Sue Ann Jaffarian - [Granny Apples 01] Page 9

  She removed the tags from her new clothes and put her dirty ones in one of the Kmart bags. She wasn’t quite sure what to do with her shoes. The fabric was stained from the cow manure and looked and smelled disgusting. Tucking them inside the box her new sneakers came in, she made the decision to take them home and see if a shoe repair shop could salvage them. Considering the ruined shoes and torn blouse, the trip to Julian had been costly in the wardrobe department.

  The shower stall was the size of an upright coffin, but the water was hot and the water pressure good. While shampooing, Emma thought about Phil Bowers. He’d been tolerable while he grilled her, but as soon as she’d mentioned that her ancestors used to live on that land, he’d gotten as riled up as a disturbed bull. When he said the name Ian Reynolds, he’d been bordering on rage. If Phillip Bowers had been a cartoon character, steam would have shot out of his ears. Emma laughed at the thought of the image.

  And he knew about Granny and the fact that she’d been hung for murder. The hanging may have happened a century ago, but it was still remembered, at least by Phil Bowers.

  As she toweled off, Emma felt a chill come into the bathroom from the bedroom. Granny must be back. She wanted to ask Granny again about Ian Reynolds, hoping that maybe she’d remember more if she thought about it again. Emma stumbled out of the bathroom, her head down, towel-drying her hair. When she removed the towel and looked up, she let out a small, short shriek and dashed back into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

  Several seconds later, there was a knock at her room door. “Ms. Whitecastle, are you all right?”

  Emma slipped into her short summer robe. She needed to let the person outside her door know she was fine, but at the same time she wasn’t sure she wanted to leave the bathroom.

  There was another knock. “Ms. Whitecastle? Emma? It’s Barbara, the manager.”

  Emma steeled her shoulders and opened the bathroom door. Milo had said that ghosts wouldn’t hurt her, but he’d said nothing about scaring her to death. Collecting herself, she opened the room door.

  “Are you all right?” the hotel manager asked. “I was down the hall and thought I heard a scream.”

  “I’m so sorry, Barbara, but I’m fine. Just thought I saw something, but it was nothing. Just my imagination.”

  Barbara gave her a sly smile. “Perhaps you saw our ghost.”

  “Your ghost?” As she said the words, Emma turned her body slightly and looked at the far corner of the room. It was still there. He was still there. “This hotel is haunted?”

  “Oh, dear. I thought you knew the legend. Especially since you asked for room 10.”

  “Room 10? This particular room is haunted?”

  “Well, the entire hotel supposedly, but especially this room. People come from all over to stay in room 10.” She paused, then added with a wink, “But don’t worry. I’ve been here over twenty years and have never seen him yet. Guests have claimed they have, but I think it’s more wishful thinking on their part.”

  Emma shot a quick glance at the image in the corner. Her wishful thinking was that he’d disappear. But no matter how hard she tried, he remained, sitting calmly in the straight-backed wooden chair next to the bed.

  “I didn’t see a ghost, I can assure you,” she said to Barbara with a nervous laugh. “I thought I saw a huge spider, but it was nothing. I feel so foolish.”

  “Nonsense,” Barbara told Emma with a gracious smile. “It happens, especially in new surroundings.” She started down the hallway to the staircase, then turned back around. “Don’t forget, we’ll be serving tea shortly.”

  “Oh, by the way, Barbara?”

  “Yes?”

  “Who is the ghost who supposedly haunts the Julian Hotel?”

  Barbara gave her a bright smile. “Albert Robinson, the original owner. We have many photographs of both him and his wife, Margaret, downstairs in the parlor, where you had breakfast this morning.”

  Emma glanced again at the spirit in the corner. “A very distinguished-looking black man, right?”

  “Yes, that’s correct. A freed slave who came here after the Civil War. He became one of our most prominent citizens.”

  “Yes, I remember seeing the photos at breakfast.” It was a lie. Emma hadn’t taken notice of any of the photos in the parlor.

  After shutting the room door, Emma waited a few heartbeats to make sure Barbara was out of earshot before taking action.

  “Granny, where in the world are you?” she said to the room in general in an urgent whisper. “We have company.”

  Emma eyed the ghost of Albert Robinson while she waited and hoped for Granny to appear, or to at least say something. He sat in the chair erect and alert like a proper gentleman, dressed in a dark suit with a high starched collar. His hair was thick, his face dark and lined and punctuated with a thick moustache. As she studied him warily, he studied her with curiosity.

  Emma called for Granny again. When she received no response, she approached the visiting ghost, careful not to get too close, just in case Milo was wrong.

  “What are you doing here, Mr. Robinson?”

  “This is my hotel. I like to make sure my guests are comfortable.”

  “I see.” What Emma didn’t see was Granny—the one ghost she wanted to appear.

  Emma pulled her robe tighter around her body. The room was as chilly as a deep freeze, and while Albert Robinson may have been a ghost, he was the ghost of a man and in her room while she was half naked, although he didn’t seem to be taking any notice of that particular point. Maybe it didn’t register with him. Maybe spirits didn’t care about such things. She made a mental note to ask Milo about that the next time she met with him. If she was going to keep company with ghosts, she wanted to make sure none of them were lecherous for the fun of it.

