Ghost in the Polka Dot Bikini: A Ghost of Granny Apples Mystery

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  Tracy still wasn’t satisfied. “And if you do find him and he is involved in her murder or cover-up, how do you propose to get him to come along with you to Catalina?”

  Granny bounced around the room in excitement. “We can hog-tie him and smuggle him aboard a boat.”

  Emma looked at the ghost in astonishment. “I am not going to kidnap anyone, Granny.”

  “I’m not exactly in favor of Granny’s plan,” Milo commented, “but how else are you going to convince Curtis to go over to Catalina and face the ghost of Tessa North?”

  Everyone was quiet while silent ideas bounced around the room like a runaway pinball. There were so many variables still up in the air—a plethora of what-ifs.

  “How about this,” Emma said, breaking the silence. “If we do locate him, we can say he won a trip to Catalina. Make it two nights at a nice hotel with transportation. Who can resist that?”

  Tracy sat up straight. “Hey, I’ve heard of cops using that to catch people with outstanding warrants. They send them bogus prize notices, and when they come to collect, they nab them. Could work.”

  Milo wasn’t so sure. “If this guy is wealthy, it might not be something he’d bite. And how would he have won it if he didn’t enter anything? Not to mention, if he left a dead or near-dead woman on Catalina, there’s a good chance he’s never stepped foot on the island since, and he might be shy about going back.”

  The last bit of Milo’s comment caught Emma’s attention. “I just thought of something. George Whitecastle has been to Catalina many times in the past forty years. I know, because I’ve been over there with him when we went as a family. If George was involved with Tessa’s death, you’d think he’d be a bit put off about going back to the island. Instead, he went over often.” She frowned, more to herself than to her companions, unwilling to believe the thought that had just crossed her mind. “Unless he felt no remorse or guilt.”

  “More to the point,” said Tracy, “if he was Curtis, Tessa would have seen him during one of the trips and made her peace. I think it’s safe to assume from the information you’ve gathered that George isn’t this Curtis guy.”

  Emma smacked her head. “Tracy, you just opened up another possibility—one we should have thought of before.” They all turned to her, waiting for an explanation. “We’ve been looking for a man named Curtis. What if he was only going by the name Curtis, but it wasn’t his real name?”

  “The girl was involved with him romantically,” Tracy pointed out. “Don’t you think she’d know his real name?”

  Granny shook her hazy head. “Tessa’s not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed.”

  “Granny,” Emma admonished.

  “Well, she ain’t, and you know it as well as I do.”

  Emma was not in a good mood.

  Ever since returning from Catalina, she felt like she was spending all her time on the freeways shuttling between Pasadena and the west side of Los Angeles. It seemed like everyone she needed to speak with lived on the other side of the crowded metropolis area. But things went from bad to worse when she stepped out of Milo’s home and found her vehicle had been vandalized. Across the side of her glossy white Lexus hybrid SUV, someone had spraypainted in black Leave The Dead Alone.

  “How,” she’d asked Milo, her voice climbing to a near shriek, “could this have happened in broad daylight?”

  “It’s a work day, Emma,” he’d told her. “Few people are home, and the weather isn’t nice today. Most people would have been inside.”

  The police had felt the same way when they came to take a report. “It only takes a kid a minute to do something like this, ma’am,” the young patrolman had said. They were all standing on the sidewalk in front of Milo’s house, inspecting the damage. The light drizzle coming down dampened everyone’s mood even more. “Though we seldom see stuff like this in this neighborhood.”

  The police had been courteous though doubtful that they would be able to find who’d done the painting. They’d asked about the significance of the words and, when told about Milo’s profession and Emma’s TV show, were surprised it hadn’t happened sooner.

  “This was not done by kids, Milo,” Emma said after the police left and she went back inside Milo’s house to calm down.

  “I agree,” he’d said.

  They were in Milo’s living room. Emma was on the sofa with Tracy next to her. Milo paced. Granny had disappeared before they’d discovered the crime.

