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  The Silent Ghost

  Sue Ann Jaffarian

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

  THE SILENT GHOST

  A Berkley Prime Crime Special / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2013 by Sue Ann Jaffarian.

  Excerpt from Ghost à la Mode by Sue Ann Jaffarian copyright © 2009 by Sue Ann Jaffarian, used with permission from Midnight Ink, a division of Llewellyn Worldwide.

  Excerpt from Ghost in the Polka Dot Bikini by Sue Ann Jaffarian copyright © 2010 by Sue Ann Jaffarian, used with permission from Midnight Ink, a division of Llewellyn Worldwide.

  Excerpt from Gem of a Ghost by Sue Ann Jaffarian copyright © 2012 by Sue Ann Jaffarian, used with permission from Midnight Ink, a division of Llewellyn Worldwide.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

  Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-60255-3

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime Special / March 2013

  Cover illustration by Stephanie Henderson.

  Cover design by Lesley Worrell.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  ALWAYS LEARNING PEARSON

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Special Excerpt from Ghost à la Mode

  Special Excerpt from Ghost in the Polka Dot Bikini

  Special Excerpt from Gem of A Ghost

  Chapter 1

  Tanisha Costello pressed an index finger into the bits of flakey dough and nuts left on her plate and brought it to her lips, licking it slowly. Even the crumbs of the baklava she’d eaten earlier, with their hint of cardamom and rose water, made her smile in comfort.

  The proper name of the coffee shop was Garabedian’s Café and Bakery, but everyone called it Gabby’s. Tanisha liked to sit in the back. The small alcove to the left of the counter, its walls paneled in dark wood with the top halves open shelves for books and knickknacks, felt comforting and cozy. The aromatic air of the Middle Eastern-styled shop and its exotic spices and baked goods stimulated her as much as the caffeine jolt from the espresso she ordered. It was far more homey and interesting than the ubiquitous coffee shop chains, with their modern, sterile décor and rows of commuter mugs and French presses for sale.

  She’d been here for two hours, working on her laptop, drinking coffee, and watching customers flow in and out of the establishment. But there was really only one customer that held her interest. She’d seen the girl before. The first time this past May. She had wanted to approach her then, but the girl had disappeared, no doubt heading home from college for a summer of ease or off to some internship set up by her father. She looked the type to have a rich and powerful daddy—beautiful and privileged with an aura of entitlement. Although, Tanisha chided herself, looks could be deceiving and she shouldn’t judge. Hadn’t she preached that since she was old enough to learn it herself?

  The girl she was watching had long blonde hair that extended well past her shoulders. Her skin was unblemished and fair, with the faded kiss of summer sun. She was dressed like most students—jeans, boots, and a sweatshirt over a long-sleeved oxford shirt with the tails of the shirt hanging below the hem of the sweatshirt. Tanisha could tell the clothes, while casual, were of good quality with recognizable labels.

  The girl was bent over an iPad, reading with great concentration, only pausing once in a while to sweep her long hair back behind an ear whenever it fell forward and blocked her vision. As usual, she was seated at a table in a front corner of the coffee shop with a partial view of the quaint Cambridge street beyond the window. She seemed to favor that table, just as Tanisha preferred the smaller tables in the shadows at the back. Sometimes a friend or two shared the table with her, but usually the girl was alone. A Harvard undergrad, Tanisha guessed. She could have been from any one of the numerous colleges and universities in the area, but Tanisha’s money was on Harvard.

  Gabby’s was near the Harvard campus, and many students patronized it, though most chose the crowded coffee shops closer to the school, or even the new one recently opened on the campus itself. Usually, the students who came to Gabby’s—her coffee shop—were more serious about their public study time.

  Now it was fall and the blonde was back. Tanisha was glad, as her curiosity about her hadn’t waned during the summer. In fact it had gotten stronger. She’d seen her for the first time this semester two weeks ago and each Tuesday afternoon since.

  “Zak, who’s that girl? The one on the far side by the corner.” Tanisha’s question, asked in a low voice, was aimed at a tall, lanky waiter who cleared her plate and refreshed her coffee from a metal pot with a long spout.

  “Don’t know, T, but she comes in a few times a week. Seems pleasant. Good tipper. Drinks mostly tea. Seems to like the grilled veggie and hummus sandwich on whole wheat pita.”

  “Pretty young thing like that,” Tanisha teased, “and you don’t know her name? You must be slipping.”

  Zak glanced at the girl, then grinned at Tanisha. “Too young, too blonde, too California. I prefer my women dark, bitchy, and filled with East Coast angst. Like you.”

  “Down boy. We’ve been there, done that, or don’t you remember?”

  He blew her a kiss as he walked away. “I only remember the good stuff, T.” Before he reached the counter, he added, “By the way, great piece you wrote for the Globe this week.”

