Ghost in the Polka Dot Bikini: A Ghost of Granny Apples Mystery (4 page)

As Emma talked to thin air, Phil noticed a few folks stare at her as they passed by. He gallantly shifted his position so that they would think she was talking to him. Emma talked so naturally to Granny that she often forgot about the living taking notice. It amused him to be her cover when it came to the spirits, though often the topic of conversation didn’t suit how he wanted strangers to perceive him.

“I heard it on TV—that show your father watches.”

Emma knew what show Granny was referring to. It was an old sitcom from the late fifties. Her father loved the show and watched reruns of it almost every afternoon. Granny often watched television in the den with him. She was especially fond of NFL games.

Although Paul Miller believed in Granny’s existence, he wasn’t keen on the idea of a ghost hanging around his wife and daughter. At first, Emma and her mother, Elizabeth, tried to keep Granny’s presence a secret, but Dr. Miller was not a stupid man, and it wasn’t long before he realized that the ghost of Granny Apples had returned and set up part-time residence in his home. He finally accepted her presence as he might an annoying mother-in-law. In the past year, he and Phil Bowers had had several conversations about it over beers, deciding it was part of loving the women in their lives.

“You are watching entirely too much TV, Granny.” Emma kept her voice low and looked up at Phil as she spoke, grateful for his willingness to play along.

“I have a lot of history to catch up on. Seems to be the best way to do it.”

“
Hotdog
is not history. It’s slang, and outdated slang at that.”

“Whatever.” The ghost drifted off.

Phil knitted his brows in curiosity. “
Hotdog
?”

Emma waved a hand at him. “I’ll tell you later.” She followed the image of the ghost.

“Granny,” Emma hissed at the spirit. “Have you talked anymore with Tessa?” Phil sidled up to Emma and linked an arm through hers, creating an image of the two of them sharing a tête-à-tête.

Granny drifted over to a nearby bench and sat down in the middle of it. Emma and Phil followed.

“Scoot over, Granny, or Phil will sit right down on top of you.”

“Humph.” The ghost crossed her arms across her chest but moved to the end of the bench. Phil and Emma sat down, with Emma in the middle.

“So, Granny, did you learn anything?”

“The girl’s still saying nothing about this Curtis fellow. I think he’s the one who done her in.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I get the feeling he’s the last one to see her alive. He told her to wait until he came back—said he was going to fetch help.”

“So she was hurt?”

“Seems so. She doesn’t remember much about it, except that there was a lot of blood and her head hurt. She remembers that. And that Curtis said he was going for help.”

Emma leaned in toward Phil while she talked to Granny. “That doesn’t sound like he killed her. He was going for help.”

The ghost got up and moved within Emma’s line of vision, her arms crossed in front of her to emphasize her point. “But he never came back, did he?”

As they walked back
toward Avalon Bay, Emma relayed to Phil the little information Granny had gleaned from Tessa. Granny had disappeared shortly after they’d left the gardens.

“Okay, let’s review what we know so far.”

“Spoken like a true lawyer.”

Phil grunted. “What can I say, an occupational hazard.”

Emma ticked off the facts in her head as she said them out loud. “First, we’re pretty sure Tessa died here on Catalina, close to the water. We know she came here in June of 1968 on the boat of a man named Curtis. Somehow she was hurt, and Curtis went for help. He never returned.”

“Correction,” Phil interrupted. “We don’t know that he never returned. He could have returned and it was too late. She might have already died from whatever injuries she’d received.”

“You have a good point there.”

“Counselor.”

“Excuse me?”

“Counselor. You have a good point there,
counselor
.”

Emma shook her head and tried to suppress a laugh. “Have you ever noticed that when it suits you, you’re an attorney, but any other time, you prefer to be thought of as a rancher?”

“I was a rancher long before I was an attorney. I only put the attorney hat on when it’s needed.”

“Like now?”

“Now seems as good a time as any to put all that analytical thought processes to work, doesn’t it?”

“Correct…
counselor
.”

Phil put an arm across Emma’s shoulders and pulled her close. “Now you’re catching on.”

“Okay,” Emma continued. “To our knowledge, or from what Tessa told us, Curtis never came back, or she doesn’t think he ever came back. And her ghost has lingered here all these years waiting for him.”

Emma pulled her cell phone from her backpack and started dialing. Phil watched her with a raised eyebrow. She threw him a coy smile. “What’s the use of having a research assistant if you don’t use her?” He touched the side of his head with an index finger, letting Emma know that was smart thinking.

