“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-grandmother.”
“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?”
Emma didn’t know about ghosts, but she did know she was being haunted by the leftover apple pie. It was calling to her from the refrigerator downstairs like a siren of Greek lore, enticing her with the promise of sweet, juicy fruit and comfy cinnamon.
It was after two o’clock in the morning. Her parents had long gone to bed, and Kelly had returned by eleven thirty. The house was completely silent. Emma was in bed reading, hoping it would make her sleepy. So far, it hadn’t. Her mind kept drifting to the conversation she’d had with her father. She couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said about moving on with her life, and she couldn’t stop thinking about her mother’s attempts to contact her dead brother. And then there was that bombshell about the dead woman her father called Granny Apples.
That was it. She lightly rapped her head with her palm. That’s why she wanted more pie. It was the power of suggestion from the talk they’d had. That and her growling stomach.
Restless, she padded into her private bathroom and looked at herself in the full mirror. She studied her face. In her opinion, for a forty-four-year-old woman, she wasn’t bad looking, not by a long shot. She had clear blue eyes, shoulder-length honey-colored hair, a straight nose, strong chin, and perfect white teeth. Emma poked and pushed at the deepening lines around her mouth and eyes. Grant had first brought them to her attention a few years ago and had suggested she have something done to remove them.
Unbuttoning the front of her crisp white cotton nightgown, Emma took stock of the goods beneath. Although slender for her five-foot, seven-inch frame, Emma thought her figure, with its small belly pooch and soft buttocks, could do with more toning. Her breasts were average size and, like everything else, showed signs of gravitational pull.
It had been her breasts that had driven the wedge between her and Tracy—or rather Grant’s obsession with her having breast surgery. It wasn’t the boob job itself that Tracy had objected to but Emma’s willingness to have surgery just because Grant wanted his wife to have large breasts. She had lectured Emma on the fact that it was her body, not Grant’s, and if she wanted larger breasts, then great, do it. But if Grant was the only one who wanted big boobs, then let him get his own implants. Tracy’s complaint had been that Emma was doing it just to please Grant. She had even gone so far as to say that Emma was addicted to pleasing Grant. In the end, Emma didn’t have the breast surgery, changing her mind about it two days prior to the surgery itself. Grant had sulked for weeks. Soon after, he started having affairs with younger women with huge bosoms, affairs he didn’t bother hiding. It had been humiliating.
Grant Whitecastle was Hollywood royalty. The grandson of two acting legends, the son of an award-winning producer and famous starlet, Grant himself had been a child actor from age four until he turned eleven and his changing voice and body weren’t so cute any longer. He and Emma had met in college and married within a year after graduation, right after Grant went to work for his father’s production company. It had been exciting to be in the swirl of show business and meet many of the celebrities and top actors at dinner parties and other social events. But Grant wasn’t satisfied. He itched to be back in front of the camera, not behind the scenes.
He got a few gigs playing the odd neighbor or friend on a couple of sitcoms. That led to more work, including a small recurring role on a popular police drama. Emma had been happy for him. She knew Grant missed his time in the spotlight, and he had enough credentials and contacts to get back into acting. And he wasn’t a bad actor. Not award quality, but perfect for the type of work he was getting.
Then came his big break. Four years ago, he had auditioned to be the host of a new, controversial daytime talk show, and he landed the job. In no time, he became the favorite of retirees, who remembered him as a child actor, and stay-at-home moms, who responded to his bad-boy sexiness, which the network played up and encouraged on air. Grant became the shock jock of daytime talk shows—the irrever
ent and rude host that brought scores of viewers to his shows like pigs to the trough of tacky and mean. It was after his first year as the host of the show that he began nagging her about tightening up her looks with surgery. And it was after she cancelled the surgery that his bad-boy persona invaded their private lives.
The straw that had broken the back of their marriage was named Carolyn Bryant, a twenty-six-year-old, red-haired bombshell with capped teeth and fake breasts. She’d come to Hollywood from Texas to be a movie star when she wasn’t much more than Kelly’s age. She’d been a bit player in many low-budget films, mostly slasher and teen movies where she got to show off her physical assets, but was best known for being the gal pal to some high-profile starlets with a taste for the high life. She and Grant had met at a party, and soon their photos were splashed across the sleazy rags featured at checkout counters.
