Emma didn’t say yes or no. She just stood there, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand.
Susan, Emma’s one hope for an ally, shifted her head from side to side slowly. “I’ve lived here all my life, Emma, and I’ve never heard that story. And this town thrives on colorful history like that. If it were true, don’t you think it would be common knowledge amongst the old families who still live here?”
“Not if it was a cover-up.” Emma didn’t know if there was a cover-up or not, but it was the closest straw to grab.
“A cover-up?” Phil let loose with a deep, short laugh. “You’ve been watching too many cop shows, Fancy Pants. A turn-of-thecentury cover-up, that’s rich.”
“Why not? You think cover-ups were invented just last week?”
When Phil didn’t answer, Emma turned to Susan Steveson. “You said yourself that your family didn’t come by this property honestly.” She swallowed, her throat dry and strained. “What did you mean by that?”
“Well, nothing to do with murder, I can assure you.” Susan looked at her nephew a moment, then turned her attention back to Emma. “Our own black sheep of the family was Buck Bowers.”
“He was a mine worker,” Emma added. “Given to drink and gambling. Correct?”
Phil started to say something, but Susan gestured for him to remain still.
“Yes, that’s true. He was also a cheat and a thief. Buck Bowers won the Reynolds property from John Winslow in a poker game, and he most likely cheated to do it. Several years later, he was shot and killed during a game after he was caught red-handed.”
“John Winslow was probably a broken-down drunk by the time he lost the property,” Emma declared.
“What do you mean by that?” Susan leaned forward with interest. “John Winslow was a pillar of the community. One of the founding fathers. He wasn’t a drunk.”
Emma caught herself. She’d let too much slip. Obviously, the town history didn’t include the tale of Winslow’s breakdown after his wife left and his son died.
“I meant, he must have been drunk to have lost the property like that.”
“No, you called him a broken-down drunk.” Phil Bowers was staring at her. “Sure you’re not making this up to pump up viewer interest?”
“You still don’t believe that this is not about Grant Whitecastle, do you?”
“Not for a minute. I think Ian Reynolds contacted you or that slimy husband of yours, and you smelled a sensational story-a bit of colorful history to tweak the old folks.” He stepped closer. Emma stepped back a bit, then stopped, determined to hold her ground even if she did it half crying. There was less than a foot between them.
“I’m not making this up,” she insisted, going eyeball to eyeball with Bowers. She could feel tears of frustration, big as bowling balls, ready to roll again.
“But how could you know all this otherwise?” asked Susan.
Granny stood to the left side of Susan Steveson. “Tell them, Emma,” she pleaded. “If you don’t, they’ll think you’re a scalawag.”
At wits’ end, Emma swung her attention to Granny. “And if I tell them, Granny, they’ll think I’m nuts.”
The silence that followed was thick and fluffy, like cotton batting, shutting out everything but the three of them and Emma’s last words. Everyone stopped. Time hung like a tethered heliumfilled balloon.
“Emma, dear,” Susan said in a soft voice, “who are you speaking to?”
Phil started to steer his aunt away from Emma. “Aunt Susan, go into the house. I’ll take care of this.”
Emma continued to look at Granny, too embarrassed and afraid to look at Susan and Phil-especially Phil.
The ghost gave Emma a weak grin. “At least the cat’s out of the bag.”
If Ish Reynolds wasn’t already dead, Emma might have killed her on the spot.
“ARE YOU HAPPY Now?” Emma tossed the question into the emptiness of her car. From the warmth inside the vehicle, she didn’t think Granny was with her as she drove back to town, but she didn’t care. She was going to rant at her anyway.
Granny had disappeared as soon as the spook hit the fan, so to speak.
Despite her nephew’s efforts to protect her, Susan Steveson remained rooted to the ground in front of Emma, looking like she’d been goosed from behind. Unable to get Susan to go into the house, Phil Bowers stepped forward, trying to put his aunt behind him.
