Granny Apples 05 - Ghost in the Guacamole (11 page)

“H
I,
Gino,” Emma said into the speaker phone. “Nice to speak with you again.” She and Phil were in the study using the speaker phone attached to the house's landline. Before Gino called, Emma had texted him the number, knowing the landline would give them a more consistent connection. Granny hovered close by. “I'm here with my friend Phil Bowers.”

“Hello, Phil,” called Gino through the phone in a hearty voice. “I've heard a lot about you both from my daughter. I hope we can all meet soon, which is why I'm calling.”

“We have something to ask you about, too, Gino,” Emma told him. “But first, are the girls okay?”

“I think so.” Gino laughed. “Then again, we're just the parents, what do we know, right? Unless they deign to tell us or need our help.”

“So true,” added Phil. “I have two boys myself.”

“But this isn't about Kelly and Tanisha,” Gino continued. “I have a favor to ask you, Emma. It's rather a big one, but I hope you'll consider it.”

“Shoot,” she said. “After the help you were to the girls last year, there is little I'd deny you.”

“Aw, that was nothing,” he said. “I'm just glad my contacts were still of use.”

“This is actually about my work, Emma,” Gino said, “and yours. I'm researching a new novel and want to add a bit of paranormal to it, specifically ghosts. I understand that's your forte.”

“That's a real departure from your usual work, isn't it, Gino?” said Phil.

“Yes and no,” said the noted author. “It will still be a crime novel, but I want to incorporate ghosts as part of the plotline.”

“Real ghosts?” asked Emma with suspicion.

On the other end, they heard Gino Costello hem and haw, then he gave a nervous chuckle. “Listen, I know the girls believe in all that and I know, Emma, that you're greatly respected in your field, but I'm more of a science guy. As far as I'm concerned, what happened last fall with the girls was a fluke, something they stumbled upon due to two active imaginations. Even though they told me what happened, I have a hard time believing it at face value and was able to keep the ghost end out of the report to both the police and the media. For that, you should thank me.”

Emma knew what Gino was saying was true. The media had focused mainly on Tanisha and Kelly being two friends who were also the daughters of famous people and who had stumbled upon a corpse, which eventually led to the capture of a killer. There had been nothing said about spirits, except for Kelly's mother being a host of a paranormal TV show. In fact, Emma wasn't even mentioned much. Most of the celebrity focus had been absorbed by Grant Whitecastle and Gino himself, which Emma didn't mind one bit.

“So you didn't believe Kelly and Tanisha?” Phil asked, barely keeping the annoyance out of his voice.

“I believe that they believe what they saw and experienced,” Gino answered carefully after a short hesitation. “But what the girls said back then planted a seed in my brain about incorporating ghosts into this new book I'm planning. Not for real, but maybe as a scapegoat for the real killer or killers.”

“Scapegoat,” groused Granny. “Ghosts are not scapegoats.” She crossed her arms and scowled at the phone. “You tell him that, Emma.”

Emma motioned for Granny to calm down and saw Phil glance in that direction. She made the same gesture to him, seeing him losing his fan-boy glow.

“Gino, if you don't believe in spirits,” Emma said, aiming her voice at the speaker phone, “then why do you need my help? You're a novelist, why not just make the stuff up?”

“Good point,” Gino answered, “but while I don't believe in ghosts and such myself, I'm sure many of my readers do and I always strive to give my work a ring of authenticity. If I just write it on the fly, it might sound too tongue in cheek.”

Emma looked at Phil, but said into the phone, “So how can I help?”

“I would like you to be my guest at a farmhouse my wife and I are leasing this September in Massachusetts. You, too, Phil. I'll be setting up shop there while I research the history of the area and get a feel for the local people.”

Emma ran the information around quickly in her head. “Phil has told me how thorough you are in your research,” she said to Gino. “How do spirits come into play?”

“Much of the book takes place in a small New England farm community, and the locals believe that the spirits of a murdered family are responsible for a recent rash of deaths. Of course, they're not, but I want to build a real tension of possibility and fear of ghosts in the book before the reveal near the end.”

“Is the farmhouse you're renting supposedly haunted?” she asked.

“Not to my knowledge,” Gino answered with a deep laugh. “But I think you could provide the background to give the story that touch of realism.” He paused, then added, “So what do you say? We can have the girls come down from Boston if they're available and make it a real family vacation, too.”

