Ghost a la Mode [Granny Apples 01]

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  “Yes. Great, in fact. We’re moving ahead to finalize the divorce.”

  “Emma, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m both sad and happy for you.”

  “You and everyone else I know, including me.”

  “It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. You’ll see”

  “Thanks, Tracy.” For a brief moment, Emma almost asked Tracy to hop in her car and join her in Julian. It’d be nice to have some live company.

  “I’D LIKE THE VEGGIE burger,” Emma said to the pretty Latina waitress at the Rong Branch Restaurant. “And what do you have in the way of cold beer?” After spending the entire morning traipsing around the Julian countryside in the June sun, she was both famished and dry.

  “We don’t serve alcohol,” the waitress announced.

  Emma looked down at the menu, which clearly stated the place had a full bar. In fact, the establishment’s name was the Rong Branch Restaurant and Saloon.

  “But it says here-,” Emma began, pointing a finger at the full bar announcement.

  The waitress shook her head and cut her off mid-sentence. “We lost our liquor license last month. It was in the paper.”

  Emma knitted her brows. “I must have missed it.”

  Her subtle sarcasm lost on the waitress, Emma ordered an iced tea to go with her burger. While she waited, she reviewed the photos on her phone and starting sending them, one by one, to her e-mail at home for safekeeping. The waitress brought her tea. When she set it down on the table, Emma glanced up and smiled. The smile quickly turned to wariness.

  Standing a few feet behind the waitress was a man, and he was staring at Emma. When the waitress moved away, the man approached her table.

  “A fancy lady like yourself must be the owner of that Lexus parked out front” The man’s voice was neither harsh nor friendly, just matter-of-fact words spoken in a medium tone.

  Emma frowned. “Do I know you?”

  The man in front of her was tall and solid. He wore a trimmed moustache, and his face was lined. Emma guessed him to be in his early fifties. He was dressed in faded jeans and a white knit polostyle shirt with dirt smudges. Before he answered, he took off his cowboy hat to reveal a bald pate. Positioned between his head and moustache were a slightly crooked nose and serious gray eyes. He reminded her of the actor Gerald McRaney, whom she’d met once at a party with his wife, Delta Burke.

  “Name’s Bowers. Phillip Bowers.”

  Bowers, Emma thought, like the name on the ranch next to Granny’s homestead. She continued to look at Phillip Bowers, saying nothing, waiting for him to make the next move. He, in turn, seemed to be waiting for her to recognize the name and say something.

  Without giving him her name, Emma asked, “What can I do for you, Mr. Bowers?”

  A tight smile edged his lips. “I’d like to know what your business was on our land.”

  Emma continued to look at him without saying a word. She was weighing what and how much to tell him. Meanwhile, the stranger stared back. Their little standoff was interrupted by the waitress delivering her burger and fries.

  “Can I get you anything, Phil?” the waitress asked him.

  He tossed the waitress a smile, then returned to studying Emma. His smile vanished.

  “A cup of coffee would be nice, Anna,” he told the waitress without taking his no-nonsense gray eyes away from Emma’s face.

  A bit rattled by the commanding presence of Phillip Bowers, Emma busied herself with adding the lettuce and tomato to her veggie burger. By the time she’d poured a small lake of ketchup next to her fries, Anna had brought Bowers his coffee and he’d plunked himself down at the table across from her. She felt her face flush with uneasiness.

  After cutting her burger into two halves, she looked up at her uninvited guest. “I don’t recall inviting you to join me, Mr. Bowers.”

  “And I don’t recall inviting you onto our property.” He paused to take a drink of coffee, quite comfortable with his style of intimidation. “But since we’re going to have a chat, why don’t you call me Phil.”

  It was an obvious opening for Emma to tell him her name, but she didn’t. Instead, she picked up a half of her sandwich and bit into it. It was delicious, even if the company wasn’t. As she chewed, she studied Phil Bowers. If he could play tough, so could she. She was, after all, the soon-to-be ex-wife of Grant Whitecastle, the reigning TV king of rude and tacky. And she hadn’t done anything to hurt the Bowers property.

