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

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  “Stu became so verbally abusive at one point that I slapped him. Pretty hard, too. He responded by coming at me with the gaff. Tessa stepped in to stop him.” He paused, looking down at his hands. “The rest you know.”

  “No, I don’t, Senator,” said Emma in a quiet voice. “Tell me what happened after Tessa hit her head.”

  The old politician cleared his voice. Emma noted that George was visibly trembling even though his face remained stern.

  “We panicked. It was obvious that Tessa was very bad off. There was a lot of blood coming out of the head wound where the gaff had hit her and where she’d come into contact with the railing. She was drifting in and out of consciousness. I knew my political career would take a serious hit if it got out. If she died, it might even destroy it. And Stu was planning on going into politics himself. Margaret’s people were blue bloods from the East. With my attachments and their influence, and both of our money, there’d be no telling how far he could go.”

  “And Paul Feldman went along with this?”

  “Paul had his own career to worry about—and his own marriage. His wife would not have been as tolerant as mine of indiscretions.”

  “Tolerance had nothing to do with it, you bastard.” Mrs. Manning’s ghost spun around the room one last time before disappearing, returning the air in the room to still and warm.

  “Is she gone?” George asked. “Margaret’s ghost, I mean.”

  Emma nodded.

  The senator studied the abandoned glass of Scotch. After a moment he picked it back up. “What the hell.” He took a healthy drink and clung to the glass like a lifeline as he continued. “Paul and I quickly put together a plan. We loaded Tessa into the dinghy and told Stu that Paul was taking her for help—that the dinghy would be faster. I stayed with Stu. We cleaned the blood off the boat and made our way back to Avalon. Stu was devastated. When Paul caught up to us, he told us that she’d been taken to a hospital on the mainland and would be fine. He said Tessa had a concussion and needed stitches.”

  Emma shook her head in disbelief, not understanding how these men she’d thought of as good and decent could do such a heinous thing. “But you knew different, didn’t you, Senator? You knew that in reality, Paul Feldman dumped her in a remote part of the island and took off.”

  Worth Manning studied his drink and nodded.

  “When they returned to LA, they came to me,” George explained. “Together, we decided how best to proceed.”

  Emma looked from George back to Worth Manning. “And what about Stuart?”

  Tears started down the senator’s deeply lined face. “To this day, Stu thinks Tessa survived. We convinced him to keep his mouth shut about the accident for everyone’s sake, especially his own. Even his mother talked him into remaining silent. We were never close, but a few years later, when Margaret died, he cut almost all ties with me. After law school, he settled near his mother’s family. His children and grandchildren hardly know me, except by name.”

  The sound of a single pair of hands clapping came from the partially open doorway.

  “Very nice story,” pronounced Fran Hyland. Behind her was a man Tessa recognized as Mike Kilgore. In his hands was a running video camera. In Fran’s hand was a gun.

  Dressed from head to toe in Ralph Lauren, including her jacket, Fran stepped into the room. “Who knows—maybe one day it might make it to TV. At least it will if I have anything to do with it.” She looked at George. “Audiences love true stories. Isn’t that right, George?”

  George Whitecastle was outraged by the intrusion. He grabbed his cane and stood up, ready to defend his home in spite of his frailty. The lap throw fell to the floor in front of him. “How the hell did you get in here?”

  Worth Manning also got to his feet. Emma was the only one in the room under sixty and seemed to be the only one with a grasp of the whole picture. Emma answered instead of Fran. “I’m guessing with Helen’s keys.”

  Fran flashed Emma a tight smile. “You are such a clever girl. Too bad you didn’t find that bug before we got it all on tape. Or should I say, I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “Are you the one who spraypainted my car, too?”

  Fran pointed a manicured and ringed finger at the man with the camera. “Actually, Mike here did that. But I suggested it. You see, Emma, when you came to my office, at first I was worried that you might grab the story I’ve been waiting forty years to get. But then I thought, why not let this crazy woman do the footwork for me? You struck me as the type who, when warned off of something, would be even more intrigued to get to the bottom of things.” Again she gave Emma a smile that was anything but friendly. “And I was right.”

