"Why? What do you think will happen, genius?"

"I think the old man will scream as the scalding liquid burns his flesh. Then we'll call an ambulance, and you'll be arrested at the hospital for assault."

Seymour squinted. "You're just jealous I thought of it first."

Brainert massaged his temples. "Armstrong's not a paraplegic, you dunderhead! Wendell told me he suffers from advanced arthritis, caused by all the injuries he suffered during his career as a stunt man."

"Oh," Seymour said. His shoulders slumped.

I pulled up to the curb. "We're here. Don't spill that coffee as you get out."

At the front door, Brainert buzzed several times, but no one answered. He knocked and tested the knob. The door was unlocked. We exchanged surprised glances.

"Wait," I said. "Take a look around. Did someone try to break in?"

Seymour stepped up and examined the wooden door, then the doorjamb and screen door. He shook his head. "No damage. The door was unlocked, that's all. Maybe somebody's home… in the cellar or attic or something and can't hear the buzzer."

Brainert pushed the door open and stepped inside. "Dean Pepper? Wendell?" His voice rang hollow in the yellow foyer. The framed one-sheet of Taxi Driver loomed over us. De Niro's Travis Bickle was giving me the creeps. Seymour must have noticed.

"Gee," he joked, elbowing me, "I hope that witchy ex-wife of the dean's didn't murder his prune-flavored ass."

Brainert glared. "That's not funny, Seymour."

"Who's being funny? Virginia Pepper is one scary tomato."

"I was referring to your jibe at Wendell's name-Dr. Pepper being a prune-flavored soft drink." He looked away. "Your remarks about Virginia 's violent tendencies are another matter entirely."

"You mean they're justified."

"Maybe." Brainert called out again, louder this time. "Wendell! Are you there, man?"

Seymour pushed past him impatiently and started looking around.

Brainert frowned. " Seymour, stop, we really shouldn't be here… "

"The door was open. Either someone is at home and didn't hear us at the door, or the house has been burglarized. In that case, it's our civic duty to investigate. And since I'm a federal employee-"

"You're a postman, Tarnish, not an FBI agent! It's our civic duty to call the police if we think something is wrong." Brainert fumbled inside his beige sports coat and pulled out his cell phone.

"You call. I'm checking things out."

Seymour kept walking. I followed. Nothing in the front of the house appeared disturbed-yet I felt the hackles rising on the back of my neck. Something wasn't right.

"Jack?" I silently whispered.

I'm here, doll. I got your back.

Seymour moved to the staircase and called upstairs. I cautiously entered the living room, afraid of what I might find. I spied a pair of men's shoes beside the couch and a glass of water on the coffee table, but the room was empty.

I heard Seymour calling as he climbed the stairs to the second floor, "Mr. Armstrong? Are you up here?"

As Brainert followed Seymour, I moved to the back of the house, hoping to find someone in the kitchen.

I arrived at the dining room first. The only sound here was the persistent bubbling of the fish tank. Morning sun streamed through the window, illuminating tiny dust motes in the air. They floated in front of the framed one- sheet of the James Bond Thunderball movie.

My gaze moved to the mahogany sideboard, and I realized that something wasn't right. A metal display stand was sitting there, empty. The prop it held was missing. Where was the heavy speargun from Thunderball? The one Seymour had admired?

"Virginia Pepper," I whispered.

Dean Pepper's ex-wife had threatened to take things from the house, sell them on eBay to get the money that Wendell had promised her. Yet it seemed odd that it was the only thing missing.

I noticed the Sunday edition of the Providence Journal spread out on the table's polished surface. A full cup of coffee sat beside it. Next to the cup, a half-empty tumbler of orange juice was stained by what appeared to be a large splash of ketchup.

A moment later, I realized the stain wasn't ketchup at all. When I stepped around the table, I saw a wheelchair overturned on the parquet floor. Pierce Armstrong was sprawled beside it, blood oozing from his battered skull. He didn't appear to be breathing.

Beside the body, smeared with thick, red blood was the speargun prop. It wasn't missing; it was the murder weapon!

"Brainert! Seymour!" Hands shaking, I frantically scanned the room.

Easy, sweetheart. Take it easy. The killer's long gone by now. Don't touch anything and back away.

Hearing Jack's voice helped me calm down and focus. I followed the ghost's advice and backed up until I bumped into another body. That's when I screamed.

"Pen, it's me!" Seymour cried, grabbing my shoulders. "What's wrong?"

Brainert appeared at my side.

"It's Pierce Armstrong. He's in there," I said, pointing.

Brainert stepped forward and his gaunt face went pale. He used his cell phone to call the Quindicott Police. After he notified them of the crime, we walked to the front door to wait for the authorities to arrive. A car pulled up the second we got there, but it wasn't Chief Ciders's men in blue. Dr. Wendell Pepper had arrived home.

"Parker!" called the dean, climbing out of his Lexus. "What brings you here?"

When Brainert failed to reply, Dr. Pepper hastily crossed the lawn.

"It's Pierce Armstrong," Brainert said softly. "He's dead."

The dean blinked. "What? What happened? Did he fall… a heart attack?" He glanced around. "Where's the ambulance?"

Brainert locked eyes with the man. "It was murder, Wendell. We came to see you and found the door unlocked and Pierce Armstrong lying on the floor, dead. The man was bludgeoned to death with the speargun prop from your dining room."

Dr. Pepper's eyes widened in horror. His square jaw went slack. He looked like he was about to go into cardiac arrest himself.

"When was the last time you saw Armstrong alive?" Brainert asked.

Pepper glanced at his Rolex. "This morning. Not much more than an hour ago. Maggie cooked Armstrong breakfast, then packed up her things."

"She's leaving?" I asked, surprised. "Already? With this weekend's biggest dinner party tonight?"

Brainert and I exchanged suspicious glances. Why was Maggie Kline bolting so quickly? Up to now, she'd been happily staying as a guest in this very house.

"She's not leaving Quindicott," Wendell replied, clearing things up. "Maggie was on a waiting list at the Finch Inn, and a room opened up. She got the call this morning."

That still seemed suspicious to me. "Maggie was staying with you. Why move to the inn?"

"Because of the big dinner at Chez Finch tonight, Wendell said. "Maggie wanted to check into the inn so she could stay as late as she wanted after dinner and wouldn't have to travel all the way back here to sleep. To be honest, I planned to join her. The rooms are very romantic, you know. And those dinners are always heavy drinking affairs, lots of toasts, people talking into the wee hours."

Brainert nodded. "So when you left, Pierce was fine?"

Wendell nodded vehemently. "I spoke with him, gave him the paper. Maggie even checked on him while I put her luggage in the car. I can readily assure you that Pierce Armstrong was very much alive an hour ago."

We heard sirens. Three squad cars raced down Larchmont, bubble lights flashing.

"Sheesh," Seymour muttered. "Eighteen freakin' minutes for Ciders's boys to get here. Thank goodness it wasn't a real emergency."

Chief Ciders had come with his nephew, Bull McCoy. They went into the house and came back out again.

"So what do you think, Chief?" Seymour called. "Another 'accident'? What's your theory this time? Did ol' Armstrong get up from his wheelchair and bash himself in the head with the speargun?"