4 The Silent Ghost

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  “Partly, yes.”

  Paul Miller sat forward in his chair and studied his daughter, locking eyes with her. When Archie came back with the ball, Dr. Miller patted the animal and gently ordered the dog to lie down. Archie obeyed.

  “How much do you remember about the time following Paulie’s death?”

  Paulie was Paul, Jr., Emma’s older brother. He had been hit and killed by a car after dashing into the street to get a wayward ball. It was a tragic accident, both for their family and for the man whose car had struck Paulie. Emma had been nine years old when it happened. Paulie was eleven.

  “I remember how difficult it was on Mother—on all of us, but especially Mother.” Emma swallowed. “Mother always blamed herself, didn’t she?”

  “Yes. That’s nonsense, of course. Elizabeth was and is the best of mothers. It just happened so fast. No one could have prevented it except for Paulie. He was old enough to know not to run out into the street.”

  Emma watched as a gray film covered her father’s face like plastic wrap. She knew her parents had never gotten over the death of their son, no matter how many years had passed.

  “But what does Julian have to do with Paulie’s death?”

  “About six or seven months after Paulie died, your mother got it in her head to try and contact him.”

  “Contact him? You mean Mother went to a séance?”

  Paul shifted in his chair. “Your mother went to many séances and spent a great deal of money, most of it on charlatans, trying to reach your brother. She was obsessed with it—needed to know how he was and to beg for his forgiveness—but nothing happened. Then, almost a year to the date of Paulie’s death, she went to someone new: a young man recommended to her by someone she’d met at another meeting.”

  “Let me guess. Mother found Paulie’s spirit there like a pair of sunglasses waiting to be claimed at the lost and found?” Emma snorted softly and got up to clear the dessert dishes. A slight chill wafted through the patio. She was ready to go inside and forget about spirits and séances.

  Paul put a hand on his daughter’s arm. “Please sit down, Emma,” her father gently ordered. “This is important.” Emma stopped fussing with the dishes and sat back down.

  “Your mother never spoke to Paulie, but she was assured by another spirit that he was fine. It made all the difference to your mother. It brought her back to us.”

  “Another spirit?”

  “Yes. Another spirit.”

  “And you believe this, Dad?” Emma stared at her father, her mouth hanging open like a marionette with cut strings.

  “Like I said, there are a lot of strange things going on in the world, some we can see and explain, some we cannot. But I do know that it brought a lot of comfort to your mother and helped us get our lives back on track.”

  “Well, that’s a good thing, no matter how it came about. And did Mother stop going to séances after that?”

  “Yes, she did, but according to your mother, the spirit who helped her did not go away. She came to your mother over and over, following Elizabeth and speaking to her.”

  Emma’s eyes grew large. “Dad, that’s scary. That’s psychotic.”

  “It certainly could be taken that way.” Paul sighed, knowing the toughest part of the story was coming. “Finally, months later, I went to the man who had run the séance—a man named Milo.” He emphasized the name and watched as his daughter’s blue eyes widened further in disbelief. “I asked him to intercede in whatever way he could. We ended up having a private session, just he and I, during which he asked the spirit to leave your mother alone. And apparently it worked, or seemed to. Elizabeth’s never had a problem since, but she’s very sensitive about it, as you saw at dinner.”

  Emma’s mind buzzed with this new information, whining and whirring until her ears hurt. Her mother had once had a spirit, or ghost, following her around? Her father had gone to a séance to ask the ghost to stop? Her parents were two of the most grounded and intelligent people she knew. It hardly seemed possible. And what did Milo have to do with this? There was no way he could have known who her parents were. Maybe it wasn’t the same Milo, though she knew it had to be.

  Emma cleared her throat and rolled her eyes, a habit of Kelly’s she hated. “So who was this ghost, Dad? Did you get her business card?”

  Paul let out another tired sigh. It was difficult to tell his daughter about this, but he knew she’d have to know, especially now. Whether she believed it or not would be up to her. “The spirit who helped your mother with Paulie was from Julian. An ancestor, supposedly Elizabeth’s great-great-grand-mother.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  Paul shook his head and pushed on. “Her name was Ish Reynolds. She was hung for killing her husband around the turn of the century.”

  Emma didn’t know what to think or believe. It would take time to digest it all and come to a logical explanation. Lost in her thoughts, she ran a finger around her dessert plate. She raised the finger to her mouth and licked off the crumbs while she processed everything her father had just told her.

  “One more thing, honey.” Her father got up to leave. “Ish—the ghost from Julian?—her nickname was Granny Apples. She was famous for her pie.” He winked at his daughter. “Guess which kind?”

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Sue Ann Jaffarian’s second Ghost of Granny Apples Mystery…

  GHOST IN THE POLKA DOT BIKINI

  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, pulled her jacket together and zipped it up close under her chin before hovering 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. Kelly, Emma’s daughter who was attending Harvard, 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, both a little older than Kelly, 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.

