“I think so.”
“Who is it, Emma?” Phil called to her. “Is it Billy?”
“No,” she called back, “it’s Garrett”
Detective Martinez advanced with caution, his face a marquee of disbelief and curiosity.
“Peter and Linda Quinn are under arrest,” she told the ghost. “For your murder and for kidnapping me.”
“Have the police look into Ian’s death, too”
“They killed him?”
“He was an old man, but I always suspected they expedited things.”
“I still don’t understand why they killed you.”
“I came back here to see if I could get Billy to talk to me, especially after he’d been so chatty with you. The Quinns met me here after putting the snakes in your car. When I told them that Billy still wasn’t talking, Pete accused me of lying, saying I wanted the gold for myself. We argued and he shot me.”
Emma noticed Garrett’s image fading. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes, there’s no reason to stay.”
“Will you come back?”
“No. Never.”
Once he was gone, Emma told the men what the ghost had said about the Quinns.
“No Billy?” Phil asked.
“No, but I have a hunch about the gold. Billy told me it was twentyfive paces north. When I asked north of what, he said the word well, then faded. Maybe he didn’t mean the well at the prop erty. Maybe he meant something else. He might not have finished the word before disappearing.”
She started back to Billy’s bench. “Granny told me that Billy spent a lot of time up here as a kid. There weren’t benches then, but this big tree probably was here, just a lot smaller.” She looked up at the sky. It was late morning, and the sun wasn’t quite overhead. “North would be that way, right?” She pointed in the direction she thought it should be.
Phil looked up at the sky. “Yes”
She paced off twentyfive steps. “I’m not sure how far twentyfive paces is, but I can’t be too far off.” When she stopped, she started looking around the ground. “Help me look for a gravestone with the name Well or Wells or any derivative of the word well. It should be one of graves set before the first few years of 1900.”
The three of them scattered over an arc of space spanning out from the twentyfive-pace mark. Each looked at graves, reading the names and dates.
“Be careful,” Emma warned. “Some of the graves are difficult to read. You might have to trace them with your finger.”
“I think I found it,” called Phil. Martinez and Emma joined him next to a grave several yards to the left of where Emma ended her pacing. The name on the grave was Welles.
“This is it,” Emma said with confidence.
“How can you be sure?” asked Detective Martinez.
Without answering, Emma walked over to the bench. Standing next to it was Billy. As she walked away, she heard Martinez yell to the deputy to bring a shovel.
“You buried the gold there, didn’t you? By that grave?”
“Yes”
” ?”
“He was a friend of mine and Winston’s. Was killed working in a mine. Just fifteen years old. Knew he’d take good care of it.”
“Thank you, Billy.”
“No, Miss Emma, thank you. I can go now.”
“Go? For good?”
“Yes, ma’am. No sense staying now that you have the gold.”
“The gold’s not mine, Billy. Seeing that it’s on city property, it probably belongs to the town of Julian.”
“That’s good.”
Before Emma could say anything more, he was gone. And like Garrett Bell, he wasn’t returning.
“HEY, FANCY PANTS”
Emma dropped her book in her lap as her head snapped up. Standing by the door that led from the patio to the kitchen was Phillip Bowers. Just behind him was her mother, smiling from ear to ear. He wasn’t dressed hip and trendy like Grant, given to whims of fashion and vanity, but in conservative tailored slacks, a dress shirt, and sports jacket. Neither did he wear boots or a hat. Today, he looked more like a middleaged successful attorney than a rancher.
She hadn’t seen Phil Bowers since the day she’d left Julian over three months ago. There had been scattered phone calls and e-mails, but both had been careful to keep their relationship bound to friendship. Although it had been her idea originally, now Emma was sorry she hadn’t encouraged Phil. But with so many miles between them, and both their marriages coming to an end, she still felt it the best course of action. And Phil had seemed content to leave things the way they were. Lately, though, the calls and e-mails had drifted away.
Emma was still in touch with Susan Steveson. They e-mailed each other regularly. But as Phil and Emma’s relationship waned, Susan had been quite careful not to mention Phil, and Emma had been too proud to ask.