“I’m counting to ten,” he said to Emma in a slow, moderated voice. “Get in your car and leave. If I ever see you around here again, I’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”
Emma started to open her bag to dig out her keys. Bowers stopped her by snatching away her purse.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll do that.” He opened her bag and dug through it-every inch of it-like he was on a tiny scavenger hunt.
“I don’t have a weapon, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
He tossed the keys to her. Emma, still in shock from her confession, let them drop to the ground. When she stooped to pick them up, Phil Bowers dropped her designer bag at her feet. It landed with a dull thud in the dirt. She collected both the keys and the bag and started to climb into her car. Halfway in, she stopped and turned to face Susan and Phil. She had nothing to lose, might as well go out spilling the whole pot of beans, whether they believed her or not. And why should they believe her? She didn’t believe it herself half the time.
“I really have no idea who Ian Reynolds is or what he wants.”
Phil Bowers shifted on his feet, unsure of whether to stop her and shove her into her car or let her continue. Susan stared at Emma, her face an uncommon blend of anger and compassion.
Phil shook his head in disgust and took a menacing step toward her. “Don’t tell me, some spirit from god knows where told you about the Reynolds property. Right? You seeing things that aren’t there, Fancy Pants? Is that your gimmick?”
She held up her hand, palm out, to stop his advance. “It’s no gimmick, but yes, the ghost of Ish Reynolds, Granny Apples, told me about the property-and about the hanging.”
“Oh, Emma,” began Susan, shaking her head, her eyes filling with tears of concern. “Why are you doing this?”
“Can’t you see you’re upsetting my aunt?” Phil’s voice was deep and angry, a canyon of rocky cliffs and treacherous trails.
“I’m sorry, Susan, but it’s the truth. Strange as it might seem.” Emma took a breath. “When Granny first came to me, I didn’t believe it either.”
Bowers tried once again to maneuver his aunt away from the scene. “And,” he said, “I suppose your murderous ancestor also told you the tall tale about John Winslow being a drunk?”
Emma stuck out her chin. “No, she didn’t. The ghost of Albert Robinson told me that.”
With both Phil Bowers and Susan Steveson staring at her, their open mouths resembling side-by-side caves, Emma got into her car and headed down the long drive.
After pulling up next to the Julian Hotel, Emma sat in her car for a long time. Her mind and body felt drained and tinny like an empty soda can. She wanted to go home. She wanted to leave these people behind. She certainly never wanted to see anyone from the Bowers family again.
She looked at her watch. It was nearly seven o’clock. If she packed her bag and left now, she estimated she could be home by ten thirty. Emma saw no good reason to stay one more night after the day she’d had. After all, what would it matter if she proved Ish innocent? It wouldn’t change the ownership of the land, and it certainly wouldn’t change the fact that Ish was dead. Even if she hadn’t been murdered, she’d still be dead now, if only from natural causes. Home beckoned her like a beacon of hope, offering comfort and sanity. It called to her with the promise of familiar surroundings and the lure of sleeping late in the morning. Three and a half hours on the highway and Julian would be just an embarrassing memory.
She leaned forward, resting her forehead on the steering wheel, and closed her eyes. In spite of the call of homey comf
ort, the idea of driving for three hours seemed as difficult a task as crossing the desert in August barefoot and without water. She should just go upstairs to her room and go to bed. Just crawl under the covers and sleep until it was time to check out in the morning and head home. If Albert and Granny showed up, she’d tell them to get lost. She was out of the ghost business.
Lifting up her head, she rolled it around in a circle, then from side to side, listening to the pops and cracks of stress. Emma promised herself a full body massage when she got home. After her bones protested, her stomach took its turn. She needed to get some dinner but didn’t want to sit in a restaurant. She got out of the car, locked it, and headed down the street toward the market on the corner of Main and Washington. She would pick up a sandwich or anything that could hold her until morning and breakfast.
