Sue Ann Jaffarian - [Granny Apples 01]

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  “So, after all this time, you chose now to investigate your roots?” Phil’s voice was shrouded in sarcasm. “Now, right on the heels of Reynolds’ threats and claims? How convenient.”

  “I have no idea who Ian Reynolds is, I swear.”

  “Tell them about me, Emma,” said Granny, dancing about with nervous energy.

  Emma glanced at the ghost but said nothing.

  “So just how did you find out about the old Reynolds property?” Phil emphasized his question by tossing Emma’s bag on the hood of her car and crossing his thick arms across his chest. “Seems odd that you knew exactly where it was located.”

  “Tell them about me,” insisted Granny. “That’ll convince ’em.”

  “I can’t,” Emma hissed at the ghost without thinking.

  “You can’t tell us how you found out?” Susan’s face clouded with suspicion.

  Emma turned away from Granny so as not to be distracted. “It’s a bit complicated.”

  “Lies usually are.” Bowers uncrossed his arms. Picking Emma’s bag up from the hood of the car, he tossed it to her. She caught it and clutched it to her chest like a life vest.

  “Now get the hell out of here,” he ordered. “Before you find yourself in real trouble.”

  “But I’m telling you the truth.” She looked at Susan, her eyes pleading for understanding. “Look, I don’t know what this Ian Reynolds wants, but I don’t want anything but information about something that happened over a hundred years ago. My interest is purely academic.”

  Susan’s stance and face softened a bit. “But why now, Emma? Why now, right on the heels of Reynolds’ threats?”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences,” added Phil, still looking at her with contempt.

  “I don’t know why.” Emma’s voice got higher in frustration. She was on the verge of tears. “As I told you, I just found out about Granny Apples and the hanging a few weeks ago. I got curious and looked into it. From what I’ve learned, both Ish and her husband were murdered—that Jacob Reynolds wasn’t killed by his wife.” She paused and took a deep, exhausted breath.

  “Finally,” said Granny with satisfaction.

  Emma gave Phil a challenging look. “I guess as a spoiled, almost-divorcée without a job, I have too much time on my hands. So I came up here to learn more about Julian and my family.”

  Susan approached Emma. “You told me you found some old documents—that the information was in them. Can you produce those?”

  “I don’t have them with me.” Emma felt panic rise in her throat like bile. The few old family documents her mother had come up with had mentioned nothing about the Julian property or the hanging.

  Bowers scoffed in disgust. “Another convenience.”

  Emma glanced from Phil to Susan. “I know this looks fishy, but I honestly just want to know what happened to Jacob and Ish Reynolds.”

  Bushed from trying to plead her innocence, Emma steeled herself for one last pitch before they ran her off with a shotgun. Even though there were still a couple hours of summer daylight left, the sun was making its descent, leaving long shadows across the small valley. Once again, she felt the pull of the comfortable bed back at her hotel.

  “I know that their only surviving child, Winston Reynolds, sold the property to John Winslow right before he left town. He eventually became a very well-known attorney in Los Angeles. I’m descended from him.” Emma’s voice, chocked with emotion and exhaustion, sounded like it had been dragged over a dirt road.

  “I also know that shortly after Jacob was killed, three hooded men came to the Reynolds farm and strung Ish up for murdering her husband. They hung her from that big old oak, right over there.” Emma pointed in the direction of Ish’s farm, across the road in the distance. Tears tracked down her cheeks. “She was never charged with her husband’s death, she was killed by men with their own agenda. Probably to get their hands on the property.” Emma was babbling, unable to stop herself. “Jacob found gold on the land shortly before he was shot in the back behind his own barn. After he died, people tried to buy the land, but Ish wouldn’t sell.”

  “That’s an astounding story, Emma,” said Susan.

  “Sounds more like the movie of the week to me,” scoffed Phil Bowers, but Emma noticed that his body language had relaxed a bit. “And you got all this from a few old documents?”

