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

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  After the call, Emma turned to face the still-cranky Granny Apples. “I really appreciate that you looked in on me last night, Granny. Thank you.”

  “If I’d known about the murder, I’d never left ya.”

  “There was nothing you could have done, Granny. I had a good night’s sleep and spent most of today at the studio office. Milo needed you much more than I did. I understand you were a great help to him.”

  “That Sechrest woman was more of a help than I was.” Granny sniffed. “You’d have thought she was the Queen of the Apple Festival the way Milo carried on about her.”

  Granny had been acting crabbier than ever lately, and a reason for it suddenly occurred to Emma. She got up and went to the loveseat, perching on the arm next to the ghost. “Granny, are you jealous of Sandy Sechrest?”

  “Jealous? Of that paint-splattered baby ghost? That’s outlandish, even for you.” Granny fled to the opposite side of the room, where she hovered near the stationary bike with her arms crossed and her back turned to Emma. Archie raised his head from his nap, unsure of what was going on.

  “Granny, it’s true,” Emma said to the image. “Both Milo and I really like Sandy Sechrest. But you’re my family. I love you.”

  “You can’t love a ghost, Emma. Any fool will tell you that.”

  “A fool may not believe it possible, but I do.” Emma got up and went to Granny. “Besides, what about The Ghost and Mrs. Muir?”

  Granny, her lips pursed in wariness, looked at Emma. “Who’s Mrs. Muir?”

  Emma smiled. “When all this is over, I’ll introduce the two of you. In the meantime, you need to remember that you are an important part of this family. Even my father, who can’t see or hear you, thinks of you as family. Phil thinks of you as family, and he’s not even family.”

  In spite of her foul mood, Granny offered up a half-wink. “At least, not yet.”

  Emma rewarded the remark with a frown. “Never mind that. My point is, you’re a very valuable member of this family, ghost or not. Both my mother and I would be lost without you, Granny. So would Archie.”

  Granny turned her back again to Emma.

  “Look at me, Granny,” Emma said softly.

  With reluctance, the spirit turned back around. Emma could see from Granny’s expression that, had the ghost been able to produce tears, she would have been crying.

  “The way things are going with my spiritual gifts, I’m going to meet a lot of ghosts. Some I’m going to like, some I won’t—just like living people.”

  Granny’s face furrowed with worry. “You can ask me to go away any time you like, you know. I’d honor your request.”

  “Yes, Granny, I know that, but I’m not going to.” Emma tried to place her hands on Granny’s shoulders, but they slipped through the gauzy image. “You are my family, Ish Reynolds. Your blood is in my veins, and I love you very much. We all do. And no one, living or spirit, will ever take your place.”

  For several moments the two women, one long dead, the other alive, stared into each other’s eyes, welding tight the connection started generations before.

  “So,” Granny said with bluntness, her face set with determination, “what’s the scoop on this Dowd woman? Got any suspects yet? My money’s on Manning.”

  Emma shook her head in wonder at Granny’s resilience. “I was just about to address that when you popped in, Granny.” She moved back to her desk and fussed with a bag she’d brought in earlier. “I want to try to contact Denise’s spirit. I need to ask her some questions. You can help.”

  As she talked, Emma pulled out a variety of white candles from the bag. Having failed in her first two attempts to contact Denise, she was pulling out all the stops for her next try. She set several candles on the desk, then scattered a few on nearby surfaces. Satisfied with the arrangement, she moved to the bank of windows and closed the drapes. The guesthouse fell into darkness save for a lamp on Emma’s desk.

  Granny repositioned herself on the loveseat next to Archie. “You going to hold your own séance?”

  “I’m going to try.” Emma started lighting the candles. “And maybe with you here, it might work better.”

  Once the candles were lit, Emma sat back down at her desk and tried to relax. Even though she’d gotten used to having spirits around her, she’d never intentionally conjured one up on her own. They usually came to her without an invitation. She told herself there was nothing to be afraid of. Denise would either come or she wouldn’t. She wiped her damp palms on her jeans and got started.

