Sue Ann Jaffarian - [Granny Apples 01]

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  “Emma Whitecastle.” Emma held out her hand, and the two women shook politely.

  “Maude, I’m a descendant of Elizabeth and Jacob Reynolds—the couple in that photograph.” She pointed to the picture of Ish and Jacob.

  “Really?” Maude looked surprised. “I was going to ask if you were related to that fool on TV.”

  “Actually, I am, but only by marriage.” She walked over to the photograph. “I’m related by blood to the Reynolds, on my mother’s side. We’ve traced our line back to Winston Reynolds and to Julian.”

  “Funny, someone else was asking about the Reynolds family recently. About two or three months ago.”

  “A tall man, nice looking but flashy, from Los Angeles?”

  Maude scrunched up her face in thought. “Can’t say. The inquiry came by telephone, but I do recall the number being from Los Angeles, and the gentleman said his name was Reynolds. I might still have the number somewhere.” She started back to her desk. Emma and Granny followed.

  After scrounging through her cluttered desk, Maude produced a scrap of paper with a Los Angeles phone number and the name Ian Reynolds printed neatly under it. “He gave me his number in case I remembered anything more to tell him.”

  “And did you? Remember anything more, I mean.”

  “Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I did.” Maude sat down at her desk. “I wasn’t sure it would help, but then I remembered that the records show the Reynolds property was sold to John Winslow, one of the town’s prominent citizens. The Winslow family history is very tragic. John’s wife, Helen, left Julian and took their daughter with her. Soon after his mother left, young Billy Winslow committed suicide. Story is, John’s heart broke so bad he took to drinking, and he gambled away everything he had. One night he was so drunk, he wandered into the woods during a snow storm and died of exposure.”

  The story made Emma remember what Granny had said about the early days being unkind to the weak.

  “What did that have to do with the Reynolds family?”

  “Maybe nothing, but then a librarian called me and told me that they had come into possession of some letters written between John and Helen Winslow after she left Julian. Apparently, a patron left the library a lot of books when she died, and the letters were stashed inside some of them. They were probably handed down through the daughter’s line.”

  Maude excavated another piece of paper from the depths of her desk. “Here it is. Her name’s Jill Patterson. She’s with the La Habra Library. Said she knew about our museum and wanted to know if we’d like copies of the letters since they contained history about the town and its people. Of course, I said yes. Then I called Mr. Reynolds and told him about the letters, to see if he might be interested since they involved the family that bought the property. I offered to send him copies as soon as I received them, but he said he’d get them directly from the library since it would be faster. I gave him Ms. Patterson’s number.”

  Emma’s brain absorbed the information like a cracker dipped in milk. It could be nothing. But then again, the letters between Helen and Big John Winslow, written after Mrs. Winslow left Julian, might contain clues as to why she left and to what happened over a hundred years ago when Julian wasn’t a sleepy, sweet tourist attraction but a rough-and-tumble town emerging from the heat of a gold rush.

  Letters from the grave.

  It had already occurred to Emma that John Winslow might have been one of the three men who attacked Ish Reynolds and strung her up from the old oak tree on her homestead. Billy might have found out and was killed for it. Or his father might have had remorse, and Billy was killed to shut him up. Both were plausible, but based on what little information she’d gleaned from Billy’s stiff responses, Emma’s money was on the former—that Billy somehow found out and paid the price for his knowledge. And that his father had been unable to stop it, causing him to sink into the depths of a bottle.

  “Do you have the letters?” she asked Maude.

  “Yes, I do. They came in several weeks ago.” Again she rummaged around her desk, coming up this time with a large manila envelope. “I’m afraid we haven’t had time to review them yet.” She handed the envelope to Emma.

  The envelope had been opened, but it didn’t look like the contents had been disturbed. Inside were copies of several letters written in a tight hand. Emma examined them, noting that the originals must have been written on small sheets of paper, as the words were edged on the copy paper with a slightly ragged frame. She noted, too, the dates—definitely after Granny was hung. The letters were addressed in two variations: Dear wife or My dear Helen. All were signed: Your devoted husband, John.