  Emma didn’t say yes or no. She just stood there, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand.

  Susan, Emma’s one hope for an ally, shifted her head from side to side slowly. “I’ve lived here all my life, Emma, and I’ve never heard that story. And this town thrives on colorful history like that. If it were true, don’t you think it would be common knowledge amongst the old families who still live here?”

  “Not if it was a cover-up.” Emma didn’t know if there was a cover-up or not, but it was the closest straw to grab.

  “A cover-up?” Phil let loose with a deep, short laugh. “You’ve been watching too many cop shows, Fancy Pants. A turn-of-the-century cover-up, that’s rich.”

  “Why not? You think cover-ups were invented just last week?”

  When Phil didn’t answer, Emma turned to Susan Steveson. “You said yourself that your family didn’t come by this property honestly.” She swallowed, her throat dry and strained. “What did you mean by that?”

  “Well, nothing to do with murder, I can assure you.” Susan looked at her nephew a moment, then turned her attention back to Emma. “Our own black sheep of the family was Buck Bowers.”

  “He was a mine worker,” Emma added. “Given to drink and gambling. Correct?”

  Phil started to say something, but Susan gestured for him to remain still.

  “Yes, that’s true. He was also a cheat and a thief. Buck Bowers won the Reynolds property from John Winslow in a poker game, and he most likely cheated to do it. Several years later, he was shot and killed during a game after he was caught red-handed.”

  “John Winslow was probably a broken-down drunk by the time he lost the property,” Emma declared.

  “What do you mean by that?” Susan leaned forward with interest. “John Winslow was a pillar of the community. One of the founding fathers. He wasn’t a drunk.”

  Emma caught herself. She’d let too much slip. Obviously, the town history didn’t include the tale of Winslow’s breakdown after his wife left and his son died.

  “I meant, he must have been drunk to have lost the property like that.”

  “No, you called him a broken-down drunk.” Phil Bowers was staring at her. “Sure you’re not making this up to pump up viewer interest?”

  “You still don’t believe that this is not about Grant Whitecastle, do you?”

  “Not for a minute. I think Ian Reynolds contacted you or that slimy husband of yours, and you smelled a sensational story—a bit of colorful history to tweak the old folks.” He stepped closer. Emma stepped back a bit, then stopped, determined to hold her ground even if she did it half crying. There was less than a foot between them.

  “I’m not making this up,” she insisted, going eyeball to eyeball with Bowers. She could feel tears of frustration, big as bowling balls, ready to roll again.

  “But how could you know all this otherwise?” asked Susan.

  Granny stood to the left side of Susan Steveson. “Tell them, Emma,” she pleaded. “If you don’t, they’ll think you’re a scalawag.”

  At wits’ end, Emma swung her attention to Granny. “And if I tell them, Granny, they’ll think I’m nuts.”

  The silence that followed was thick and fluffy, like cotton batting, shutting out everything but the three of them and Emma’s last words. Everyone stopped. Time hung like a tethered helium-filled balloon.

  “Emma, dear,” Susan said in a soft voice, “who are you speaking to?”

 
Phil started to steer his aunt away from Emma. “Aunt Susan, go into the house. I’ll take care of this.”

  Emma continued to look at Granny, too embarrassed and afraid to look at Susan and Phil—especially Phil.

  The ghost gave Emma a weak grin. “At least the cat’s out of the bag.”

  If Ish Reynolds wasn’t already dead, Emma might have killed her on the spot.

  “Are you happy now?” Emma tossed the question into the emptiness of her car. From the warmth inside the vehicle, she didn’t think Granny was with her as she drove back to town, but she didn’t care. She was going to rant at her anyway.

  Granny had disappeared as soon as the spook hit the fan, so to speak.

  Despite her nephew’s efforts to protect her, Susan Steveson remained rooted to the ground in front of Emma, looking like she’d been goosed from behind. Unable to get Susan to go into the house, Phil Bowers stepped forward, trying to put his aunt behind him.