  The room was already a bit cool with Granny present, so Emma slipped a cardigan sweater over her shoulders. Then she closed her eyes and concentrated on her mental image of Denise Dowd as she’d last seen her.

  After a minute of concentration, she took several deep breaths. “Denise,” Emma called softly. “Denise, can you hear me?”

  Nothing.

  “Denise, I need to speak with you.”

  “Maybe if you said please,” Granny interrupted.

  Emma opened one eye and cast it in the direction of the loveseat. In the darkened room, Granny’s presence shimmered like sparkly fabric. Looking around, Emma couldn’t see any other spirit images.

  “Shh, Granny, I’m trying to concentrate.”

  “I’m just saying, even ghosts appreciate a little courtesy.”

  Emma closed her eye and went back to concentrating on Denise Dowd. “Denise, I really need to speak with you.” After a few heart beats, she added, “Please.”

  “Why not add ‘pretty please with sugar on top’?”

  The voice was breathy, the words sarcastic. And it wasn’t Granny.

  Both of Emma’s eyes popped open, but it took her a few seconds to locate the spirit who’d spoken. It was the mystery ghost of before—the one who’d wanted to kill Emma. She was on the other side of the room, drifting like a swaying palm frond.

  Granny left the loveseat and moved closer to the image. “Are you the dead wife of that Manning skunk?”

  The unknown ghost cackled with laughter. Archie jumped off the loveseat and scurried under Emma’s desk.

  “That’s not Mrs. Manning, Granny.” Emma leaned forward, careful not to make any sudden moves that might anger or threaten the spirit. “I don’t know who you are,” she said, addressing the ghost, “but I know for sure that you’re not Linda Manning.”

  “You are fifty percent correct, Emma.” The ghost drifted closer, her image becoming more distinct as she approached. Granny positioned herself between Emma and the aggressive spirit. “I’m not Linda Manning, but I am Mrs. Manning. The first Mrs. Manning.”

  Emma felt her face bunch as she thought about the ghost’s revelation. “I recently found out that George Whitecastle had been married before. Now you’re telling me that Worth Manning was, too.”

  The ghost of the first Mrs. Manning emitted a cold, calculated laugh. “Today we would be called starter wives.” As she moved even closer to Emma, a portion of Mrs. Manning drifted through Granny.

  “Hey,” Granny snapped.

  The other ghost ignored Granny as if she weren’t there, keeping Emma in her sights at all times. Granny drifted to Emma’s side. Emma fought hard not to show the fear growing inside her like bubbly stomach acid. Although the ghost of the first Mrs. Manning couldn’t harm her physically, her intimidation skills were fearsome.

  “Why so surprised, Emma? You were a starter wife. It’s a rather common practice in Hollywood.”

  Emma straightened her shoulders and set her jaw, refusing to get drawn into the spirit’s web of mind games. Quickly, she assembled her mental notes and threw out a possibility. “Senator Manning was going to divorce you and marry Tessa, wasn’t he? That’s why you’re so determined that I not help Tessa.”

  The ghost’s smile was outlined with malice. “No, Emma, not even close. Worth wanted to divorce me; on that you’re correct. But the public didn’t vote for divorced men, and Worth was more caught up in political lust than romantic lust. So we came t
o a marital truce. No divorce, but he could have his chippies and I my own affairs, as long as everything was kept quiet.”

  “But he told Tessa he loved her, didn’t he? That’s why she’s waited all this time on the island. He told her he’d return for her.”

  The ghost spun three hundred sixty degrees, returning to face Emma with a superior grin. “Wrong again, my dear. Worth might have dallied at one time with the stupid little tramp, but it was long over, I can assure you.”

  Pulling her confidence around her like a shield, Emma stood up and walked around the desk, past Mrs. Manning, to where the painting leaned against the wall. She studied it, hoping for a clue to reveal itself in the mixture of blue and green sea. The ghost came up beside her but made no move toward the painting. Granny moved close to Emma, keeping watch on the unsavory spirit.

