindsey-Tilton group. ‘Here Come the McBed-and-Breakfasts,’ I think the article was called. And it was all about
you
, Charlene
Lindsey
-Fabian.”
Ms. Fabian fluffed her hair but said nothing.
“So, are you here to do a little shopping? Looking for the next hot property to exploit?”
Seymour practically leapt between the women. “Come on now, ladies, let’s not argue. This is a wake for Miss Todd. How about we do something she would have enjoyed? Let’s team up for charades!”
But Fiona wasn’t listening. She poked her head around Seymour’s large body. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here, sniffing around like a predator—”
Seymour held Fiona back. “Or Pictionary. Everybody loves Pictionary!”
“Now, now,” Councilwoman Binder-Smith said, wagging her finger in Fiona’s face. “That’s no way to treat a guest in our community—”
“Wheel of Fortune?” Seymour cried, his grin strained. “I have the home edition!”
“Fiona’s right!” Bud exploded, slamming his bottle down on a side table. “Both of you have got a lot of nerve
parking
your rear ends here, if you get my drift. Maybe you should ask Seymour for a
permit
!”
Seymour snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it! Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon!”
“If this were my home, I’d throw you bums out on your collective ears, but I guess that will have to wait until November.” Bud rose and adjusted the waistband of his pants. “Unfortunately, this isn’t my damn house, or my damn party, so I’ll just say good night.”
He strode to the foyer without a backward glance. Stricken, Sadie caught my eye. “I promised Seymour I’d help clean up, but—”
“Go,” I insisted. “Take care of Bud. I’ll help Seymour.”
Sadie hurried to catch up with her man. Marjorie Binder-Smith watched them go. When I saw the triumphant smile on her face, I wanted to slap the councilwoman myself.
Go on, knock her one, toots. Give her the Jack Dempsey treatment. You can blame it on the pickle juice
.
“Couldn’t I be charged with treason or something?” I stifled a hiccup. “I mean, if I assault an elected official?”
Maybe. But sometimes it’s just good sense.
After the front door slammed, the frowning councilwoman faced Ms. Fabian. “I’m sorry that had to happen, Charlene. I’ve never been so mortified.”
“Really?” Hardy Miles said, his eyes a little glazed from the drink. “Guess you don’t get around town much!”
Seymour dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands. “Why can’t we all just get along?”
“Well!” The councilwoman tossed her head. “I guess I know when
I’m
not wanted.”
“Wanna bet?” Hardy said.
“Let’s go, Charlene!” Marjorie took Ms. Fabian’s arm.
“Yes, go!” Fiona said. “And don’t let those mock mahogany doors hit your Johnny Walker Blue rears on the way out!”
CHAPTER 17
Ghost Hunting
We’re ready to believe you!
—Ghostbusters
, 1984
 
 
 
“IS THAT THE
doorbell
?” Washing the last martini glass in the joint, I turned from the sink. “What time is it?”
Seymour checked his watch. “Twelve fifty-five.”
Bing-bong!
The second regal ring shot a stream of adrenaline through my dragging limbs. My ears pricked; my spine stiffened. “Who’d be coming to your party at almost one in the morning?”
“I’ll get it. You stay here.”
“I don’t think so!” Drying my damp hands on a checkerboard dishtowel, I followed Seymour’s fast-striding mailman legs out of his newly inherited retro kitchen and down the long hallway that led to the foyer.
The party guests were long gone. As I’d promised Sadie, I remained behind to help clean. I was in no condition to drive myself home anyway. Not that I was seeing double, but things were definitely fuzzy around the edges, and I figured I could use the time to sober up.
I also wanted the chance to look around. While Seymour was still entertaining the last remaining guests, I’d poked through the first-floor rooms, opening closets, rummaging drawers. I found grocery lists, recipes, batteries, pens. The closets held mothballs, vintage clothes, and hats upon hats from the ’40s and ’50s, all preserved in their original round boxes.