  Catalina had been Phil’s idea. Emma had been to the vacation spot located just twenty-six 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 showbiz friends. When Phil first proposed the trip, he’d booked them at the Inn on Mt. Ida, but Emma didn’t want to stay anywhere she’d stayed with Grant. As Phil ticked off the names of the best 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. But he hadn’t been right about why Emma felt the way she did.

  “Are you sure you’re over him?” Phil had asked, the vein in his neck as taut as pulled rope, bracing himself 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, but 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 w
ith their toddler son, Oscar, had assaulted Emma from every supermarket checkout stand. 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 with his daughter, even lost the respect of his own parents. He’d pretty much flipped them all the bird—in public.

  Kelly had been reluctant to attend her father’s wedding, but in the end she did, reporting back that even though it looked like Hollywood had turned out for the circus event, it was more out of deep-seated support and respect for Grant’s parents, George and Celeste Whitecastle.

  George Whitecastle was a multi-award-winning director and producer who counted Clint Eastwood and George Lucas among his closest friends. George’s parents, both now dead, had been Hollywood legends. And Celeste had been a famous starlet, known for her beauty and grace. She’d even been dubbed the next Grace Kelly. And, like the late Princess of Monaco, Celeste had given up her budding career for love and family.

  Emma knew that Kelly’s summation was probably correct—that most of the A-list guests at the wedding had been there for George and Celeste. Even though Emma was no longer married to Grant, she was still on the fringe of show business, having her own modest talk show on television, and gossip managed to filter down to her. Grant Whitecastle was respected for his runaway ratings, not for himself. The minute those ratings dipped, he’d be kicked aside like a pair of old, worn sneakers, just as he had kicked Emma aside.

  No, Emma was over Grant Whitecastle. She’d stopped loving him long before the divorce was final. What she tried to explain to Phil Bowers was that she wanted to make new and happier memories with him. Many of her past stays on Catalina had not been pleasant ones. Even on the small island, Grant had managed to cat around, and many of those luxury hotel rooms had been scenes of arguments and despair. In the end, she’d finally agreed to the Hotel Metropole, where Phil booked them into a lovely mini suite with a balcony facing the ocean.

  Emma took an appreciative sip of her coffee and studied the ghost playing in the surf. She’d first seen the spirit yesterday. It had been Thanksgiving morning, their first morning on the island. After breakfast, she and Phil had gone for a morning stroll to explore the beachfront shop windows before the village of Avalon was fully awake. The ghost of the young woman had been sitting on one of the tiled benches, her eyes closed, her pretty face turned toward the slow-rising sun as if soaking up rays at high noon in July. As they had passed by, the ghost had opened her eyes and looked at Emma with a frank curiosity as solid as the bench on which she sat. She said nothing, but several steps later, when Emma looked over her shoulder, the ghost was still staring after them.

  Catalina supposedly had many ghosts in residence, the most famous being that of Natalie Wood. The actress had drowned while yachting off Two Harbors, the other main town on the island. The accident had occurred over Thanksgiving weekend in 1981, and since then many people have claimed they’ve seen the ghost of the popular movie star walking the beach. While on the island, Emma planned to do some research into the local spirits and legends for a segment on Catalina for her weekly television talk show on paranormal theories and activities. Catalina’s rich paranormal history dated back to its original Indian inhabitants and included colorful stories about the Chicago Cubs baseball team, who used the island as its spring training camp for nearly thirty years, and the golden era of Hollywood, when movie stars like Clark Gable and Errol Flynn considered it their playground.

  Emma was fairly new to the world of spirits and ghosts, only discovering her ability to see and speak with them last year when the ghost of her great-great-great grand-mother, Ish Reynolds, better known as Granny Apples, had come to her for help to prove her innocence in the death of her husband, Jacob. At first skeptical, Emma reluctantly embraced her ability to see the dead and helped Granny. It was during her investigation into Granny’s death that she’d met Phil Bowers. Shortly after, she was offered a chance to host the talk show—the Whitecastle name, no doubt, giving as much, if not more, weight to the producer’s decision about hiring her than her abilities.

  The show, which aired Thursdays opposite Grant’s daily talk show, was doing well and had a solid following after its first short season. It was on hiatus now but had been picked up for another run with more episodes. Unlike Grant’s show, Emma’s did not pander to sensationalism, gossip, or tacky subjects but instead featured lively debates involving experts, scientists, and skeptics, as well as historical data and stories. And not only did it cover the world of spirits, but other fields of paranormal study as well. Her show, simply called The Whitecastle Report, was well respected for its research and even-handed presentation of its subjects. It was a reputation Emma took great pride in—and great pains to protect.