Looking over at Phil, Emma could read the eagerness in his eyes. The fan-boy was back. She smiled at him and picked up her phone to check her calendar. “I don't know about Phil and the girls, but I could be there in September for a bit.”

Phil also had his phone out. “I could move some things around and be there, too.”

“Great,” said Gino with enthusiasm.

Once again Granny folded her arms across her chest. “Does anyone care if I'm available?” When Emma raised her eyebrows at the ghost, Granny snapped, “I'll check my schedule and have my people call your people.” Then she disappeared. Emma shook her head in amusement.

Phil looked at Emma, giving her a sign to go ahead and ask Gino for her favor.

“Book research is sort of what I wanted to ask you about, Gino,” Emma said into the phone.

“You planning on getting into publishing?” he asked.

“No,” Emma answered. “I'll leave that to my friend and mentor Milo Ravenscroft.”

“Yes,” Gino said, “I've heard of him. I haven't read any of his books, but I do know the name.” He coughed, then they heard Gino take a drink of something and cough again. “Sorry,” he said when he came back on. “I have a bit of a summer cold. So what's your question?”

“Remember the research you did on your book about LA gangs?” Phil asked.

“Of course I do,” Gino answered. “It was some of the most interesting and dangerous research I've done to date.”

“If Emma sent you a photo of a guy, would you be able to tell us, or do you know of anyone who could tell us, if he's involved in any LA-based gangs? It might even be someone you met in your research. We're concerned that if he is and we show the photo around, it could get dangerous.”

“You're right about that.” There was a long pause on Gino's end of the line and a couple of deep coughs. “But why do you need to know?” Before they could answer, Gino said, “Wait a minute, T told me that sometimes your ghost work gets you mixed up with cold case murders. Is that what this is about?”

“Actually,” Emma answered, “a friend asked me to look into something and this man popped up unexpectedly. We want to know if he's dangerous or not before proceeding.”

After another cough, Gino said, “I still have some contacts in LA. I could show it to some discreet folks and see, but if he is gang-related, you need to steer clear. Understand?”

“Yes,” Emma agreed. “I'm sending the photo to you now.” She sent a text to Gino and attached the photo of the man with Carlos.

Almost a full minute passed before Gino said, “Got it. I sure don't recognize him but let me see what I can do. I don't know how long it will take. I might have an answer tonight or not for a few days.”

“We understand,” Emma said. “Any help you can give would be great.”

“And we're good for late September?” Gino asked. “Should be a good time for leaf peeping, too.”

Both Phil and Emma confirmed that they would be there.

*   *   *

MIDMORNING THE NEXT
day, Emma was running on the treadmill in her home office, which was housed in the guest house behind the garage of her parents' home. The guest house was originally set up as an exercise room by her parents with a treadmill, exercise bike, and various other workout equipment and mats, along with a DVR player for exercise videos. Her parents used it almost every day. Shortly after Emma moved back in, she commandeered half of the large studio apartment as her office, outfitting it with a desk and a love seat. Phil was at her desk. Having already put in his time on the treadmill, he was now handling his legal work, communicating with his office in San Diego and clients via e-mail. One wall of the room was a bank of sliding glass doors. The drapes were open, displaying flowers and shrubs and shaded sunshine from the Millers' backyard. In the background, soft classical music played.

“I could get used to this lifestyle,” Phil said to Emma without looking up from his work. “It certainly beats getting dressed and going into the office every day.”

She took a swig of water from a water bottle in a holder on the treadmill and laughed. “It is pretty sweet. I only go into my office at the studio for meetings and tapings. Everything else I do from here.”

Emma's phone, which sat on the edge of the desk, rang. Phil looked at the display. “It's Gino,” he informed her.

“Go ahead and answer it,” she said as she slowed down and prepared to stop.

By the time she took another couple of drinks of water and mopped the sweat from her face, Gino Costello and Phil had exchanged pleasantries. “Emma's right here,” Phil said into the phone. “Hang on. I'm putting you on speaker.”

“I have information on the guy in the photo you sent me, but I don't think it's what you expected,” Gino told them.

“So he's not part of a gang or anything?” Emma asked.

“Not that my source knows of,” Gino said, “but he did recognize him. His name is Steve Bullock. His full name is Esteban Santiago Bullock,” Gino reported. “He goes by Steve. His mother is Latina. His father a
gringo
.”

“Santiago.” Emma rolled the name around on her tongue, tasting it. “Where have I heard that name recently?”

