Ghost in the Polka Dot Bikini: A Ghost of Granny Apples Mystery (9 page)

Emma sighed. “It’s okay, Granny. We knew she might not be persuaded to come today.” Her eyes followed the ghost as it crisscrossed the room. “Would you stay still, Granny? You’re making me dizzy.”

The ghost stopped on a dime, spun around, and disappeared. “Just give a holler,” her disembodied voice told them, “when you have something useful to say.”

Emma shook her head. “If Tessa’s stubborn as a goat, then Granny’s a mule.”

“I heard that!” a voice called out of thin air.

“You were supposed to hear it, Granny,” Emma called back.

“Ladies, ladies,” interrupted Milo. “We’ll never be able to help Tessa with all this bickering.” He turned to Emma. “What exactly did you find out from your father-in-law?”

“Nothing more than what I already told you. He says he doesn’t remember anyone named Tessa North or Theresa Nowicki. But he also said he hardly remembers any of his extras from movies.” From the change in the air, Emma knew Granny had departed. She dropped the shawl from her shoulders.

Milo nodded while he jotted down a few notes. “Makes sense. I’m sure he’s seen thousands of pretty actresses come and go during his career.”

“But like I said—,” Emma started, then paused. She had a notebook and pen. The notebook contained the notes she’d taken so far on Tessa North. She tapped the pen against the paper as she gave her next words more thought. “I’m sure I saw George’s eyes widen when I asked about a man named Curtis who had a boat.”

“Sure the question didn’t simply surprise him?”

“It could have done that, too. But this looked like a spark of recognition, or even concern. I know it’s not much. I mean, it’s just a slight facial movement and one given by a man who is seriously ill, but something inside me sensed it was more. I just can’t seem to pass it off as unimportant. And with the big reaction I received from Paul Feldman, I’m pretty sure he knew her, too. I’m also sure if I’d talked to Mr. Feldman after he’d seen George, I would have received a far different reaction from him.”

“Very possible. George would have had time to warn him that you might be asking questions.”

Milo closed his eyes and meditated on the situation a few moments. Emma remained still, not wanting to disturb his concentration. When he opened his eyes, he shook his head and said, “I’m not getting any grasp on this at all. Is there anyone else you can ask about this? Anyone else who might remember Tessa?”

“I’ve thought about asking Celeste, my mother-in-law. She might remember something about a man named Curtis hanging around George. There’s also Worth Manning. He’s another old friend of George’s and, like George and Paul Feldman, he was involved with the movies years ago. The three of them were thick as thieves. Still are.”

Milo’s brows shot up. “Worth Manning? The actor turned politician?” He pointed a finger at Emma. “Didn’t he retire from the US Senate several years ago?”

“Yes, that’s him. Grant and I went to his retirement party. George and Celeste hosted it. His son, Stuart, is a bigshot in Washington now—a congressman with some pretty powerful friends.” Emma took a sip of her tea. It was cool now, but she didn’t mind.

A shadow tiptoed across Milo’s thoughts like a cat crossing a grave. He closed his eyes again, inviting it to remain and show itself. “Didn’t Tessa say something about the night Bobby Kennedy was shot?” He asked the question without opening his eyes.

“Yes. She said Curtis was very upset by the assassination. He was even there that night at the Ambassador Hotel. That’s why he brought her to Catalina, to unwind in the days following it.” She paused as Milo’s line of thought occurred to her, too. “And Worth Manning was involved in politics, even forty years ago. I remember that from his retirement party. He has both the movie connection and the politics connection. He might know this Curtis person.”

“He knows Curtis.” The words were Milo’s but said in an almost lifeless tone.

Startled, Emma stared at him. He was still seated across from her. His eyes remained closed. His body was limp. “Who knows Curtis, Milo?” she asked with caution, not wanting to disrupt Milo’s concentration.

Milo didn’t move, not even the flutter of an eyelid. “The politician. He knows Curtis.”

It wasn’t the first time Emma had ever witnessed Milo make a psychic connection. She’d seen it twice before, both times while sitting in on group sessions with clients. It was always the same. One minute he was engrossed in conversation, the next he seemed asleep, but he continued the conversation as if on autopilot. During these occasions, Emma wasn’t sure if a spirit was talking through Milo or if his inner mind was seeing things his conscious mind could not. Milo believed it to be the latter.

