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

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  “And miss my opportunity to be a director?” Fran’s smile oozed crazy. “I’m trying to decide: should the senator kill the director and the ghost hunter over being outed on the Catalina murder? Or should the psychotic medium kill both old geezers out of a sense of justice, then kill herself?” She turned to George. “Which do you think will play best in the media, George?”

  Emma, who was about to follow orders and move to the sofa, froze in her tracks, her ears tuned to something she thought she’d heard.

  “There’s no need for violence, Fran,” George told her. “Just leave peaceably. We won’t tell the police you were even here.”

  “That’s a very pretty lie, George.”

  “Blackmail is one thing, Fran,” Kilgore said to his wife. “Murder is quite another. Let’s go.”

  “But your wife has already committed one murder,” Emma pointed out, raising her voice slightly and emphasizing the word murder. She kept her eyes pinned to Fran while her ears continued to hone in on the faint sounds she thought were coming from outside the room. “What’s three more?”

  “You’re not helping things, Emma,” Worth said, not looking at her but keeping his eyes on the gun.

  Emma was very thankful now that Granny had convinced Bijou to go outside. Unlike the four elderly people in the room with her, the dog would have heard the sound and would have given it away. Emma was sure someone else was in the house. Then she remembered that Grant was due to arrive. She could only hope her usually obtuse ex-hubby was savvy enough to realize something sinister was going on and wouldn’t make things worse.

  Kilgore’s eyes darted with anxiety. “I never killed anyone. She was alone on that.”

  Fran turned slightly toward Kilgore. “Shut up, you old fool.”

  “The police won’t care,” Emma said, trying to buy time for whoever it was to make their way to the study. If it was Grant, Emma hoped he was alone and hadn’t brought Carolyn and little Oscar with him.

  Doing as she was instructed earlier, Emma moved toward the sofa. When she neared George, she feigned a stumble over the fallen afghan in front of him and made eye contact, trying to convey confidence in the situation. She also took the opportunity to put her hands on his cane. Emma wasn’t sure what she was going to do with it, but it crossed her mind that she might be able to whack the gun from Fran’s shaky hand if things kicked into fast-forward without notice.

  It didn’t take long. Emma picked up muffled footsteps coming down the hall long before the four seniors in the room did.

  “What the hell!” Grant Whitecastle yelled as he reached the door to his father’s study. Everyone turned to look at him in surprise, except Emma. “Damn it, Emma, I thought I told you to stay away from my family.” It was obvious he hadn’t caught on to the situation at hand.

  “Grant,” his father said. “Shut up.”

  Grant ignored the order and continued yelling at Emma. “Do I have to get a restraining order against you?” He barged further into the room. In his anger, he bumped into Fran Hyland, setting her off-balance.

  Emma took her shot. Wielding George’s cane, she came at the tilting Fran like a banshee, screaming at the top of her lungs. Grant thought she was aiming at him and jumped to grab the cane. Emma’s interrupted blow grazed Fran’s arm. Fran let out a scream, and the gun went off. With a cry, Grant fell to the floor. Emma gave the now-screeching Fran another chop with the cane, and the gun came loose. She kicked it out of the way and shoved the wobbly Fran Hyland onto her backside, guarding her with the raised cane. Right after the shot, Worth scrambled to his feet and threw his lanky, eighty-year-old body at a surprised Mike Kilgore.

  “Milo,” Emma yelled into her phone earpiece as she drove out of Bel Air. She was driving like a bat out of hell, heading for the Santa Monica Airport. “I’m on my way to Catalina. Have you seen Tessa today?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “I think the guy who left her is on his way to Catalina.”

  “Curtis?”

  “Curtis was definitely a boat, not a person. The boat’s name was the Curtis Lee. But the guy who said he’d get help, then left her to die—I think he might be on his way to the island. It’s Paul Feldman.”

  “Paul Feldman killed her?”

  “Not exactly, but sort of. It’s a sad, disturbing story.”

  Emma gave her steering wheel a hard jerk, just missing the back end of the car in front of her when it decided to brake for no apparent reason. She was flying down the 405 Freeway, trying to make it to the airport in record time, and was thankful it was a Sunday afternoon and not a weekday. Fortunately, the Santa Monica Airport was much closer and much smaller than LA International. At the airport, a helicopter would be waiting to take her to Catalina. George Whitecastle had gotten on the phone and arranged it himself, saying the copter would be at the airport in fifteen minutes.

  Emma didn’t know for sure if Paul Feldman would head to Catalina. It was a hunch, one based on Worth Manning’s confession that Paul had mentioned it to him in the past few days, saying he felt the need to go back to the island for closure.

