Ghost in the Polka Dot Bikini

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  Like Emma’s father, Kelly had made peace with the unusual dynamics that had come into their family, and she agreed to keep it a private matter as much as possible. But Sandy Sechrest had picked up on it while watching Emma’s show. Was it because she, too, could see spirits, or because Emma unconsciously gave off a certain vibe about it? Either way, she decided to not make any confessions to George Whitecastle just yet about communing with ghosts.

  “I was doing some research on ghosts that haunt Catalina Island, and her name came up as a possibility, along with Natalie Wood’s. Of course, I already knew about Natalie Wood drowning just off the island.”

  George’s mouth arched downward. “Yes, that was a very tragic accident. Left us all stunned.”

  “When I looked into the names of other possible spirits, the name Tessa North came up. Further research brought me to her acting career.”

  “What did she look like? Do you know?”

  “I believe she was in her early twenties, very pretty, with a girl-next-door appeal and a great figure. She wore her blond hair in a flip.”

  George’s mouth changed from downturned to a half smile. “Wish I could help you, Emma,” he said with a slight shrug. “But you just described two-thirds of the young girls who flocked to LA in the sixties. Take away the flip and you’ve described half of those who flock here now. Pretty girls with dreams of stardom are as common as dirt, no matter what the decade.”

  “I knew it was a long shot, but it never hurts to ask.” Emma looked over at George. He looked exhausted. “I should go and let you rest.” She got up and gave George a goodbye peck on his cheek and Bijou several pats on his old head.

  “Please come back more often, Emma,” the old man said with genuine affection. “I miss you. So does Celeste. Come back and visit as much as you like. You’re still family as far as we’re concerned.”

  Her eye grazed over several groupings of framed photos scattered around the room. Photos of the rich and famous were clumped together with family pictures. She was in many of them, letting her know that George meant what he said about her still being family.

  She smiled down at him. “I will, George. I promise.”

  Emma was almost to the door to the study when another thought occurred to her. She turned around. George had already returned his attention to the TV, using the remote to turn the sound back on.

  “George, one last question, if you don’t mind.”

  He muted the TV again. “Anything, dear.”

  She took a couple of steps toward him. “In all your trips to Catalina, do you recall a man named Curtis who used to go over there on his yacht? He might also have been involved with the film industry in some capacity.”

  George didn’t answer right away, but Emma was sure his eyes went wide for an instant before melting into indifference. “Curtis? Don’t recall anyone by that name. Curtis what?”

  “Not sure. It was just a name that kept coming up in connection with Tessa. Could be his first name, or maybe his last. I only know he used to go over to Catalina on his boat in the sixties.”

  “Sorry, Em, but I’m drawing another blank.”

  Emma started to leave, but George held up a hand, stopping her. “You say this Tessa girl is a ghost that haunts Catalina Island?”

  “That’s what I’ve heard.” Emma chose her words carefully. “A book on Catalina spirits mentions her. She supposedly died on the island in the late sixties.”

  Again, George Whitecastle’s tired, runny eyes expanded for a split second, as if the tidbit of information had sent a small shock through his system. He turned his face away a moment. When he faced Emma again, he was composed. “Ghosts.” He said the word with a half sneer. “I suppose that accounts for that pin on your sweater.”

  Emma’s hand instinctively went to the little diamond ghost pin. She’d worn it every day since Phil had given it to her. “This?” She laughed, again stepping carefully across the thin ice of half-truths. “Phil gave me this last week. It’s a little joke between us.”

  The old man remained silent as he searched her face. “Emma, do you actually believe the hooey you discuss on that show of yours?”

  Emma put her hands on her slim hips and narrowed her eyes at him in mild defiance. “George, in all honesty, there’s probably less hooey on my show than on Grant’s.”

  George Whitecastle tilted his head back and laughed. The sound was weak but steady before changing to a cough. Emma stepped up and again helped him with his water.

  “Of that, Emma,” he said when he’d composed himself, “I have no doubt.”