Avoiding sudden movements, Emma slipped off her chair and made her way to Milo’s side of the table in a slow, low squatting position.

“Worth knows Curtis? Is that true?” she asked in an almost whisper.

Milo, his eyes still closed, nodded. “Yes.”

“Is this Curtis still alive?”

When she didn’t receive an answer, Emma prodded carefully. “What is his full name? Can you tell me that?”

Milo’s brows knitted over his shut eyelids. “Curtis. Curtis. Curtis. Tessa’s Curtis.”

“Did Curtis hurt Tessa?”

As suddenly as it had started, Milo snapped back to the present. His eyelids blinked rapidly, then flew open. He sat up straight in an abrupt movement and looked around, surprised to find Emma kneeling at his feet.

He blinked a few more times, as if assaulted by a bright light. He looked down at Emma, this time with clarity. “Worth Manning knows Curtis. I’m sure of it.”

Emma stood up and patted Milo on his shoulder, knowing these events drained him physically. “That’s what you said. Could you see anything else?”

“Not really. Just a lot of flashes. I tried to concentrate on all their names, but only Manning’s got a hit. Even the name Curtis wasn’t clear.”

Emma sat back down in her chair. “That doesn’t mean that George didn’t know him, too.”

“No, it doesn’t. But as you know, these things aren’t literal.”

Picking up her pen again, Emma tapped the end of it against her notepad. “I’ve known all three of those men since I was in college, Milo. Over the years, they and their wives were at all major family events and parties hosted by Celeste and George. They were even at my wedding. They are like uncles to Grant. Considering George’s reaction and what you just experienced, I’m guessing if one of them knew this Curtis guy, there’s a good chance they all did.”

“What’s your next step?”

“Tomorrow morning I have a meeting with Fran Hyland, an actress who knew Tessa. Then I think I’m going to have lunch with my ex-mother-in-law, if she’s available. She’s invited me several times now, but I’ve always had other plans. Seems as good a time as any to pick her brain. I’d also like to talk to Worth Manning—maybe even Paul Feldman again. That is, if George hasn’t already gotten them together to compare stories.”

Milo screwed up his face and stared at Emma.

“What?” she asked him, her pen in mid-tap. “I know that look. You have something to tell me that’s unpleasant.”

He nodded. “If Curtis killed Tessa North and these men had a hand in it, say like helping him cover it up, they might be considered accessories to a murder.”

“It was over forty years ago.”

“True, but there’s no statute of limitations on murder. I’m not sure about any time limit on accessory.”

Emma leaned back in her chair, considering Milo’s words. The possibility that George might have been involved in the death of someone, even as a cover-up, settled in her gut like sour milk. She didn’t want to consider it and turned away from the thought. George was her daughter’s grandfather. “We don’t even know if Tessa was murdered, Milo, so thoughts like that might be jumping the gun.”

“Very true. If there’s been no report of her death, then maybe her body was never found.”

“That’s the conclusion I came to after talking with the spirit of Sandy Sechrest.”

“I hate to keep harping on the murder angle, Emma, but usually undiscovered bodies are the result of murder.”

Milo was dragging her thoughts back into the shadows. Emma stuck out her chin. “Not always. You read about old bodies found all the time where people weren’t murdered.”

“From time to time, yes. But usually those folks died in a plane crash or avalanche in remote areas, not in a popular vacation spot.”

Intellectually, Emma knew Milo was right. She wished for all the world that there had been no connection at all between Tessa and George Whitecastle, and maybe there wasn’t beyond the fact that he had directed one of her movies. Maybe, she told herself, she’d only imagined his surprise when she’d mentioned the name Curtis.

“For now, though,” she said to Milo after draining her mug, “let’s just find out who this Curtis fellow is. He’s the key to getting Tessa to cross over, and that’s our real goal, isn’t it?”

“Sounds good to me.”

Just as Milo spoke, the air in the room turned cool. Emma pulled the shawl back over her shoulders. “So, Granny,” she called out, “you through pouting?”