  “There’s some reason you don’t want me to help Tessa.” Emma said the words more to herself than to the ghost. She turned to face Mrs. Manning. “What does this have to do with Denise Dowd?”

  “Who?”

  “Denise Dowd.” Emma put her hands on her hips and matched the apparition eyeball to eyeball. “She was one of Tessa’s old roommates. She was murdered two days ago, right after speaking to me about Tessa. I was trying to reach her spirit when you came in.”

  “I have no idea who that person is—or was.”

  “So you have no idea who killed her?”

  “None. But if she was part of that group of harlots, she probably deserved to die.”

  Emma wanted to throttle the meanness out of the ghost standing beside her. She was so different from Manning’s second wife, Linda, the one Emma did know. Like herself, Manning had traded up.

  “It’s out of my hands now anyway. I’m sure the police will be able to find a connection between the two deaths.”

  The ghost of the first Mrs. Manning backed away from Emma. “What exactly does that mean?”

  Emma advanced on the spirit with Granny by her side. “It means that the police are now involved in this, Mrs. Manning.” Emma’s voice was firm, almost harsh. “It means they are going to start looking into Tessa North’s disappearance to see if there is a tie-in to Denise Dowd’s murder. Everything you’re working so hard to keep buried may soon come to light.”

  “No!”

  “Yes, Mrs. Manning.” Emma continued pushing her own agenda, keeping the bullying ghost as off-balance as she’d done to her just moments before. “It’s just a matter of time. Senator Manning, George Whitecastle, and the others may be able to sidestep me, but they won’t be able to dance around the police—at least not for long.”

  The ghost looked horrified. “Make them stop! Tell them you made it all up about Tessa North.”

  “I can’t, Mrs. Manning. Their investigation is already going on.”

  Emma didn’t know how much energy Detective Tillman was going to put into the disappearance of a woman over forty years ago on the say-so of a clairvoyant, but she was playing every card she had, hoping to force information out of the spirit.

  “Tell me what you’re hiding, Mrs. Manning. Maybe it will help.”

  The spirit spun again. This time, when she returned to face Emma, her hazy features were contorted in anguish. “You foolish, foolish woman! You have no idea what you’ve done.”

  Once again, Emma was being led into George Whitecastle’s study, and by the same maid as before. She was a frumpy Asian woman whose powder blue uniform hung on her thin frame like sacking on a scarecrow. The only noticeable shape was at the waist, where it was cinched by the ties of her white apron.

  “Thank you for coming, Emma,” George greeted her from his chair.

  As before, Emma bent down and kissed his lined cheek and patted Bijou on his loyal head.

  “Is there anything I can get you, Mr. Whitecastle?” the maid asked as she stood by the door.

  “Nothing, thank you, Helen.”

  The maid stood a few more seconds at the doorway studying Emma. “I’m fine, also,” Emma told her, noticing the woman’s hesitation. The maid left.

  Emma took a seat on the sofa. “George, how long has Helen been with you? I don’t remember seeing her before my last visit.”

  George Whitecastle knitted his brows in thought. His complexion was dull and gray, and the dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced than when Emma had seen him last.

  “Six months, maybe less. Since Ivy retired, Celeste has gone through several head housekeepers, trying to find a good replacement.” He shook his head. “Not sure this one’s an improvement over the last, but she’s quiet and does her work.”

  Emma thought about Jackie’s idea that it might have been the maid who’d called Grant. “George, do you think it was Helen who might have told Grant I was here last time?”

  “Why would she have done that?”

  “She might have thought she was looking out for you.”

  “Can’t see it. She would have told Celeste, not Grant. And she doesn’t seem terribly interested in my well-being or that of the family. She’s like a robot: does her job, period.” He shook his head. “We sure miss Ivy.”

  A short silence fell between them. Emma could sense that this visit would be different. George seemed restless and uncomfortable in her presence, something she never recalled him being in all the years she’d known him.

  “I wasn’t sure if I should come today,” Emma said, breaking the stillness. “Celeste thought it best that I not contact you two until the thing with Grant simmered down. I was very surprised when you called.”