  Phil Bowers took another long slurp from his coffee mug before speaking. “Okay, Fancy Pants, if you won’t tell me your name, then why don’t you tell me why a gal from Los Angeles is trespassing on private property out in the middle of nowhere.”

  Emma stopped chewing and swallowed. “How do you know I’m from Los Angeles?”

  He chuckled. “I could say it’s obvious from your expensive duds, but the truth is your car’s license plate frame says Lexus of Beverly Hills.” “

  I never said I drove a Lexus.”

  He put down his coffee cup and glanced around the restaurant. “Look around, Fancy Pants. There are only a few folks in here right now. I know most of them, and not one of them drives a luxury car. That leaves you, through the process of elimination.”

  Emma flushed again, this time with embarrassment. The man had a point.

  While she quickly thought through her dilemma, she picked up a fry, dragged it through the ketchup, and polished it off in two determined bites. Should she ask this annoying man about his property, or should she keep her mouth shut? She weighed the possibilities.

  Bowers leaned back and leisurely sipped his coffee. The waitress swung by with the coffeepot and refreshed his mug. Something told Emma he was going to take all the time necessary to get to the bottom of her trespassing. She thought about getting up, paying her tab, and leaving, but she was hungry and the food was good. More importantly, she realized she was enjoying the little banter. At first blush, Phillip Bowers, albeit rather brusque, was intelligent and witty and not too hard on the eyes in a rough and tumble, middleaged way. He had no proof it was her. And if he did, what harm had she done? Why would this man care that she’d hopped a fence and wandered through a meadow mined with cow patties? Maybe, she thought, she should just ‘fess up and say it wouldn’t happen again. And maybe, just maybe, he could tell her something about the property. After all, it wasn’t like he’d murdered Granny himself.

  As if able to read her mind, Granny materialized next to their table.

  “Ask him how he came to own our land,” Granny demanded of Emma.

  Emma glanced at her and frowned. When she did, Phil Bowers looked over in the same direction but saw nothing.

  “Go ahead, ask him. What are you waiting for?”

  Emma started to reply to Granny but caught herself in the nick of time. It wouldn’t do to have Phil Bowers, or anyone for that matter, see her gabbing away at nothing.

  Ignoring both of her companions, Emma took another few bites of her burger and ate a couple more fries before she finally pushed her plate away. While she ate, Phil Bowers drank his coffee, never taking his eyes off of her. After a long drink of her iced tea, Emma dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin and leaned back against the leather booth.

  “Okay, you got me,” she began. “That was me out by your ranch.” She leaned slightly forward. “But if you saw me, why didn’t you approach me then? Why wait until now and interrupt my lunch? After all, I might have driven off and not come back into town.”

  “True, you might have.” He nodded his head. “But I wasn’t the one who saw you. I took my chances that you were heading back here. Not a lot of places for a car like yours to hide in this town.” Phil reached forward, grabbed a fry from her abandoned plate, and stuffed it into his mouth. “They make a good burger and fries here, don’t they? They go great with beer.”

  “They lost their liquor license. It was in the paper.” Emma said the words with a straight face.

  Phil took another fry, never taking
his eyes off her while he ate it. “You read the local newspaper, do you?”

  “Every chance I get.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, I bet you do. Probably have it delivered to your home right along with Vanity Fair.”

  “Are you always this charming to tourists, or is it just me?”

  “Depends. Are you a tourist? Or a trespasser?”

  Phil Bowers studied the attractive woman across from him. She seemed to be thinking hard about her response. He waved at the waitress and she immediately scooted over to refresh his coffee and Emma’s iced tea.

  “Most tourists don’t find their way onto our property unless they take a wrong turn. And then they don’t get out, jump a fence, and wander about talking to themselves and taking photos.”

  Emma’s eyes widened. Someone had been watching her, and closely. But from where? The Bowers house was quite a distance from Granny’s homestead.

  “I wasn’t talking to myself.”

  “No? Then you must have a mouse in your pocket.”

  “Whoever was watching me was mistaken. I made some phone calls, that’s all.” Fighting to seem nonchalant, Emma drank some tea.