Emma tolerated the affair with a stoic belief that the fling would be short-lived, as the others had been, and that Grant would dump Carolyn. She believed her husband was going through a midlife crisis fueled by both age and his rampant success, and he eventually would return to the bosom of his family. She’d been wrong. She still remembered clearly the night Grant came home, still smelling of his bimbo actress, and announced that Carolyn was pregnant and he was going to marry her. That had been eighteen months ago. For a few more months, they stayed together, battling over details, until she couldn’t take it anymore and fled with Kelly to her parents’ home in Pasadena. Carolyn moved in with Grant soon after Emma left and had since had a little boy, whom she named Oscar. The joke around Hollywood was that it would be the only Oscar Carolyn or Grant would ever hold.
Emma stared at her reflection in the mirror as she buttoned up her nightie. Grant deserved to be kicked to the curb, booted in the groin, and left naked in the gutter covered with fire ants. He could keep the house. She’d hated the pretentious mansion he’d insisted on buying right after his talk show became a hit. But she was hardly going to roll over when it came to the settlement. Grant had been very generous in supporting her and Kelly since she’d left, but she guessed that was more to avoid a court battle than a sense of duty on his part. Still, every time they came close to a settlement, it seemed it was Grant’s lawyer, not hers, who stalled. Emma wondered if that was the game plan: a cat-and-mouse ploy to keep her off-balance until she agreed to accept less than what she was entitled to. Before she left Grant, her father had suggested that she either take or copy all pertinent financial documents in the event Grant tried to hide assets. Reluctantly, she had followed his advice, and later, when settlement talks began, was glad she did.
Emma sighed. In spite of the fact that her share of their assets would keep her comfortable for the rest of her life if she were sensible, Emma knew her father was right. She did need a focus, a career, something useful and productive to do with her life. Once Kelly was gone, she’d have even more time on her hands, and she was far too young to be retired.
Giving in to temptation, Emma slipped quietly down the back stairs and into the kitchen in search of pie. Happy to have a late- night visitor, Archie wiggled with joy as he left his bed by the laundry room to greet her. After heating up a small slice of pie in the microwave, Emma sat at the breakfast bar and savored each bite while thinking again about what her father had said about the ghost. Even though she trusted her father completely, she wasn’t so sure about his take on Granny Apples. Maybe she’d make an appointment to see this Milo character one-on-one. She could question and prod him until she figured out how he knew who her parents were and what he was up to.
She was almost finished with her pie when she felt a chill. It was the wee hours of the morning, and she hadn’t put on a robe before coming downstairs. She hurried to finish. As she took her last bite, Emma caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of her right eye—a shadowy movement near the door to the laundry room. Her next breath caught in her throat. Then she noticed that Archie, who was back in his bed, hadn’t budged except to wag his tail. Emma shook her head in annoyance.
“Come on out, Nate,” she said in a loud whisper.
It wouldn’t be the first time Emma had found Nate trying to sneak out of the house in the middle of the night. The small back stairway led from the second floor to the kitchen. It was on the opposite end of the house from her parents’ bedroom and next to Kelly’s—perfect for late-night comings and goings. Emma was realistic enough to realize Nate and Kelly were probably sexually active but not so open-minded to allow the kids to flaunt it under her parents’ roof. Even though, Emma reminded herself, Grant had done his own nocturnal traveling up and down the back steps.
When she received no response, Emma got up and went toward the laundry room. “The jig is up, Nate. You’ve been busted.”
She snapped on the light to the laundry room. It was empty. She shook her head. She could have sworn she saw someone. Must be her tired mind playing tricks—or maybe it was Granny Apples paying her a visit. Emma tried to rub the chill out of her arms and laughed lightly.
She looked down at Archie. “You’d get the nasty old ghost for me, wouldn’t you, boy?”
But even the reassuring wag of Archie’s tail didn’t dispel the nagging suspicion that she wasn’t alone.
