The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion (9 page)

“Excuse me, miss?” Sadie said. “We’re here to see—”

“Mr. Stoddard. You have an appointment,” the young woman replied, finishing my aunt’s sentence for her. She didn’t smile at us, just stared intently, her liquid dark eyes squinting slightly behind small, rimless glasses. Her focus moved slowly from Sadie to me, then down to the desk. She pressed the intercom button.

“Excuse me, Mr. Stoddard,” she said, “your eight o’clock appointment has arrived. Sadie Thornton, her niece, and the gentleman.”

Sadie glanced back at me. I shrugged. Seymour hadn’t actually arrived yet, but he’d be here any minute.

“Thank you, Miss Tuttle! I’ll be right out.”

The storefront office was so small I could hear Mr. Stoddard’s voice coming from behind the thin door to our right as well as the intercom’s speaker.

Miss Tuttle waved her hand. “You three can go in now.”

Glancing at me again, Aunt Sadie wrinkled her forehead. “Three?”

The door opened and Mr. Stoddard stepped out. When his delicate, small-boned hand shook mine, I noticed a bulky gold ring on his right middle finger. I glanced at it, expecting to see a university insignia, but it was engraved only with a stylized cross, the top of which appeared open, like a sewing needle.

“Is that an Egyptian ankh?” I asked. “On your ring?”

A flash of annoyance momentarily soured Mr. Stoddard’s welcoming expression. “How nice of you to notice,” he said after a pause, but his tone didn’t sound pleased. “A gift from a client. Sign of good luck, I believe.”

While the man spoke, he deliberately twisted the gold circle, hiding the ankh design on the palm side of his hand.

Odd,
I thought. Jack agreed.

You said it, honey
.

After greeting my aunt, Mr. Stoddard looked around the small waiting room. He glanced at the young woman in the black dress.

“Miss Tuttle, you said over the intercom that all
three
had arrived? Where is Mr. Tarnish?”

The young woman smirked at Stoddard, as if he were being ridiculous. “There’s a third with
her
.” She pointed at me, her tone implying this should have been obvious to everyone. “The man wearing the fedora and the double-breasted suit.”

I held my breath as the girl stared at me.

“Jack?” I silently whispered. “Can she
see
you?”

The moment Jack spoke in my head, the young woman’s annoyed expression changed to surprise. “Oh,” she said, shifting her focus back to the lawyer. “It’s not Seymour Tarnish. Excuse me, Mr. Stoddard, but I was mistaken.”

“No harm done,” Stoddard replied.

Aunt Sadie shot me a
that-was-weird
look. I shrugged, trying to look clueless, but I couldn’t shake the young woman’s penetrating gaze. Like a high-intensity floodlight, I continued to feel Miss Tuttle’s focus on me as Mr. Stoddard ushered us into his small office. Frankly, I was relieved when Stoddard closed his door and cut off the girl’s vision.

“Seymour Tarnish is on his way,” I assured Mr. Stoddard. “He gave us a ride over, but he couldn’t find a large enough space for his VW bus.”

“He has a VW bus?” Stoddard asked curiously as he moved around his desk.

I nodded. “Lime green.”

“What year?”

“From the seventies,” I said. “You should ask him about it. He’s very proud of it; keeps it in perfect running order.”

The décor in Stoddard’s office was fractionally better, with expensive-looking red leather chairs instead of the folding variety in the waiting room. The cheap paneling might have made the room as unappealing as the waiting area, but Stoddard had hidden most of the scuffed wood behind elaborately framed original artwork as well as diplomas, award plaques, and certificates.

As we took our seats, Stoddard sank into a high-backed executive chair of quilted leather. It looked costly and brand-new—unlike the dull, nicked surface of his walnut desk. Before we could exchange more than a few words, a strident buzz interrupted us.

“Seymour Tarnish is here now,” Miss Tuttle announced, loud enough to be heard without the intercom.

Seymour entered a moment later. He nodded at us, shook Stoddard’s hand, and sat down in the chair next to mine.