  “I’m counting to ten,” he said to Emma in a slow, moderated voice. “Get in your car and leave. If I ever see you around here again, I’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”

  Emma started to open her bag to dig out her keys. Bowers stopped her by snatching away her purse.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll do that.” He opened her bag and dug through it—every inch of it—like he was on a tiny scavenger hunt.

  “I don’t have a weapon, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  He tossed the keys to her. Emma, still in shock from her confession, let them drop to the ground. When she stooped to pick them up, Phil Bowers dropped her designer bag at her feet. It landed with a dull thud in the dirt. She collected both the keys and the bag and started to climb into her car. Halfway in, she stopped and turned to face Susan and Phil. She had nothing to lose, might as well go out spilling the whole pot of beans, whether they believed her or not. And why should they believe her? She didn’t believe it herself half the time.

  “I really have no idea who Ian Reynolds is or what he wants.”

  Phil Bowers shifted on his feet, unsure of whether to stop her and shove her into her car or let her continue. Susan stared at Emma, her face an uncommon blend of anger and compassion.

  Phil shook his head in disgust and took a menacing step toward her. “Don’t tell me, some spirit from god knows where told you about the Reynolds property. Right? You seeing things that aren’t there, Fancy Pants? Is that your gimmick?”

  She held up her hand, palm out, to stop his advance. “It’s no gimmick, but yes, the ghost of Ish Reynolds, Granny Apples, told me about the property—and about the hanging.”

  “Oh, Emma,” began Susan, shaking her head, her eyes filling with tears of concern. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Can’t you see you’re upsetting my aunt?” Phil’s voice was deep and angry, a canyon of rocky cliffs and treacherous trails.

  “I’m sorry, Susan, but it’s the truth. Strange as it might seem.” Emma took a breath. “When Granny first came to me, I didn’t believe it either.”

  Bowers tried once again to maneuver his aunt away from the scene. “And,” he said, “I suppose your murderous ancestor also told you the tall tale about John Winslow being a drunk?”

  Emma stuck out her chin. “No, she didn’t. The ghost of Albert Robinson told me that.”

  With both Phil Bowers and Susan Steveson staring at her, their open mouths resembling side-by-side caves, Emma got into her car and headed down the long drive.

  After pulling up next to the Julian Hotel, Emma sat in her car for a long time. Her mind and body felt drained and tinny like an empty soda can. She wanted to go home. She wanted to leave these people behind. She certainly never wanted to see anyone from the Bowers family again.

  She looked at her watch. It was nearly seven o’clock. If she packed her bag and left now, she estimated she could be home by ten thirty. Emma saw no good reason to stay one more night after the day she’d had. After all, what would it matter if she proved Ish innocent? It wouldn’t change the ownership of the land, and it certainly wouldn’t change the fact that Ish was dead. Even if she hadn’t been murdered, she’d still be dead now, if only from natural causes. Home beckoned her like a beacon of hope, offering comfort and sanity. It called to her with the promise of familiar surroundings and the lure of sleeping late in the morning. Three and a half hours on the highway and Julian would be just an embarrassing memory.

  She leaned forward, resting her forehead on the steering wheel, and closed her eyes. In spite of the call of homey comfort, the idea of driving for three hours seemed as difficult a task as crossing the desert in August barefoot and without water. She should just go upstairs to her room and go to bed. Just crawl under the covers and sleep until it was time to check out in the morning and head home. If Albert and Granny showed up, she’d tell them to get lost. She was out of the ghost business.

  Lifting up her head, she rolled it around in a circle, then from side to side, listening to the pops and cracks of stress. Emma promised herself a full body massage when she got home. After her bones protested, her stomach took its turn. She needed to get some dinner but didn’t want to sit in a restaurant. She got out of the car, locked it, and headed down the street toward the market on the corner of Main and Washington. She would pick up a sandwich or anything that could hold her until morning and breakfast.

