Sue Ann Jaffarian - [Granny Apples 01]

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  “Just tell her to come back,” Emma demanded.

  Milo looked at Emma Whitecastle over the top rim of his wire- framed glasses. He studied her for a moment as a patient parent would study a petulant child. There was an inner strength and assurance emanating from the nerdy little man across from Emma with his dirty, crooked glasses and pill-covered blue cardigan sweater. Still, Emma had to fight the urge to reach across the table and snatch the glasses—to clean them and replace them in a straight and orderly manner.

  “The other side does not take orders, Emma,” Milo told her. “They come to us when they wish to come, not when we demand their presence.”

  “But I want to help her. Tell her that.”

  “Help her how?”

  “I don’t know exactly. She didn’t stick around long enough for me to find out.” She shot him a challenging look. “And besides, shouldn’t you know that already? Isn’t that your job, to know what these things want when they come here?”

  “These ‘things,’ Emma,” Milo cautioned her in a stern yet soft voice, “are spirits of people who have gone on before us. People who were once alive and walking this earth, just as you and I do now. Please be mindful and respectful of that.”

  Under his reproach, Emma squirmed in her chair like a school- girl and lowered her eyes. She was seated at a small wooden table in a low-lit room. Heavy drapes covered the room’s two windows, shutting out the daylight. Burning candles were scattered around on various level surfaces, bathing the space in warm shadows. In the middle of the table, a large candle, white as snow and the size of a small dinner plate, flickered brightly with three lit wicks. She had returned to Milo Ravenscroft, this time with a different purpose. Initially, she had wanted to prove him a fraud. Now she wanted his help.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.” She looked up, eye to eye with him. “I just need some answers. You’ve met this spirit before, both with me and years ago with my mother. I must find out what she wants.”

  It had been a week since Kitty’s funeral—an unsettling week for Emma, during which she’d been unable to eat much and had slept even less. She couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened that night at the Singh’s. Had she really seen two ghosts, or had she imagined it in her grief over Kitty and her curiosity about Ish Reynolds? She also couldn’t stop thinking about Kitty’s last words, that she and the ghost of Granny Apples needed each other. She didn’t know what Kitty had meant by that, or if it was just her imagination continuing to play tricks. But Emma knew she couldn’t ignore it. She had to find out what Kitty had meant and what kind of help Granny Apples was searching for. If she didn’t help Granny now, would she try to contact Kelly in the future? Emma had returned to Milo Ravenscroft seeking answers.

  Milo sat back in his chair. He stroked his stubbly chin with his left hand while he studied Emma once more, weighing how much to tell her, judging how much she would be open to understanding. Under his gaze, Emma again fidgeted in her chair.

  “And you’re absolutely sure you saw this spirit?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Could you describe her?”

  “You don’t believe me?” Emma set her jaw. She expected disbelief from others—had she told them, which she hadn’t—but not from Milo. Wasn’t contacting ghosts how he made his living?

  “Yes, Emma, I do believe you saw a spirit. I just want to make sure it was the same one I know as Granny Apples.”

  “You mean I could be stalked by others?”

  “You are not being stalked. This entity, or spirit, obviously needs something from someone in your family. But she is definitely not a stalker. When your father came to me years ago, he wanted me to ask her to not bother your mother again. She listened and obeyed. But now that you’ve come into the picture, I daresay she’s hopeful again.”

  “I never told you about my father coming here.” Emma’s eyebrows raised in suspicion.

  Milo peered at her again over the top of his crooked glasses, but this time his mouth was set with a slight smile. “See, there are some things I do know.”

  “But how?”

  “Granny told me.”

  “The ghost told you who I was?” Her mouth hung open far longer than was polite. “Today?”

  Milo shook his head no and smiled. The smile was a bit too smug for Emma’s taste. She was getting annoyed with whatever game he was playing.

  “If not today, then when?” The hard edge of demand had entered her voice again, and this time she would not tolerate a scolding. She wanted to get to the bottom of things. She still wasn’t one hundred percent sure if she believed in any of what Milo was peddling or even if what she saw that night was real. Her patience was as thin and filmy as the smoke rising from the candle.