“Let’s begin, shall we?” Mr. Stoddard said. “All three of you are here because you’re specifically mentioned in the last will and testament of Miss Timothea Todd, amended for the final time on March 24 of this year.”

Stoddard steepled his fingers. “This won’t be a formal reading of the will because other beneficiaries are also mentioned in the document, and for now those sections will remain confidential.”

“Other beneficiaries?” I silently repeated. “I wonder who they are.”

So do I,
Jack said.
And why all the hush-hush? Why are you three the only ones invited to this party? Didn’t the old dame have any relatives?

“I don’t think so, Jack. Not living, anyway. I asked Aunt Sadie that question, and she said Miss Todd never married or had children; never mentioned any other family, either.”

Stoddard swiveled his chair slightly to face Sadie and me. “As the owners of Buy the Book on Cranberry Street, the two of you have supplied Miss Todd with reading material for many years. She wanted to return the favor after her passing, so Miss Todd has bequeathed your store the entire contents of her large and varied library.”

“Mercy!” Sadie exclaimed.

“Wow,” I said.

“That’s really nice,” Seymour agreed.

“Every book in the Todd mansion is yours, ladies, with the exception of one special volume located in the master bedroom, which is to go to Mr. Tarnish as part of his inheritance.”

“What do you know,” Seymour said, glancing at me and Sadie. “She left me a book, too.”

“That’s not all she left
you
, Mr. Tarnish.” The lawyer swiveled his chair again and met Seymour’s eyes. “You have also inherited
all
of Miss Todd’s property in Quindicott.”

Seymour stared. “What?”

“You have inherited the property on Larchmont Avenue and everything inside it. You have also inherited the land the structure is built on, as well as the two outbuildings.”

“Holy cow,” I whispered.

“Heavens to Betsy,” Sadie rasped.

Seymour still hadn’t uttered a word. He simply sat stiff as a cold corpse, his eyes bugging out.

“Mr. Tarnish,” Stoddard said, “do you understand what I’m telling you? You are the primary beneficiary of Miss Todd’s estate. You have just inherited her Larchmont Avenue mansion.”

“Seymour?” Aunt Sadie called. “Did you hear the man?”

Seymour failed to respond.

“I think we should get him some water,” I announced.

Mr. Stoddard buzzed his receptionist. The young woman in the black dress strode in with a bottle of water and a paper cup. We all waited for Seymour to take a long drink and get a grip. I tried not to look at the girl, who continued to stare at me through her rimless glasses.

“I can’t even see you, Jack. I can only hear you.”

“How should I know,” I told the ghost. “Why don’t you ask her—”

“Wait, Jack, maybe that’s not such a—”

A frigid blast of air swirled through the room. For a moment, I sat unmoving; then with emotions somewhere between dread and curiosity, I forced myself to look at the young woman. She folded her arms, arched a jaded eyebrow, and smirked in my direction. That’s when Jack spoke again—

The girl rolled her eyes. “Is he serious?” she mouthed to me.

“Oh, my God, Jack,” I told the ghost. “I think she can see you
and
hear you.”

“Yes, and I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think you’re the first spook to say
BOO
to her, either.”

“My, there’s a chill in here all of a sudden!” Aunt Sadie rubbed her arms. “Is your air conditioner broken, Mr. Stoddard? We have that same problem in our building all the time.”

“I don’t know.” Mr. Stoddard scratched his receding hairline. “I’ll have to have it checked.”

Sadie turned to our mailman. “Are you okay to continue, Seymour?”

Seymour nodded mutely.

Mr. Stoddard glanced at his young secretary. “That will be all for now, Miss Tuttle. In fact . . .” He checked his watch. “Why don’t you head home now? I’ll see you in the morning.”

Miss Tuttle nodded and strode out of the room, shaking her long curtain of raven hair as if she were completely unimpressed by my ghost’s little display.

CHAPTER 7

If stirring things up is your system, I’ve got a swell spoon for you.