  “According to my aunt Susan, at one point you even appeared to be arguing with someone-someone who wasn’t there. And, believe me, my aunt is quite accurate with her binoculars. And she gets nervous when crazy people come onto the ranch.”

  Binoculars, Emma realized, that’s how she was spied on with such detail. This woman must have heard her car on the road and investigated. She probably saw everything-the slip in the dung, her attempt to leave, facing off with Granny-everything. She could hardly tell the imposing man in front of her that she wasn’t alone, she was with a ghost. He was barely tolerant now. Something like that would really tip him over the edge. She had to think fast.

  “I have one of those Bluetooth gizmos,” she explained. “And I can get quite animated on the phone sometimes.”

  Granny had moved closer to Phil Bowers and was trying to get Emma’s attention. It was all Emma could do to keep from yelling at her to stop and go away.

  “You’re not wearing the earpiece now,” Phil said.

  “Huh?”

  “The Bluetooth. You’re not wearing it now, yet I get the feeling you’re talking with someone besides me. Your eyes keeping darting, and your facial expressions are changing constantly.”

  “Um, I’m thinking. I’m an animated thinker as well as an animated talker.”

  Phil Bowers studied her some more while Emma worked hard at ignoring Granny. The ghost was waving her hands, trying to get Emma’s attention, talking constantly and insisting that Emma ask about the property. It was as annoying as an angry bee and just as distracting.

  “Uh-huh. Still doesn’t explain what you were doing there, Fancy Pants.”

  “Will you please stop calling me that? My name is EmmaEmma Whitecastle.” She braced herself for the usual comments. Most folks, upon hearing the name Whitecastle, either made a joke about the hamburger chain or asked if she was related to Grant Whitecastle. She preferred to be associated with the tiny burgers. Phil Bowers made neither comment.

  “Okay, Emma Whitecastle, now that that formality’s out of the way, why don’t you tell me what you were doing on the ranch.”

  Deciding to lay her cards on the table and hopefully get some help researching the history of the property, Emma gave him the truth. “It’s simple, really. I just found out that my family used to live here in Julian over a century ago, so I wanted to check it out.” When Phil said nothing, she continued. “It seems their homestead was, or might have been, located on that patch of land I visited this morning.

  Phillip Bowers’ body language changed. Although it was slight, Emma noticed it right away. His gray eyes clouded over like two storm clouds heavy with electricity. His shoulders straightened. His jaw tightened. He leaned forward, going partway through Granny.

  “Don’t tell me,” he said, his voice laced with angry sarcasm. “You’re a descendant of that Reynolds woman, too. Granny Apples, isn’t it?”

  “Too?” Emma’s interest perked up. “You mean you’re related to Jacob and Ish Reynolds, as well?”

  “Noooooo, not me. No murderers hanging from our family tree.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone!” Granny insisted, looking straight at him, but only Emma heard her.

  Phillip Bowers got up from the table, going through the indignant Granny to do so. He dug into his pocket and produced a couple of dollar bills, which he tossed onto the table. Before stalking away, he leaned down toward Emma, his face naked with anger. She pulled back.

  “The next time you see Ian Reynolds, Fancy Pants, you tell him sending you to do his dirty work is a new low, even for him. The property’s not for sale. Not now. Not ever.” He paused and studied her at close range. Emma could smell the coffee on his breath. “And if I ever see you anywhere near the ranch again, I’ll have you arrested.”

  He turned on his booted heel and made for the front door of the Rong Branch.

  “Wait,” Emma called out.

  She jumped up from her booth and started after him, then realized she hadn’t paid for her meal. Like a dog digging for a bone, she rooted around in her bag for her wallet, keeping her eye half on Bowers’ retreating back.

  “Wait,” she called again. “Who’s Ian Reynolds?”

  THREE HOURS LATER, EMMA was back in her room at the Julian Hotel armed with a small assortment of jeans and casual shirts, as well as a pair of sneakers and a few pairs of socks, all purchased from the Kmart in Ramona, located about fifteen miles from Julian.

  By the time Emma had paid her lunch tab and dashed from the Rong Branch Restaurant into the street, there had been no sign of Phil Bowers.