Sitting in a chaise on her parents’ patio, she felt the contradictory pull of both concern and pleasure at the sight of him. And in spite of herself, even being called Fancy Pants had sent a tingle up her spine.
“Hello, stranger.”
Archie, who was rolling around on the grass, stopped his play to greet Phil.
“Hey, boy.” Phil sat at the patio table and leaned down to scratch Archie behind the ears. “Got something for you. A gift from Killer.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small plastic bag containing dog biscuits. “From his own private stock homemade by Aunt Susan.” He fed the dog a couple. “Let’s leave the rest for later, okay?”
As if understanding, Archie took off to resume his play, darting back and forth across the yard with no visible purpose, yet with a definite pattern of motion.
Phil laughed as he put the plastic bag on the table. “I see Granny’s still with you.”
As if on cue, Elizabeth Miller came out of the house. “Granny, let’s leave these young people alone for a bit.”
The foggy image of Ish Reynolds started for the patio, Archie on her heels.
“Young people? I’ll have you know I’m younger than both of them.”
Emma watched the spirit with affection until she disappeared through the wall into the kitchen. Archie used his doggie door. She turned back to Phil Bowers.
“She divides her time between here and Julian.”
“And what about you? You ever coming back to Julian?”
“As a matter of fact, my cousin Marlene and I are going down soon for Harvest Days. I’ve rented the cottage again.”
“Going to stop and say hi to your pals at the cemetery?”
She couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or mocking her. “Probably.”
“And what about your living friends? Were you going to say hello to me while in town?”
“Of course, if you’re around when I visit Susan and Glen.”
Phil Bowers sighed. “Emma, I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch lately, but I needed time to think about this, about us.” He fiddled with the dog treats as he spoke. “I needed to get you out of my system.”
“Gee, Phil, you make me sound like a nasty virus.”
He grinned. “In a way, you are.” The grin disappeared. “I know you said you only wanted to be friends, and I know the longdistance thing will be a problem, but I’d like you to consider me more than a friend.”
Emma took a deep breath and swung her legs off the chaise so that she was sitting facing him. “Phil, it’s very difficult to maintain a longdistance relationship, you know that. We’re not kids. And I won’t be having the free time I used to.”
“No?”
She shook her head and smiled. “Milo’s offered me a job.”
“Working for him as a clairvoyant?” He seemed skeptical.
“No. It’s actually a job he was offered but turned down. I’m going to be on TV, hosting a weekly show on paranormal activities”
“Isn’t there already a Ghost Hunters show on the tube?”
It was the response she’d expected from him. “Not like that show. It will be
in a talk-show format and will have scientists and experts in various paranormal fields as guests, along with laypeople who have experienced various phenomena. We are hoping it will be serious and fun at the same time.”
“A talk show, huh? Like your husband.”
“It will only be on once a week, not every day. They’ve scheduled it during the same time slot as Grant’s show.” She winked at him. “Whitecastle versus Whitecastle is how some of the early ads are going to play”
“And how is the other Whitecastle versus Whitecastle coming along?”
“We’ve reached a settlement; the divorce should be final soon. How about your divorce?”
“It was final last week.”
Emma studied his face. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing, Phil?”
“I wasn’t sure at first, but now I think it’s a very good thing.” He smiled at her. For a few moments, neither of them said anything.
“I came up here for two reasons, Emma.” He pulled a folded document from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to her. “That’s the deed to the old Reynolds homestead. It’s yours now.”
Emma looked down at the recorded deed. “But I didn’t want it, Phil. That’s not why I went down there.”
“I know. But Glen, Susan, and I want you and your family to have it. Though, trust me, my part in this is purely selfish. I figure if you own property down there, you might come down more often. That could solve part of the distance problem.”
She blushed, and not just from his generosity.
“You can build a nice cabin on that piece of land. I can help you find the right architect and builder. It could be a vacation home for your family and a solid place for Granny to haunt.”