  “Do you think your father-in-law is telling the truth?” Milo asked as he handed Emma a mug of steaming tea.

  After leaving the large and stately Whitecastle home, Emma drove to the small, compact residence of Milo Ravenscroft. They’d made an appointment to go over the information Emma had gathered so far on Tessa.

  Although Jackie the Wonder Assistant had been diligent in her quest for information on Tessa North, aka Theresa Nowicki, she’d hit a brick wall. Except for the information on IMDB, the girl didn’t seem to exist. But Jackie wasn’t deterred; just the opposite. She was now on the hunt. She’d done searches on the name Nowicki in Nebraska and came up with a boatload of hits. She’d also run checks on several of the women who had appeared in various movies with Tessa and who were about the same age at the time. Several were still in the Los Angeles area, and a couple were still acting. Armed with the two lists, she’d called Emma on Monday afternoon.

  The two women decided to split the chores. Jackie would follow the leads in Nebraska, hoping to find someone related to Tessa. Emma would tackle the list of actresses. After calling three of the names on her list, Emma finally connected with a woman who remembered Tessa. She agreed to meet Emma on Wednesday morning at her office in Century City. Emma continued going down the names, calling one after the other. She struck out on four others and left voicemails for the remaining two names.

  “No, I don’t, Milo. At least not the full truth.” Emma wrapped her hands around the sturdy mug of herbal tea and drew it to her, sniffing the aromatic blend with appreciation. “At first I didn’t think anything of it, but when I mentioned Curtis, I’m sure George went momentarily bug-eyed.”

  “So you think he knows this guy?”

  “Could be, or maybe it triggered a memory. For decades, the rich and powerful of Hollywood did a lot of partying in Catalina, and George was probably in the thick of it. In fact, I remember Grant saying something a few times about his dad being quite a playboy in his day.”

  “Like father, like son?”

  Emma thought about that. “I always did think that Grant was trying to live up to his father’s fame and reputation. George was larger than life. Still is, even though he’s near death. He cast quite a shadow over his family, especially Grant.”

  A short silence fell between them until Emma put the conversation back on track. “When I mentioned something to George about Tessa dying on the island in the late sixties, I received the same quick, surprised look as when I mentioned Curtis.”

  “But he didn’t say anything specific about it?”

  “Nope. Just held on to his story that he had no idea who she was and that he knew no one named Curtis.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yes. And each time, he turned his eyes away from me when he made his denial. Wouldn’t most people continue staring in surprise?”

  “Probably.” Milo took a drink of tea. “Unless they have something to hide or are afraid of their eyes giving them away.”

  “Exactly.” She took a sip of her own tea. “But that’s not the real reason why I think George is lying.”

  Milo straightened his glasses and looked at her with eager expectation, waiting for the next tidbit of the puzzle. He found the machinations of the living much more baffling than the activities of the hereafter.

  “When I was leaving the house, a car drove up to the Whitecastle’s. Paul Feldman, one of George’s closest
friends and longtime colleagues, got out. He was the producer on that beach film Tessa did with George.”

  “Is that you, Emma?” Paul Feldman had said as soon as he spotted her heading for her own vehicle. He approached her with a wide smile. In his arms was a large white paper bag from which drifted a mouthwatering aroma. He shifted the bag so that it was cradled in the crook of his left arm and held out his right hand in a warm greeting. “What a pleasant surprise. I haven’t seen you for a very long time.”

  She shook his offered hand and returned the smile. “I was just visiting George.”

  “I’m sure he appreciated it. He’s rather homebound these days, the poor guy.” Feldman shook his head. “Sometimes I think the inactivity is killing him faster than the cancer.”

  Unlike the tall, stately George Whitecastle, Paul Feldman was a short, plump man with a bald head and close-trimmed gray beard. His rosy face and perky nose made him look almost elfin. While both men were in their late seventies, Paul Feldman was the picture of good health.

  “It’s nice that you drop by to keep him company, Mr. Feldman.” Emma leaned forward and sniffed the white bag. “Is that bag from Nate’n Al’s?” Nate’n Al’s was an old-fashioned and famous restaurant and deli in Beverly Hills. Many a show-business deal had been brokered in its vinyl booths.

