The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion by Alice Kimberly Page 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?
    Now you’re just second-guessing yourself.
    “She really did see and hear you, didn’t she?”
    What’s the matter, baby? Jealous?
    “Jealous?! Me? Of what?!”
    If this keeps up, you might have to share me with some other dames. You won’t have me all to yourself anymore.
    “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.”
    Those tony new neighbors of Postal Boy here are in for a shocker, aren’t they?
    “I think so,” I told the ghost.
    Sadie exchanged a look with