Sue Ann Jaffarian - [Granny Apples 01]

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  Ian chuckled. “Trust me, the permit will be no problem.” He shook his head. “You may have a law degree, Bowers, but you’re still a hayseed.”

  Phil Bowers flung the chair out of his way and started for Ian in the booth. Ian threw his coffee at Phil’s face, but Phil turned just in time for the warm brown liquid to strike his right shoulder.

  Emma shot out of the booth. “Stop it! Both of you!”

  As Phil grabbed Ian by his shirt front and pulled him from the booth, Emma got an idea. Using the fight as cover, she pulled her cell phone from her pocket and snapped off a few quick photos of the fight.

  Beverly rushed over, furious. “Okay, folks, closing time. Phil, I’m surprised at you.”

  The elderly couple quickly got up and headed for the register. The man tossed the bill and money on the counter. “Keep the change,” he called as they scooted out the door.

  After the brief but explosive fight, Beverly ejected them all with a few well-chosen curse words. Outside the restaurant, the only vehicle in the parking area was Phil Bowers’ truck. Emma started to cross Washington at an angle, heading for the city hall on the corner. Beyond it, just a block down Main Street, was her hotel. She was anxious to reach it for many reasons.

  “Wait, Emma, I’ll go with you.”

  She stopped and turned to see Ian walking toward her. Phil leaned against the tailgate of his truck, watching them both.

  She stopped halfway across the empty street and pointed a finger at Ian. “Oh, no, you don’t. You stay away from me.”

  “I have a room at the hotel. We can walk together. We still need to talk.”

  “No, thanks. I’d feel safer walking alone.”

  “The lady doesn’t want you near her, Reynolds.” Phil Bowers left his truck and covered the few step to Ian, his fists poised to take a swing. He looked at Emma. “I can walk you back. I came by to take Bev home tonight, but she still has a few things to do.”

  Emma considered his invitation. She wasn’t a big fan of Phil Bowers, but at least she trusted him more than Ian Reynolds. He was gruff and had a bad temper, but she was pretty sure he was exactly who he said he was.

  “Do me a different favor, Phil. Stand here and make sure this creep doesn’t follow me for at least five minutes. I’ll be inside my room by then.”

  “I don’t like the idea of this joker being at the same hotel.”

  Emma stared at Ian Reynolds. He stared back, his dark eyes fixed on her face, all trace of earlier pleasantries gone.

  “I’ll be fine, Phil. It’s a small hotel. If he tries anything, everyone will hear.”

  Phil Bowers stepped between Emma and Ian. He turned to face Ian and crossed his powerful arms across his chest.

  “There’s no need for this, Emma,” Ian called to her.

  “You heard the lady, Reynolds.” Bowers stepped closer to him. “And just to be sure, we’re giving her a ten-minute head start.”

  In spite of her bruised legs, Emma started for the Julian Hotel in a dead run.

  The hotel was locked up for the night, and the lobby was empty as she made her way up the narrow wooden staircase to the second floor. As soon as she got into her room, Emma locked the door and barricaded it with the straight-backed chair. She didn’t know which room Ian Reynolds was staying in tonight, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

  Yanking her cell phone out of her jeans pocket, she tried to call Milo again, but it went straight into voice mail. She left him a message saying it was urgent. Noting her battery was low, she dug out her charger from her luggage and plugged it in, thankful she’d remembered to bring it. Then she called Tracy.

  “Are you busy tomorrow?” she asked as soon as her friend answered.

  “No,” Tracy said eagerly. “Want me to come to Julian?”

  “Trust me, I’d love to see you, but I’m coming home tomorrow.”

  “Then let’s have dinner, and you can fill me in on all the juicy ghost stuff.”

  “Dinner sounds good, but first would you go by the pet hotel and get Archie, just in case I’m not home before they close? You still have the key to the house, don’t you?” When Emma’s aunt Kitty had died, Tracy was given a key to the Miller house to keep an eye on Archie the few days they were gone.

