Gem of a Ghost: A Ghost of Granny Apples Mystery

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  “So you reset the stone, not realizing it had a history?”

  “Correct.” Mr. Sachman took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked at Emma through eyes the color of faded denim. “His son shot himself six months later, and my customer died of a broken heart not too soon after. It was through his estate that the ring returned to me for resale, but, of course, I didn’t know it was cursed.”

  Granny became agitated. “The sooner we get rid of that monster, the better.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do, Granny.” Emma turned back to Mr. Sachman. “What about prior to the banker buying it? Do you know where the ring originated?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not sure, but the setting was definitely Victorian, and it wasn’t a copy of a Victorian design but the real thing. There were also a few small diamonds used as accents. My customer didn’t care about those when he asked me to put the stone into a man’s ring. The setting was so lovely, I paid him for the setting and eventually put a different diamond into it.”

  Emma became alarmed. “Do you know what happened to the new owner of the setting? Maybe it has a problem, too.”

  “I am happy to say the owner is alive and well and still wearing the ring.” Mr. Sachman winked at Emma. “You see, my son Joseph gave it to the girl he married almost thirty years ago.”

  “And no problems?”

  “Not a one.”

  “Where did the other jeweler get the stone from? Did you ask?”

  He consulted his notes again. “It says here he bought it through a private sale somewhere back east in the mid-sixties.”

  “Is it possible to speak with this other jeweler?”

  “I’m afraid not. Jonas died three years ago. Cancer.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  Isaac Sachman accepted her condolences for his friend and closed his journal. “Tell me, Mrs. Whitecastle, who or what do you think inhabits the ring?”

  Emma picked up the ring and held it to the light. It was warmer than before. “Her name is Addy. She was an abused young wife who I believe hanged herself.”

  “Oh, my.” Mr. Sachman leaned back in his chair. “And what do you propose to do now that you know this?”

  Granny scowled. “She should destroy the ring, that’s what the little fool should do.”

  Emma turned to Granny. “It’s not my ring to destroy, Granny. And there’s no way of knowing if that will get rid of or appease Addy.” Emma studied the ring again. “What I want to do is help Addy and save the ring for Lainey. It was her father’s, after all. It has a lot of sentimental value. I just have to figure out what it will take to do both.”

  “Well, hurry up,” snapped Granny, “before you become her next victim.”

  seventeen

  “You do, and I’m marching straight into the house and telling Elizabeth.” The threat came from Granny. She was standing in the middle of Emma’s home office, pointing in the direction of the Miller house. “And Phil.”

  Emma curled a lip at the ornery spirit. “Phil only understands yes or no.”

  “Trust me, I’ll find a way to make him understand. And I’ll do it tonight.”

  “Tattletale.”

  “It’s not tattling if it’s about something dangerous.”

  Trying a different tactic, Emma erased her annoyance and replaced it with reason. “Granny, I can’t help Addy if I don’t know anything about her.”

  “She’s killed”—Granny paused to remember what Sachman had told them, ticking off the victims on her fingers—“she’s killed five people, counting that Summer girl. Six if you include the banker who died of grief over his son.”

  Emma looked down at the notepad in front of her where she’d listed each one of the deaths. Granny was right. Five victims and one indirect death.

  “And who knows how many there were before that?” the ghost ranted as she paced the office. “Or how many narrowly escaped, like Lainey.”

  “But you’ll be here if something happens,” cajoled Emma.

  “No. And that’s final.”

  Emma fingered Lainey’s ring. After dinner, she’d retreated to her office with the plan of learning more about Addy. She’d called to Addy, entreating her to show herself so they could talk. She’d held the ring in her hand, trying to convey she wanted to help. It had gotten warm, but no ghost materialized.

  “You’re just angry because I wouldn’t let Archie come out here tonight.” She looked up at Granny. “It was for his own good. You know angry ghosts scare him.”