  As she scanned the correspondence, Emma became excited. Though stiff and formal, the letters begged for forgiveness and contained professions of love and confessions of dark deeds. She looked around for Granny and found her hovering nearby, next to a display case.

  Granny came to Emma. “Those there letters, they’re important?”

  After noting that Maude was busying herself at her desk, Emma gave Granny a smile and a nod. Granny wrung her hands and closed her eyes in hope.

  Emma approached the curator’s desk. “Maude, is it possible to get copies of these letters?”

  “Yes, but I’ll have to charge you for the copies.”

  “No problem. While you’re at it, can you make me two copies of each?”

  While Maude disappeared into a small room just behind her desk, Emma thought about Ian Reynolds. The land properly belonged to the Bowers family, but she wondered if he was intending to strong-arm them with this historical information into selling it to him. And now she could see why Phil Bowers had reacted so strongly to her being Grant Whitecastle’s wife. This was a good story; it was a historical murder-mystery come to life—the type of story that would capture the imaginations of viewers and put public sentiment on Reynolds’ side, possibly pushing the Bowers family into making a guilt sale.

  But something was amiss. She still didn’t think the Ian she’d met last night was the real Ian Reynolds. So why would an imposter be interested in this land? Was it really about building condos? She doubted it. Condominiums could be built anywhere, especially somewhere amenable to new construction and not so far out, off the beaten path. Was there really an Ian Reynolds somewhere?

  Emma cocked her head toward the back room. Maude was still making the copies. Casting her eyes about the messy desk, she spotted the note with Ian Reynolds’ telephone number and quickly jotted it down on a scrap of paper. She’d just replaced the original note when Maude returned with the copies.

  “By the way,” Emma said to the curator as she paid her for the copies, “Ish Reynolds did not murder her husband, as that tag under the photograph says in the other room.”

  “All the historical accounts say that she did and was even hung for it.” Maude looked at her with curiosity. “Do you have proof of it being otherwise?”

  “If I did, would you change that photo caption?”

  Maude thought a minute before speaking. “Yes, I believe we would. After all, we’d want it to be accurate.”

  She pointed to the papers clutched in Maude’s hand. “Read those letters. That’s the proof.”

  Emma grinned. Not at Maude, but at the ghost of Granny Apples. As if on springs, the spirit hopped up and down in joy before disappearing.

  Happy to have fulfilled her promise to Granny, her aunt Kitty, and her mother, Emma was now ready to go home. But first she was going to drive out to the Bowers ranch and leave a copy of John Winslow’s letters with them. She didn’t care what transpired over the property, but she wanted them to know she’d been right about Granny. Her family tree was murder-free, at least that she knew. She also wanted Susan and Phillip to have the same information Ian Reynolds had and know what he was planning to use in his bid to grab the property.

  She had
taken a few steps away from the museum, toward the park, her head down as she concentrated on tucking the letters into her bag, when she heard a whispery voice.

  “Emma.”

  Snapping her head up, she saw nothing.

  “Emma,” came the slightly shrouded male voice again. This time from behind her.

  Snatching off her sunglasses, she pivoted 180 degrees, coming face to face with a ghost. Emma staggered, grasping the trunk of a nearby tree to steady herself. She felt the blood drain from her face like water from a bath.

  “Emma,” the ghost said again.

  Emma stared at the spirit, recognizing it on the spot.

  It was the ghost of Ian Reynolds.

  The ghost said nothing further, just spoke her name a couple more times before disappearing. Emma stumbled to the nearest picnic table and dropped on a bench, her teeth chattering like castanets.

