Ghost a la Mode [Granny Apples 01]

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  “Could you add a cup of decaf to my order?” added Emma. She picked up a napkin and dabbed at her injured hand.

  The woman squinted through her wireframed glasses, taking in the injury along with Emma’s dirty clothing and disheveled appearance. “You okay?”

  Emma looked at Ian, then at the woman. She wasn’t about to tell this woman she fell while being chased through the graveyard by the same man now having coffee with her. Ian busied himself looking around the restaurant, but Emma knew he was listening.

  “I’m fine, just clumsy.” Emma laughed lightly. “I tripped and fell.” Emma turned her hand over and displayed the abrasions on her palm where her hand had dragged over the unfinished banister.

  “That’s a nasty scrape. Why don’t you go wash that up while I get your order? The ladies’ room is right down that hallway.”

  “Good idea. Thank you.”

  Her hand still hurt when Emma returned to her table, but at least it was clean. There were several wooden slivers embedded in her palm. As soon as she returned to her hotel room, she’d take care of those with the tweezers from her cosmetic kit. She’d also shaken out her hair and washed the dirt from her face.

  Her soup and coffee were waiting for her, but so was a big surprise. Standing next to her table in a heated discussion with Ian Reynolds was Phillip Bowers. He was in a clean shirt and jeans, with his back to Emma. She suddenly wished she could disappear into thin air as easily as Granny and Billy Winslow.

  Standing awkwardly a few feet behind Bowers, she checked out the other people in the place. Only two other tables contained customers. One held the Quinns, the older couple she’d seen in the lobby of the Julian Hotel when she’d checked in. At the other table, two men were finishing up their dinner. They looked like locals, a fact confirmed when the waitress wandered over to clear their plates.

  “Not the same around here with the saloon closed, hey Beverly?” one of them said to the waitress.

  “Sure isn’t,” she replied. “Tips aren’t the same either.” All three of them laughed.

  One of the men, a clean-shaven redhead, said, “I hear everyone’s heading to the casino at Santa Ysabel to do their drinking.”

  As the waitress left their table, she spied Emma, who was now casing the place for a back door.

  “Everything okay, honey?”

  Seven sets of eyes stared at her. So much for trying to make an unobserved getaway.

  “Fine,” she squeaked out. She headed to her table and slid into her seat, not looking at Bowers. A piece of apple pie and coffee had been set in front of Ian.

  “Well now, isn’t this cozy?” Phil Bowers hovered over her in a menacing stance.

  Emma glanced up at him, giving him a dose of the family eye rolling. Then she picked up her spoon and started eating. His eyes pierced her as she worked on her soup. Ian watched her also. She seemed to be the dinner show.

  She was waiting for Phil to accuse her of lying about knowing Ian Reynolds and about the two of them being in cahoots. But at that moment, she didn’t care what he thought. Nor did she care what Ian thought. She’d placed them in the same category as Grant Whitecastle-men determined to have their own way, regardless of her feelings. Right now, men in general were on her crap list.

  “Soup, pie, and coffee are always cozy,” she said after swallowing. “Comfort foods like chocolate chip cookies and milk, don’t you think?”

  Phil Bowers leaned closer. “You’re a little old to be acting coy, don’t you think? Not to mention looking a little ragged around the edges. You get your fancy ass dragged behind a truck today?”

  “It’s not polite to reference a lady’s age,” chimed in Ian.

  Emma stared at Ian Reynolds, letting him know she didn’t find his comment cute or helpful. She needed to find out more about him, but now Bowers was spoiling it all. Or was he? She looked from one man to the other and decided that Phil Bowers’ presence might help. It could be that his badgering personality might prod Ian into saying something useful.

  She looked at Phil. “Why don’t you pull up a chair and join us?”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her.

  “Or you could always squeeze in next to Ian.”

  The two men eyed each other. Emma noticed that besides the mutual distrust and dislike, their eyes silently asked each other what was going on. Bowers grabbed a chair from another table and set it, seat facing out, at the end of their booth. Then he straddled it in a macho move that almost made Emma groan.

  She waved at Beverly, who had just finished cashing out the two men. “Would you please bring Mr. Bowers a cup of coffee?” When the waitress hesitated, Emma added. “I promise we’ll be out of here so you can lock up on time.”

  “Make it decaf, Bev,” Bowers called to the waitress.

  Emma finished her soup while waiting for Phil’s coffee to arrive. Ian sipped his coffee but hadn’t touched his pie. Once Phil had his coffee in hand, Emma dabbed at her mouth with a paper napkin.

  “Okay, gentlemen, enough is enough.” She took a sip of coffee. “I have no idea what’s going on here, but I want to know, and I want to know now.”

  Neither man made a move.

  “First, you.” She looked pointedly at Bowers. “Until a few minutes ago, I hadn’t met Mr. Reynolds here. I hadn’t even heard his name until you mentioned it today.” When Bowers started to growl something, she held up her hand. “It’s the truth, whether you want to believe it or not, and frankly, I’m sick and tired of trying to convince you of it.”

  Ian Reynolds started to laugh. He picked up his coffee mug and pretended to drink to hide his pleasure at Bowers being dressed down.

  Emma turned to him. “Not so fast. At least Phil here had the decency to approach me openly. He didn’t track me down through informants, then stalk me through a dark cemetery until I was so frightened I fled, falling down those steep stairs.”

  Upon hearing her words, Phil Bowers stared at Reynolds with open disgust. Ian started to say something, but Bowers had already turned his attention back to Emma. “What in the hell were you doing up in that graveyard after dark? It’s dangerous.”