  “Yep. Still have it.”

  “Good. I’ll call the pet place and let them know you’ll be picking him up.”

  “You okay, pal? You sound funny.”

  “I’m fine. Just exhausted. Took a nasty spill down some stairs.” Emma laughed lightly so as not to concern her friend. “I’m okay, but I’m sure I’ll be stiff tomorrow.”

  “A few cosmopolitans tomorrow night will fix that.”

  After the call, Emma took a hot shower, put on her nightgown, and crawled into the comfy bed she’d dreamed about off and on all day. She wished Milo would call. She didn’t know his e-mail address or she would have sent him the photos. She lay in the dark, the phone clutched in her hand, as her mind raced over the events and information of the day like a race car over a fast oval track. Every noise put her on alert for Ian Reynolds. She heard people chatting in low voices as they made their way down the hall to their room. From the room next door came the sound of the shower. Outside, beyond the curtained windows, a soft breeze rustled the trees. Every sound was amplified and grated on her nerves.

  In spite of feeling the familiar chill, she was even startled when Albert Robinson walked through the closed door. The ghost of the hotel’s founder sat down in the chair that was tipped against the door and made himself comfortable.

  Emma sighed in relief, happier to see a spirit than a live person at that moment. “Good to see you, Albert.” The ghost gave her a courtly nod.

  “Where’s Granny?” asked Emma.

  “Don’t rightly know.”

  “Thank you for telling Billy Winslow to speak with me.”

  The ghost nodded, maintaining his proper and distinguished posture.

  “Do you know who Ian Reynolds is?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  After a long pause, Emma said in a small voice, “I’m scared, Albert.”

  “No need, Emma. I’m here now. You get some sleep.”

  Milo called early the next morning while Emma was putting her bags in the trunk of her car. She told him about Ian Reynolds and what he’d said about being able to see spirits.

  “Maybe it runs in the family,” Milo offered as a way of explanation. “Can’t your mother at least hear them?”

  “But I don’t think this guy is really Ian Reynolds. Granny told me that she had tried to contact Ian Reynolds once, but he couldn’t hear or see spirits. This guy claims he can, and from what I’ve witnessed, he’s telling the truth, at least about that. And the strange thing is when he’s around, the spirits disappear.”

  “That is odd. It usually means they don’t trust or like the person.”

  “Give me your e-mail address. I have some photos of him on my phone. They’re not the best, but maybe this guy is someone you’ve seen as a client or something.”

  “Okay, but it may take awhile. I don’t have the fastest system, and I’m not that computer savvy, especially with stuff like this.”

  After sending the photos to Milo, Emma headed into her last breakfast at the Julian Hotel. She’d almost skipped it, not wanting to bump into Ian, but so far she’d seen no sign of him.

  The hotel had been almost completely booked the night before, and the small, square tables in the dining room were nearly full. In the corner nearest the kitchen was a table set for four with only two people seated at it. Emma’s heart sank when she recognized the older couple from the Rong Branch the night before. They spied Emma about the same time. The man frowned. The woman looked embarrassed. Emma chose a small table near the opposite door occupied by two older wome
n—one large and round, the other thin and angled. Both had short gray hair.

  “May I sit here?” she asked.

  “Of course, dear,” said the plump woman.

  Someone came in from the kitchen and set a bowl of homemade granola in front of Emma. It was the same cereal they’d served her yesterday. It was delicious. She’d even bought a bag to take home to her mother. She began to pour milk over it when she noticed that the two women, who’d been chatting with great animation prior to her arrival, were silent.

  “Please,” said Emma, “just pretend I’m not here.”

  The two women exchanged glances. Finally, the smaller one spoke. “We didn’t want to upset your breakfast.”

  The other woman added, “We mean, in case you hadn’t heard the news yet.”

  “News?” Emma stuck her spoon into her cereal. “What news?”