There was no response, and the air continued to grow cooler, the draft moving throughout the room almost in a solid body. First the coldness drifted toward Milo, then shifted toward Emma.

“Come on, Granny, quit fooling around.” Again, Emma received no response, nor was there any physical manifestation of the spirit. When she looked across the table at Milo, the hair on Emma’s arms stood stiff as tacks.

Even though the cold draft was not visible to the eye, the trained senses of Milo Ravenscroft followed its path as it drifted with purpose around the room. It seemed to be checking them out, watching them, taking their measure.

“That’s not Granny, is it, Milo?” Emma’s voice was low and cautious. She hugged herself, more against the unknown than the cold.

“No, it’s not.” Milo didn’t look at her when he spoke, but kept his eyes trained on the invisible air current, following it with his inner guides more than with his eyes. “What’s more, I’m not sure it’s friendly.”

Emma tried to follow Milo’s lead, concentrating on the moving draft.

“Whoever you are,” Milo called to the spirit, “make yourself known.” His voice was gentle yet commanding. “We are friends to those who have passed.”

At his words, the draft picked up speed, swirling and buffeting them as if driven by a large oscillating fan. The drapes moved. Wisps of Emma’s hair lifted and fell against her face. One of the teetering stacks of books fell.

Then it was gone.

Emma sat across the
white linen-covered table from Celeste Whitecastle. It was the day after her visit with George, and they were at Celeste’s favorite lunch spot, a small, tucked-away bistro on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills with an exclusive clientele. From the street it looked like a smart but tiny café, but once inside patrons could bypass the small dining room and walk toward the back to a private courtyard where more dining tables awaited. The courtyard was landscaped with well-placed potted shrubs and flowers, giving each table a sense of privacy. The centerpiece of the courtyard was a stone fountain that gurgled happily as it serenaded the toney diners. Emma loved the place almost as much as Celeste did. It reminded her of the cafés she had visited in Paris.

Originally scheduled to meet with Fran Hyland at ten o’clock, Ms. Hyland’s assistant had called the afternoon before and asked Emma if the meeting could be moved until the afternoon. With the restaurant and Hyland’s office only about a mile apart, Emma called Celeste, hoping to set up the luncheon before her appointment. She was pleased when Celeste quickly agreed to the date and place, and even more pleased to get a reservation. Emma had been shameless in using the Whitecastle muscle to gain the latter.

Menu in hand, Emma looked around the charming restaurant courtyard. “I haven’t been here in a long time.”

Celeste smiled. “I think the last time we were here together was when we took your mother out for her birthday. Remember that, Emma?”

“Yes, of course. It was a lovely day. That was what, two years ago?”

“Almost three.”

Emma put down her menu and reached across the table to pat Celeste’s hand. “I’m sorry it’s been that long, Celeste. Really, I am.”

Celeste put her hand over her former daughter-in-law’s and squeezed it quickly before drawing it away. “It’s understandable, dear. You’ve been through a lot in the past few years. But it looks like things are much better for you now.” She picked up her own menu and started reading it, even though she knew it by heart. “I’ll have you know, I’ve never brought Carolyn here, and I never will. She’s more the taco truck type.”

Inwardly, Emma laughed at the comment, wondering what Celeste would think if she knew that Phil Bowers had recently introduced her to the dining delights of neighborhood taco trucks. “That’s not necessary, Celeste. This is hardly a competition.”

Celeste set the menu down on the edge of the table and looked at Emma with the wise study of a martial arts sensei. “Oh, but my dear, it is. It’s always a competition where men are concerned, and don’t you forget that.”

Even in her early seventies, Celeste Whitecastle was a great beauty. She’d had work done on her face, but it was not overdone. She preferred to wear just enough lines to place her in her fifties rather than stretch her face into the clownish denial of an aging woman trying to recapture her youth. Who did those women think they were kidding? The more pulled the skin, the more it advertised “scalpel at work.” Celeste’s breasts, however, did scream “boob job.” As long as Emma could remember, Celeste’s breasts were high and perky, even now. No bra was that good. And no septuagenarian could boast natural breasts that looked spectacular in a bikini top. Not many forty-year-olds could either.