  When she asked Granny about Ian Reynolds, all the ghost could tell her was that he, like Emma, was a descendant of her son Winston. But beyond that, she didn’t know much about him. She’d tried to contact him once, but he couldn’t see or hear spirits so Granny had found no use for him in her quest to find out about her murder.

  Emma was tired and dirty after running around the Julian countryside all day. In a few hours, she’d have to think about dinner, and if she wanted to eat, she would have to shower and dress and leave her room. As charming as the Julian hotel was, she would have killed for room service and cable TV.

  She removed the tags from her new clothes and put her dirty ones in one of the Kmart bags. She wasn’t quite sure what to do with her shoes. The fabric was stained from the cow manure and looked and smelled disgusting. Tucking them inside the box her new sneakers came in, she made the decision to take them home and see if a shoe repair shop could salvage them. Considering the ruined shoes and torn blouse, the trip to Julian had been costly in the wardrobe department.

  The shower stall was the size of an upright coffin, but the water was hot and the water pressure good. While shampooing, Emma thought about Phil Bowers. He’d been tolerable while he grilled her, but as soon as she’d mentioned that her ancestors used to live on that land, he’d gotten as riled up as a disturbed bull. When he said the name Ian Reynolds, he’d been bordering on rage. If Phillip Bowers had been a cartoon character, steam would have shot out of his ears. Emma laughed at the thought of the image.

  And he knew about Granny and the fact that she’d been hung for murder. The hanging may have happened a century ago, but it was still remembered, at least by Phil Bowers.

  As she toweled off, Emma felt a chill come into the bathroom from the bedroom. Granny must be back. She wanted to ask Granny again about Ian Reynolds, hoping that maybe she’d remember more if she thought about it again. Emma stumbled out of the bathroom, her head down, towel-drying her hair. When she removed the towel and looked up, she let out a small, short shriek and dashed back into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

  Several seconds later, there was a knock at her room door. “Ms. Whitecastle, are you all right?”

  Emma slipped into her short summer robe. She needed to let the
person outside her door know she was fine, but at the same time she wasn’t sure she wanted to leave the bathroom.

  There was another knock. “Ms. Whitecastle? Emma? It’s Barbara, the manager.”

  Emma steeled her shoulders and opened the bathroom door. Milo had said that ghosts wouldn’t hurt her, but he’d said nothing about scaring her to death. Collecting herself, she opened the room door.

  “Are you all right?” the hotel manager asked. “I was down the hall and thought I heard a scream.”

  “I’m so sorry, Barbara, but I’m fine. Just thought I saw something, but it was nothing. Just my imagination.”

  Barbara gave her a sly smile. “Perhaps you saw our ghost.”

  “Your ghost?” As she said the words, Emma turned her body slightly and looked at the far corner of the room. It was still there. He was still there. “This hotel is haunted?”

  “Oh, dear. I thought you knew the legend. Especially since you asked for room 10.”

  “Room 10? This particular room is haunted?”

  “Well, the entire hotel supposedly, but especially this room. People come from all over to stay in room 10.” She paused, then added with a wink, “But don’t worry. I’ve been here over twenty years and have never seen him yet. Guests have claimed they have, but I think it’s more wishful thinking on their part.”

  Emma shot a quick glance at the image in the corner. Her wishful thinking was that he’d disappear. But no matter how hard she tried, he remained, sitting calmly in the straight-backed wooden chair next to the bed.

  “I didn’t see a ghost, I can assure you,” she said to Barbara with a nervous laugh. “I thought I saw a huge spider, but it was nothing. I feel so foolish.”

  “Nonsense,” Barbara told Emma with a gracious smile. “It happens, especially in new surroundings.” She started down the hallway to the staircase, then turned back around. “Don’t forget, we’ll be serving tea shortly.”

  “Oh, by the way, Barbara?”

  “Yes?”

  “Who is the ghost who supposedly haunts the Julian Hotel?”

  Barbara gave her a bright smile. “Albert Robinson, the original owner. We have many photographs of both him and his wife, Margaret, downstairs in the parlor, where you had breakfast this morning.