Ghost in the Polka Dot Bikini: A Ghost of Granny Apples Mystery (11 page)

It was late in
the afternoon, and Los Angeles traffic was turning asphalt ugly as people started leaving work. Emma calculated that if she headed home right this minute, she might be ahead of most of the freeway snarl. Another hour and she’d be crawling all the way back to Pasadena. According to her GPS, the intersection of Sawtelle and Pico wasn’t far from Fran Hyland’s office. Emma had a decision to make—head home and call it a day or push on to Bing’s and hope to catch Denise Dowd before Hyland got to her and poisoned the well.

She turned out of the parking garage and headed south on Century Park East. At Pico Boulevard, she turned right. She gave herself until Overland Avenue to make up her mind. Turning left on Overland took her to the 10 Freeway and the way home. Going straight took her to Sawtelle. When she got to Overland, she kept her vehicle straight.

Bing’s was located on the south side of Pico, just beyond the 405 Freeway overpass. Emma turned left into its parking lot. Before getting out of the car, she called Milo. When he didn’t answer, she left him a voicemail with the latest updates, knowing Celeste’s revelations alone were going to set his internal senses tingling like high-voltage antennae.

Bing’s was an old-fashioned restaurant that, according to its sign, had been in Los Angeles for over sixty years. The inside was dark, its booths made of tufted red vinyl, and the walls were paneled. Emma stepped inside and let her eyes adjust to the dim lighting. The restaurant didn’t look like it had had a makeover in those sixty years either.

Straight ahead, she saw a few booths; beyond them, a long, old-fashioned bar at which several patrons were enjoying cocktails. To her right was a large room with more booths. Even though it was a little early for dinner, the place was hopping and nearly full. Upon closer examination, Emma noted that almost every customer in the place appeared to be a senior citizen, including most of the waitresses that bustled by.

A middle-aged man came to the front desk. In his hand he clutched several menus. “One for dinner?” he asked.

“Um,” Emma stammered, not sure what to do. She had expected a diner, the type of place with a counter where she could chat up Denise Dowd while she worked. “Is Denise Dowd working tonight?”

“Yes, Denise’s here.”

“Would it be possible to sit at one of her tables?”

“Hold on a moment,” the man told her before scurrying off to the dining section to the right. When he returned a second later, he said, “Yes, there is a small booth available in her station. Follow me, please.”

Emma was led around a dividing wall inset with fish tanks to where several small booths just large enough for two were set. A few feet across from the booths was a real wall. It felt cramped yet cozy, and semi-private, which, Emma thought, might be perfect for talking with Denise away from prying eyes. She slid into the booth, which was already set for two, and took the menu. Only one other booth on this secluded side was filled, occupied by a single man two booths down, munching a salad while squinting at a newspaper in the dim light.

“Denise will be with you shortly,” the host said before dashing off.

Soon a waitress, one hand holding a plate of steaming food, passed her. “Be with you in a sec, hon,” she said to Emma.

Emma’s mouth watered as her nostrils picked up the scent from the passing plate. She’d eaten four hours earlier, and it had been on the light side, not to mention unsettling to her digestion. Opening the menu, she scanned it. Bing’s specialty seemed to be comfort food and lots of meat—prime rib, steaks, and barbeque—and most items were bargain-basement priced. Then she saw the reason for the early crowd. Every night from four thirty to six thirty, there were even more bargains on full meals that included drinks and dessert. Bing’s was a senior diner’s dream. Emma continued moving her eyes over the menu until she located the seafood section. A lot of it was fried, but there were several healthy offerings. Emma smiled. Phil would think he’d died and gone to heaven in this place.

After delivering the plate to the man sitting nearby, the waitress stopped by Emma’s booth. The name tag fastened to her uniform read
Denise
. “Know what you want, hon?”

Denise Dowd appeared to be in her early sixties. Her hair was a light reddish-brown and stiffly styled. Her dark eyes, with their blue eye shadow and penciled brows, peered out over the top of reading glasses. She was dressed in a white cotton shirt and black pants and seemed more like an actress playing a stereotyped character waitress rather than a real waitress. Emma tried to study her face without being rude. Although they’d never met, Denise looked familiar.