  Paul Feldman laughed. “You know how George loves their food. I always bring matzo ball soup, pastrami, and corned beef when I visit. And pickles. Lots of pickles.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink. “You might call me his dealer.”

  “I take it Celeste doesn’t know about this?”

  “Oh, she knows. Not happy about it, but she knows.”

  “Is it okay for him to eat this stuff?”

  Feldman shrugged. “Considering his condition, what does it matter? It’s one of the few pleasures he has left. That, and taking my money playing cards.”

  Emma smiled. As Feldman turned to make his way to the front door, she stopped him. “Mr. Feldman, you produced several of George’s films over the years, didn’t you?”

  The pleasant man stopped and turned. “Why, yes; in fact, I produced his very first film. We were both greenhorns back then.”

  “Do you remember a young actress in the late sixties by the name of Tessa North? She was in Beach Party Prom.”

  Before Emma had all the words out, the deli bag nearly fell to the ground. It was only Feldman’s impressive reflexes that saved it in the nick of time. “Look at me,” he said shaking his head as he secured his valuable package. “Such butterfingers. George would never forgive me.”

  Emma was sure the fumble had less to do with Feldman’s grip and more to do with the surprise of hearing Tessa’s name. Next to George’s display of barely discernable shock, Paul Feldman’s reaction was an 8.0 on the Richter scale.

  “So, you do remember her?”

  Feldman studied Emma a few seconds before answering. “Yes, I remember Tessa. Why?”

  Emma gave him her spiel about researching in Catalina and coming across her name.

  “A ghost? Are you serious?” There was disbelief in his tone, but not mockery. Before she could answer, he added, “Oh, but of course—George told me you were doing a show on the paranormal. He said it’s quite good.” It was high praise coming from either George or Paul, two giants in the industry.

  Feldman shifted the large bag in his arms and held on tight. “I always wondered what happened to that girl. She was quite a beauty and very sweet.”

  “Considering it was forty years ago, you seem to remember her well.”

  He laughed, then leaned forward. The smell of warm deli meat surrounded them. “To be honest, I had a bit of a crush on Tessa. Admiration from afar, you might say. But she was very young, and I was very married.”

  “Do you remember anyone hanging around Tessa by the name of Curtis?”

  Feldman ran his fingers over his beard. Emma wondered if the gesture was to steady his nerves or to help his thought process. “Sorry, can’t say that I do. Why? Is he a ghost, too?”

  Emma laughed. “No. Just a name that came up in connection with hers.”

  Milo put his mug down on the scuffed round table between them. They were seated in the large dark room he used for client meetings and séances. Around the room were various shapes and sizes of unlit candles and stacks of books. The books were not neatly filed onto book shelves, like in George’s office, but mostly stacked on the floor in short, crooked towers, some leaning precariously.

  Emma studied her mentor and smiled. Since she’d met him, Milo had spruced up his image. Instead of bent, thick glasses, he now wore fashionable ones. His hair was better cut. His clothing was updated but still casual. There was even a slight spring in his step.

  “You look rested and relaxed, Milo. The trip to Chicago obviously agreed with you.”

  “Yes, it was very enjoyable.” He smiled, but it was inward, not directed to Emma.

  “So, when were you and Tracy going to tell me?”

  Milo’s face could have rivaled a ripe tomato. “Tracy?”

  Tracy Bass was Emma’s best friend and a professor at UCLA. It was Tracy who’d strong-armed Emma into attending the group séance at which the two of them had met Milo and Granny had made her first contact with Emma.

  “Tracy went to Chicago over Thanksgiving, too—to see her family.”

  Milo shook his head in defeat. He wasn’t a good liar and knew it. “I told her we should tell you, but she wanted to wait and see how things went with her family first.”