“Fiesta Time,” Phil said. “It's the name of the family that owns Fiesta Time. That's too much of a coincidence for there not to be a connection.”

“Now you two are just stealing my thunder,” said Gino. “That was my next bit of information. Steve Bullock is one of the VPs of a company called Fiesta Time, which is owned by his family. They manufacture and sell a line of Mexican food products.”

“What about the kid in the second photo we sent you last night?” asked Emma. Before they went to bed, Emma had had an idea. She had Phil isolate a decent photo of Carlos from the ones Phil took and they sent that one to Gino, too.

“Nothing came from that,” Gino told them. “He looks like a million young men in LA, but nothing specific struck my sources. But don't be disappointed—that's a good thing. If he'd been in one of the gangs, they would have known him even if he was as young as ten or twelve.”

Even though Emma felt relief at the news, she also felt sad at Gino's commentary. “Thanks, Gino,” she told him. “We owe you.”

“You owe me nothing,” he said. “You and your family have become good friends to my daughter, and I intend to pick your brain and resources in September. Something tells me this is the start of a wonderful friendship.”

They all laughed and were about to say good-bye when Gino remembered something. “By the way, I almost forgot. If you're interested in crossing paths again with ole Stevie Bullock, he lunches almost every day at his family's restaurant. It's called Santiago's and it's located in Alhambra.”

Phil and Emma locked eyes in surprise. “Why would your contact know where Steve Bullock lunches?” Phil asked for the two of them.

“Steve Bullock might not be a gang member, but he is a person of interest to my source,” Gino answered.

“Is that source law enforcement?” Emma asked.

“Can't say,” Gino told them, “but I will tell you that he's thought to be a bit on the slimy side. Sort of a corporate fixer for his family. So be careful if you get close and call me if you need anything else.”

Once they were off the phone, Emma said to Phil, “How do you feel about having lunch at Santiago's today?”

H
OUSED
in a stand-alone stucco building the color of a café latte with a dark red tile roof, Santiago's was located on a corner of a busy stretch of Garfield Boulevard. It also had ample parking. Emma and Phil arrived around twelve thirty and found the restaurant packed with patrons.

“Seems like a popular place,” Phil noted after giving the hostess his name. The hostess was a thick-set middle-aged woman with a helmet of hair dyed the flat black of a dry Magic Marker. She was dressed in black slacks and a plain white blouse instead of a traditional costume like Ana at Roble. The waiters, both the men and the women, also wore black pants and white shirts but not
guayaberas
. Phil and Emma sat side by side on a wooden bench on the narrow patio in front of the building. Several other waiting customers were spread out on other benches.

“It sure does,” said Emma. “If Steve's here, I hope we can spot him.”

“So where are we now?” asked Granny as she popped up in front of them.

Emma immediately got out her phone, but instead of making a call, she pretended she was speaking into it so she could talk to Granny. “We're at a Mexican restaurant, Granny. Gino called this morning and said the man in the photos always eats lunch here.”

“Did he find out who he was?” the ghost asked as she looked around at the other people nearby. “Is he some drug lord or maybe a hit man?” Granny asked with eagerness. “In those Italian mobster movies the mob bosses always hang out in restaurants. Maybe Mexican gangsters do the same.”

“No,” Emma said, glancing at Phil, who was trying to work out the conversation just from listening to Emma's side. “He works for Fiesta Time, the company that owns this place.”

“You mean the company that's trying to buy Roble?” Granny asked.

“Yep, that's the one,” Emma confirmed. She looked at Granny and had a thought. “Granny,” she said in a quiet tone into the phone, “do you think you would recognize the man with Carlos if you saw him again?”

The ghost lit up with excitement. “Sure I would. I'm dead, not senile.”

“Then how about you going inside and floating about? Let us know where he's sitting.”

“You got it, Chief.” Granny saluted and disappeared.

“Nice thinking,” said Phil. “But where's your Bluetooth earpiece?”

“At home charging.” Emma lowered her phone but didn't put it away. “This is a big place. We'd have a better chance of getting seated in his area if we know where he is.”

Granny popped back out a few minutes later. “Señor Gorgeous is here. He's seated at a table in the bar.”

Emma raised her phone up again. “Alone?”

“Looks that way, but it also looks like he might be expecting someone. There are two place settings at the table.”

“Great job, Granny.” Emma gave Phil a nod, then got up and went back inside to the hostess. Phil followed.