“Any recommendations?”

“Tonight’s special is the country pork chops. Best you’ll ever have. Also have a grilled halibut that’s not on the menu.”

“I’ll take the halibut, please.”

“Salad or soup? Soups today are minestrone or chicken noodle. We make our own green goddess dressing and our own soups.”

“The minestrone.” Emma noticed that Denise wasn’t writing any of the order down.

“Rice, mashed potatoes, fries, baked potato? It also comes with fresh steamed vegetables.”

“Rice.” Emma also ordered a glass of house chardonnay and some water.

In a jiffy, Denise Dowd returned with her wine. A few moments later, she put a small basket with garlic toast and a cup of soup down on the table. Emma started to say something, but Denise scampered away to say goodbye to a large table of folks just leaving. Somehow Emma had to ask Denise about Tessa, but if the restaurant continued to bustle, it was going to be difficult. She took a spoonful of soup. It was hearty and delicious.

Soon Denise delivered Emma’s halibut. It was a nice piece, grilled to perfection. The side of rice wasn’t plain white but more in the Spanish style. It was a good meal, nothing fancy, but filling and tasty. Emma dug in. Although she was having trouble finding time to chat with Denise, she was enjoying having a quiet homestyle meal.

Denise continued to hustle orders and carry food out to tables. “Everything okay?” she asked Emma during one of her passes. Emma nodded and took another bite.

Shortly after she finished her meal, a busboy cleared the table. Emma was savoring the last bit of her wine when Denise stopped by. “How was it?”

“Excellent,” Emma answered. “The rice was a nice surprise. I expected a bland pilaf.”

“Folks love our rice,” Denise said with pride.

“Have you been working here long, Denise?”

“Seventeen years. Most of the waitresses have been here a long time.”

It was then that Emma placed where’d she seen Denise, or at least her face. “I’m sorry if I seem rude, but aren’t you on TV in a commercial? Something about arthritis medicine?”

The waitress beamed. “That’s me. Also did one for adult diapers.”

“So you act as well as wait tables?”

“Always had the acting bug. Did more of it when I was younger—was even in a few films when I was in my twenties. But mostly, I’ve done commercials.”

Lining up her mental ducks, Emma was about to ask about Tessa when Denise said, “Dessert comes with your meal. We’ve got chocolate pudding, tapioca, or ice cream.”

Emma grinned. “I love good chocolate pudding. Do you make it fresh here?”

“Just like everything else.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“With or without whipped cream?”

“Without.” She paused. “Ah, what the heck—make it with.”

While Denise headed off to get the dessert, Emma mentally chided herself. She had to start asking Denise questions about Tessa. When the dish of thick, dark chocolate pudding, topped with a cap of fluffy whipped cream, was placed in front of her, she got down to business.

“Denise, could I ask you a few questions?”

“Sure. Is it about our menu? You doing a piece on the restaurant?” She placed Emma’s tab down on the table.

Emma shook her head. “Sorry, nothing like that. My name’s Emma Whitecastle. I left you a voicemail yesterday.”

Denise Dowd peered over the top of her reading glasses and studied Emma for what seemed like forever. “Whitecastle. Yes, I remember the call. Hard to forget a name like that if you’re in the business. You’re George’s former daughter-in-law, aren’t you? The one who divorced that sleazebag on TV.”

“That’s me. Do you know George?”

“I was in two of his movies when I was young. Another about ten years ago.” Instead of saying more, Denise looked away for a moment, then turned back to Emma. “I’m pretty busy here.”

“Please, Denise. I was just at Fran Hyland’s this afternoon. She said you used to room with Tessa North. I’m trying to find out what happened to her.” After a short pause, she added, “It has nothing to do with my being part of the Whitecastle family. I just want to know about Tessa North. Her name came up in some research I was doing for my own TV show on the paranormal.”