Celeste’s hair was the color of pale gold and worn shoulder-length. Today it was swept back tight from her face and captured at her nape with a tortoiseshell clip. She was a thin woman with eyes the color of a mourning dove and an aristocratic head held aloft by a long, stately neck. Her clothing—wool pants, cashmere turtleneck sweater, and matching coat—were by a famous designer and all in winter white. Everything about Celeste Whitecastle was impeccable and elegant, from her makeup and pearl and diamond earrings down to the nails at the tips of her ring-adorned fingers. Emma had worn gray lightweight wool slacks and a pale pink, long-sleeved silk sweater. Her own ensemble was also designer labeled, but unlike Celeste’s outfit, Emma’s had come off the rack.

Celeste reminded Emma of a crown jewel. She was Hollywood royalty, with all the bearing and protocol of the real royals running around Europe. Elizabeth Miller and Celeste Whitecastle had hit it off when they first met back when Grant and Emma had been college students in the first blush of love. But Emma’s mother, while beautiful and elegant in her own well-kept way, also managed to exude a natural warmth toward friends, family, and even strangers. Even Grant had commented on the difference between the two women and often said he was more comfortable around Elizabeth. Elizabeth Miller could go easily between kitchen and garden, then on to a formal affair with little fuss. Celeste, on the other hand, was like a fine porcelain museum piece best shown in a glass case with a velvet lining.

Not for the first time, Emma wondered if Grant had married her hoping to marry a woman like his mother–again, possibly competing with his father. Both Emma and Celeste were slender and blond, with fine features and a flair for presentation. One of the things that broke up Emma’s marriage, besides Grant’s infidelity, was his insistence that Emma have breast surgery. Funny thing: when Grant cheated, none of his flings had looked like either she or Celeste. It made Emma wonder if he would have married Carolyn Bryant if she’d not gotten pregnant.

Emma was about to ask Celeste what she meant by competition when a man approached their table. He was in his late fifties, with ramrod posture and silver, wavy hair. Dressed in a stylish dark suit and tie, he looked more like an old world duke than a restaurant owner. Behind him hovered the spirit of an elderly portly man that Emma recognized immediately. The ghost playfully winked at her.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Whitecastle,” the man said to Celeste with a courtly bow.

“Good afternoon, Peter.”

He bowed in Emma’s direction. “And you also, Mrs. White-
castle.”

Emma nodded back with a small sympathetic smile. “Thank you, Peter. And I’m sorry about your father. He will be missed.”

A flash of surprise crossed Peter’s face, but he held his considerable composure. “Thank you, Mrs. Whitecastle.”

“I’m sorry,” a surprised Celeste interrupted. “What about Edmund?” she asked, referring to Peter’s father. “I know he’s been ill lately.”

Peter turned to Celeste. “I’m afraid Edmund…my father…passed away two weeks ago, madam.”

Surprised by the news, Celeste pressed a hand to her heart, then quickly extended it to Peter. “My condolences, Peter, to you and your family. Edmund was a lovely and gracious man.”

He took Celeste’s offered hand and bowed quickly over it. “Thank you, madam. My father started this restaurant. It won’t be the same without him.”

Emma glanced over at Edmund’s ghost and smiled. “Something tells me, Peter, your father’s presence will always be felt.”

“I certainly hope so.” Peter quickly cleared his throat and turned to Celeste, ready to conduct business. “Today, madam, we have the cauliflower purée you like so well.”

At Peter’s direction, a young waiter placed thin-stemmed glasses of water and lemon in front of them and followed up with a basket of fragrant flatbreads. Then he took their orders. Celeste ordered the cauliflower purée, followed by the grilled chicken and fresh pear salad. Emma ordered the soup with a seared ahi tuna salad. Before leaving, Peter asked if they were comfortable and offered to turn on the tall space heater near their table. The two women said they were fine. With a half bow, he left to attend to the other wealthy and famous patrons scattered around the courtyard.

Celeste leaned toward Emma and whispered, “How did you know Edmund had died?”

Passing off the question lightly, Emma answered, “I heard it somewhere.”

“The restaurant was closed for a week recently, but it was never clear why. I wish they’d told someone.”