  Emma hated that this woman had her so pegged. “I was trying to help Tessa, that’s all.”

  “Maybe, but admit it: as soon as you found out Tessa was tied in with your in-laws, you couldn’t let it go, no matter what.” Fran Hyland stepped closer, keeping the gun steady. “I still say there was a little bit of revenge mixed in there somewhere.” She gave Emma a sly wink.

  Emma wanted to spit in the woman’s face. “There is no need for me to get revenge on the Whitecastles.” Her eyes soaked in Fran’s cold, immaculately made-up face. “If you wanted me to get to the bottom of things, why did you call Grant? It was you, wasn’t it? You knew he’d get riled up and try to stop me.”

  Mike Kilgore laughed behind his wife. “That was a stroke of genius.”

  Fran smiled sweetly at her husband, then said, “It was Helen who called Grant—at my encouragement, of course.”

  Kilgore laughed. “Let’s face it, folks, Grant Whitecastle is the paparazzi’s wet dream.”

  Fran took her turn in the doubles game of explanations. “We knew he’d go off on a search and destroy mission if he thought you were bothering his family with all this ghost nonsense, especially if he thought it was upsetting his father. Mike just followed him, waiting for the drama to unfold. Selling that video was like money falling from heaven—like hitting a fair-sized slots jackpot just before you cash in a big winning lotto ticket.”

  “And this story,” Worth Manning asked, “this thing with Tessa is the lotto?”

  “But of course it is. It’s worth millions to the right people. Surely you understand that.”

  Senator Manning started forward, but Fran Hyland stepped back and aimed the gun directly at him. “Not so fast, Worth. We haven’t done business yet.”

  George Whitecastle remained standing, supporting himself on his cane. “You’ve drained us for years, Fran. What more do you want?”

  “Ah, but George, you boys were paying me for what you thought I knew. Now it’s about what I know for sure—what I’ve suspected for years—and that’s that you golden boys killed Tessa and dumped her body.”

  “Tessa’s death was an accident,” Worth said, slamming his glass down on the coffee table to emphasize his point.

  “Doesn’t matter, though, does it?” Fran said with a smirk. “You still covered it up. It’s still a crime.”

  Emma sat in her chair, still and listening, wondering how it would all play out and wishing she hadn’t sent Granny to Catalina. Granny was right. In the event of danger, she could go to Milo for help. Milo wouldn’t have to come running, he could call the cops, sending them to the Whitecastle home.

  George stamped the end of his cane against the floor. It hit the carpet with a short staccato of muffled thumps but still managed to get everyone’s attention. “How much more money do you want to keep quiet?” he asked Fran.

  Fran and her husband exchanged a quick battery of looks before Fran said, “This isn’t about keeping quiet, George. As Emma said, it’s just a matter of time before the police figure it out, or before they start listening to ghost girl over there.” Fran shot Emma a cynical look as she spoke to George. “I don’t believe in ghosts myself, but one way or another, Emma stumbled upon the truth. I’m sure Denise’s big mouth helped.”

  Emma pricked up her ears. “You killed Denise Dowd?”r />
  Fran cackled. “It was an accident, dear. I was holding a knife, ready to butter a bagel, and she fell on it.” She turned to Worth Manning. “Rather like being hit in the head by a gaff hook, don’t you think?”

  George took a wobbly step forward and raised his cane to strike at Fran, but he didn’t have the strength to travel the short distance between them. He fell backwards into his chair and went into a small fit of coughing. “God damn you,” he said from behind his handkerchief. “Denise never did anything to you.”

  “No, but she never did anything for me, either.” Fran shifted from one foot to the other. “I went over there just for a little girl talk, to find out what she told Emma. She suspected my purpose was more serious and clammed up. I offered to pay her for her information, but she said she was going straight to you to let you know I was up to something, even though she didn’t know exactly what. I couldn’t allow that. I didn’t have all the information I needed to put my plan in place.” She studied George with curiosity. “I had no idea you two were an item all these years—another side bonus to my plan, and another forty-year-old murder, depending on which side of the abortion issue you sit.”