The last word caught Denise’s attention. “Paranormal? You mean like ESP, fortunetelling, ghosts, stuff like that?”

“Yes.” Emma dug into her handbag and pulled out her business card for
The Whitecastle Report
. She handed it to the waitress. “I know you’re busy, but perhaps we can meet later when you’re off work or even tomorrow sometime.”

Denise looked over the card, then turned her face toward Emma. It was as blank as a white bed sheet. “Eat your pudding, Emma, and I’ll think about it.” It sounded like something a mother would say to her child.

Emma dawdled over her pudding, but Denise never stopped by her table again. Finally, deciding she’d struck out with Denise Dowd, Emma slid out of the booth and headed for the front area to pay her check. She was almost out the door when she heard someone call her name. It was Denise Dowd. Turning back into the restaurant, Emma ran smack into a man just leaving.

“I’m so sorry,” Emma said to the man, a short, balding, non-descript sort.

The man looked down at the ground and mumbled, “No problem.” He scooted out past her and disappeared into the dark parking lot just as Denise reached Emma.

The waitress handed her a slip of folded paper. “I believe you dropped this.” Giving Emma a professional smile, Denise said, “You come back real soon.”

Once outside, Emma opened the folded note and read it under the entry light. On it was printed an address in Culver City and the words:
Tomorrow—10 am sharp. Only chance you’ll get.

Emma was glad she’d left a nice tip.

Once she returned home, Emma called Milo and caught him up on all the latest developments in her investigation. He hadn’t had any more insights on Curtis or information on the spirit that had visited them. They agreed to meet at his house following her visit with Denise the next day.

After the call with Milo, Emma settled onto the leather sofa in the den with her laptop and a glass of wine and started going through her e-mails from her TV show’s account. There were notes from fans of the series, along with the usual crackpots, as well as a couple from religious zealots warning her she was on the path to hell. There were also suggestions from both fans and experts for topics for new shows. Emma deleted those that deserved deletion and wrote short thank-you notes to those who’d written to say how much they enjoyed the show. Those e-mails offering topic suggestions were put in a special folder that she and Jackie would review together to see if there were any good possibilities to pass along to the show’s producers. Jackie had offered to respond to the show’s fan mail, but Emma felt it important that she do it personally. She was almost done when a chill wafted through the room.

“Where have you been, Granny?” Emma asked without looking up from the computer screen. She received no answer.

The chilly current moved past her again at quick speed. Emma looked up but saw nothing. She looked down at Archie, who was curled next to her on the sofa. He was alert, his intelligent dark eyes following the cool draft, but his tail was not wagging.

“That’s not me,” said Granny, who materialized on the sofa next to Archie. The dog glanced at his pal and thumped his tail a few times at the familiar spirit. Just as quickly, he went back on alert, worried about the one that wasn’t known.

Emma looked at Granny, then at the hazy puff circling the room. “Who are you?” Emma asked the visiting spirit. She closed her laptop and placed it on the coffee table in front of the sofa. She got to her feet, ready to face the spirit. “Please show yourself.”

The spirit was still not defined, appearing only as a filmy column of steam.

Without taking her eyes off the unknown ghost, Emma asked Granny, “Do you know that spirit?”

“Can’t say that I do.”

“Can you describe it to me? Is it male or female?”

“I can’t see her fully either, Emma.”

“Her? So it’s a woman.”

“I’m not sure, but that’s the sense I get. And I don’t think she’s happy.”

Emma didn’t think so either. Though she knew that ghosts couldn’t physically harm her, it was still unnerving to come across those who were angry or disturbed.

“Have you come here for help?” she asked the strange ghost. “I’m willing to help you, but I must know who you are first.”

The column circulated around the room, faster and faster, until it came to a halt directly in front of Emma. She felt the apparition nose to nose with her, as if trying to breathe in her warm breath. Archie gave off a short whine.

“Hush,” Granny told the dog.

“Who are you?” Emma whispered. The front of her body was much colder than her back, and the hair on her neck and arms stood stiff like tines on a fork, but she didn’t move or back down.