The market was about to close, but Emma managed to grab a couple cartons of yogurt, a plastic spoon, a bottle of water, and a small box of crackers. Just outside the entrance to the market was a bench. The day was cooling off, promising a comfortable evening. Small clusters of lavender and poppies like brooches of purple and orange gems dotted the vacant lot across from the market. Beyond the lot was the Rong Branch Restaurant. A few cars were parked in front of it. It seemed like several days, rather than just hours, since her lunch at the Rong Branch and her initial meeting with Phillip Bowers.
Emma sat down, opened a yogurt, and dug in. She took a spoonful, leaned back, and closed her eyes, letting the bananastrawberry cream slide down her throat in cool satisfaction. After a moment, she opened her eyes and took another spoonful. Then another. She was hungrier than she thought. She opened the box of crackers, gobbled up a couple, and washed them down with a swig from the water bottle. She was feeling better.
She looked around, studying the quiet town. Few cars were on the road, and fewer people were on the streets. The little town was shutting down for the night. In spite of her run-ins with Phil Bowers, Emma liked it here. She wasn’t sure why, but she did. The slower pace was refreshing, giving a person time to think. Even hopping with weekend tourists, Emma was sure it would still be a sleepy little place that time had almost, but not quite, forgotten. That must be why the tourists liked it. It gave them a chance to unplug from the grind of their daily lives, shop for trinkets, eat pie, and relax.
While eating her second yogurt, Emma dug her cell phone out of her bag. She’d shut it off during her visit with Susan. After turning it on, she saw that she had received one text message and three calls. The text message was from Kelly, telling her she was having a great time and that she had spotted Leonardo DiCaprio that morning. The first call was from Milo, checking up on her. She called him back but only reached voice mail. The second call was from her divorce attorney, giving her the good news that it looked like Grant and his attorney were ready to come to a reasonable settlement.
The last message was from Tracy, saying that her friend confirmed that more information would be needed to track the history of a property, especially one that old. As soon as Emma had more information, Tracy told her in the message, the woman would be happy to help trace the property. Tracy also asked again if she should join Emma in Julian.
Now that she knew for certain who owned the old Reynolds property and the path it took to get there, Emma didn’t feel she needed to know more about it. She really just wanted to find out who killed Jacob and Ish. Once she did that, Ish would be considered innocent and would be satisfied.
Mid-thought, Emma sat up straight on the bench and ran a hand through her short hair. Twenty minutes ago, she’d told herself she was off the case. No more ghosts. No more snooping around. She was only staying in Julian to get a good night’s sleep before hitting the road in the morning. Yet here she was, still trying to fit the puzzle pieces together. She let out a deep sigh. There was no denying that no matter how much she tried to push it out of her mind, the story intrigued her.
Finished with her yogurt, Emma sat back and munched a few more crackers. A couple of cars went by. Two people left the Rong Branch, climbed into a pickup truck, and headed out of town on highway 78. There was a nice breeze, but not a cold one, letting Emma know she was ghost-free, at least for now. Relaxing, she reflected on what she’d learned so far, reviewing the information in her head like notes before an exam.
Big John Winslow had bought the land from Winston, Granny’s son, when he left town. John Winslow was the father of Billy Winslow, a close friend of Winston’s. For whatever reason, Billy’s mother left her husband and Billy killed himself. John Winslow drowned his misery in drink and lost the Reynolds’ land to Buck Bowers, a known card cheat. She wondered if John Winslow was a big drinker before his personal tragedy or if it was something that came about only after Billy’s death.
Emma’s eyes traveled up Main Street toward the cemetery. It stood high on the hill, the dead keeping watch over the living. At least Billy Winslow kept watch. Emma’s mind traveled back to her meeting with the ghost of Billy Winslow and to what Albert Robinson’s spirit had told her. The cemetery closed at dusk. It was getting close to that time, but thanks to it being summer, there was still a bit of daylight ahead. Before she left town, she wanted to talk to Billy again.
Her dinner complete, Emma tossed her trash into a nearby bin and stuck the half-empty water bottle into her bag. She needed a bathroom. There were public toilets nearby, but her hotel was just a block away. At the Julian Hotel, she decided to travel light and left her bag behind. She tucked her hotel keys and cell phone into the pockets of her jeans. After a slight hesitation, she added a few dollars in case she decided the yogurt wouldn’t be enough until morning. Before leaving her room, she called out for Granny several times, but she never materialized. Neither did the ghost of Albert Robinson.