  George Whitecastle had called Emma the day before, shortly after the ghost of the first Mrs. Manning disappeared in a rage. He asked if she would come by their home in the morning. He didn’t say why, just that he wanted to clear the air about some things. She agreed to be there at ten thirty.

  After the call from George, Granny and Emma had tried several more times to reach the spirit of Denise Dowd, but each attempt failed. Mrs. Manning didn’t show again either. Finally, Emma gave up. After changing into workout clothes, she told Granny to come back around suppertime for a surprise. Then she hopped on the treadmill and tried to beat the stress out of her system. For dinner, Emma fixed herself a simple sandwich and a glass of wine. Then she and Granny settled in the den, where Emma plugged her mother’s copy of The Ghost and Mrs. Muir into the DVD player. Granny loved the movie.

  Considering what Emma had learned from the ghost of the first Mrs. Manning, George’s call had been perfect timing. Certain the ghost was hiding something about Tessa’s death, Emma wanted to know more about Worth Manning and his first wife. She also wanted to ask George about Denise Dowd and more about Tessa, provided he was strong enough. In his call, he hadn’t said what he wanted to discuss with Emma, but he had opened the door to further contact, and she was going to walk through it as far as she was allowed.

  George sat small and trampled in his chair, his illness keeping him company like an ill-mannered guest. Every time he started to say something to Emma, he stopped himself. She decided to give him a prod. Reaching into her handbag, Emma pulled out the photo Denise had given her. She handed it to him. George took the photo and held it in shaking hands.

  “We were something, weren’t we?” he said after studying it. “I always thought we were bold, brash, and beautiful. All of us. We worked and played equally hard. The girls, too.” George leaned his fragile head against the back of the chair, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Started out innocent enough. Just a few drinks with the cast and crew during the filming of Beach Party Prom. Worth started coming around. He was transitioning from actor to politician about that time. Paul, being the producer, was already part of the group. Tony Keller was in the film, too. Over time, people dropped away until it was just this small, solid band that continued to hang out together.”

  He tilted his head and looked at Emma, a tragic smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “We were the ‘it’ crowd of our time. Living for the moment, regardless of the consequences to
ourselves and to others.” George let out a ragged cough. “We played with fire and all got burned.”

  “Why did you tell me you didn’t know Tessa North when you obviously did?”

  “It was a long time ago, Emma. And she was a touchy subject in this house.”

  “But she wasn’t your mistress, as Celeste thinks, was she? She wasn’t the one who had your baby?”

  “No, she wasn’t.” George’s voice trembled, each word having its own separate vibration. “Celeste told me about your conversation with her. Guess I should have known my lie would be found out in short order.”

  “Your mistress—was she Shelly Campbell?”

  George looked surprised. “Why would you think that?”

  “From what Celeste said, the baby would have been born about the time that photo was taken. Shelly’s the only one in your group who isn’t there. Did she go away to have the baby?”

  “No. Shelly left LA, but not to have a baby. She got a job in Vegas.” He ran his fingers lightly over the photo, as if trying to remember through his fingertips.

  “I could tell you another lie, but what’s the point?” He took a deep breath, which morphed into another cough. “My mistress never had the baby.” He looked up at Emma with wet eyes. “I made her get an abortion. It was illegal back then, except in special cases. We went to Mexico.” He stared down at the photo again. “I should never have forced her. She wanted that baby so bad.”

  A cool flow of air entered the room. Bijou let out a small whine. Emma looked around but saw no spirits. Getting up from her seat, she went to George and tucked the throw draped across his lap up higher against his chest. “It’s getting drafty in here,” she said to him with a warm smile.

  George clutched her hand and held it. “I loved her, Emma, but I also loved Celeste. I was so torn between them. It was the most difficult decision I’ve ever made. And to this day, I’m not sure I made the right one.”

  It was then that Emma saw Granny. Next to Granny, another spirit was coming into view. Just a flicker at first, soon it materialized into a shimmering pillar of shape. Emma stared at the ghost with surprise before looking to Granny for confirmation.