So this is where haberdasheries go to die,
Jack quipped.
There were no easy answers. No clue to Miss Todd’s living sister, the alleged haunting, the magic circle, or anything else beyond an old woman who’d lived in this house for many years.
I had another drink.
When the last of the guests were gone, I began helping Seymour clean—until this one A.M. arrival.
“Be careful!” I called. Ben Kesey’s phone call was fresh in my mind, even if Seymour didn’t want to remember it. But then, he hadn’t been the one to put his foot down on a brake pedal and feel nothing but spongy impotence.
Waving off my admonition, my mailman snapped on the porch light. Without even bothering to check through a window, he yanked the front doors wide.
Standing on the small, columned porch was a short man in his midtwenties. The prominent Adam’s apple was the first thing I noticed; then sunken cheeks; long, skinny sideburns; and sleepy, half-closed eyes. He wore neon-green overalls with a fully-stocked pocket protector. A matching baseball-style hat was turned backward on his brown hair, and a clipboard was tucked under his arm.
“Are you Mr. Tarnish?” the stranger asked.
I poked my head around Seymour’s bulky form. “Why are you here? What do you want?”
“Easy, Pen. Take a chill pill.”
I threw the dishtowel over my shoulder and folded my arms.
Seymour faced the stranger. “What’s up, dude? Who are you?”
“My name is Kenny Vorzon. And
you
called
us,
remember?” He jerked his pen toward his backward cap.
Seymour’s brows knitted. “Huh?”
Kenny frowned a moment, then realized. “Oh! Sorry!” He reached up and turned his hat around. The cap’s brim sported a glowing yellow lightning bolt with two words on either side of it:
SPIRIT ZAPPERS
! Below the logo, a motto was scrawled in small embroidered script:
Your entity eliminators
.
I froze in semiterror. “Jack, go away!” I shouted in my head. “Now! Before he sees you!”
Why? Who is this Alvin?
Beside me, Seymour clapped his hands and grinned at the newcomer. “I thought you looked familiar. You’re one of the guys from the Alternative Universe network.” He extended his hand and pumped the man’s arm. “Great show! Never miss it.”
Kenny nodded. “Thanks.”
Seymour stepped forward to scan the driveway. “Where’s your van? The ghost-busting crew? The cameras?”
“Whoa, dude, you’re a long way from seeing any of that. You have to pass the audition first. And this is it.”
Thank heaven, I thought, praying the Spirit Zappers needed more equipment than a clipboard and a pocket protector to “eliminate” an “entity” as stubborn as Jack.
Kenny raised his clipboard, pen poised over paper. “First question—”
“You want me to answer questions now?” Seymour scratched his head. “At one in the morning?”
“Apparitions tend to manifest between midnight and four. That’s one of the two reasons we work between those hours.”
“I see,” Seymour said. “And what’s the other reason?”
Kenny shrugged. “We all have day jobs.”
“Right.” Seymour folded his arms. “So where’s your posse working tonight?”
“Millstone.” Kenny jerked his pen over his shoulder. “Their high school’s supposedly haunted.”
“No kidding,” Seymour said, eyes wide. “What’s the story?”
“A deceased lunch lady in a hairnet’s been seen floating through the hallways carrying a chafing dish full of Sloppy Joe meat.”
Seymour glanced at me. “Sounds like a scary enough vision even without the ectoplasm.”
“Anyway, since we were right down the highway from you, they sent me on over to check you out. Now, are you ready to give us some background on your alleged haunted house?”
Seymour nodded. “Ask me anything you like.”
“Is this the aforementioned infested residence?” Kenny pointed his pen through the front doors.
“Yep. Want to come in?”
“Ah . . .” Peering past us into the foyer, Kenny scratched his temple with the pen tip. “To tell you the truth, confronting entities alone is not my area of expertise. I prefer to have a crew with me whenever I cross the threshold of a suspicious domicile.”
BOOK: The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion
4.44Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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