  “Then don’t fetch her out of the ring. Leave her be. Lock it in a strong box, and throw away the key.” The ghost came to a stop in front of Emma, her hazy face bright with an idea. “I know: why not throw it into the ocean like that old lady did to that diamond necklace in the movie we watched last week?”

  “We’ve discussed that before, Granny. There’s no reason why that should work. You know better than I do that ghosts need to be attached in some way to a person, place, or thing from their past or present. The ring is Addy’s past thing, but now that she’s made contact with us, she doesn’t need the ring to come out. She only needs to be around a place or person she’s made contact with in the present. Either Addy doesn’t know that or she does and prefers the ring. Either way, locking up the ring or destroying it may unleash her in other ways. At least for now, the ring contains her.”

  “By calling her out, Emma, you’re poking a sleeping, rabid dog.”

  Emma shook her head back and forth slowly. “I don’t believe that. I think if we help her, she’ll stop killing. She’s lashing out because she’s angry and frustrated.”

  Granny crossed her arms in defiance. “You’ve been watching too much Dr. Phil.”

  “I don’t watch Dr. Phil, Granny, you do. Almost every day with Mother, and you think I don’t know.” Emma cranked down the frustration in her voice. She wanted Granny’s help and knew that arguing with the old mule wouldn’t secure her assistance. She also knew Granny was right; calling out Addy could be very dangerous. “You’ll be here with me. If something goes wrong, you can fly into the house to get Mother and Dad in a flash.” When Granny still didn’t say anything, she added, “Remember how frustrated you felt after you were murdered. You wanted me to help you, didn’t you?”

  Crossing the floor several times, Granny kept her back turned to Emma. She did understand what Emma was saying. She had been frustrated for nearly a hundred years until Emma brought her peace. She turned to Emma. “But I never killed anyone, did I?”

  The dead and the living stared at each other, sharing a family stubborn streak that ran as deep and wide as the Colorado River.

  “Okay,” Granny finally said, throwing her hands up in the air. “I’ll stay with you while you wear the ring.” She floated over to Emma and pointed a finger at her. “But the minute I feel you’re in danger, I’m getting Elizabeth.”

  “Deal.”

  Before Granny could change her mind, Emma slipped Lainey’s ring on her left ring finger and curled up on the loveseat to wait.

  “Besides,” she told the ghost watching over her. “We don’t even know if she’ll come out tonight.”

  “With any luck, she won’t.”

  Emma didn’t feel the same way.

  “Could we at least watch some TV while we wait?”

  “You watch entirely too much TV, Granny.”

  “What else have I got to do? It’s not like a ghost can knit a sweater or get a job.”

  Emma shook her head and chuckled. “You have a point.” She picked up the remote sitting on the ottoman and clicked on the TV mounted on the main wall of the guesthouse. “Anything in particular?”

  “Just keep clicking.” Granny moved toward the TV and stared at it. “There. Stop. That’s NCIS. I like that show. That Mark Harmon’s a hunk.”

  Emma toggled over to the channel schedule. “Looks like an NCIS marathon on the USA Network.” She flipped back to the program and put the remote back on the ottoman. “That should keep yo
u busy for a while. Just remember to pay attention if something odd starts happening with me and the ring.”

  “Don’t worry; I’ve got your back.”

  Granny drifted back to the loveseat and perched on the end opposite Emma. She tried to pick up the remote, but her filmy hand slipped through it. “I gotta figure out how to work that darn TV thing on my own.”

  Emma walked down a narrow street. She was going downhill. It wasn’t a steep incline, just a gradual one. On both sides of the street, old-fashioned townhomes and buildings in various degrees of restoration were set close together, and shops displayed wares. Cars were parked along the curb. Some were coming up the street, straight at her. Before she could jump out of the way, a Honda sedan sped through her as easily as if she were smoke. Surprised, she turned and watched it go up the street, paying her no mind. Turning back around, she met a pickup truck head-on. Emma screamed, but no sound came out. Like the Honda, it drove through her. Bewildered, she moved to the narrow sidewalk and kept walking down the street, passing people along the way. No one paid her any mind. She was wearing the same dressing gown from before, even though from the way folks were dressed it must have been chilly.