When Emma’s call was answered by a voicemail recording, she said, “Jackie, it’s me, Emma. When you get back into the office, can you do some research on a Tessa North? She would have been born sometime in the late forties. Probably lived in the Los Angeles area in the sixties, died June of 1968. I’m afraid that’s all I have right now. Thanks a lot. Hope you’re having a great holiday.”

Jackie Houchin had been assigned to Emma by the studio. When her show was first being put together, Jackie divided her time between
The Whitecastle Report
and a weekly travel show. She was young, smart, and committed to a future in television, but Jackie had wanted no part of
The Whitecastle Report
when she’d first come onboard. Convinced that Emma was no different than her famous, hyped-up ex-husband, Jackie had been sure Emma’s show would be nothing more than an hour of quackery. It had taken many months of patience and perseverance on Emma’s part to prove to the young, serious woman that she was dedicated to producing a quality show with an objective view of people’s beliefs in the paranormal. Jackie was still a skeptic when it came to such things, but she eventually became a fan of Emma’s and threw herself into her work, wrangling guests and researching ideas she and Emma had for future shows. Together they made a formidable team, although Emma still had not enlightened Jackie about Granny’s presence or her own talents.

Emma turned her attention back to her conversation with Phil. “Granny believes this Curtis killed Tessa. That he hurt her and left her to die.”

“That’s another possibility. In which case, it would explain why he might not have returned with help. It will be interesting to see what Jackie finds out. There might be some old obituary or even news about her death.”

“And there would be a death record. Catalina is in the county of Los Angeles. I’m sure Jackie will turn something up like that.” They were almost back to town when another idea stopped Emma in her tracks. “You know, Phil, on an island of this size, it can’t be that common for people to die without notice, especially a tourist. I wonder if the police would have records on it.”

Phil consulted the map. “The island is policed by the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. There’s a station here in town.” He studied the town map again. “Looks like it’s right across from where we caught that tour bus yesterday.” They had reached an intersection. Phil looked up and studied the street signs. “If we turn left here, then right at Sumner, it should bring us right to it.”

“Who knew?”

Phil looked up from the map. “Who knew what?”

“That a man would actually consult a map.”

Phil folded the small map and gently slapped Emma on the behind with it. “Get going, Fancy Pants. There’s a ghost waiting to go wherever it is ghosts need to go.”

The police station looked like any typical municipal building in any other town, except that it was unusually compact. Stepping up to the counter, they were greeted by a small woman with very short dark blond hair. She wore the crisp uniform of the LA County Sheriff’s Department. The name tag above her pocket read
Weaver
.

From her wallet, Emma extracted a business card. “Hello,” she said to the woman, handing her the card. “I’m Emma Whitecastle. I host a TV show called
The Whitecastle Report
. I’m doing research for a new show on ghosts of Catalina Island and was wondering if you could help me.”

If Deputy Weaver thought the request odd, she never showed it, keeping her face as blank as a clean slate. “If I can.”

“I understand a woman by the name of Tessa North died on Catalina about forty years ago. Would you have any records on that?”

“Deaths are recorded with the Los Angeles County Recorder’s Office.”

“Yes, I understand that,” Emma explained. “We’re in the process of obtaining those records. But if Ms. North’s death was suspicious in any way, or if the sheriff’s department was called in about it, would you have any records?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” Deputy Weaver said with a slight shake of her head. “The sheriff’s department came to the island in 1962, and our early records are not accessible. Anything prior to 1962 would have been handled by the former city police department, and I’m not sure they kept those records or where they would be kept if they did.”

“We believe Tessa North died in 1968.”

The young officer shook her head again, but her face remained unmoved. “I’m afraid records going back that far would not be readily available. But you might try the newspaper.”

Phil moved closer. “Catalina has its own newspaper?”

“Yes, sir.
The Catalina Islander
. Comes out every Friday. It’s been around almost a hundred years. If someone died on the island, even forty years ago, they would have noted it.”

Deputy Weaver consulted a sheet near her desk and jotted something down on a sticky note. She handed it to Emma. “Here’s the address and phone number for the paper. The office is over on Marilla, not far from here, but you should probably call first. I’m not sure how they’ve archived old issues, but they might be the best place to start. Another place you might try is the hospital, although I’m sure their records would be confidential.”