  Milo sensed her growing frustration and decided he’d played enough. He was not a fraud, but he always enjoyed tweaking the noses of those who started out believing he was and then returned for his help. Emma was not the first, and Milo knew she wouldn’t be the last.

  “Granny Apples told me the first night you were here—the night you came to the group séance with your friend. And she told me about Kitty’s passing. That’s why I knew you had a death in the family that day you came here alone.” He raised his arms and pushed back the sleeves of his worn cardigan, first one, then the other. “See, nothing up my sleeves. No mirrors. No spying, wiretapping, or other sleazy intrusions.”

  He leaned slightly forward and locked his eyes on Emma’s. “I know what I know because they tell me. I’m a medium, Emma. I speak with and see spirits. I’m clairvoyant, meaning I see the spirits of the dead. But I’m also clairaudient, which means I can hear them speak. I don’t go into trances or dream it all up. I actually see them, commune with them.” He laughed. “As kids might say, I hang with them.”

  “And what about me?” Emma sat straight up in her chair and crossed her arms across her chest. She was wearing a cotton, scooped-neck T-shirt and linen skirt and was starting to feel a chill. “Am I now clairvoyant and clairaudio—or whatever you called it?”

  “Clairaudient,” he corrected.

  “Well, am I?”

  “I daresay, Emma Whitecastle, you just might be. You see, many people want to be clairvoyant but aren’t. It’s not something you choose to be, just something you are.” He smiled at her. “But if you do have the gift, you will have to learn to bundle up more.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Milo Ravenscroft chuckled. “Haven’t you noticed yet that every time one of them is near, it gets rather chilly?”

  As soon as he said it, Emma realized that she was rubbing her arms and fighting off sprouting goose bumps with no success. The room was definitely growing colder. Now she knew why Milo was wearing a heavy sweater on such a warm day.

  Rising, Milo fetched a wool shawl from a nearby chair and gently draped it across the back of Emma’s shoulders. She clutched at it and drew it around her.

  “The theory is that spirits gather the warmth, or energy, in the air to fuel their contact with us. It’s what gives them the energy to be seen and heard. As they extract the heat, the air grows colder.”

  “So she’s here?” Emma snuggled under the shawl. “Granny Apples is here?”

  Milo nodded as he sat down.

  “Then why can’t I see her?”

  “The spirits reveal themselves as they wish, Emma,” Milo explained. “It’s not a faucet you can turn on and off at will. It’s their decision, not ours. Granny is here, and I can see her and hear her. Only time will tell if she’ll grant you the same privilege again.”

  “But I want to help her. Tell her that.”

  “Why don’t you tell her, Emma.”

  Emma swallowed hard before speaking. “Aunt Kitty told me to help you, Granny.”

  Not sure of exactly where the ghost of Gran
ny Apples was situated, Emma turn her head, first in one direction, then another, as she spoke, sending her words like scatter-shot throughout the room.

  “I’m not sure what she meant,” she continued, “but here I am.”

  Not getting a response, she raised her voice. “Talk to me, Granny, tell me what you want.”

  “Shh, Emma,” Milo chuckled. “The dead are merely dead, not hard of hearing. Just speak normally.”

  Emma felt a flash fire of embarrassment rise from her neck to her cheeks.

  “Tell me, Granny,” she repeated, trying to keep her voice steady and even, “tell me what you need. Why have you been contacting my family?”

  Milo raised a single finger to halt her words. He tilted his head to one side and focused his gaze on a spot near one of the covered windows. Emma looked in that direction, too, but saw nothing.

  Milo turned back to Emma. “Granny says that it’s her family, too.” He returned his attention to the spot by the window and was still for a moment before looking at Emma again. “And that she’s not sure you want to help.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” Emma’s voice swelled with impatience.