  “And I don’t think this had anything to do with me,” Milo told them, stopping just long enough to get his words out. “I’ve lived in this house over fifteen years, and nothing like this has ever happened before.”

  “My gut is telling me you’re right, Milo.” Emma ran both hands through her short hair. “That’s two cars in two years. My insurance company’s going to love this,” Emma said, referring to the year before in Julian when her Lexus sedan had been driven into a tree.

  Milo stopped pacing and faced Emma. “Who knew you were coming here today?”

  Emma thought a minute. “No one except for you and Tracy. I didn’t even tell Jackie.”

  Tracy patted Emma on the arm. “It looks to me, pal, like you’re being followed.”

  Although Tracy’s words made sense, Emma didn’t want to hear them. She wanted even less to believe them. The idea that someone was tailing her around Southern California gave her the willies like no ghost had ever done. But how else would anyone know where she was?

  Emma shot to her feet and started pacing where Milo left off. As she wore out the carpet from one end of the room to the other, she ticked names off on her long fingers. “There’s George, Celeste, Fran Hyland, and Denise Dowd. Oh, and Paul Feldman. Those are the only people I’ve spoken with about this.” She stopped in her tracks, and her shoulders sagged as she sighed. “Of course, there’s no telling who any of them told.”

  After Emma took up the pacing, Milo had joined Tracy on the sofa. The two of them had watched Emma and did their own thinking arm in arm. When Emma noticed, she wished Phil was with them. Not just for his support, but also for his clear-headed thinking.

  “I’m not sure who Fran and Denise would tell,” Emma said, shaking off her thoughts of Phil Bowers, “but George and Paul probably discussed it over pastrami. And either of them could have contacted some of their friends who are still around and went to Catalina back then, like Worth Manning. But spraypainting a car hardly seems like the work of men in their seventies.”

  Shaking a finger in the air, Tracy added, “Rich men, Emma. They are rich, powerful men who can easily hire someone to follow and intimidate you.”

  Emma didn’t want to hear that either.

  After planning their next move, Emma had climbed into her spraypainted car and headed home, ignoring the stares she received from other drivers. Her parents were due home this weekend, and Emma wanted to spend another quiet night with Archie and her heavy thoughts.

  During their brainstorming, Milo had decided that he should go to Catalina and try to talk to Tessa himself. He and Tracy were planning on leaving the next morning. They would take the ferry over and spend a couple of nights. Tracy had joked that it would be a working romantic getaway, much as Emma’s had been. They had reservations at the Pavilion Lodge, a favorite place of Tracy’s, directly across from the beach area where Tessa and Sandy Sechrest hung out. They hoped at least one of the ghosts would speak with Milo, though Emma was sure Sandy would. She would ask Granny to pop over and pave the way.

  Emma’s job was to continue digging into Tessa’s friends. She was also anxious to hear what Jackie had found out from Tessa’s brother in Arizona. The postcard Denise supposedly received from Tessa was nagging at her like a loose thread on a sweater. If Tessa did die on the island, someone went to a lot of trouble to send that postcard from Nebraska. She, Milo, and Tracy all felt that it was a solid piece of evidence that Tessa’s disappearance and death had been covered up by someone. And whoever it was had probably also removed Tessa’s things
from her apartment and had known that her roommates were gone that weekend. Someone had been very busy to make sure no one thought twice about looking for Tessa—or maybe it was more than one person. Either way, they had done a good job of making it happen, and forty years ago, without the speed and convenience of the Internet, it would have been difficult for someone like Denise to look for Tessa to check up on her.

  The three of them had also hoped that the mystery ghost would make an appearance when they were all together, but she hadn’t. Milo cautioned Emma that it was also possible that the new spirit had nothing to do with Tessa North. The disturbed ghost could be totally unrelated, just another spirit looking for help and trying to be heard by the living.

  As he talked, Emma had watched Milo closely. When he finished, she’d asked, “Do you really believe this spirit has nothing to do with Tessa?” When he hesitated, she added, “Really believe, like with your spidey sense?”