  Tanisha shook her head and blushed a little in spite of herself. Her career as a freelance writer and journalist was slow in building, but building just the same. It felt good to be praised for doing something she loved, even if it still felt odd and uncomfortable to her. Picking up her warm mug, she held it between both hands and studied the girl over the rim. Was she really from California or was Zak just guessing?

  The young woman had stopped reading and was quietly talking on her cell phone, using an earpiece. At least she’s polite, Tanisha thought. She hated people who talked loudly on their phones in public, or worse, used the speaker feature, as if the world would be a better place for hearing their insipid conversations. Near the girl, Tanisha caught the slightest s
himmer of light, like millions of dust motes dancing in the sun.

  Tanisha sat up straight. This is what had caught her attention back before summer break began. The girl in her sights often had that hazy shimmer around her. Tanisha had seen things like it before, and she had definite theories on what it could be.

  “Whitecastle,” breathed a hushed voice.

  Tanisha looked up at Zak, who was next to her table and bending close. “Huh?”

  “Her name is Whitecastle. Kelly Whitecastle.” He waved a small white slip of paper under her nose. “She paid for her lunch with a credit card. Maybe she’s related to the hamburger people.”

  Zak was in grad school at Boston College, working towards a master’s degree in biology. As smart as he was, Tanisha often found him dull-witted when it came to politics and culture, both pop and classical. It had been one of the reasons their relationship hadn’t worked out. He was a lab rat, noticing little beyond his discipline. She’d been surprised he’d even seen her piece in The Boston Globe, let alone read it.

  “White Castle restaurants have no connection to any Whitecastle family,” Tanisha informed him, not taking her eyes off of Kelly Whitecastle.

  “Pardon me, Ms. Knows Everything.”

  Tanisha shot Zak a scowl that melted into an appreciative nod. She did like the guy. “Thanks for the info.” She turned her attention to her laptop and started tapping in a frenzy.

  “Does the name mean anything to you?” Zak asked.

  “Sure does.” She glanced up at him without stopping her fingers. “Don’t you watch TV?”

  “As little as possible,” he answered, “except for sports.” He started to leave, then turned quickly back to Tanisha, an index finger poised in the air. “Wait a minute, isn’t there some obnoxious clown on TV named Whitecastle?”

  “Yep.” Tanisha pointed to her laptop screen. “Look familiar?”

  Zak looked over her shoulder and read the caption under the photo on the screen. “Grant Whitecastle. Yeah, now I remember something. Isn’t he supposed to be a real tool?”

  “Big-time tool. And it’s not just for show.”

  “Poor kid. No wonder she goes to school in Boston.”

  Tanisha was still cautious. “Just because that’s her name doesn’t mean they’re related.”

  “If she is, you thinking of doing a story on her?”

  “Not sure.” Tanisha had plans for Kelly Whitecastle, but they didn’t involve a story. Instead, they hinged on the hazy mass keeping her company.

  When Zak left, Tanisha did another search. She wasn’t interested in Grant Whitecastle, a loud, brash, scandal-loving, and scandal-generating talk show host; she was interested in Kelly’s mother. Tanisha remembered that Grant Whitecastle’s divorce from his first wife a few years back had been very rocky and public, so there should be plenty of information on it. Her next Google search brought up information on Emma Whitecastle, Grant’s ex, who was building her own TV career. She was also a talk show host, but in a more serious vein. Well, serious depending on your beliefs. Her show, The Whitecastle Report, aired on cable and investigated issues of a paranormal nature. Some of the online articles suggested that Emma Whitecastle was a medium who could see and speak to the spirits of the dead. Tanisha glanced over at Kelly. She still hadn’t made a positive ID on the girl’s parentage, and fact-checking was important to her. But if Kelly was the daughter of Emma Whitecastle, Tanisha wondered if she had inherited her mother’s alleged talents. And did the daughter know a gauzy apparition might be keeping her company? Or was she as oblivious to the possibilities as she appeared?

  Tanisha did a Google image search next and a few photos of Emma Whitecastle popped up. In one, she was posing and smiling for the cameras with a young woman by her side at an awards show. The caption identified them as talk show host Emma Whitecastle and daughter Kelly. Bingo. Mother and daughter looked a lot alike. Both were tall, slender, and beautiful, but Emma wore her curly blonde hair cropped short and her face had fine lines around her eyes and smiling mouth.

  Tanisha glanced back at Kelly’s table to do an in-person comparison and saw Kelly had packed up her things. After closing her laptop and stashing it in the canvas bag she carried everywhere, Tanisha started for the door.

  “Hey,” Zak called to her. “You going to pay your tab?”

  “Crap.” She returned to the counter. Tanisha watched with frustration as Kelly disappeared down the street. Zak was helping a customer and hadn’t given her the check yet.

  “Zak,” she said, trying to be heard over the noise from the milk steamer. “I really need to catch someone. Can I settle-up later today?”

  Zak handed two large lattes to a middle-aged man with his gray hair pulled back into a ponytail. “Sure, T,” he said, tossing her a wink. “I know where you live.”