  Milo shook his head. Both Emma Whitecastle and Ish Reynolds were stubborn women. He wondered how well they would get along if they did finally team up for a common purpose. It didn’t matter that one was alive and the other dead; they would butt their hard heads for sure.

  “She says you might be saying you want to help only because of Kitty.”

  “Of course, it’s because of Aunt Kitty. I don’t know this Granny Apples from a hole in the ground.”

  Emma knew exactly when the ghost of Granny Apples left the room. The air around them returned to the warmth of before. There was an emptiness in the air, too—something Emma hadn’t noticed before.

  She looked over at Milo Ravenscroft. “I blew it, didn’t I?”

  “You look good, Emma.”

  Emma didn’t have to turn around to see who was speaking. She knew that voice, as did millions of TV viewers. She was on the patio of her parents’ home, filling glasses with fresh lemonade. It was the Sunday following Kelly’s high-school graduation, and Emma’s parents were hosting a large party to celebrate. The Miller house and large back yard were filled with family and friends, including Grant Whitecastle, his parents, Carolyn Bryant, and baby Oscar.

  “You’ve let your hair grow longer. I like it.” He reached out and stroked her hair with a light touch, like he used to do.

  She moved just out of reach of her soon-to-be ex. “Thank you, Grant.”

  She knew the polite thing to do would be to return the compliment, but Emma couldn’t bring herself to do it. It wasn’t that Grant didn’t look good himself. He did. Dressed in a hip Hugo Boss shirt and perfectly faded jeans, he looked better than ever. A small bit of gray had settled in at both of his temples, only enhancing the shine of his dark, thick, wavy hair. Instead of making him look middle-aged and settled, it made him look sexier. In spite of herself, something inside Emma twitched in response. Why did gray hair make men look distinguished and women simply old? And why did their gray hair present itself in such a becoming way, as if perfectly planned by a top-notch hair stylist? If Grant were a woman, especially on TV, he would have been made to cover it up or he would have been cast off for a younger, fresher version. But then, TV or no TV, that’s exactly what had happened to Emma. Grant had found himself a replacement, someone without gray hair and not averse to surgical enhancement.

  Emma glanced around until her eye caught on Carolyn Bryant. A pariah amidst the family gathering, she defiantly sat off by herself in the shade of a tree with eight-month-old Oscar. Not even Grant’s parents, George and Celeste, were stoically standing by her side, and they had greeted Emma and her parents with warmth and affection. While Elizabeth Miller had invited the Whitecastles, it had never occurred to her that Grant would bring Carolyn and Oscar to Kelly’s party. She’d been barely able to control her anger on her daughter’s behalf since they’d arrived, giving the party an underlying ill-humored hum like a disturbed hornet’s nest.

  Seeing how great he looked and how happy he appeared to be with Carolyn and his new child, Emma wanted to swing the glass pitcher in her hand until it connected with the side of Grant’s head. Something in her gut told her that her mother would forgive the transgression of propriety. And if she did any real damage, her father could patch Grant up.

  Instead, Emma tossed her chin in Carolyn’s direction. “Oscar looks healthy.”

  “Yes, he’s getting to be a big boy.” Grant laughed. “I’d forgotten how much work a baby is. And how noisy.”

  Emma didn’t share his amusement. Grant noticed and moved the conversation forward.

  “Emma, we need to get our affairs in order so that the divorce can be finalized.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, Grant.”

  He looked at her with frank surprise. “Really? You’re ready to move forward?”

  “As soon as possible.” She finished with the lemonade and put down the pitcher. She looked directly into Grant’s eyes, hoping hers conveyed a hardness that meant business. “But please don’t read my compliance as a sign I’m rolling over on the settlement. I will take nothing less than half of our assets. Half, Grant. And that includes half of that monstrosity of a house. Plus the support for Kelly and her education.”

  “But Emma, you hate that house. I bought it. I should keep it.”

  “Then keep it, Grant,” she hissed. “But I want half its value. Even in today’s market, the appraisal should be pretty substantial.”

  “Then you can just finance Kelly and her education out of your half of the settlement.” Though Grant’s voice remained low, it was challenging and spiteful.