After thanking the officer, Emma and Phil stepped out into the sunshine. “That was a good idea,” Phil said, “sending us to the newspaper.”

“Yes.” Emma dialed the number on the note the deputy gave her but only received voicemail. Maneuvering through the voicemail tree until she reached the editor, she left a message asking for a return call. After, she looked at her watch. “Wow, it’s almost two o’clock. No wonder I’m hungry.”

“Okay,” Phil said, taking her arm and leading her down the street. “You marched me up the hill, now I’m going to march you down to the bay. Let’s try that restaurant with the patio overlooking the water.” He received no argument.

Over a lunch of bay shrimp salads washed down with cold beer, they sat side by side and stared out at the cheerful, sunny bay full of bobbing boats. Some were small, others full-blown yachts; most fell somewhere in between. Many of the boats’ dinghies were gone, now tethered to docks at the pier while their owners visited the island for the day. The boats in the bay were moored in orderly rows like a neighborhood of tract houses separated by streets. All bows were pointed away from the island. Emma watched with interest as the harbor master’s boat cruised up and down the watery paths, occasionally stopping at a boat or calling out a greeting to someone on a deck.

“Phil, do you think the harbor master could help us identify Curtis?”

Phil tilted back the remainder of his beer and motioned to the waiter to bring them a second round. “Doubtful. The records are too old, and all we have is a first name. Not to mention the records might not be public.” After the waiter brought them two more beers, Phil glanced around the patio. “No sign of Tessa?”

“Not since this morning in our room.”

“Are we alone, or is Granny around?”

Emma looked around the patio, noting that it was half filled with other diners. “Except for these folks, it’s just us.”

Smiling, Phil leaned back and fished something out of his pants pocket. He put it on the table in front of Emma. It was the small square jeweler’s box he’d fingered earlier while they were walking. Emma gulped, worried about what was inside.

“Emma—,” Phil began.

She cut him off with nervous stammering. “Phil, we’ve talked about this before. You know how I feel about you, but I’m not ready to make a commitment. Not to you, not to anyone.” The words tumbled out of her, somersaulting onto the table, where they pooled liked spilled water waiting to be mopped up. “I was married nearly twenty years. So were you.”

“But Emma—”

Again, she didn’t wait for him to finish. “We both need time to rebuild our lives as individuals. To see where we’re going before deciding if we’re making the journey together.”

Phil Bowers got up from the table. Emma went silent. Looking out at the bay, he took several deep breaths before sitting back down at their table, this time across from her. The box remained between them.

Phil fixed her with stern eyes and leaned back. “You finished?”

She wasn’t. “I just don’t want either of us to get hurt, Phil. We’re both still raw from our respective divorces. I have Kelly to worry about. You have your boys.”

“Just let me know when you’re ready to listen.” He took a long pull from his fresh beer and turned to study the boats again. A nearby couple looked over at them, then turned away.

They sat in silence. Phil polished off his beer. Emma picked at the label on her bottle. When the waiter came by to see if they wanted another round, Phil waved him off and turned back to Emma.

“Usually it’s me who jumps to conclusions,” he told her. “Not sure I like this change of roles.”

Emma started to say something, then snapped her mouth shut when she saw the look in Phil’s eyes—a mixture of amusement and annoyance, with the balance in favor of the latter.

“Emma, I love you, and I believe you love me, but I know neither of us is ready for a long-term commitment yet. As much as I’d love to spend every waking moment with you, it’s just not possible right now with us living so far apart. You have your new career as a ghost wrangler, and I have my law practice. But I didn’t realize it precluded me from buying you something nice once in a while.”

Emma looked down at the small box, realizing too late she’d made a big mistake. All she could do was chew on the foot in her mouth. “Obviously, I’ve made the wrong assumption.”

“Yes, Fancy Pants, you have.” He gave a soft chuckle. “But, trust me, after this, if I ever do propose to you, I’ll bring along a whip and a chair, just in case.”

She looked up at him, her eyes starting to fill with tears. “I’m sorry I spoiled your surprise, Phil. It was stupid of me. I behaved abominably.”

“No, Emma.” He reached across the table and took her hands. “You behaved like someone still in a world of hurt and worried about being hurt again, contrary to what you say about being over Grant Whitecastle. You may be over him, but you are not over your divorce. We were both cast aside, and we both need time to lick our wounds. Fair enough?”

She gave him a small smile. “Fair enough.”