  George was too undone to speak. Noting his flushed face and continued coughing, Emma went to his side.

  “Careful,” Fran warned her.

  “I’m just going to help him,” Emma snapped, keeping her eyes on George.

  Worth picked up the questioning. “If this isn’t about hush money, Fran, then what is it about?”

  “It’s about this.” She reached an arm out and gently patted the video camera. “And it’s about what we have on audio. A lot of people would pay a great deal of money to get their hands on what I have. The great George Whitecastle and the equally great Senator Worth Manning confessing to a murder and cover-up, and implicating the multi-award-winning producer Paul Feldman in the bargain.” Fran laughed. “And now we find out Congressman Stuart Manning was involved. That was definitely a surprise bonus.” She grinned at Manning. “Your son is a personal friend of the president, is he not?”

  Senator Manning was so flushed with anger, he looked about to have a stroke. Emma watched him carefully. Between Worth and George, Emma was beginning to feel like an EMT.

  When no one responded, Fran Hyland continued. “Maybe the two of you would like to start the bidding to keep it out of the hands of the media.”

  Emma stepped away from George and toward Fran, her face twisted in anger and revulsion. “That’s despicable.”

  “Careful, Emma,” Fran said, adjusting the gun at Emma’s stomach. “I’m sure with the right editing, we could implicate you, too.”

  Emma eyed the gun, noting that it was growing heavy in Fran’s outstretched hand. “And how many of your celebrity clients have you done this to already?”

  “Enough to substantially pad our retirement fund.” Fran Hyland acted coy and lowered her voice as if someone might overhear. “Although my clients don’t know about my little sideline. Over the years, Mike and I mostly worked behind the scenes, selling photos and leaking stories to the tabloids and entertainment gossip shows. An employment agency specializing in discreet staffing is a clever cover, don’t you think? We carefully placed our spies, who were happy to get paid from both ends, and waited for something juicy to emerge. And it always did.”

  Everyone but Mike Kilgore glared at Fran Hyland—Worth and George with hate, Emma with anger and disbelief.

  “So,” Fran said in a chipper voice, “shall we start the bidding at two million?”

  “You’re insane.” Emma’s mouth ejected the words as if they were poison.

  Worth Manning looked about to say something really nasty when his cell phone, stashed in his pants pocket, rang. He ignored it and sneered at Fran. “If this story is coming out, then let it come. I’ll step up and take the punishment due me. Hell, I’ll go to the chair before I’ll pay you one dime more.”

  Hyland rolled her eyes. Behind her, her husband chuckled. “It’s a good thing you took up politics, Worth,” Fran said, “because you always were a lousy actor. The electric chair isn’t used in California. You’d think a former senator would know that.”

  The phone on George’s table rang next. He also ignored it. “Worth’s made a good point,” he said, determination coming through his shaky voice. “Enough hiding. It’s time we came forward. Tessa was a nice girl. She certainly deserved better.” He avoided eye contact with Emma as he spoke.

  Worth’s phone rang again. With his patience on a short lead, he pulled it out of his pocket and read the display. “It’s Paul,” he announced.

  “Answer it,” Fran ordered. “Ask him why he’s late to the party.”

  When he answered the call, surprise flashed across Worth Manning’s face as if he’d been branded with it. He said a few words into the phone and listened some more, his eyes growing wider with each moment of the conversation. Finally, he told the other person to calm down, saying he’d look into it and get right back to them.

  “That wasn’t Paul,” he told the gathering in George’s study in an agitated voice. “It was Ruth, his wife. Seems Paul did set out to come over here, but she just found a note on his desk addressed to her. She said it sounded like a suicide note.”

  “A suicide note?” The words gushed from Emma’s lips. “He said he was going to kill himself?”

  Worth started his pacing again, mindless of the gun being held on him. He raked his hands through his white hair until Emma feared he would pull it out.