  With great care, her mind computed what she had just seen. She was sure it was Ian Reynolds. The ghost looked exactly as she had seen him last night. The same clothing. The same hairstyle. The same voice. Everything the same as when she’d last seen him standing in front of the Rong Branch with Phillip Bowers. But if the ghost was truly Ian’s spirit, that meant—she put the brakes on her thoughts, not wanting to enter the dark cave of probability.

  Emma looked up into the trees that shaded the table. Heard the birds chattering like old friends. Felt the heavy heat of the June sun and smelled the clean, fresh mountain air. Cars and trucks went by. So did a small covey of motorcycles. The streets were starting to feel the pitter-patter of vehicles belonging to early weekend travelers. People who hadn’t heard yet that a murder had taken place in the quiet little town.

  Shaking herself, Emma willed her brain to complete her earlier thought. If the ghost that had just visited her was indeed Ian Reynolds’ spirit, that meant Ian was dead.

  “Ian’s dead,” she said to herself out loud in a barely audible tone. From her bag, her cell phone rang. In her shock, Emma didn’t hear it. It rang again.

  “Dead.” She repeated the word, drawing it out into two syllables, forcing her reluctant memory to make note of it, to understand and hold on to what it meant. If Ian was dead, did that mean Phil Bowers was a killer? Or had Ian returned to the cemetery and stumbled upon something unsavory?

  She looked in the direction of the Pioneer Cemetery but couldn’t see it from where she sat. Yet she knew it was there and that a body had been found. Was Ian’s body the one in the graveyard, or was that someone else, and Ian’s body was still to be discovered?

  The third ring penetrated Emma’s dazed thoughts. She pulled her phone out of her bag and looked at the display, taking a moment to let the name register. It was Milo Ravenscroft. On the fourth ring, she answered.

  “Emma, thank God I reached you.” He sounded anxious. “Are you still in Julian?”

  She looked around the park, still thinking about Ian Reynolds, looking to see if his ghost was present. She saw nothing, not even Granny.

  “Yes, but I’m leaving soon.” She shook herself, demanding that her mind and body concentrate on Milo’s call. Milo was the one person who might be able to answer her questions.

  “Soon is not soon enough. Get in your car and leave now. Right this minute.”

  “Why?” The urgency in his voice put her on alert. “What’s the matter? Did you look at the photos I sent you?”

  “Yes, but forget that for now. Right before I called you I had a vision. I think there’s going to be a murder in Julian.”

  “There already has been, Milo.” She said the words slowly and with care, like eggs being carried over rocky terrain. “I heard about it this morning.” She swallowed hard before speaking. “And I think his ghost just visited me.”

  “His ghost?”

  Still shocked and confused, Emma nodded up and down before realizing Milo couldn’t see her. “Yes, at least I think so. Unless there are two bodies.”

  “I saw a body, Emma, in a graveyard—an old graveyard. But I couldn’t see his face.” Emma heard him take a deep breath before continuing. “And I saw you.”

  A vibration ran up and down her spine like strings on a stroked cello. She put her sunglasses back on, as if they could hide her from harm like an invisibility shield.

  “You were running in the graveyard, frightened and hurt.”

  “That’s a pretty accurate description of last night. I was in the graveyard and frightened, and I stumbled and hurt myself. Not badly, just scrapes and bruises. But there was no body. At least no fresh ones.”

  She thought about Ian, both alive and dead, and how quickly he’d gone from one state of being into the other.

  “Last night I was frightened by a man who was following me. But today, just before you called, a ghost came to me that looked like him.”

  There was a long silence on Milo’s end. Emma stayed quiet, knowing he was thinking it over.

  “And you’re sure it was the same man?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “And last night you’re sure he was alive when he chased you? That it wasn’t his ghost trying to scare you?”

  “Considering he and I had coffee together soon after, I’m pretty sure he was alive in the cemetery last night. And he wasn’t exactly chasing me. He was following me, watching me.”

  While she talked, she watched the traffic on the road several yards away. People were coming and going in a normal manner while she sat in the park talking about murder and ghosts.

