The Silent Ghost (11 page)

Emma gave it some thought. “Yes, it is, in theory. But I’m not so sure it’s real. Last night, except for me, the other two people Milo said had…well, visitors, is how he put it…were desperately looking for that contact. They attended the séance hoping, even praying, that someone they loved would speak to them from the grave. It would have been easy for them to grasp at any straw.”

“But what about you?”

“What about me?” Emma fidgeted in her seat. “I went to keep Tracy company. For me, it was an evening with a friend, nothing more. Maybe Milo was trying to make a believer out of me, to rope me into his scam. Considering it was fifty-five dollars a head last night, it really is quite a scam.”

“Are you sure that’s the only reason you went?”

Her father had a knack for digging with questions like some folks worked with shovels. Emma always thought he should have been a psychiatrist instead of a surgeon. When she looked away without responding, he continued.

“Emma, I know things have been very unsettling since you and Grant split up. Your child is about to move away from home. You don’t have a career or real purpose in life, and you’re floundering a bit. Maybe, in some way, you went along with Tracy to look for answers, perhaps even a focus to your life.”

This time, Emma looked directly at her father. “Really, Dad, does that sound like me?”

Paul Miller shrugged with frustration. His daughter had both hardened and softened during her marriage to Grant Whitecastle. She was more cynical these days, but she also lacked the spunky
backbone she’d had growing up. He missed the inner strength that used to glow from within her like a candle in a jack-o’-lantern.

“Hard to say, Emma. You used to be much more determined and focused than you are now. I know you’re hurting, honey, but it’s time to move on.”

“You trying to get rid of me, Dad?” Her tone was joking, but in her heart Emma was a bit scared.

“No, honey, far from it. You’re welcome to live with us as long as you like. You know that. We love having you here.” He paused and studied his daughter before speaking again. “But I think it would be healthier for you to get on with your life. You are far too young to be holed up here with us old folks. Travel. Buy a home. Find a career. As soon as a fair settlement is reached, sign the divorce papers and get on with your life. Kick Grant Whitecastle to the curb like he deserves and be done with him.”

“You sound like Tracy.”

“Tracy is a smart and charming woman. I’m very glad you two are spending time together again.”

Emma laughed lightly. “I’m not so sure Mother agrees with you. I think she’s afraid I’ll adopt Tracy’s bohemian ways.” It was true. Elizabeth loved Tracy Bass like a second daughter but didn’t understand why Tracy preferred vintage secondhand shops to Saks.

“And I think Tracy rubbing off on you a little wouldn’t hurt.” He smiled at her. “And that’s a doctor’s opinion.”

Emma and her father sat in silence, enjoying the evening. Archie brought over a tennis ball and dropped it at Paul’s feet. Paul picked it up and tossed it, and the dog scampered off in the direction of the throw. Archie brought it back, and Paul threw it again.
After another throw, Paul decided it was time to tell his daughter about Ish Reynolds.

“Your ancestors did come from Julian, Emma.”

“So it’s true?”

He tossed the ball again for Archie. “Yes, your mother’s people were originally from Kansas but settled in Julian in the mid to late 1800s.”

“Is that what agitated Mother at dinner? That I found out?”

“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…

T
HE 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 with 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.