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

Innis Casey Photography

About the Author

Sue Ann Jaffarian is
a critically acclaimed, award-winning author whose books have been lauded by the
New York Times
, optioned for film/TV rights, and praised by
New York Times
best-selling author Lee Child and Emmy award-winning actress Camryn Manheim. In addition to the paranormal Ghost of Granny Apples Mystery series, she is the author of the Odelia Grey Mystery series and the Fang-in-Cheek Mystery series that began in 2010 with
Murder in Vein
. Sue Ann is also nationally sought after as a motivational and humorous speaker. She lives and works in Los Angeles, California.

Visit Sue Ann on the Internet at www.sueannjaffarian.com
and
www.sueannjaffarian.blogspot.com

Ghost in the Polka Dot Bikini: A Ghost of Granny Apples Mystery
© 2011 by Sue Ann Jaffarian.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First e-book edition © 2011

E-book ISBN: 9780738731193

Cover design by Ellen Lawson

Cover illustration © 2011 Doug Thompson

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For Susan Groeneweg.

Thank you, dear friend, for all your years of friendship
and for tagging along with me to Catalina.

Acknowledgments

Th
anks to the usual suspects: Whitney Lee, my agent; Diana James, my manager; and all the good folks at Llewellyn Worldwide/Midnight Ink for their continued support, talent, and encouragement.

Thank you, also, to the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department–Catalina Division, the
Catalina Islander
, Island Express Helicopter Service, and all the wonderful folks I met while on the island doing research.

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 show-biz friends. When Phil first proposed the trip, he’d booked them at the Inn on Mt. Ada, 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.

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 grandmother, 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 currently on hiatus 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.