Moving at a steady, slow jog, Emma quickly covered the distance between the hotel and the cemetery. It felt good to run. Emma couldn’t remember the last time she’d run anywhere except on a treadmill at the gym. She sucked in the fresh air and tossed a smile at the moon. Passing the drug store and the market, she crossed Main Street at an angle in front of the Julian Pie Company. Except for the Rong Branch and the Julian Grille, everything at this end of town was closed for the night. Soon she was climbing the railroad tie steps up to the Pioneer Cemetery.
At the top, Emma paused to get her breath and look around. Although it wasn’t quite dark, the large trees dotting the burial ground like sentries cloaked the graveyard in a fringe of foreboding darkness. Emma kept a small emergency flashlight in her car and now wished she’d thought to bring it.
The ghosts won’t hurt you. She kept replaying Milo’s words over and over in her head like a mantra as she picked her way forward.
At first glance, she didn’t see any ghosts. Then, as she slowed her mind down and let her eyes adjust, Emma began to see a few shimmering images. To someone else, they might have appeared as light patches of fog, but Emma knew better. Before her watchful eyes, the small puffs of mist took shape, and soon several were clearly defined. They moved about slowly, these men and women from the other side of life. As the numbers increased, so did the chill in the air. Still dressed in one of her new tee shirts and without a jacket, Emma hugged herself against the increasing cold.
Without full light, Emma moved carefully from the small paved road toward the bench where she’d last seen Billy Winslow. Tree roots like the tentacles of a giant sea creature lay in wait to grab her feet. The larger tombstones were easy to maneuver, but the small, blocky ones stuck up from the ground like uneven teeth. Making her way over the bumpy ground, she finally reached the bench and plopped herself down, facing the town. From her viewpoint, and with night creeping in, the town below looked like a toy village. Were it snowing, it would look like the quaint inside of a snow globe.
Billy was nowhere to be seen, but other spirits were active and plentiful. Turning away from the town, Emma sat on the bench and watched, her arms still wrapped around herself for warmth. She looked for Billy in the crowd of
ghostly men and women dressed in old-fashioned garb. She even looked for Granny and Albert Robinson, but she didn’t see them. As the town below tucked in for the night, the town of the dead was wakening.
“I’m here, Miss Emma.”
THE FRIGHT NEARLY GAVE Emma an out-of-body experience. She placed her right hand over her heart as if saying the Pledge of Allegiance and felt it pounding like a tom-tom calling tribes to war. Collecting herself, she turned toward the polite, whispery voice so close to her ear.
Without so much as a boo, Billy Winslow had appeared on the bench beside her. His face was blank, as unreadable as an empty slate.
“You know my name?”
“Mr. Robinson told me.”
“Do you know why I’m here? Who I am?”
The hazy image nodded. “He said I should talk to you if you returned. Said you’re kin to Winston.”
“Yes, I am. You and Winston were good friends. Isn’t that right, Billy?”
“Yes, ma’am. He was my best friend. Played together since we was babies.” The ghost looked toward the quiet town. “Then he went away.”
Granny had told Emma and Milo that it did not surprise her that Winston left Julian after their deaths. With them gone, there was nothing to hold him there.
“Your mother left, too, didn’t she?”
“Yes, ma’am, and took my little sister.”
“Why didn’t you go with her?”
“She wanted me to, but someone had to help Pa with the farm. I was grown. I had to stay and help him.”
“Billy, do you remember why your mother left? It was before you … you died, wasn’t it?”
Another nod. “She left because of Pa. Something he did.”
“Do you know what that was?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He didn’t look at her, and he offered no further information. Emma studied him. He couldn’t have been much older than Kelly when he died. She tried to place a comforting hand on his young shoulder, but it slid through the air instead of resting on solid flesh.
Ghost a la Mode [Granny Apples 01] Page 11