  She passed several quaint buildings, including a red brick building with a black iron fence and gate. Lettering across the top of the building proclaimed it the Dimmick Memorial Library. More charming buildings, both residential and commercial, lined both sides of the street. A little farther down was an inn, its balcony railings made with the same ornate ironwork as the library. Emma kept walking until she came to a major intersection. Cars were stopped for the light. Other cars were moving through in the opposite direction. On the corner was an imposing stone building with a clock tower. A sign designated it as the court house.

  Emma crossed the street, heading for a small town square, drawn to the red brick building on its edge. It was a train station. People were milling about and taking photos of it. Looking up, she saw a sign that read Mauch Chunk. When she looked back at the train station, it had changed. It was early morning. Nearby were horse-drawn carts and carriages instead of cars. On a bench in front of the train station sat a young woman with a travel case on her lap. She wore a long dress and coat with a snug bodice. The veil on her hat partially covered her face.

  Feeling a bit dizzy, Emma closed her eyes to get her bearings. When she opened them, she wasn’t at the train station but inside the cellar of a dark, dank building. Along the walls were openings, doorways into a series of closets. The only light came from yellow overheads and tiny openings in the boarded-up windows in each closet.

  She stepped inside one, running a hand along the wall to guide her toward the speck of light. Her hand hit something hard and heavy. It was an old chain embedded into the crumbling plaster. She studied the chain, the room illuminating as her mind cleared. She wasn’t in a closet, she was in a cell. An old, empty cell with thick walls of stained plaster. At the end of the chain were manacles. She stepped back in revulsion and turned to flee, but the heavy door closed, cutting her off.

  As she pounded on the thick metal door, a man walked through it. She backed up. Another man came through the side wall, followed by another. Dressed in rough work clothes, with dirty hair and faces, they stared at her with hollow eyes. She backed up a few more steps until her legs hit something solid. Turning, she saw a filthy toilet built into the corner of the cell. She jumped away from it, coming face to face with yet another man as he came though the wall next to her. He was young, with dirty, matted light hair and large, sad eyes. Around his neck was a thick rope—a hanging rope. It was the boy from her prior dream—the one hanging dead in the mansion’s closet.

  He held out his hand to her, beckoning her to come with him. “Addy.”

  Hopelessness again filled Emma. It coursed through her body like dirty water pouring into an empty hole. She felt crushed by it, consumed and buckled by its weight, as she took his cold, lifeless hand.

  “Emma!”

  On the loveseat, Emma stirred, half in this world, half someplace dark and tragic.

  “Wake up, Emma!”

  The sound wasn’t loud and solid but gauzy, as if fragmented by time and space. Still, it was familiar, and it pulled her back like a welcoming hand of help.

  “Mmm.” She shifted her weight on the loveseat. It was much shorter than she was, and she pulled up her legs to fit. She didn’t want to go back to the jail, but somewhere in the rational part of her mind she knew she had to. She needed to know what it all meant. She drifted back to sleep.

  “Emma, come back!”

  Soft air brushed her face. It was fresh, and it tickled. Her eyelids fluttered in static movements of half consciousness.

  “That’s it. You come back right this minute or I’m going for your mother.” Granny stamped her foot and blew against Emma’s face as she had earlier against Phil’s ear. “I mean it.” She blew again and again, mustering all her energy for maximum wind.

  “Mother?” Emma opened her eyes. Shut them. Opened them again. When she focused, the jail was gone. She was back in her home office. The TV was on, and she was dressed in jeans and a tee shirt. Staring down at her was the ghost of Granny Apples, looking very upset.

  “Never again,” the spirit snapped at her. “Never again will I let you do that. Take off that darn ring right this minute.”

  Emma sat up and ran a hand over her face and through her hair. She shook her head to clear it. “The ring?”

  “Take it off, I tell ya. Right now.” Granny paced the room in a mixture of relief and anger.