Emma watched as Edmund’s ghost silently supervised the comings and goings of his restaurant. “Some people are very private about such things.”

After a short silence, Emma returned to their prior conversation and the question she had wanted to ask. “What did you mean by competition, Celeste? Earlier, when you referred to me and Carolyn? I certainly don’t feel that way.”

With a small sigh, Celeste ran a delicate finger down the side of her water goblet. “What do you think Carolyn was doing all that time with Grant?”

Emma shrugged and picked up a piece of bread laced with fresh rosemary. “I always thought she was just one of his many playmates.”

“And I’m sure so did my son. But while you and Grant were playing marital tug-of-war, Carolyn was playing her own game. And she was playing to win, my dear.”

“Excuse me, Celeste, if I don’t find my failed marriage a suitable topic of sport and entertainment, although the tabloids certainly did.” Emma took a small bite of bread, chewed, and swallowed. “If it was a game, it was one I didn’t wish to play any longer, nor did I think Grant a prize worth keeping.”

With her water glass held close to her face, Celeste watched Emma over the rim before taking a drink. When she put the glass down, a dainty lipstick smudge was left behind. “I hope you’re not so naïve to think you were the first Hollywood wife to be cheated on. No-talent actresses like Carolyn are like barnacles. They find a sturdy ship, fasten themselves to it, and hang on. If they get knocked off, they’ll find another ship.” Celeste’s voice was thick with amusement.

“I know it happens all the time. But if you’ll recall, when Carolyn became pregnant, Grant made the choice for all of us.” This was not how Emma wanted to spend lunch with Celeste, and she hated that she felt the need to add one last jab. “And quite frankly, if it was a game, I think I emerged the grand prize winner in the end.”

“Son or no son, Emma, you might be right about that. Is that darling little bauble on your sweater an indication of something serious?”

Emma fingered the diamond ghost and smiled. “Phil and I are enjoying each other’s company, but we’re not rushing into anything.”

“That’s nice to hear.” Celeste smiled at her briefly before dropping her head to dab the corners of her mouth with her napkin. When she leveled her gray eyes at Emma again, they were dark, like side-by-side caves. “I don’t think Grant is happy with his choice.”

“That’s not my concern, Celeste. The only thing I have in common with him any longer is Kelly and my love for you and George.”

The waiter came with their soup. The two women took their first spoonfuls in silence. The soup was the color of fine lace, with a delicate flavor.

“Speaking of actresses,” Emma began, deciding to forge ahead. “Forty or so years ago, did you ever come across or hear of a young actress by the name of Tessa North?”

Upon hearing the name, Celeste Whitecastle’s spoon hovered over her cauliflower soup like a hummingbird over a flower. It was a slight hesitation, no longer than the beat of Emma’s surprised heart, but unmistakable nonetheless.

Celeste skimmed her spoon across the top of the soup. “Forty years ago, I was already retired from acting.”

“That’s true, but maybe you heard the name. She was in one of George’s films back then. The beach party one—
Beach Party Prom
.”

Celeste brought the spoon to her mouth but did not take the soup. Instead, she dribbled the creamy liquid back into the bowl and placed her spoon on the edge of the plate under it. Immediately, the young waiter appeared at their table and gestured if he should remove it. In silence, Celeste commanded him to take it away. Emma indicated for her own plate to be removed. Like magic, their salads appeared and were placed in front of them. Celeste pulled her coat over her shoulders. Emma didn’t feel any change in the temperature but looked around just in case Granny or some other spirit had decided to drop in. She saw no ghosts except Edmund, and he was nowhere near them.

“Are you cold, Celeste? Should we ask them to turn on the heater?”

“I’m cold, Emma, but not with the temperature.”

The elderly woman picked up her fork and started pushing pear and chicken chunks around like chess pieces. Emma took a bite of perfectly grilled tuna and waited.

Without taking a bite, Celeste put down her fork. The stately Peter floated to her side like an attentive courtesan. “Is the food not to your satisfaction, Mrs. Whitecastle?”

“It’s fine. My appetite simply isn’t with me today.”

“Shall I remove the plate?”

“Not just yet, Peter.”

Peter bowed and started to take his leave when Celeste stopped him.