  “Not exactly,” Worth told them. “Ruth said the note said no matter what happens, for her to know he’d love her forever, but that he had to make things right. Ruth’s hysterical. She wants to know what Paul meant. She said she’s called his cell repeatedly, but it just goes into voicemail. She was hoping he was with us.”

  George shook a finger at Worth. “That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s going to kill himself.”

  Emma offered up another theory—one she didn’t necessarily believe but wanted to believe. “It could mean he’s going to turn himself in to the police.”

  Worth stopped pacing and looked up from the floor with stricken eyes. “Yes, Emma, it could, but Ruth said she checked, and Paul’s handgun is gone.”

  A funereal silence fell over the room until Fran broke it, ready to write Paul Feldman’s epitaph. “Sad, because of the three of you, he was the most decent.”

  “Once again, Fran,” George said, full of rage, “not one red cent will you get from us. Sell the damn shit, I don’t care.” He looked to Worth. “We need to find Paul before it’s too late.”

  Fran shook her head. “While I understand your concern for the little murderer, we still have a deal on the table. Maybe urgency will encourage you to close it a little faster.”

  “You do know,” Emma said, stepping away from George and moving slowly toward Fran, “that blackmail is illegal. So is recording private conversations. You’ll be in jail right along with them if this comes out.”

  “Not if they can’t find us.”

  “Or extradite us,” laughed her husband.

  “You see, Emma, I’ve already sold the story. Actually, it’s my story I’ve sold—how for years I was the confidante of Hollywood powerhouses, and how one day things went too far and a girl died. The book was bought by a big publishing house for six figures and is scheduled to come out next year. Of course, most of the stuff about Tessa was guesswork.” Fran flashed a big, wide denture-filled smile at everyone. “But not anymore. Once the truth comes out, the book will sell millions.”

  Worth Manning shook his head, trying to clear the confusion of what Fran had just admitted. “If you got a big deal, then why are you here?”

  “Greed, Senator, plain and simple; that’s why she’s here.” Emma looked at Worth and George. “She got one big payout and another with the Grant tape, but this was the big windfall she’d hoped for.”

  Emma took another step closer to Fran, noting that the bracelets on the wrist of the arm
with the gun were shaking steadily. Fran used her free arm to steady her grip.

  “You stay where you are, missy,” she warned Emma.

  “Emma, please,” pleaded George.

  Emma ignored him and focused on Fran. She didn’t notice Mike Kilgore holding a weapon. To Emma, their only threat seemed to be the gun growing heavier by the second in Fran’s aged hand. As time ticked by, Emma was getting more worried about Paul Feldman.

  She engaged Fran’s attention, hoping the gun would continue to become a burden. “You thought you could intimidate these guys into handing over some really serious cash to keep the video and audio tapes out of the hands of unscrupulous journalists. It never occurred to you they’d had enough.”

  “I could still sell the tapes, and don’t think I won’t.”

  “You’re welcome to try,” Emma told her, keeping her blue eyes fixed on Fran’s face. “Try all you want.”

  “Let’s get out of here, Fran,” Kilgore told his wife. “We’re wasting time.”

  “And what will we do with them?” She moved the gun in an arc covering Worth, George, and Emma.

  “Leave them. We didn’t get what we came for, but so what? We have enough to disappear and live in luxury for the rest of our lives.”

  “No!” Fran’s lined face contorted. “All these years, I’ve waited for this moment, knowing they did something to that stupid girl, waiting for it to eventually leak out.”

  “Honey,” Mike Kilgore implored, “come on, let’s get out of here. These guys are going to spend their final years rotting in jail. I don’t want to be with them.”

  What he said must have gotten through to Fran, because her face relaxed. “You,” she said to Worth, “sit down.” After a brief hesitation, the senator folded his long body back into his chair.

  “And you,” she said to Emma. “Get over there on the sofa by George and sit down.”

  “Just leave,” Manning told Fran and Mike. “We won’t try to stop you.”