“Excuse me,” Emma said to the woman at the podium. “We're on the list but I was wondering if there was any room in the bar. The name is Phil Bowers.”

The hostess found Phil's name on the waiting list. “Your table just became available but it's not in the bar.”

“Could we perhaps wait for one in the bar?” Emma asked.

“Most people prefer to sit in the dining room, but hold on a second.” The woman left and returned a few seconds later. “There's a table almost ready back there. If you want to wait another minute or two, I can give you that one.”

“Perfect,” Emma said with a smile. The hostess returned the smile and called the next name on the list.

It wasn't long before they were following the hostess into the large bar area. As she walked through the room, Emma scanned it for any sign of Steve Bullock. She need not have worried about spotting him. Granny had gone on ahead and was perched by his table, waving her arms as if she were directing a 747 to a terminal. “He's over here,” the ghost yelled to Emma.

“This place isn't as fancy as Roble,” commented Phil as they walked behind the hostess. “It's more what I'm used to when I eat Mexican.”

Phil was right. Santiago's had a more fun and traditional décor than the recently redecorated and modern Restaurante Roble. The chairs were painted a variety of bright colors with woven seats and backs. Instead of tablecloths, the tables were covered with green and teal tile squares with individual paper placemats in front of each chair. The booths were wood framed and upholstered with a colorful striped fabric. Above them, light fixtures of hammered metal lit the rooms. The walls were painted a muted orange and pink and decorated with sombreros, serapes, piñatas, and small shelves on which sat dozens of Mexican knickknacks. It looked to Emma as if the kiosks of Olvera Street had exploded inside the restaurant.

Without looking directly at Granny, Emma gave her a slight nod, letting her know that she'd seen her and Steve Bullock, who was seated in a corner booth poring over a tablet. When they reached their booth, Emma took the side facing Bullock's table. Phil slid into the booth opposite her and the hostess handed them their menus.

“You don't want to sit next to me today?” asked Emma with a laugh. “You usually do.”

“Not when I'm trying to watch your back, I don't,” Phil said from behind his menu, keeping his voice low. He pulled his reading glasses from a shirt pocket and put them on. “There's a guy at the bar checking you out, and I don't think it's just because you're a beautiful woman.”

“Really?” Emma started to turn her head.

“Don't look at him,” Phil snapped in a quick whisper. “Dang, even Granny knows better than that. Speaking of which, where is she?”

“Standing by the big semicircular booth in the corner,” Emma whispered while studying her menu. “That's where Steve Bullock is seated.” Unlike her, Phil did not turn around to look. “He's currently alone, but it looks like he might be expecting someone.”

“Well, the fellow I'm talking about is staring in that direction, too. He's splitting his gaze between you and that corner.” Without moving his head, Phil glanced toward the bar. “Do you think he can see Granny?”

It wasn't that common for people to be mediums, but there were enough out there to make Emma wary at Phil's words. She'd also learned that sometimes a person had the gift and chose not to let others know about it. “Could be,” she said to Phil, “or maybe he recognizes me from my TV show.”

“He doesn't exactly fit your usual demographic, Emma.” Phil pretended to be pointing out something on the menu to her. “He looks like a retired cop to me. Or ex-military. Or maybe both. He has to be close to seventy, but in good condition and observant. He's nursing a beer and not paying much attention to the game on the TV over the bar.”

“Talk about someone being observant,” Emma quipped as she reached over and took Phil's hand. “Didn't Gino say that Steve Bullock was a person of interest to his source? Maybe that's a real cop pretending to be old and bored. And maybe he doesn't care for soccer.”

Phil nodded. “Another good possibility.” Phil lifted Emma's hand. Leaning forward, he kissed her knuckles before releasing it. He went back to reading his menu. “Or he's some old guy who can see Granny and your interaction with her.”

“Seems you're stuck on that theory.”

“Uh-huh. It's what my empty gut is telling me by the way he's watching you and that corner.” Phil looked at Emma over the top of his reading glasses. “Tell you what. As careful as you can, get Granny to come over here. If the guy follows her with his eyes, we'll know he can see her.”

“That's a great idea,” Emma whispered back to him.

“Yep, that's why I get the big bucks,” Phil said, seemingly absorbed in choosing his lunch.