  Emma knew Tracy seldom introduced her lovers to her family. This meant the two of them were serious. Tracy’s family were a well-to-do, ultra-conservative, and uptight bunch who considered Tracy a brick short of a load, in spite of her academic achievements. Emma could just imagine how Milo, a nerdy psychic, would go over with them. Thinking about it made her want to laugh, but she kept a rein on her giggles. On the other hand, Milo was probably the type of man they would expect Tracy to be involved with, even if not the type they would choose for her themselves.

  “And how did it go?”

  “Well.” Milo said the word in a short release of breath. “I felt like a bull on the auction block for stud services. A skinny bull of questionable heritage, with one testicle missing.”

  This time, Emma couldn’t hold it in. She laughed so hard tea ran out of her nose. Milo plucked a few tissues from a nearby box. “There’s a skill I didn’t know you possessed,” he said, handing them to her.

  “Sorry, Milo.” Emma wiped her nose and eyes and tried to compose herself, but the giggles didn’t want to stop.

  “I guess Tracy’s plan was if I passed muster with them, then she’d tell you. We’ve been friends since that trip to Julian but only recently became involved romantically.” He took a long sip of his tea. “I guess the jury’s still out in Chicago.”

  Emma shook her head. “It’s not about what they think, Milo. Trust me on this. The test was if you didn’t run screaming from the relationship after you met her family, then she’d feel safe to tell me and others.”

  Milo chuckled. “They were rather intimidating, to say the least. Her younger brother actually called me a freak to my face.”

  Emma laughed again. “Now you know why Tracy lives here and hardly ever visits them. She came to California for college and never looked back. Even my straight-laced family seems bohemian compared to hers.”

  “It was a true test by fire, and I have the blisters to prove it.”

  “But you didn’t run screaming, did you?”

  He gave her a nod filled with conviction. “Hardly. I’d slay dragons for Tracy.”

  Emma’s heart swelled at the thought of Tracy finding a man who adored her as Milo obviously did. She’d known something was up with Tracy for the past six months or so. She’d been secretive, and Emma had guessed that she might be seeing a new lover. She also had seen the early chemistry between Milo and Tracy but didn’t think it had moved beyond friendship and a common interest in the pa
ranormal. Tracy did not have any skills when it came to such things, but she was very interested in the field and taught a class on the subject at the university.

  “You two going to yak all day, or are we going to help Tessa?”

  Milo turned a big smile toward the ghost of Granny Apples. “Hey, Granny.”

  Neither he nor Emma were surprised to see her, but they had hoped she wouldn’t be alone.

  “Where’s Tessa?” Emma asked, pulling on one of the shawls Milo kept handy for clients against the cold of the spirits. “I thought you were going to bring her here today.”

  The ghost set her face into its familiar scowl. “I said I’d try to bring her. Can’t help it if the girl won’t budge.”

  “She still afraid of missing this Curtis guy?” Milo asked.

  “Stubborn as a goat, that girl is.” Granny paced the room, not in long strides but with graceful glides like an ice skater. “I tried to explain to her that she wouldn’t miss nuthin’. That we were trying to help her find Curtis. Even that Sandy woman tried to convince her to come with me.”

  Emma sighed. “It’s okay, Granny. We knew she might not be persuaded to come today.” Her eyes followed the ghost as it crisscrossed the room. “Would you stay still, Granny? You’re making me dizzy.”

  The ghost stopped on a dime, spun around, and disappeared. “Just give a holler,” her disembodied voice told them, “when you have something useful to say.”

  Emma shook her head. “If Tessa’s stubborn as a goat, then Granny’s a mule.”

  “I heard that!” a voice called out of thin air.

  “You were supposed to hear it, Granny,” Emma called back.

  “Ladies, ladies,” interrupted Milo. “We’ll never be able to help Tessa with all this bickering.” He turned to Emma. “What exactly did you find out from your father-in-law?”

  “Nothing more than what I already told you. He says he doesn’t remember anyone named Tessa North or Theresa Nowicki. But he also said he hardly remembers any of his extras from movies.” From the change in the air, Emma knew Granny had departed. She dropped the shawl from her shoulders.