  “Please go down to the beach, Milo, and keep watch. Look for a rather short, slightly pudgy elderly man with a bald head and close gray beard. If he does go to Catalina, I don’t know if he’ll go to the beach or to where he left her.” Emma glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “I should be there in about thirty to forty-five minutes. Have Tracy meet me at the helicopter landing with a taxi while you stake out the beach.”

  “Should we call the police?”

  “I called Detective Tillman before I left the Whitecastles’. He’s going to notify the sheriff’s station on the island. And, Milo, Mr. Feldman is armed. I think he’s looking to do more harm to himself than others, but still be careful.”

  Barely slowing down, Emma made the turn onto the Bundy Drive South exit. “There’s a good chance Paul Feldman is going to or has committed suicide,” she continued. “I’m thinking his ghost might meet up with Tessa’s.” She paused again, her mind tripping over another thought. “Milo, will the suicide affect his spirit’s ability to manifest itself? I mean, in some books and movies, suicides seem to have ghost privileges stripped. Is that true?”

  “No, Emma, it’s not. It doesn’t matter how a person dies. What matters is their desire to return and be seen.”

  “If you do see Mr. Feldman,” she paused to swallow hard, “alive or dead, please try to hold him. I need to see him.”

  Finished with the call, she turned her attention to her driving. The airport was just a few minutes away.

  After restraining Fran Hyland and Mike Kilgore, Emma and Worth Manning had tied them both up with cording Emma found in the kitchen. George guarded them with the gun.

  Grant’s thigh had been grazed by the wayward bullet. There had been more blood than injury. He’d sat on the sofa with a towel against his wound, demanding to know what was going on and yelling at Emma that it was her fault that he’d nearly been killed. At one point, his father told him to shut up or he’d shoot him himself, and this time, it wouldn’t be his leg.

  Emma hadn’t told Detective Tillman about her going to Catalina or about what had happened at the Whitecastles’, only that Paul Feldman might be heading to the island or be there, and that she believed him to be involved in Tessa’s death. She wasn’t going to call him at all, but if she alerted the police, there might be a chance to stop Paul Feldman from killing himself.

  George was going to give Emma at least a thirty-minute head start, then he would call Detective Tillman himself and hand over Denise Dowd’s murderer, along with the full story about Tessa. They knew if they called before Emma was airborne, she might be stopped at the airport. She had to get to Catalina unimpeded. And they all knew that the police would never let her take off for Catalina until their questions were satisfied, which would take hours.

  When she got off the helicopter in Catalina, Tracy was waiting with a golf-cart taxi. Emma hopped aboard, and in minutes they were
standing on the beach with Milo.

  “Any sign of them?” Emma asked as soon as she arrived.

  The December ocean air was cool and damp. Emma was glad her jacket had been in the car and that she’d had the sense to grab it before boarding the helicopter.

  “None,” Milo told her. “And we’re all on the lookout. Even Granny and Sandy Sechrest.”

  Emma sat her weary body down on a bench. “I feel like I’ve lived a week in the past few hours.”

  Tracy came up with a cup of coffee and a sandwich. “Here, pal,” she said holding it out to Emma.

  Emma gladly took the coffee but turned down the food. “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”

  “You’re all pale and pasty,” Tracy observed. “Bet you haven’t eaten a thing all day.”

  Emma sighed. The last thing she remembered consuming was a cup of coffee shortly after she’d gotten out of bed. She’d been too nervous about her meeting with George to eat anything.

  Tracy pushed the sandwich at her again. “It’s cheese and grilled veggies on whole grain. Eat.”

  Obeying, Emma accepted the sandwich and took a bite. Her stomach did a happy dance, even if the rest of her didn’t care. After she ate, the three of them sat on the bench, keeping vigil in case Paul Feldman showed in one form or another. From time to time, Milo got up and paced up and down the beach, searching in other spots. A sheriff’s deputy was also keeping watch, mostly on them. Another deputy was scouting for Feldman around the island.

  “You know,” Milo said to Emma when he returned from one of his quick rounds, “if Feldman doesn’t want us to see him, we won’t.”

  “I know, but I think he will show himself, or at least Tessa will. She’ll let us know if he’s here.”

  “I hear you cracked the case,” Granny said, showing up next to the bench. “Knew you would.”

  “No luck finding Tessa?” Emma asked Granny.

  “None, but I did see that no-good Grant just now on the news.”

  Milo and Emma turned in unison to stare at Granny. Tracy turned her head in the same direction out of habit.