  Milo had blushed before speaking. “My spidey sense, as you put it, is screaming that this entity has everything to do with Tessa. But I don’t want you chasing false ghosts, just in case it doesn’t.” He winked at her. “Even superpowers can misfire once in a while.”

  Just behind their three-car garage, the Millers had a guesthouse. It was a very large single-room apartment with a full bathroom and kitchenette. The wall facing the landscaped back yard was a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows with drapes for privacy, though the drapes were seldom closed. Even the door was glass paned. Many years ago, Dr. Miller had converted it into an exercise room with various equipment, including a treadmill, bike, and free weights. On a cabinet was a combination DVD player and TV on which her mother played her favorite exercise tapes and her father watched the news while on the treadmill. The small kitchenette held healthy drinks and snacks. Just off the main room was a roomy alcove, originally meant to be the sleeping area. In the last year, Emma had repositioned the loveseat that had been there for years to make room for a large L-shaped desk and filing cabinets, turning it into an office. When Emma got home, she changed into workout clothes and headed out to her office with Archie as company.

  After her divorce from Grant Whitecastle, Emma and her parents had discussed whether or not she should move out and buy her own home. In the end, the divorce settlement from Grant had been fair to both parties. Emma had plenty of money, enough to keep her comfortable for the rest of her life if managed properly, and now she had the income from her own TV show. When she first left Grant and moved back in with her parents, she had intended for it to be temporary. But when the time came to make a decision, Elizabeth and Paul Miller had proposed that she make it permanent. The Millers were in their early seventies, and both of them were still vigorous and healthy. Deciding to make hay while the sun shined, they had become world travelers in the past few years and were gone almost as much as they were home. It made sense for Emma to stay on and keep an eye on the house and Archie. And, as her father had pointed out, the big, white stately home would be hers one day. Emma hated hearing that, even though she loved the house and all its wonderful memories.

  Emma knew she was lucky. Her parents were not intrusive on her privacy and treated her as the adult she was, even though she was still under their roof. They backed all her decisions, even her decision to divorce Grant and to say yes to the paranormal television show. And as much as they had grown to love Phil Bowers, they did not pressure her about him. They seemed content to let her go her own way, but they always let her know they were there for her.

  The alcove in the guesthouse had become her sanctuary when she needed alone time, although with the Millers on the road as much as they were, Emma did have plenty of privacy. But it was her special place. She did most of her research and preparation for her show here. When she needed a break or to brainstorm, she’d hop on the treadmill and give both her body and mind a workout. She had a small office at the studio, which she used when she needed to be there or to work directly with Jackie, but she preferred to spend most of her time at her home office.

  When she had returned home, Alma was gone for the day but had left a note on the kitchen table alerting Emma that the package she’d been expecting had been delivered. Alma had put it in her office, as Emma had asked.

  The large, narrow rectangular box was propped against the kitchenette counter when Emma entered the guesthouse. In it, securely packaged, was the painting she’d bought on Catalina—Sandy Sechrest’s painting of the beach, the one with Tessa North’s image amongst the sunbathers. Doing quick and careful work with a knife, Emma released the painting from its bondage and stepped back to admire her purchase.

  Even without the significance of Tessa’s presence, it was a beautiful painting. Picking up the painting, which was heavier than it looked with its gilded frame, Emma propped it first against one wall, then another, until she figured where it best fit.

  “That’s Catalina,” said Granny, floating in. Archie thumped his tail at the sight of his best buddy.

  “Yes. Sandy Sechrest painted that.” Emma studied the painting, imagining it hung on a wall. “I’m thinking I’ll hang it just above the loveseat. That way, I can look at it while I work at my desk.”

  “For inspiration about the case?”

  “The case?”

  “You know,” said Granny, moving closer to the painting to get another look, “Tessa’s murder.”

  “You make me sound like I’m Sam Spade.”

  “Who?”

  “Sam Spade, the PI from The Maltese Falcon.” When Granny still looked puzzled, Emma added, “I know my dad has the DVD of the movie. I’ll pop it in for you sometime. Better you watch that than those old, tacky sitcoms.”