  A few people, including the older couple, finished and filed out of the dining room. It was then that Emma noticed the low, urgent hum of conversation among most of the diners. Even the servers seemed high strung. Emma looked at her dining companions for an explanation.

  “What news?” she asked again.

  Emma stuck some cereal into her mouth and began crunching down on it. She was only half listening, mentally making a list of her plans for the morning. Among them were a trip to the drug store for some ointment for her palm and a visit to the Pioneer Museum to see if they knew anything about the Winslow family, especially Billy’s death and the transfer of the property. Ian or no Ian, she intended to finish her mission. By early afternoon, she planned to be on the road back to Pasadena.

  Again the women at her table exchanged glances. “Might as well tell her,” said the large one. “She’ll hear soon enough.”

  Her friend looked around, including over her shoulder, before leaning toward Emma with wide eyes magnified even more by her thick glasses. “Someone was found dead last night. Right here in Julian.”

  “Murdered,” the other said, dragging out the word dramatically. “Just like in one of those Agatha Christie novels.”

  An electrical charge traveled throughout Emma’s body at the word murder. She ordered herself to calm down. Probably a domestic quarrel gone bad. Phil Bowers had warned her that crimes did happen in Julian. But Emma was sure murder wasn’t a common occurrence like it was in other parts of California. Then she began to worry that the two men had gone back to fighting after she’d left.

  Her two breakfast companions were all a-twitter about it. She turned her attention back to them, hoping to learn more before she jumped to any conclusions about Phil and Ian.

  “We’ve been coming here every year for over ten years,” the plump one said. “We teach school in Riverside, and every year as soon as school’s out we leave our husbands and get away to Julian for a long weekend.”

  “Something like this has never happened before, has it, Hilary?” commented the slender one.

  “Absolutely not,” replied Hilary. She leaned toward Emma again. “The manager at the hotel told us specifically not to visit the Pioneer Cemetery today.” She looked around as if the FBI had the placed bugged. “Apparently, that’s where it happened.”

  Emma dropped her spoon with a loud clunk. Quickly, she picked it up again and smiled in apology at the remaining guests who’d turned her way.

  “The cemetery? You mean the historical one up on the hill?” She gave a sigh of relief. If Phil and Ian had tried to kill each other, they wouldn’t have taken the time to go all the way to the cemetery.

  The women stopped talking as a server approached with a plate of fruit and homemade bread for Emma. Along with it was served a baked egg dish nestled in a ramekin.

  “That’s the one,” Hilary whispered, once they were alone again. “Alice and I just love going up there and poking around.” She turned to her companion. “Don’t we, Alice?”

  Now it was Alice’s turn to lean toward Emma. “I heard Barbara, the hotel manager, say that the victim wasn’t a local.” She paused to look at Hilary. “You know, Hil, I’ll bet it was drug related, being so close to Mexico and all.”

  “Julian’s also a big stopover for lots of rough bikers,” added Hilary. “Could have been one of them.”

  Emma could see this was exciting news to the two Miss Marple wannabes, but it rattled her like marbles in a jar. Drug related or not, she’d been in that same cemetery last night just as it had gotten dark. Bumping into Ian had been scary enough. She shivered at the thought that they might have ended up in the middle of a drug deal gone bad.

  After breakfast, Emma checked out of the hotel and walked down to the Old Julian Drug Store. Most of the shops were just opening up for the day. After picking out some antibiotic cream and a package of large bandages for her hand, she wandered the small drug and sundry store, looking at the various souvenirs and products. They had a nice assortment of books on the history of the area, and Emma bought a couple. At the cash register, she asked about the murder.

  “I heard this morning that there was a murder at the old cemetery last night. Any idea who it was?”

  The man running the register took her money and put her purchases in a bag. “No word on his name, but I did hear he wasn’t from around here. Most of us are thinking it was drug related. Can’t imagine what else it could be.”

  Drugs again. Well, she thought, drugs had nothing to do with her. Outside on a bench, Emma doctored her hand before heading to the Pioneer Museum.