  “What’s more, he heard me talking to the ghosts in the graveyard last night, and he wasn’t at all surprised by it.”

  When Milo didn’t respond, she added, “As I told you last night, the ghosts scattered as soon as they sensed his presence. Granny, too. She wouldn’t let him see her.”

  Again Milo didn’t answer. His silence was making her more nervous. She plowed on, clarifying. “The ghost who just visited me and the man who chased me last night are one and the same. It’s the man in the photos I sent you. The young one, not the bald one.”

  She hoped at some point he’d stop her and offer words of advice and comfort. He did not.

  “Do you know who the man in the photos is, Milo?”

  “Yes, I do. And you’re right, Emma. His name isn’t Ian Reynolds. It’s Garrett Bell.”

  “You know him?”

  “Yes, I do. Professionally, at least.”

  “He was a client?”

  “No, Emma, he wasn’t. He’s a professional clairvoyant, like me. Or at least he was.”

  In the warmth of day, Emma started shivering again. Taking off her sunglasses, she made sure there were no spirits around before attributing her bone-numbing chill to fear. She was alone.

  “I’m puzzled, Milo. If Ian, or this Garrett person, could see ghosts, why did they flee from him? Is it because they didn’t like him or trust him, as you said last night?”

  “I’m not entirely sure why, but probably a bit of both, especially the trust part. Garrett …,” Milo started to say, but his words were broken up by static. Then the call was dropped.

  Emma immediately dialed him again but got a busy tone. Frustrated, she put the phone down on the table and waited for Milo to call her back. She resumed watching the street. A sheriff’s vehicle went by. So did another small group of bikers. It seemed like forever before Milo rang through again, although it was less than a minute.

  Without saying hello, Emma said, “I lost you just as you started to tell me about Garrett Bell.”

  “Garret Bell was a clairvoyant who used his gifts unethically for his own benefit and to benefit others with dishonest motives. He wasn’t interested in helping people or in comforting them over lost loved ones.”

  “You mean he used the spirits for financial gain?”

  “Yes. He’d help pe
ople locate spirits who could help them find out things that could be used for other purposes. People would come to him with information about old bank heists or stolen gems, missing artwork, stuff like that, and he’d contact spirits to help locate them. If the items were recovered, he received a large fee.”

  “That doesn’t sound illegal.”

  “Most of the stolen items were never returned to their proper owners. That is illegal. His services were used mostly by fortune hunters. And though he’d been charged with illegal activity on several occasions, he’d managed to slip out of it. He’d even been suspected of using spirits to convince elderly folks to change their wills in favor of other family members, who then paid Garrett a hefty fee when they collected. Usually, collection was sooner rather than later.”

  Emma shivered again. “That’s despicable.”

  “Yes, it is. And the worse part is, often the spirits don’t even realize they’re being used in such a manner. But like us, they can often sense when someone isn’t right. That could be why they fled when Garrett was around.”

  “You mean buzz about Garrett Bell’s activities has made it to the Ghost Gazette?”

  “Go ahead and laugh. But while I doubt the spirits have broadcast his shenanigans, I’m sure most of them have picked up the negative vibrations, or aura, that has built up around him over the years.”

  Emma was on the brink of making a nervous crack about a disturbance in the Force, but she decided to keep the joke to herself.

  “Emma, are you in a visible, public place?”

  “Yes, I’m in a park. Lots of people driving by. Some even walking by.”

  “Good. Stay public as much as possible. Don’t go anywhere where you can be trapped alone. And above all, stay out of that cemetery.”

  “Do you think Ian’s ghost—I mean Garrett’s ghost—will hurt me?”

  Just as Emma asked the question, the sheriff’s SUV drove by again, this time moving slowly. Emma watched it. The people inside watched her.

  “No, I don’t think his ghost will hurt you. I’m more worried about the person who killed him. That’s the real danger. That person is alive and at large.”