  “Is that a caution about my safety or a warning of a more menacing nature?”

  “Just saying it’s not smart to be up there after dark, Fancy Pants. We’re not Los Angeles, but crimes do happen here.”

  Ian settled comfortably back into the corner of his seat. He draped one arm across the back of the booth and held his mug in the other hand. In the light of the Rong Branch, Emma was able to check him out better. She placed him in his late thirties or very early forties; average height and slim. His hair was light brown with highlights, cut short and spiked with gel in planned chaos. His face was fashionably stubbled and populated by dark brown eyes, a long, thin nose, and thin lips that framed slightly crowded teeth. He had the sort of looks that some women might find handsome; others, not so much. For Emma, the jury was still out. Dressed in designer casual wear, he wore it with the same air of self-satisfied elegance as Grant did. He was slick like Grant, too, Emma noted. Slick and calculating, and very show-bizzy. That was it, Emma thought, studying him. Ian Reynolds reminded her of the dozens of metrosexuals-straight men with the same fashion phobias and obsessions normally attributed to gay men-she’d met over the years as she accompanied Grant to one Hollywood event after another.

  Emma was about to say something to Ian when Bowers put his mug down on the table with a solid thud. Coffee sloshed. He seemed to have a problem setting beverages down without making a mess.

  “Oh my God!” Phil said, his sarcasm bright enough to illuminate the room. He stared at Emma. “Please tell me you weren’t up at that cemetery communing with the dead.”

  “That she was.” From behind his coffee mug, Ian smiled like the Cheshire Cat. “I saw her.”

  WHILE PHIL LOOKED AT the two of them in disbelief, Emma shot Ian a look of indignation sharp enough to poke out an eye. She’d noticed he didn’t say anything about his own alleged talents. I
an Reynolds took it all in stride.

  “Would you forget about ghosts,” Emma snapped at Phil. “You, too,” she said to Ian. “You saw nothing.”

  It was then that Emma remembered they were not alone. The older couple was staring at her. So was the waitress. She didn’t have to look in a mirror to know that her face resembled a wildfire. She could feel the heat traveling up her neck to her hairline.

  She gave the couple a sweet-as-pie smile. They continued to stare.

  “Great. The whole world’s going to think I’m a crackpot.”

  Ian gave her his signature smug smile. “No, just this hick town.”

  Both Emma and Phil scowled at him.

  “Okay,” Emma began again, “let’s get down to business. What’s going on with the Reynolds property?”

  “It’s simple,” Ian explained. “I want it, and he won’t sell it.”

  Phil Bowers smacked his hand on the table. “It’s not for sale. And even if it were, I wouldn’t sell it to you.”

  Ian’s eyes challenged his opponent. “Maybe we should let the law decide that.” “

  I am a lawyer, damn it. You have no legal right to that property.”

  “Hold on a minute” Emma stretched her hands across the table to keep them apart. The two men measured each other like boxers in a ring. “Now, I’m not a lawyer, and I don’t know squat about real estate, but it seems to me, Ian, if the Bowers family doesn’t want to sell that property, you can’t make them.”

  Ian looked at her with surprise. “One would think, cousin, that you’d be more on board with recovering that property. After all, if Ish Reynolds hadn’t been murdered, it might still be in the family.”

  “And if she hadn’t been murdered, Winston might not have left Julian, and you and I might never have existed”

  Phil chuckled. “Touche”

  It was then that Emma looked up toward the door and saw Granny Apples. Her image was hovering by the cash register, near the area where the Rong Branch displayed local gift items for sale, such as jams and candies. But the ghost didn’t come near and remained silent. Emma squinted, trying to see if Granny was attempting to give her a signal, but she couldn’t make out anything. The two men noticed Emma’s concentration, and both turned in the direction of the door. Granny disappeared.

  It was then Emma remembered that Granny didn’t have any problem showing up when Phil Bowers was around. She had even tried to defend Emma when Bowers dragged her to the car earlier. Phil couldn’t see or hear the ghost, so Granny didn’t mind being visible and talking to Emma around him. Ian, on the other hand, told her he could see them. So why had Granny disappeared just now? Could it be she didn’t want to be seen by Ian?

  She leaned against the back of the booth and tried to pry open that portion of her brain that might reveal what she was forgetting. Phil was sitting still. He was studying her, full-blown skepticism tattooed across his sturdy face. Ian also studied her, but his look was one of observance gift-wrapped in a smirk.

  Then she remembered.

  A chill shot through her body like an icy stream. She wanted to run, to get away from Ian, but there was still much to find out. More than ever, she needed to know who he was and what he wanted-and what his connections were to the spirit world. She cleared her throat and got down to work.

  “Why do you want that property, Ian? You don’t look like you’re from around here any more than I do.”

  “He’s from Los Angeles, Fancy Pants, just like you. A real-estate developer. You’re both a couple of damn carpetbaggers. How do I know the two of you are even related to the Reynolds clan?”

  “You’re going to build on that land?” Emma’s question was accusatory.

  “Condos. Low-level ones, of course, that blend into the natural environment.”

  “Over my dead body,” added Phil. He stood up from the table.

  Ian took a sip of coffee and gave Phil a bored look, as if he were dealing with an annoying child. “Cut the drama, Bowers.”

  The words played like gasoline on Phil’s already angry flames. “Even if you manage to cheat your way into that property, I’ll make sure you never get a building permit. People here are fussy about new construction.”

  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?”