Granny left the sofa and faced the visitor, spirit to spirit. “Stop this nonsense and tell us what you want or leave,” she demanded. “You can come back when you’re ready to be civil.”

After a short pause, the cold spout of air started circulating the room faster and faster, often brushing up against and around Emma. Archie whined again. This time, Granny didn’t shush him. Then, suddenly, the air in the room went still, and Emma knew the spirit had gone.

Emma dropped to the sofa, mentally exhausted. “We need to find out who that is, Granny. And what she wants.”

“Oh, so now you want this old mule’s help, do you?”

“Come on, Granny. You know you’re stubborn. It’s not like it’s news to you.”

Granny drifted across the room and leaned against the fireplace, her arms crossed in defiance. “Seems to me it’s a family trait.”

Emma hung her head, knowing she should have been more sensitive and thought her words through before speaking. Granny was definitely stubborn and cantankerous, but she was also loyal as the day is long, and had very delicate feelings. Emma wasn’t sure who was more tiring at the moment, Granny or the unknown ghost. Ever since Catalina, Granny had been ornerier than ever. “I’m sorry, Granny, if the mule remark hurt your feelings. You know I love you. Sometimes family members forget to be nice to each other.”

The diminutive ghost sniffed, her nose out of joint. “Well, I reckon so.” The spirit moved slowly around the room until she circled back toward the sofa. “And it’s not like I haven’t been called a mule before.”

Denise Dowd lived in
an older, well-maintained apartment building on a quiet street just a few blocks from Sony Studios. The pale green building had two stories, six apartments in all. Originally built with the apartments accessible to the public, in recent years it had been gated and a security call box installed. Just before ten o’clock, Emma located Denise’s button on the call box and pressed it. She was immediately buzzed in. The apartment was on the second floor at the end located over the carports in the rear of the building.

When Denise Dowd opened the door, she looked like a different person. She was dressed in an exquisite flowing African print caftan. Her auburn-tinted hair had been brushed out and softly framed her face, which was scrubbed and makeup free. And while the lines on her face appeared more prominent, her overall appearance was softer and more becoming than how she’d looked the night before. Denise the waitress was ordinary-looking; Denise the actress was quite attractive.

Emma was ushered into a very spacious apartment stuffed full of furniture, photos, and knickknacks. The floor plan was the standard open style, with the kitchen and dining area exposed to the living room. Down the hallway, directly across from the front door, Emma caught sight of three open doors—a bathroom and two bedrooms. The furnishings were old-fashioned, overstuffed, and exploding with floral prints.

Before disappearing into the kitchen, Denise told Emma to make herself comfortable. The morning had arrived with a cool drizzle, forcing Emma to slip a jacket over her jeans and baby blue sweater. She pulled the jacket off and hung it on a nearby coat tree before taking a seat on the sofa. Soon Denise returned with a tray laden with china teacups and a matching teapot, which she placed on the coffee table before taking her own seat on the sofa.

“I hope you like tea, Emma. I find it the civilized thing to serve guests, especially early callers. Later in the day, I like to bring out the booze.” She winked. “You look to me like a lemon kind of gal. Me, I prefer it like the English, with milk.”

“Yes, lemon, please.”

After slipping a thin lemon slice into a delicate rose-patterned cup, she handed it to Emma, along with its matching saucer. “And please help yourself to the biscuits—also English.”

Denise prepared her own cup of tea, then leaned back against the high back of the sofa, waiting for Emma to explain herself.

After taking a sip of tea, Emma cleared her throat and began. “Thank you for seeing me, Denise. I wasn’t sure you would.”

“Neither was I at first. But while you were eating your pudding, I gave Fran Hyland a quick call. She told me to avoid you at all costs.” Denise gave off a short snort of laughter. “That’s when I knew I had to hear what you had to say. If Fran found you objectionable, then I’d probably find you fascinating.”

“I thought you two were close friends.”