  Slipping her head and one shoulder through the long strap of her bag, she nodded her thanks and made a dash for the door.

  The coffee shop was located on a narrow street that contained a mixture of historical buildings and modern retail businesses. Gabby’s itself had been opened inside one of the charming historical houses that had, at one time, been a private home. She bounced down the stairs to the street and looked in the direction she’d seen Kelly walking. It was back towards the Harvard campus. Kelly was far up ahead, walking briskly. Tanisha broke into a loose trot to catch up.

  “Hey,” she called to Kelly. When Kelly didn’t turn around, Tanisha called to her again, a little louder. “Hey, Kelly. Wait up!”

  Chapter 2

  Kelly stopped in her tracks and turned around. Coming towards her at a fast pace was a young woman in her mid-twenties wearing black leggings tucked into short boots and a thick gray tunic sweater. Wound around her neck was a printed scarf. With one hand, she secured a heavy messenger bag against her torso so it wouldn’t bounce as she moved. The woman was petite and the color of rich caramel, with long black hair clasped off to one side. A riot of short, tight tendrils framed her angular and serious face.

  “That a schoolmate of yours?” the ghost hovering next to Kelly asked.

  “Not that I know of, Granny,” Kelly answered. “But I have seen her in the coffee shop a few times. Maybe I left something back at Gabby’s and she’s bringing it to me.”

  When the woman reached Kelly she was a little out of breath.

  “Hi,” Kelly greeted her.

  “Howdy,” said the ghost, even though Tanisha couldn’t hear her.

  “Hi,” Tanisha squeezed out before taking a deep breath. “Boy, I have to get to the gym more often.”

  Kelly smiled. “It’s hard to make time for exercise when you’re going to school.”

  Tanisha waved a hand in the air as if erasing the thought. “I don’t go to school. Well, at least not now. I graduated.”

  As usual with strangers, Kelly was friendly but cautious, a by-product of being the spawn of a famous family. Children growing up in the shadow of fame and fortune were always on guard for people who wanted to use them and their connections, while being hungry to be liked for themselves. For Kelly the caution came from all sides. She wasn’t just the daughter of Emma and Grant Whitecastle, she was also the grand-daughter of legendary film director (the late) George Whitecastle and his wife Celeste, a former screen star. From the moment of her birth, she had learned to be wary of people, especially the press. The mere whiff of dishonesty could send her bolting like a spooked colt.

  “My name is Tanisha.” The woman held out her right hand to Kelly. “Tanisha Costello.”

  Kelly took it and shook politely. “Seems you already know my name.” She dropped Tanisha’s hand and shifted her backpack to a more comfortable position.

  “Itty-bitty thing, isn’t she?” Granny, who was diminutive herself, moved around Tanisha, taking stock of the woman. As she drifted, she thought she caught Tanisha watching her out of the corner of her eye.

  “I’d like to talk to you sometime,” Tanisha ventured. As soon as the words were out of her mouth
, Kelly threw up a wall felt by both of them.

  Kelly glanced down the road in the direction she’d been heading. “I can’t, I have to get going or I’ll be late.”

  “At your convenience, of course,” Tanisha added. “Maybe over coffee or tea at Gabby’s?”

  “Mark my words,” Granny cautioned Kelly, “there’s more to this one than meets the eye.”

  Kelly’s eyes flitted quickly to Granny then back to Tanisha. She took a step back. “You’re a reporter, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Tanisha admitted. “I work freelance.”

  Kelly lifted a lip in a semi-snarl. “Leave me alone.”

  “I’m not some bottom-feeder, Kelly.” Tanisha’s voice was stern, but calm. She’d expected this kind of initial reaction. “A piece I wrote on Afghan women living in the U.S. was in the Globe on Tuesday. It’s hardly gossip fodder. Check it out.”

  Granny drifted close to Kelly. “She can see me, Kelly,” the ghost reported.

  Kelly Whitecastle stopped dead in her tracks, but didn’t turn around. “Are you sure?” she whispered to the ghost.

  “Maybe not clearly, like you,” Granny clarified, “but she does seem to sense my presence. Watch.”

  As Granny left Kelly’s side, Kelly turned back around to face Tanisha. The ghost sidled up to the reporter and as she did, Kelly caught Tanisha start to turn her head towards Granny, then quickly correct her actions to look back at Kelly. As Granny moved around Tanisha, Tanisha’s eyes fought not to follow the apparition.

  Kelly took a step forward. “Who are you really?”

  Fishing around in her bag, Tanisha located a business card and handed it to Kelly. Her name, e-mail, telephone number, and occupation were printed in a clear, unfussy font on the cream-colored card. “I’m who I say I am. If you don’t believe me, ask Zak back at Gabby’s.”

  “Zak?” Puzzled, Kelly looked up from the card. “Oh, you mean the tall guy who works there.”