  The market was about to close, but Emma managed to grab a couple cartons of yogurt, a plastic spoon, a bottle of water, and a small box of crackers. Just outside the entrance to the market was a bench. The day was cooling off, promising a comfortable evening. Small clusters of lavender and poppies like brooches of purple and orange gems dotted the vacant lot across from the market. Beyond the lot was the Rong Branch Restaurant. A few cars were parked in front of it. It seemed like several days, rather than just hours, since her lunch at the Rong Branch and her initial meeting with Phillip Bowers.

  Emma sat down, opened a yogurt, and dug in. She took a spoonful, leaned back, and closed her eyes, letting the banana-strawberry cream slide down her throat in cool satisfaction. After a moment, she opened her eyes and took another spoonful. Then another. She was hungrier than she thought. She opened the box of crackers, gobbled up a couple, and washed them down with a swig from the water bottle. She was feeling better.

  She looked around, studying the quiet town. Few cars were on the road, and fewer people were on the streets. The little town was shutting down for the night. In spite of her run-ins with Phil Bowers, Emma liked it here. She wasn’t sure why, but she did. The slower pace was refreshing, giving a person time to think. Even hopping with weekend tourists, Emma was sure it would still be a sleepy little place that time had almost, but not quite, forgotten. That must be why the tourists liked it. It gave them a chance to unplug from the grind of their daily lives, shop for trinkets, eat pie, and relax.

  While eating her second yogurt, Emma dug her cell phone out of her bag. She’d shut it off during her visit with Susan. After turning it on, she saw that she had received one text message and three calls. The text message was from Kelly, telling her she was having a great time and that she had spotted Leonardo DiCaprio that morning. The first call was from Milo, checking up on her. She called him back but only reached voice mail. The second call was from her divorce attorney, giving her the good news that it looked like Grant and his attorney were ready to come to a reasonable settlement.

  The last message was from Tracy, saying that her friend confirmed that more information would be needed to track the history of a property, especially one that old. As soon as Emma had more information, Tracy told her in the message, the woman would be happy to help trace the property. Tracy also asked again if she should join Emma in Julian.

  Now that she knew for certain who owned the old Reynolds property and the path it took to get there, Emma didn’t feel she needed to know more about it. She
really just wanted to find out who killed Jacob and Ish. Once she did that, Ish would be considered innocent and would be satisfied.

  Mid-thought, Emma sat up straight on the bench and ran a hand through her short hair. Twenty minutes ago, she’d told herself she was off the case. No more ghosts. No more snooping around. She was only staying in Julian to get a good night’s sleep before hitting the road in the morning. Yet here she was, still trying to fit the puzzle pieces together. She let out a deep sigh. There was no denying that no matter how much she tried to push it out of her mind, the story intrigued her.

  Finished with her yogurt, Emma sat back and munched a few more crackers. A couple of cars went by. Two people left the Rong Branch, climbed into a pickup truck, and headed out of town on highway 78. There was a nice breeze, but not a cold one, letting Emma know she was ghost-free, at least for now. Relaxing, she reflected on what she’d learned so far, reviewing the information in her head like notes before an exam.

  Big John Winslow had bought the land from Winston, Granny’s son, when he left town. John Winslow was the father of Billy Winslow, a close friend of Winston’s. For whatever reason, Billy’s mother left her husband and Billy killed himself. John Winslow drowned his misery in drink and lost the Reynolds’ land to Buck Bowers, a known card cheat. She wondered if John Winslow was a big drinker before his personal tragedy or if it was something that came about only after Billy’s death.

  Emma’s eyes traveled up Main Street toward the cemetery. It stood high on the hill, the dead keeping watch over the living. At least Billy Winslow kept watch. Emma’s mind traveled back to her meeting with the ghost of Billy Winslow and to what Albert Robinson’s spirit had told her. The cemetery closed at dusk. It was getting close to that time, but thanks to it being summer, there was still a bit of daylight ahead. Before she left town, she wanted to talk to Billy again.