—Red Harvest
, Dashiell Hammett, 1929

 

 

 

MR. STODDARD WENT back to explaining the terms of Seymour’s inheritance, but I couldn’t focus on the legal business. Not right away. My eyes glazed over as I tried to process the fact that another living human being had seen and heard the ghost of Jack Shepard.

Or had she?

“She really did see and hear you, didn’t she?”

“Jealous?! Me? Of what?!”

“I doubt that.”

The ghost’s deep laugh echoed through my head.

“Quit gloating.”

“Excuse me?” Seymour said, turning to stare at me.

I cleared my throat. “Uh, what?”

“I’m not gloating, Pen,” Seymour said. “At least I wasn’t. But you know, after the way Ciders and his moronic nephew treated me, maybe I
should
.”

Sadie and Mr. Stoddard frowned at me. I shrunk a little farther into my red leather chair.

“I’m sorry for the interruption. I didn’t mean it,” I said quickly, silently adding:
except where it concerns a certain self-satisfied specter
!

“Please continue, Mr. Stoddard,” Sadie said.

Stoddard cleared his throat and turned toward Seymour. “As I was saying, Miss Todd has established a trust fund for you, Mr. Tarnish. It will pay for all state and federal taxes for the foreseeable future, along with the legal cost of transferring the title of the house to you, which will take anywhere from six to eight weeks—although you may take physical possession as soon as tomorrow if you like.”

I marveled at Miss Todd’s thoughtfulness. Seymour probably hadn’t even considered the burden of property taxes, having been a house renter his whole adult life.

“Wow, that’s . . . that’s really incredible,” Seymour whispered.

“Mr. Tarnish, I’d like to ask you a question, if I may?” Stoddard said. “Do you have any idea why Miss Todd bequeathed her properties to you?”

Seymour shook his head. “Not a clue.”

“You never spoke of the house or the property with Miss Todd?”

“I always told her that her house was great,” Seymour said with a shrug. “Like something from
Dark Shadows
—you know, that gothic melodrama? Turns out she loved that old TV show, too. I lent her my videotapes so she could re-watch all the episodes.” He glanced at me and Sadie. “I taped them off cable last year when they ran that
Dark Shadows
marathon. Did you know they used a mansion over in Newport for the exterior shots?”

Stoddard frowned. “Mr. Tarnish, are you aware there’s a stipulation in Miss Todd’s will that states you are not permitted to alter the house in any drastic way?”

“I wasn’t aware I’d inherited the house in the first place, until you told me. So the answer to that would be
no
.”

“Well, it is my duty to inform you that if you do alter the house, you forfeit the trust fund that pays the mansion’s property taxes, which are considerable.”

“That’s not a problem,” Seymour said. “Like I said, I like the house the way it is, so—”

“Nor are you permitted to lease the property,” Stoddard continued, his gaze intensely studying Seymour. “Does that bother you?”

“No. Why would I want to rent the house out?” Seymour glanced at us again. “I’ve wanted to live on Larchmont my
whole
life. This is like a dream come true! I mean . . . I’m sorry Miss Todd had to pass for this to happen, but can you believe it? I’m going to be ‘Seymour Tarnish of Larchmont Avenue’!” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together.

“Holy Cannoli, Batman! This is hard to believe!”

“Yes,” Mr. Stoddard said, an eyebrow arching. “It’s hard to believe, all right.”

“I think so,” I told the ghost.

Sadie exchanged a look with me, and I bit my tongue to keep from laughing.

“Wait till I tell Brainert!” Seymour grinned at us with the thought. “I’m going to be neighbors with half the St. Francis deans! That little academic snob will turn pea green with envy!”

Mr. Stoddard fingered his cuff links. “So, Mr. Tarnish, let me confirm. You
aren’t
interested in renting the property? Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“But what about selling it?”

“Selling it?”

“Yes, take a look at this.”

Stoddard opened a manila folder on his desk. Then he turned it around so Seymour could read the document filed inside. The expensive stationery bore the gold-embossed letterhead of The Lindsey-Tilton Partnership, LLC.