  Before responding, Emma’s mind calculated a fair proposal. She didn’t want anything but what was fair from Grant Whitecastle. “Tell you what, Grant. We will split Kelly’s education and support—fifty-fifty—providing I receive half of all our assets. You try hiding anything, and I’ll go for a hell of a lot more. Play fair, and I’ll be fair. And, as I recall, it was your attorney, not mine, who stonewalled last time. Bring him in line and give him his marching orders.”

  “That’s telling him.”

  The comment startled Emma. It had not come from Grant, and the two of them were the only ones on the patio. But the minute she heard the sound, she knew what it was. It was a voice, but not a voice made of warm blood and a beating heart. She glanced around, straining to see any image or hazy form, but saw nothing.

  “Be reasonable, Emma,” Grant said.

  She shook off what she thought she’d heard and returned her attention to him. “I am being reasonable, Grant. Half, or be prepared for a long siege.”

  Emma was surprised by her gutsiness. Not once since the divorce proceedings began had she spoken to Grant with such determination. She probably had never spoken to him like that. She could see he was surprised. She looked over at Carolyn again.

  “You going to marry her?”

  Grant nodded. “That’s the plan. As soon as the divorce is final.” He chuckled as if sharing a joke with Emma, hoping to lighten her mood. “What can I do? She’s already planning the wedding.”

  Emma fixed him with an icy stare. “Half, Grant. Half of everything for me. And half of Kelly’s support and education through graduate school. Then you can marry your bimbo. Otherwise, be prepared for a long, difficult time, both from me and from her.” She jerked her head in Carolyn’s direction. “I can just imagine what kind of tacky circus she’s planning for a wedding.”

  “Kitty might be right about you after all.”

  Emma whipped her head around, side to side, at the sound of the words, trying in vain to catch a fleeting glimpse of Ish Reynolds. The ghost of Granny Apples had returned, and this time Emma was determined to speak with her.<
br />
  Then she saw her.

  Standing just off from Grant’s left shoulder was a hazy transparent image with facial features and an outline, like a character in a child’s coloring book waiting to be filled in. It was the same image Emma had seen that night at the Singh’s. But instead of a scowl, this time Granny Apples offered Emma a smile of encouragement.

  “We need to talk,” she said to the apparition. The ghost nodded.

  “We are talking, Emma,” Grant said in a testy manner. “At least I was talking. You were giving commands and issuing threats.”

  Emma kept her eyes on Granny Apples. “I’m not talking to you, Grant.”

  Grant Whitecastle turned to look in the direction of Emma’s gaze. He saw nothing.

  He stepped to the side, in front of her eyes, blocking her view of the ghost. “First you say we need to talk, then you say you’re not talking to me. Which is it?”

  Emma returned her attention to Grant. “You, Grant, I’m through with,” she announced. “You heard what I had to say. The lawyers can take it from here.”

  Looking around Grant, Emma no longer saw Granny Apples. She scanned the back yard until she spotted her moving through the collection of guests seated at the scattered white tables. The image, like a small column of fog, drifted here and there amongst the living. When it stopped next to Elizabeth Miller’s seated form, Emma gave a slight gasp.

  “You okay, Emma?” asked Grant.

  “Mmm, yes, Grant.” With reluctance, she tore her eyes away from the ghost. “I’m fine. I just have a lot on my mind lately with Kitty dying and Kelly graduating and getting her ready for the trip with you.” She paused, then added, “Not to mention the destruction of my twenty-year marriage.”

  Grant let loose with a long, dramatic sigh and rolled his eyes, something that seemed to be a family trait.

  Emma returned her sights to the party guests and tried to locate the ghost once again. Ish had left Elizabeth’s side and had moved close to Carolyn Bryant and Oscar. She hovered there. In a moment of panic, Emma realized she didn’t know much about ghosts and what they could and couldn’t do. Was Granny Apples capable of harming living beings? Would she harm Carolyn, knowing that Carolyn was partly the cause of Emma’s failed marriage?