Before Emma could take any action, a tiny waif of a waitress popped up at their table, introduced herself as Brenda Ann, and plopped down a large basket of tortilla chips and a bowl of salsa. A busboy swung by and placed two glasses of water on the table and left. On Thursdays, Brenda Ann informed them with a bright smile, margaritas and Mexican beers were available at an all-day happy hour price.

“Feel like a margarita, my dear?” Phil asked Emma. She nodded. Phil turned to the waitress. “The lady will have a margarita, light salt on the rim. I'll take a Negra Modelo, no glass. And could you bring us some guacamole for the chips?”

“Sure,” Brenda Ann said, her order pad held at the ready. “Our special today is grilled tilapia tacos with rice, beans, and corn cake. Our fajitas are the best, no matter which ones you get, and our
chiles rellenos
are legendary.” She pointed the items out on Emma's menu, which was flat on the table.

“Legendary, huh?” asked Phil with a small wink.

“Yes, sir,” said the spunky waitress with confidence.

Emma laughed. “Please give us a minute.”

“Drinks and guacamole coming right up.” The waitress left as quickly as she'd appeared. A few seconds later a bowl of guacamole was left on their table by the same speedy busboy.

“Well, the service is better here than at Roble,” noted Emma. “But then Carlos was surly that day because he'd just been dressed down for showing his tattoos.” She looked at the menu again. “The menus are similar except that Roble had a lot more healthier options.”

“Roble caters to a tourist and executive lunch crowd,” Phil said. “This place looks more like a local clientele.” He picked up a chip and dipped it into the salsa. “And there are at least a half-dozen tiny places on Olvera Street that serve burritos and enchiladas. Rikki's plan to make Roble more upscale was a sound one. It separates it from the other places on the street.”

Emma glanced over at Steve Bullock's table. Their booth was situated along a side wall between it and the end of the bar, where Phil said the watchful man was seated. Both were several yards away but in opposite directions. From their booth they could hear snippets of casual conversations in both English and Spanish spoken in normal tones mingling with each other from nearby tables and patrons seated along the bar. Emma could see Bullock but not directly, giving her a chance to observe without being too obvious, but doubted they'd be able to hear any of his conversations unless he raised his voice. He was still alone and Granny was still hovering around him, but she was watching the soccer game on the overhead bar TV instead of watching her target. Picking up her menu with one hand, Emma toyed with the diamond stud earring in her right ear—the ear facing in Granny's direction. As carefully as possible, she wiggled her index finger and gave a quick glance at the ghost. Granny still wasn't paying attention. She tried waving again, this time stretching as a ploy. No one noticed, including Granny. She didn't risk turning around to see if the man had seen her.

“Granny is watching the game on TV,” Emma hissed at Phil.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“Still by the booth, but closer to that end of the bar now.”

“Allow me,” Phil said with a smile. Getting up from the table, he went over to the bar, inserting himself in a gap between two patrons who were eating lunch and watching the game. He asked the bartender, “Hey, son, can I have some lime slices for my lady's water?”

The bartender, a young fellow with thick jet-back hair and glasses, nodded. He placed several lime slices in a shot glass and held it out to Phil. “Is that enough, sir?”

“That's fine, thank you. I swear she's as bad as my
granny
when it comes to limes in her water.” He took the glass with the limes, placed a buck tip on the bar, and returned to the table.

“I can't believe you did that,” Emma said, giggling but keeping her voice low.

“The question is,” Phil said as he plopped a lime slice into both his water glass and Emma's, “did it work?”

“Yep. She's no longer watching TV,” Emma reported. “She's now glaring at us and tapping her foot.” Emma took a drink of her water. “How about that guy?”

“He's watching Granny watch us,” Phil said, cocking an eyebrow in Emma's direction. “And I'm guessing Granny's now here because so are his eyes.”

“You guessed right, Phil,” Emma confirmed. “So what do we do about this?”

“About what?” asked Granny.

Just then Brenda Ann returned with their drinks. She went right through Granny to place them on the table.

“Boy, I hate that,” groused Granny, moving to the side.

“You ready to order now or do you still need a few minutes?” Brenda Ann asked Phil and Emma.

“I'll have the vegetable fajitas,” Emma told Brenda Ann. Phil ordered the tilapia tacos.

“He can see and hear Granny,” Phil said to Emma as soon as Brenda Ann left.

“Are you sure?” Emma asked.

Phil nodded. “When the waitress walked through Granny and Granny complained, he laughed. When I looked at him, he quickly turned away.” Phil took a drink of his beer.