  Granny sniffed. “If those shows are good enough for Dr. Miller, they’re good enough for me.”

  Since Granny had disappeared before they’d discovered the spraypaint job on Emma’s car, Emma filled the ghost in on what had happened.

  “Sounds to me like someone wants you to mind your own business. Makes a body wonder why.” The ghost moved closer to the painting and pointed. “That’s Tessa.”

  “Yes. The painting is of what Sandy remembered from her first meeting with Tessa’s ghost. She met her years ago, when she herself was alive and Tessa first dead.”

  Before Emma could say anything else, a cold gust blew through the guesthouse. Archie, who’d curled up on the loveseat, whined and hunkered down.

  Emma looked at the door, but it was shut tight. “I don’t think we’re alone, Granny.”

  “That we’re not.” Granny moved closer to Emma.

  The angry spirit swirled through the room as it had the night before, but this time with a specific purpose. Its target: the painting. The strong current of cold air buffeted and shook the painting, threatening its stance against the wall. In two steps, Emma reached it before it could crash facedown to the floor.

  “Is this about Tessa North?” Emma asked the ghost as she clutched the painting against the swirl of forceful air.

  “Tell us what you want,” Granny demanded. “Or at least have the decency to show yourself.”

  “I know you’re upset about something,” added Emma. “But we can’t help if you don’t let us.”

  “Noooooooooooooooooo.” The sound came from the air like wind whistling through a tight space.

  “No, you don’t want our help?” Emma leaned the painting back against the wall but stood in front of it to keep it from falling. “Or no to the painting? Did you know Tessa North?” She hugged herself against the cold created by the presence of both ghosts and wished she was dressed in more than a snug knit tank top.

  “Noooooooooooo!” The word was clearer this time, accompanied by a strong gust that pushed against Emma like storm blasts from the sea. She held out her arms against the force and took a step back, careful not to crush the painting. Papers from the desk took flight and scattered. Mugs lined up on the kitchenette counter rattled. The drapes lifted. Archie jumped off the loveseat and tried to cower behind it.


  Granny moved to the center of the room. “Behave yourself or leave,” she said to the spirit. “I’ll not have you frighten Emma this way.”

  “No, don’t go,” Emma called out to the strange spirit. She turned to Granny. “It’s all right, Granny, I’m not frightened.” Emma turned her head, rotating it to scan the room for any sign of the spirit. Focusing on what appeared to be a hazy cloud, she ventured, “We’re here to help you. You have to trust us.”

  The churn in the air calmed to a mild breeze. As if thinking it over, the almost-invisible cloud moved through the room, wafting back and forth. At one point it approached Emma, getting once more close to her face. Emma felt her cheeks grow cold, as if she’d stuck her face into the freezer to scout ice cream possibilities. When the spirit pulled back, Emma’s face warmed again.

  Archie poked his nose out and whined. The misty cloud moved toward the animal. Granny moved protectively between the spirit and Archie.

  Emma held her breath. “Please,” she begged quietly, “don’t frighten him anymore.”

  “Don’t worry, Emma,” Granny said, sticking her chin out in defiance. “I won’t let her.”

  The hazy apparition started taking shape but still did not reveal itself. Emma could now see the outline of a female, but no details. The strange ghost stood in front of Granny, facing her, then tilted its head down to look at the unfortunate Archie.

  “I would never harm a dumb animal,” the ghost said in a barely discernable whisper.

  “Archie’s not dumb,” Granny snapped.

  Raising its head, the ghost studied Granny, then bluntly dismissed her by turning around and drifting over to Emma. “She doesn’t need you,” the ghost said.

  “Who doesn’t need me?” Emma wasn’t sure if the ghost meant Granny or Tessa.

  “The girl. The picture.”

  “You mean Tessa North?”

  “Leave her be.”

  “Who are you? How do you know Tessa?” Emma moved closer to the spirit but didn’t want to stray too far from the painting.