  As for her own paranormal talents, even though Emma saw ghosts all the time, she kept her personal abilities out of the limelight as much as possible. To her relief, spirits didn’t crowd around her like a swarm of pesky flies. Usually, they just went about their business. Sometimes they took casual note of her, and sometimes they interacted with her. Since yesterday morning, Emma had seen the young, bikini-wearing ghost several times, including during Thanksgiving dinner at the country club, where the spirit, dressed in her flirty dotted and ruffled bathing suit, had flitted from table to table unnoticed while guests dined on turkey and pumpkin pie. The spirit hadn’t spoken to Emma yet, just studied her with a playful interest, like a puppy with a tilted head.

  It had been thoughts of the ghost that had given Emma a restless night and beckoned her outside at sunrise.

  As the darkness turned gunmetal gray, the ghost continued to play in the surf. Her image was hazy, like a column of smoke molded into the shape of a woman. She’d been blond in life, her figure curvy, with large breasts, a tiny waist, and a sweetheart bottom. However she had died, it’d been while wearing the bikini; thus, she was forever clad. And she had died young, possibly in her mid to late twenties.

  When the ghost turned and looked toward the town, Emma raised a hand and gave the spirit a friendly wave. The ghost smiled and waved back, totally untroubled about being seen. Turning back toward the sea, she waved again before disappearing into the waves lapping at the pier pilings.

  “Brrrr,” a familiar whispery voice said from behind Emma. “Makes me cold as a witch’s titty just looking at her.”

  Emma continued looking at the spot where the young spirit had disappeared. “You’re a ghost, Granny. You don’t feel cold.”

  “But I remember it. Felt it plenty in my life. Hunger, too. There were winters in the cabin, didn’t know which would claim us first before spring, the cold or starvation.”

  As a shiver went through Emma, she took a big drink of her coffee. Usually she could tell when Granny or another spirit was near by a sudden chill in the air, but in the cold of the damp sea air, Granny’s arrival had gone unnoticed.

  “You know that ghost, Granny? The one just now on the beach?” She turned to look at the spirit of Ish Reynolds, the woman who’d been known as Granny Apples because of her expert pie baking.

  Just as the young ghost was bound for eternity to wear a bikini, Granny Apples would always be dressed in pioneer clothing consisting of a long-sleeved blouse and long, full skirt. Granny had died over a hundred years ago. She had been a tiny but strong woman with braided hair circling her head like a crown and a pinched face weathered by years of working out-of-doors. Granny had been only forty-one years old when she died, but the hard life and the attitude of her times made her seem older.

  “Can’t say that I do,” the ghost answered, keeping her face to the sea.

  “She keeps appearing to me. I think she wants something.”

  “Has she spoken?”

  “Not yet. She just watches me in a friendly manner, almost like she’s trying to remember me from somewhere.”


  “Maybe she’s an old schoolmate who’s passed on.”

  Emma swallowed some more hot coffee. “No, I don’t think so. From her appearance, I’d say she might have died sometime in the sixties. That’s the nineteen sixties,” Emma clarified, tossing Granny an impish grin.

  The ghost pursed her lips in annoyance. “I ken what you mean. They didn’t wear bathing costumes like that in my day.”

  “Did you notice her hairstyle? The way it’s teased on top, with the ends curled upward? That was called a flip. And her bathing suit looks a bit old-fashioned, with the polka dots and ruffles.”

  Granny crossed her arms. “Humph, glad I was dressed when I passed. Hate to think of spending eternity with my backside hanging out like that.”

  Granny’s observation caught Emma’s attention. She smiled, glad she hadn’t yet met any ghosts who’d died in the nude.

  The town of Avalon was tucked into a crescent-shaped bay on Catalina Island. The main street that ran along the beachfront was appropriately named Crescent. High hills stood on either side of the bay like sentries. Daylight crept over one hill, while fog rolled over the opposite one. They met in the middle like tenuous lovers, shrouding the sea in a hazy veil. Palm trees along the beach were ringed with tiny lights, and many of the shopfronts and hotels already had their Christmas lights up and lit. At night, it had been magical walking along the festive beach hand in hand with Phil. This morning, the lights faded into the swelling dawn, handing the baton of a new day off to the sun.

  Both behind and in front of Emma, the town was starting to stir. Ahead of her, people staying on the numerous boats and yachts moored in the bay were waking. She caught sight of a bright yellow rubber dinghy making its way from one boat to the pier like a duckling swimming off on its own for the first time. On the long pier that housed several tourist businesses and restaurants, she could make out people going about the chore of opening for the day. Along Crescent, a few folks were out for early morning strolls or heading to work. Behind her, she heard the soft thunk of metal against pavement, followed by a gentle swoosh. Turning, she saw a man, bundled in jacket and gloves, sweeping the street and sidewalk with a broom and caddy, moving deliberately along Crescent, scanning for wayward trash and debris. Catalina was very clean, and its citizens took great pride in keeping it that way. It was one of the things Emma had always enjoyed about the island.