Emma looked at the numbers scrawled on the scrap of paper held in her hand and compared them to the numbers displayed on the front of the house. It was a match. The last time she’d been here, it had been dark, and Tracy had driven. She found a parking spot a few doors down and pulled her white Lexus sedan into it. The house—small, white, and without pretense—belonged to Milo Ravenscroft, the psychic who’d led the séance. It was located in a pleasant working-class neighborhood in Los Angeles that bordered the city of Santa Monica. The streets were narrow and cluttered with parked cars and seemed a million miles away from the manicured streets of Pasadena.
It had been a disturbing week for Emma. Ever since Sunday night, when she’d had that talk with her father about séances and ghosts, Emma had been sensing shadows moving near her, then dashing away, as if playfully spying on her. And not just at home, but almost everywhere she went. Just as disturbing was the scent of apple pie that always seemed to linger in the air, yet no one else could smell it. She dismissed it all as foolishness, but even so, she’d thrown the rest of the apple pie into the garbage. When she decided enough was enough, she made a private appointment with Milo Ravenscroft. She still didn’t believe in the existence of the ghost of Granny Apples but was sure if she could dig deep enough into Milo’s motives, perhaps she could prove him a fraud or receive some kind of explanation.
“Okay,” she said to herself audibly. “Just go in there and get to the bottom of this.”
Still, she sat, not making a move to turn off the engine and get out of the car. In spite of it being a warm May day, the car interior grew chilly. Emma felt goose bumps rise on her bare arms and tried to readjust the air conditioning, but it wasn’t on.
“Come on now,” she said to herself again. “You’re just being silly.”
“Yes, you are.”
Emma whipped her head around to see who was speaking to her, but saw no one. “Great, first I’m talking to myself. Now I’m answering myself. Next, I’ll be seeing things.”
“Fraidy cat.”
Unbuckling her seat belt, Emma twisted her head around to get a full view of the back seat and again saw no one. The voice she’d heard had been strong but not loud, like it was being filtered through gauze or whispered on the wind. She tried to convince herself that it was her own subconscious speaking to her and that it only seemed real. With nervous hands, she twisted the top off the water bottle she kept in the console and took a big drink. After all, what was she afraid of? Certainly not a fraud and scam artist. She took another drink and shivered. The inside of the car was getting colder.
“I told you she wasn’t right, Kitty.”
At the sound of t
he words, Emma sprayed the water in her mouth over the dashboard and windshield of the car.
“Hush now, Granny. Our Emma’s a skeptic, but she’ll come around. She always was a smart, courageous girl.”
Emma stared straight ahead out the car’s windshield as she replaced the cap on the water bottle with shaking hands. Once more she felt the presence of a shadow but stronger this time, as if the car was stuffed with something she couldn’t see but could definitely feel. Something cold and thick and smothering like dense ocean fog or a wet wool blanket.
“She don’t look so good.”
Like lightning, Emma flung open the car door and fled. She stood in the street a few feet away from her car and stared at it. She was still staring a few minutes later when another car came slowly down the street. Emma stepped out of the way but still didn’t get near her own vehicle. The other car, an older Honda wagon occupied by a young couple with a toddler strapped into a car seat in the back, stopped and lowered the passenger-side window.
“Are you all right?” the woman asked Emma.
Emma slowly moved her eyes from her own car to them. “Yes, thank you.” As she spoke, her eyes wandered back toward the Lexus.
“Are you sure?” The woman spoke slowly as her eyes noted Emma’s expensive linen dress, designer shoes, and pearls snuggled at her neck and ears. To her, Emma looked like she should be heading for lunch at the Bel Air Hotel instead of standing in the middle of their neighborhood.
Emma turned and looked at the woman and saw that she was staring at her with open curiosity, then realized how crazed she must look. She forced herself to focus on the conversation, doing some quick damage control.
“I’m sorry.” Emma peered inside the car at the couple and smiled. “I must look like I’m crazy, but there was a huge bee in my car, and I’m allergic.”
Sue Ann Jaffarian - [Granny Apples 01] Page 2