Emma laughed through tears. “I think they would love that, Phil. Granny especially. I just don’t know what to say.”
“That brings me to the second reason for my visit. How about saying yes to my dinner invitation tonight? We have a lot to celebrate: your new career, my divorce, your settlement, the property. It can be a new start for a new type of relationship.”
WHEN THEY RETURNED FROM dinner, it was late and the Miller house was dark, save for the kitchen light. They entered through the back door. Archie left his bed to greet them.
“Thank you for the lovely time, Phil.”
Putting a hand on each of his shoulders, she reached her face up and kissed him on the lips. It was followed by another, then by a whole series of kisses, until they were wrapped in each other’s arms. After the longest kiss ended, Emma pulled away.
In the dim light, Phil chuckled. “Look at us. We’re both middleaged and still living at home.”
Emma placed a fingertip on his lips. “Shh, you’ll wake my parents.”
Taking him by the hand, she led him up the back staircase.
“DID YOU AND PHILLIP have a good time?”
Emma jumped at the voice. It was four thirty in the morning, and she’d just said goodbye to Phil Bowers at the back door, sending him on his way with little sleep. Elizabeth Miller was seated at the kitchen counter, reading the paper and drinking coffee. Next to her was the ghost of Granny Apples.
“Mother, why are you up so early?”
“I often get up this early. Granny and I have lovely visits in the morning. You and your father just don’t know it because you both sleep like rocks.”
Emma looked out the window and watched Phil walk down the driveway toward his truck. When she turned back to her mother, she knew her face was flushed with embarrassment. Elizabeth noticed and smiled.
“You think I never knew about all the times Grant Whitecastle tiptoed up those backstairs? Or the times Nate does it now?”
She turned a page of the newspaper, giving her daughter time to let the information sink in.
“It’s different for you girls today. I understand that. Your father may or may not, so I never told him.” She looked up. “But the next time Phillip Bowers comes to town, let’s put him in the guest room, at least for appearances. That way, we can send him back to Julian with a proper hot breakfast.”
Emma wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck and kissed her cheek.
“There will be a next time, won’t there?”
“Yes, Mother, I’m pretty certain there will be many next times with Phil Bowers.”
Emma poured herself a cup of coffee and leaned against the kitchen counter, drinking it and watching Elizabeth. She had weathered losing her son, bearing her grief with dignity and grace. Emma wasn’t sure she could do the same if she ever lost Kelly. She glanced at Granny and Granny nodded back, indicating it was time. She disappeared.
“Mother, Granny and I have a surprise for you.” Elizabeth looked up, puzzled.
Emma guided her mother to a chair in the dim dining room. She stood behind her and placed her hands gently against the sides of her mother’s face.
“Look straight ahead, Mother. Relax your mind and your eyes, release all your thoughts and concerns.”
“Is this some sort of meditation exercise?”
“Just do as I say.” Emma massaged her mother’s temples, willing Elizabeth to see through her eyes. “Do you see anything at the end of the table?”
“No. Wait. Something’s shimmering.”
Emma looked toward the end of the table. Granny was there, coming into view. “Keep looking, but stay relaxed while you do.”
“Oh my, Emma. Is that Granny?” Elizabeth’s voice, though barely above a whisper, was filled with awe.
“Yes, Mother, it is.”
“I can see her. I can really see her”
“We have another gift for you, Elizabeth,” said the ghost.
Another flickering entity started taking shape next to Granny. A smaller image.
“Oh my!” Elizabeth’s hand went to her mouth. “It’s my Paulie. My dear son.”
Emma looked at the ghost of her dead brother as he was when he died at the age of eleven. He was standing next to the spirit of Ish Reynolds, holding her hand.
“Yes, Mother, it’s Paulie. He’s come to visit, just this once.”
The image of the young boy smiled and waved. “Hello, Mother.”
Elizabeth slipped a shaking hand over one of Emma’s hands as it rested on her face. She squeezed it.