  The museum was housed in a building a few blocks down Washington, just beyond the Rong Branch on the opposite side of the street. Next to it was a small park with mature trees and picnic benches. As she entered the museum, she was warmly greeted by a small woman sitting at a desk. She appeared to be in her sixties and wore her gray hair pulled up on her head. Her figure was trim and dressed in jeans and a Western shirt. After collecting a small entry fee, she told Emma if she had any questions, to just ask.

  The museum consisted of several rooms crammed with artifacts and photos from the pioneer and gold rush days of Julian. Emma wound her way through the various displays of mining equipment, clothing, and household goods, reading the descriptions and bits of history along the way. She studied the photographs. There was a photo of Albert Robinson and several other folks in front of the Hotel Robinson back when it first opened. Albert looked much the same as he had last night in her room, just younger.

  A chill wafted through the cramped space. Emma looked around, relaxing her eyes and mind in order to better see images that weren’t quite there except to those who knew what they were looking for. A few seconds later, she spotted the hazy image of a ghost sitting on one of the upholstered display chairs. The ornate velvet chair was set off to the side. Across its seat was a velvet rope to ward off tired live bones. Tacked to the back of the chair was a printed note asking visitors to please not sit on the furniture.

  The ghost appeared to be an elderly woman with thick gray hair swept back into a bun. Her dress was long and dark with a tight bodice. A cameo fastened a high collar close to her neck. Across her shoulders was a lace shawl. She sat erect, as if receiving callers on a Sunday afternoon. Looking at Emma, the ghost gave her a small, warm smile. Emma smiled back and realized that the ghost and the curator looked very much alike. She wondered if the woman at the door realized she had company.

  Emma continued through the displays until her eye caught a photograph that made her breath catch. It was of a man and woman in the stiff formal pose so common in photographs of the time. They were dressed in their country best. The man, thin and rangy with a full beard, was seated. Behind him stood a diminutive pretty woman with a hand on his shoulder. Even though she was younger, Emma recognized Ish Reynolds immediately. The note below the photo confirmed it. It also noted that Ish was hung for killing her husband.

  “I was quite a looker, wasn’t I?”

&nb
sp; Emma jumped. She’d been so engrossed in the photo, she hadn’t noticed or felt Granny’s presence. Granny stood beside her, looking at the picture.

  “Yes, Granny, you were.”

  Granny Apples pointed to the caption. “I didn’t kill my man, Emma. I didn’t.”

  “I believe you.”

  Emma looked around. They were in a separate room, away from the main door. Still, Emma wanted to make sure the curator wasn’t near before speaking again. “But that was a long time ago, Granny. Why is it so important now? Even Albert said he didn’t believe you did it. Probably others didn’t, too. So why not just let it be?”

  Before Granny could say anything, Emma had a new thought, one associated with Ian Reynolds. “You’re not thinking that by proving your innocence, the family will get the land back, are you?”

  Granny started to move away. Emma followed.

  “Granny,” she hissed. “That land was sold fair and square to the Winslows, even if you and Jacob were murdered. Winston sold it.”

  Granny’s image stopped by other photos. She pointed to one of a family. The caption said it was John Winslow, his wife Helen, and their children. Emma looked closely at it. The boy in the picture was only about ten or twelve, but Emma saw a resemblance between him and the ghost in the graveyard.

  “No, Emma, I don’t want the land back. Wouldn’t do me no good now, would it? I just don’t want folks thinking I’m a killer. Not now. Not ever.”

  “May I help you?”

  Emma jumped. It was the curator, peeping around the corner at her.

  “Sorry to have startled you, but I thought I heard you say something.”

  Emma slapped a sheepish grin on her face. “Sorry, but I was reading the captions aloud to myself. Bad habit.”

  As the woman started back to her desk, Emma stopped her.

  “Excuse me, but I do have a few questions.”

  She turned and walked over to Emma. “Of course, that’s why I’m here. Name’s Maude.”