  “Mr. Robinson.”

  “Call me Albert, please.”

  “Okay, Albert. I’m Emma.” She smiled at the ghost. The gesture was more to put herself at ease than for him. After all, this was his hotel, and he appeared quite at home.

  He tilted his head in polite acknowledgment.

  “I’m related to Granny Apples—I mean, Ish Reynolds. Do you remember her from when you were alive?”

  “That I do.” He smiled. “She and my wife always had a friendly competition over pie baking.” He gave Emma a conspiratorial wink. “Don’t tell Margaret, but I always preferred Granny’s pies over hers. Margaret’s were a little heavy on the cinnamon for my taste.”

  She gave a little laugh. “You’re secret’s safe with me.”

  In spite of her initial discomfort, Emma was enjoying chatting with Albert Robinson. He appeared to be intelligent and charming. She sat on the edge of the iron bed and faced him, thinking that Phillip Bowers could take etiquette lessons from this ghost.

  “Albert, were you still alive when Ish Reynolds died?”

  “You mean when she was hung?” His words were as blunt as the final yank of a rope.

  “Yes, I mean when she was hung. It was for killing her husband, wasn’t it?”

  As easily as a flicked light switch, the ghost’s demeanor changed to troubled. “That happened a long time ago, but I remember it well.” He paused to think. “Ish Reynolds was never convicted of killing Jacob. She never received a trial. She wasn’t even arrested.”

  “Then why was she hung?”

  “She wasn’t hung properly. It was done by vigilantes—by men who thought she should die for something she might have done but probably did not do.” He looked out the nearby window into the tree tops. “Shook up the whole community. Brought a lot of bad memories back to some of us folks.”

  A respectful silence fell between them. Emma was sure Albert was thinking back to when he was a slave and the things he’d seen and experienced. She waited a moment before speaking again.


  “Albert, do you think Ish killed Jacob?”

  He turned back to face her. “I certainly do not. No one did. Ish could be a difficult woman. She was independent and feisty, even bossy.” His face grew stern with conviction. “But she was an honest woman and fiercely loyal to her family and friends. If a neighbor took sick, she was the first there with soup and help. Jacob was a good man, but he was not as smart as his wife. She was the backbone of that family.”

  “Who do you think killed Jacob? And Ish?”

  “Not rightly sure. No one was ever caught. There were rumors, but that’s all.”

  “How did Buck Bowers and his kin get our land?”

  The voice came from behind Emma. She turned to see Granny standing near the door. It was then Emma noticed that it had gotten a lot colder in the room. She was still wearing only her thin robe. She pulled up an edge of the quilt on the bed and wrapped it around her.

  If Albert Robinson was surprised to see Ish Reynolds, he didn’t show it.

  “Buck never owned your property,” Albert told her. “Buck Bowers was just a mine worker. Spent all his pay in saloons on whiskey, women, and gambling. Never had no money for nothing, let alone land.”

  “His people own it now.”

  Albert Robinson stared once again out the window. He seemed to be thinking, digging into his memory with an imaginary shovel. Soon, he turned back around.

  “As I recall, Ish, your boy sold the place to Big John Winslow.” As if to underline his words, the spirit of Albert Robinson nodded his head up and down as he spoke. “Yes, I believe that’s right. John Winslow bought it.”

  “Winslow.” Emma said the name more to herself than to the ghosts. She looked from Albert to Granny. “Last night at the cemetery, I met the spirit of a young man who called himself Billy Winslow.”

  “That would be Big John’s boy,” Granny said. “He and my Winston were good friends.”

  “Granny, did you notice Billy last night?”

  Granny shook her head.

  The ghost of Billy Winslow had been young, only in his early twenties, if that. It suddenly occurred to Emma that perhaps the ghosts appeared as they had when they died, as if frozen in time. She studied Granny’s image as if seeing it for the first time. She got off the bed and moved closer, right up to her, like a poor-sighted woman trying to read a pill bottle. She reached out to touch Granny’s neck area, but her hand only went through the hazy apparition.

  “What’s ailing you?” Granny asked Emma, but she didn’t move away. She looked over at Albert. “Sometimes, she acts a bit tetched in the head, but she’s harmless.”

  “Turn your head for me, Granny, like this.” Emma demonstrated. Granny seemed annoyed with the request, but she complied. Emma noted that there was no sign of her neck being broken or even of a rope mark.

  Emma added another mental note to her list of things to ask Milo.

  “There’s no evidence of how you died, Granny.”

  “You don’t believe I was hung?” From her voice, Granny was getting her back up. Emma hoped she wouldn’t disappear.

  “Granny was hung, Emma,” Albert added. “There’s no doubt about that.” He sounded peeved at her, as well.

  “That’s not what I meant.” Emma paced at the foot of the bed as she sorted through her thoughts. “Listen, guys, I’m just learning about ghosts and spirits—kind of like on-the-job training. Please give me a break.”