Denise laughed again. “Fran and I have known each other since before Noah built his ark, but I wouldn’t call her a close friend. She knows the Denise from the restaurant. She thinks I’m a loser with a dead-end job, living just above the poverty line.”

“I did notice quite a difference in you from last night.”

“One of the benefits of being an actress is that you can easily slip in and out of character. I keep my public and my private lives very separate. Thanks to my job at the restaurant, the commercials I’ve done over the years, and sound investments, I’ve managed to buy this building. Fran doesn’t know that, and I’d prefer she not.”

“Is there something wrong with Fran Hyland?”

“Something you didn’t already notice yourself?”

“She did seem pretty uptight.”

“Uptight? I’ve worn girdles with more give.”

This time it was Emma’s turn to laugh. “Actually, the conversation with Ms. Hyland was going along smoothly until she got it into her head that I was writing some sort of tell-all book. Before then, she told me how many of the young actresses hung out together, even lived together. She mentioned that she and Tessa North often auditioned for a lot of the same parts because of their similar looks.”

“Very true. Back then we banded together for both economic and safety reasons.”

“And you shared an apartment with Tessa?”

“Yes, with Tessa and two other girls. Shelly Campbell was a dancer who did a lot of musicals before heading to Vegas, where the work was more plentiful and the pay better. Heard she married some rich stage Johnny. Colleen was the funny one of the bunch. She wasn’t movie-star pretty like the rest of us, but I think Colleen worked more because of it. Less competition, I guess. She always landed a lot of character parts like the plain-Jane friend or the quirky co-ed. In fact, of all of us, she had the longest and most successful career. She was on a long-running Western drama for years, right up until last year, when she died suddenly from a stroke.”

“Are you talking about Colleen Miles?”

“That’s her.”

“She played the wisecracking cook on
Wildfire
, didn’t she? My family watches that show every week. I loved that character.”

“Believe me, Colleen was a wiseass in real life, too, right up until the end. Being on that show wasn’t exactly a stretch for her. Unlike Fran and I, Colleen and I were close friends.”

Denise was quiet for a moment, then got up and retrieved a large photo album from a nearby table. “Since you’re interested in Tessa, I got this old thing out for you.”

She returned to the sofa and flipped through the album until she came upon several old photographs of young women cavorting in bathing suits.

“There we are,” she said, pointing to a particular group shot with nearly a dozen girls, “the original Wild Bunch.” She chuckled. “That’s me and Fran in the first row.” The two women she indicated were stunning in both figure and face. “And that’s Shelly, the dancer.”

Emma pointed to a girl almost in the middle of the group. She wore her blond hair in a flip. “That Tessa?”

“That’s her.”

Denise flipped a few pages until she came to more girls in bathing suits. They were lounging around in directors’ chairs, some of them reading, a few smoking. “This was taken on the set of
Beach Party Prom
. There’s me with Colleen.”

As Denise had said, Colleen was not a great beauty like the others, but she had a pleasant, impish appeal about her and a lovely figure. Again, Emma spotted Tessa right away.

“Did you ever see
Beach Party Prom
?” Denise kept her eyes on Emma. “It was a real stinker, but it made a nice chunk of change for the studio.”

“No. I didn’t even know it existed until I checked IMDB for Tessa’s information.”

Denise closed the book carefully and let it rest on her lap. “Tell me, Emma, how do you know what Tessa North looked like? She didn’t have that much of a career before she took off.” Before Emma could hem and haw her way to an answer, Denise added, “In fact, let’s get down to why you’re here. You said you were doing research for your TV show. Considering your show is about the paranormal, the natural question here is, have
you
seen a ghost you believe is Tessa?”

The question wasn’t posed with either sarcasm or skepticism, nor was it delivered with awe. It was simply a question with a head-on delivery—like Denise herself. Emma decided it deserved a head-on response, the same as she’d given Celeste when she’d asked the question.

Putting down her teacup, Emma turned to face Denise. “Yes, Denise, I have, flakey as it sounds.”

“I see.” Denise put the album on the coffee table and picked up the teapot. “More tea?”