  Emma looked down at her hand to see Lainey’s beautiful engagement ring on her left ring finger. “But Addy didn’t try to hurt me, Granny. She was trying to tell me something.”

  The ghost came to a stop directly in front of Emma. Her hands were on her hips. “I don’t give a cow’s bell about that. Take the ring off. ”

  Granny was right. The ring had proved itself to be dangerous and unpredictable, even if it was helpful to Emma. She slipped it off and got up. Walking to her desk, she found the ring’s pouch and dropped it back in. She yawned and stretched as her eyes searched for a clock. “What time is it?”

  “About two in the morning, I think.” The ghost moved up to her and looked into her face. “You were asleep nearly four hours before you started getting all peculiar, moaning and stuff. I was worried.”

  Emma sat down at her desk and held her head in her hands. She was exhausted but wanted to piece together her dream before she forgot it. “I was walking down the narrow street of a town. The buildings looked old-fashioned, but there were modern cars on the street. At the end of the street was a train station. The name of the town was posted.”

  “You think that was Addy’s home?”

  “Could be, but darn if I can remember what the name of the town is now. All I know is that it started with an m.” She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to recapture the word, but it eluded her. “I was also in a jail cell. An old, dirty one.” She opened her eyes and looked at Granny. “The ghosts of men were coming through the walls at me.”

  “Did they try to hurt you?”

  “No, they just filled the cell, surrounding me.” Emma swallowed. “One of them had a noose around his neck.”

  Granny stroked her own neck and shuddered. “Go on to bed, Emma. Maybe it will come to you in the morning. Then again, with any luck, maybe it won’t.”

  “You’re probably right, Granny. I am exhausted. Just like last time, the dream took a lot out of me. And I have a show to do tomorrow.” She picked up the velvet pouch and started shutting down the office to go inside the house and to her own bed.

  “Leave the ring here,” the ghost told her.

  “Why?”

  Standing in front of Emma, the tiny ghost crossed her arms. “Because it’s safer here.”

  “Don’t you think the ring would be safer in the house?”

  “Not the ring, you. You’ll be safer if the ring stays out here. Less temptation to put it back
on.”

  Emma turned off the TV. “Don’t you trust me, Granny?”

  “It’s Addy I don’t trust.”

  eighteen

  “Great show today, Emma. One of your best.”

  “Thanks, Jackie. Congratulations to you, too.”

  In spite of her nocturnal escapade into Addy’s world, Emma had arrived at the studio early in the morning for makeup and wardrobe and to go over her notes. They had one more episode to shoot before taking a break. The Whitecastle Report was an hour-long talk show, but it took much more than an hour to shoot. After makeup, she’d greeted her guests and chatted with them briefly about the show’s format before they actually got in front of the camera. Today’s show had been a panel discussing Stonehenge’s history and possible present paranormal activity. Her guests included a British historian, an archeologist, and a modern Druid. Even though Emma had done quite a bit of reading on the subject and had visited the mysterious prehistoric structure years before, the show had been Jackie’s idea, and she had been allowed to produce much of it.

  Jackie Houchin, a young African-American woman with intelligence as impressive as her attitude, had been dividing her time between The Whitecastle Report and a popular travel show ever since Emma’s show began. She was doing a bang-up job, and the studio kept giving her added responsibility, but it was her dream to break into mainstream TV.

  “How did your interview go with NBC?” Emma asked.

  “Okay, I guess. Though I’ll bet over two hundred people applied for that position.”

  Emma hated the thought of losing Jackie, but she knew the young woman would have to move on in order to move up, and she was talented enough to deserve the chance. But television was a tough business, and talented or not, it might be a long time before Jackie was able to make the jump, in spite of the glowing references from Emma and others who worked with her.

  “Keep your chin up. If not this job, something else will open up for you.”

  “Yeah, that’s what my mom says.”

  “Well,” said Emma, giving Jackie an encouraging smile, “I’m a mom, and I’m telling you the same thing.”