“Thank you, Emma. Once was all I needed.”
the end
WHILE THE CHARACTERS IN Ghost a la Mode are fictional, Julian, California, is a very real place. Located in the mountains an hour north of San Diego and about a three-hour drive from Los Angeles, this sleepy tourist destination is a reminder of the colorful history of California’s gold rush days in Southern California.
Readers who visit Julian will be able to follow Emma Whitecastle’s steps throughout the town, as I have made every attempt to portray it as it really is today, right down to the pay toilets located behind city hall. See firsthand the Rong Branch Restaurant and Saloon, the Old Julian Drug Store, and the Pioneer Museum. Sit in the park where Emma first encountered the ghost of Garrett Bell, and rest on one of the benches nestled among the graves in the Pioneer Cemetery.
There is, however, one character in the book who is not fictional: Albert Robinson. Albert Robinson was a freed slave who came to Julian after the Civil War. Together, he and his wife, Margaret, started a restaurant and built the Hotel Robinson, which is now the charming Julian Hotel, and it is reported that the ghost of Mr. Robinson does indeed haunt the hotel, especially guest room 10.
Read on fora sneak peek at the second book in the
by Sue Ann Jaffarian
THE WOMAN FROLICKING IN the waves was underdressed for November, even for a ghost. Emma Whitecastle watched as the curvaceous, bikini-clad spirit dashed in and out of the waves, as carefree and untouched by the morning cold as a porpoise. Emma, on the other hand, had pulled her jacket together and zipped it up close under her chin. Then she hovered over the cup of hot coffee she’d picked up from a bakery around the corner. She’d had a restless night, tossing and turning most of it, so
just after five thirty she dressed quietly in jeans, a sweater, warm socks, and sneakers, and headed for the beach to watch the sunrise, leaving behind a sleeping Phillip Bowers in their hotel room.
It was Thanksgiving weekend. Emma’s college-age daughter, Kelly, hadn’t come home for the short holiday, opting instead to spend it at a friend’s home in Connecticut. Emma’s parents were on a cruise through the Panama Canal. Phil’s boys were with their mother, and his aunt Susan and uncle Glen were visiting their daughter. That left Phil and Emma to fend for themselves over the four-day holiday. It had been Phil’s idea to go away to Catalina. Emma had been to the vacation spot located just twentysix miles off the coast of Southern California many times while married to Grant Whitecastle, the bad boy of TV talk-show hosts. During those times, she’d either stayed in the finest island hotels like the former Wrigley Mansion, now known as the Inn on Mt. Ada, or on the yachts of Grant’s show-biz friends. When Phil first proposed the trip, he’d booked them at the Hotel Metropole, but Emma didn’t want to stay anywhere she’d stayed with Grant. As Phil ticked off the list of the finest island hotels, Emma had said no to each.
Phil had been frustrated. “You can’t go through life avoiding everywhere the two of you traveled. If you do, we’ll never go anywhere.”
He’d been right, of course. But he hadn’t been right about why she felt the way she did.
“Are you sure you’re over him?” Phil had asked, the vein in his neck tight like a cord, bracing him for news he didn’t want to hear.
Emma’s divorce from Grant Whitecastle had been finalized at the end of last year. Technically, she’d become a single woman on January first, just eleven months ago. She and Grant had been separated about a year and a half prior to that, and the marriage had been on the rocks almost from the time he’d hit it big with his tacky, tabloid-style talk show. Even before they’d been formally separated, Grant had impregnated Carolyn Bryant, his B-movie, party-girl mistress. Grant had married Carolyn on the first weekend in the new year in a splashy wedding attended by much of Hollywood. Photos of the bride and groom and their toddler son, Oscar, had assaulted Emma from every supermarket checkout. And that’s how Emma knew she was over Grant Whitecastle. The photos elicited nothing from her except pity for Grant, for the life he’d thrown away in his quest for fame and his lust for a sleazy wannabe out to grab any man with a big name and a bigger bank account. He’d lost her, damaged the bond between him and Kelly, even lost the respect of his own parents. He’d pretty much flipped them all the bird-in public.
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