  Granny crossed her arms and scowled. “He’s saying he jumped in front of a bullet to save your life.”

  Emma stared at Granny in disbelief, then collected herself. “Of course, he’d say that.”

  Emma knew the truth would eventually come out, but honestly didn’t care if it did or not. She went back to watching the beach near the pier. When her cell phone rang, she jumped. It was Phil. Emma’s heart swelled at the sight of his name on the display.

  “Saw the news,” he said, instead of saying hello.

  “You mean my hero ex-husband?”

  “The current story is that it was a home invasion at the Whitecastles’ and that Grant took the bullet for you.” Phil paused. “My legal nose tells me there’s another, truer version, especially since Milo called me right after you called him.”

  “I’ll tell you all the details one day, but right now I’m on ghost watch.”

  “You can tell me tonight. I’ll be on the island soon. I’m taking a copter over from San Diego.”

  “But you hate helicopters.”

  “Sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Just do me a big favor, Emma Whitecastle, and don’t talk to the police until I get there. Promise?”

  Emma’s attention was diverted when Milo gently nudged her in the ribs. As she looked up, he pointed to a spot several yards away. It was then Emma saw a bikini-clad ghost coming into view near the ocean’s edge.

  “Gotta go, counselor,” Emma said into her phone, keeping her eyes on Tessa. “See you soon.”

  The ghost of Tessa North smiled and waved when she spotted Emma. In a second, she was standing next to their bench. She was alone.

  “I’m so glad you came back,” she told Emma with a big smile. “Your friends have been very nice to me.”

  “Tessa,” Emma began, her voice somber. “The Curtis Lee is never coming back to the island. You need to understand that. It was sold by Worth Manning many years ago.”

  “You know Worth?”

  “Yes, I do. And George Whitecastle and Paul Feldman. I’ve known them a long time, and I think that somehow, some way, you knew that or sensed it when you first came to me, even if you didn’t know it consciously.”

  Tessa tilted her head in her confused-puppy way.

  “I know what happened to you, Tessa,” Emma continued. “I know what happened on the Curtis Lee, and I know Paul Feldman told you he’d return with help.”

  “He told me he loved me.” The flirty ghost did a small pirouette in the sand. “Paul was so sweet. He had a big crush on me but was always a gentleman, unlike the others.”

  “I was no gentleman, Tessa.”

  The voice came from behind their bench. Turning, everyone—ghosts and the living, except for Tracy—spotted the ghost of Paul Feldman. Emma let out a strangled cry, knowing he’d succeeded in taking his own life. Milo reached over and took her hand to comfort her.

  “I left you to die, Tessa,” Feldman’s spirit said, addressing the ghost in the bikini. “What I did was unspeakable.”

  Tessa approached him. “But you’re here now, Paul. You returned, just as you said you would.”

  Emma got up from the bench and faced Feldman’s spirit. Heavy tears streamed down her face. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Feldman. I had no idea when this all started that this would be the outcome.”

  Feldman smiled at her. “It’s okay, Emma.”

  “No, it’s not,” she sobbed. “I wish you’d come to me before…before…”

  “No worries, Emma. Really, dear. I did what I felt I needed to do. I have no regrets about my decision. My only regret is what happened years ago.” He looked at Tessa, keeping his eyes on the young ghost as he spoke. “For the first time in forty years, I’m at peace.”

  Even without knowing what was being said to Emma, Tracy got up and wrapped her arms around her. Emma clung to her and cried.

  “Hush now, Emma,” the ghost of Sandy Sechrest said, appearing on the other side of the bench. “You did a good thing.”

  Inconsolable, Emma shook her head back and forth in disagreement. “Because of me, Mr. Feldman is dead, and the senator and George may go to prison. My own daughter’s grandfather may die in prison because of what I’ve done.”

  “No, Emma,” Milo stepped close and whispered. “George Whitecastle will be dead before Christmas—from the cancer.”

  Emma let out a painful cry. Tracy held her tighter.

  Granny brushed her hand against Emma’s face. “Folks have to live or die by the consequences of their actions.”

  The ghost of Paul Feldman came closer. “The three of us have been in prison for forty years, Emma. You’ve set us free; always remember that. And you’ve set Tessa here free, too.”

  Emma remained wrapped in the arms of her best friend until Milo tapped her on the shoulder. He pointed toward the edge of the beach.

  She looked up just in time to see the spirit of Tessa North walking into the ocean hand in hand with the ghost of Paul Feldman.

  The End

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Contents

  About_the_Author

  Title_Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight


  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One