The Silent Ghost (12 page)

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.

“Mighty beautiful place.”

Emma started. She’d almost forgotten about Granny. The ghost was perched on the far edge of her bench, still looking out to sea.

“Never saw the ocean til I was dead.”

“Never?”

The question surprised both Emma and Granny. Swinging their heads in unison to their left, they saw the young ghost—the woman from the beach—standing just a few feet away. In addition to her bikini, she wore a small bow clipped to the right side of her hair—nothing else. It was the first time Emma had seen her so close or heard her voice.

“Came from Kansas,” Granny continued, as if she spoke to this new spirit every day. “Settled in the mountains once we got to California. That’s where the gold was, so that’s where my man stayed put.”

“I’d just
die
if I couldn’t go to the beach.” Through the ghostly whisper, Emma discerned a young voice that held an almost childlike quality. She changed her estimation of the woman’s age at
death to be her early twenties. “Growing up, all I ever dreamed about were California beaches. And now here I am.” The young spirit twirled with glee like she’d won a prize at a carnival.

Emma and Granny looked at each other a moment before Granny cocked a thumb in Emma’s direction. “This here’s my great-grand-daughter, Emma.”

“Great-great-great grand-daughter,” Emma corrected. She drank the last of her coffee in one final gulp and tossed the cup into a trash bin that stood next to the bench. She knew Granny was sensitive about her age, even in death, and Emma loved teasing her about it.

“Whatever,” Granny replied, rolled her eyes. Emma frowned at the response, thinking Granny was picking up far too many modern bad habits. Granny returned her attention to the other ghost. “Emma’s a friend to those on the other side.”

The young ghost looked from one woman to the other—from the dead to the living and back again—her face glowing and guileless in the growing morning light.

“My name’s Tessa—Tessa North.” Before either Granny or Emma could say anything, the young spirit added, “Am I really dead?”

Continue on for an excerpt from Sue Ann Jaffarian’s third Ghost of Granny Apples Mystery…

“I’m being haunted, Emma.” The words were blurted, cut and harsh, by Joanna Reid, the woman sitting across from Emma Whitecastle. Then, remembering where she was, Joanna discreetly cut her eyes at the neighboring tables to see if anyone had overheard her. Satisfied no one was paying them any mind, she leaned forward, narrowed her eyes, and whispered, “Do something.”

It was an order, not a request, made without preamble immediately after they’d gotten the etiquette of inquiring after each other’s families out of the way.

They were having lunch at The Ivy on Robertson Boulevard, seated on the crowded patio under sun umbrellas clustered together like giant mushrooms. The Ivy was a Los Angeles bistro popular with celebrities. Two tables over, eyes shielded behind large designer sunglasses, one of the Olsen twins was seated with two other young women. Several tables in the opposite direction sat the always elegant Sidney Poitier. Conan O’Brien had been leaving the restaurant as Emma arrived. The patio was separated from the sidewalk by a white picket fence. On the far side of the busy street, standing in front of a clothing store, were a couple of determined paparazzi waiting to snap off photos of stars lunching. In between catching O’Brien’s
departure, one had grabbed a shot of her. The other photographer ignored her completely, which was fine by Emma.

She’d been surprised when a call came from Joanna’s secretary asking if she’d be available to meet. She hadn’t heard from Joanna in almost five years, not since shortly after Joanna’s husband, Max Naiman, had been killed in a car accident. Emma didn’t even recognize the name at first, not until the secretary amended her message to say Joanna Naiman Reid was extending the invitation. Then Emma remembered that Joanna had remarried a few years back.

Max Naiman had been a very popular action film star, best known for his franchise of spy thrillers. Before Max’s death, Emma and her then-husband, Grant Whitecastle, had seen the Naimans socially on occasion, bonded not just by show business, but by the friendship of their daughters, Kelly and Elaine, better known as Lainey. The girls had attended the same private schools for years. After Max’s accident, Joanna shipped Lainey off to a European boarding school and threw herself into her work. She was now an executive at a major studio. Emma had tried to keep contact with Joanna after Max’s death, but Joanna never responded to the attempts. Now, out of the blue, Joanna had asked to meet with her.

Emma put down her fork and stared at her lunch companion. “What do you expect me to do, Joanna?”

Joanna flicked her left hand back and forth, the thick gold watch on her wrist and large diamond on her ring finger sparkling in the sunlight that peeked between the umbrellas. She was a woman used to giving orders and having them followed without question. “Whatever it is you people do with such things.”

“
You
people?”

“You know what I mean, you people who talk to ghosts.” Joanna was still whispering but her tone was imperious.