  She looked from Albert to Granny and added Billy’s image to the mix. “It’s just that Billy Winslow’s ghost was very young. But his ghost, your ghosts, don’t seem to show the method of your deaths. I’m just curious, that’s all.”

  Granny looked at Albert. “Tetched, see?”

  Emma looked at Albert. “Do you remember how Billy Winslow died?”

  “Aye, I do.” Albert Robinson’s face drooped in sadness, and the image slowly started to fade. “Young man like that, tragedy shook the whole town.” He looked back out the window, lost in the remembrance of grief. “Billy was a good boy, both he and Winston. But shortly after Winston left town, he took a shotgun into his daddy’s barn and blew his head off.”

  Emma shuddered. Granny turned away.

  “Broke Big John’s heart,” Albert continued. “He was never the same. Took to drinking after his wife and daughter left. Got worse after Billy died.”

  “Did Billy leave a note? Any reason for what he did?”

  The ghost of Albert Robinson shook its head. It continued to stare out the window as its image shimmered like dust in the sunlight.

  After Albert and Granny left her room, Emma got dressed in her new clothing and wandered out of the hotel. She’d made a list of things to do. She wanted to visit the Pioneer Museum. Barbara had told her that it contained a lot of artifacts and memorabilia about the town, and that the people who ran it were very knowledgeable about local history. It was too late for the museum today. It would already be closed, as were most of the shops in town. She also wanted to talk to Phil Bowers again. She wanted to know what Ian Reynolds wanted that made Phil so angry. Being June, it would be several hours before it got dark. She was pretty sure she could find her way out to the Bowers place without Granny as long as it was daylight.

  And then there was Billy Winslow. She didn’t know if he could help her with the murders, but after hearing how he died, she felt a strong maternal urge to see him again, if only to sit by his side on the bench and gaze at the town.

  Before she left town, Emma stopped by the small grocery store and picked up a good bottle of wine. Then she made her way to the Bowers place.

  As she got out of the car, Emma heard dogs. From the angry barks, it sounded like several. She glanced around, ready to jump back into the car to save her skin, but no dogs materialized. As she made her way to the front door, the cacophony of canines continued. It was no surprise that the door to the large home was opened even before she rang the bell.

  “Well, what do you want?” the woman at the door asked.

  She was short and plump, with cropped silver hair, dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved knit top. Emma thought her to be about her mother’s age. She had a full face with a rosy complexion—a face that would have been considered open and friendly had it been fixed with a smile instead of a scowl. She had a growling German shepherd by the collar. Looking at the strong jaws and sharp teeth, Emma prayed the woman’s grip was tight. She could hear other dogs barking from somewhere in the house behind the woman.

  “I … um …,” Emma stammered.

  “You’re the same woman who was out here this morning snooping around.” The woman tossed her chin. “I recognize the car.”

  “Uh ….”

  “Spit it out, girl, I haven’t got all day.”

  “Is Phillip Bowers here?” She felt like a child asking if little Phil could come out to play.

  Emma steeled her shoulders with faux confidence but couldn’t help glancing every now and then at the growling dog just a few feet away. Where was Granny? Archie liked the ghost. Maybe spirits were good with animals. Maybe Granny could calm the savage beast licking his chops over her leg bone. And maybe she was on her own.

  “He’s not here right now.”

  “Are you his aunt Susan?”

  “That I am.”

  Emma held out the bottle of wine. “I brought this to say I’m sorry. For my intrusion this morning.”

  “And what about your intrusion now?”

  It was clear to Emma that charm and good manners did not run in the Bowers family. She fought the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, with nothing to lose, she cut to the real purpose for her visit to the Bowers ranch.

  “Who is Ian Reynolds?” Her eyes met the woman’s.

  The woman narrowed her blue eyes and studied Emma for what seemed like a month of dental work. The
dog continued to growl.

  “Down, Baby,” the woman commanded. The dog ceased growling, plopped its butt down on the floor, and looked up with adoration at its master, the intruder forgotten.

  “You really don’t know who Reynolds is, do you?”

  Emma shook her head. “Not a clue. I tried to tell Phil that, but he stormed off before I had the chance.”

  For the first time, the woman smiled. “Sounds like Phil. He was pretty mad after he saw you.”

  The two women and the dog continued to stand at the front door. Finally, the woman seemed to make up her mind about Emma.

  “Come on in. I just made some iced coffee. Decaf. Would you like a glass?”

  Emma nodded but eyed the dog.

  “Don’t worry about Baby. He’s harmless once he knows you’re okay.”

  Emma followed Susan through the front foyer back to the kitchen. The Bowers home was spacious, with a modern, open floor plan. Toward the back of the house, it opened into a huge space with kitchen, informal dining area, and family room flowing easily from one into the other. The place was comfortably decorated with country-style furnishings, pine wood, and oversized sofas and chairs. A brick fireplace took up one wall of the family area.

  Baby laid down by sliding doors that led out to a large deck. The unseen dogs continued to bark and growl.

  “Quiet,” Susan yelled. The barking ceased.

  She walked toward a closed door. As soon as she opened it, two more dogs spilled into the room. They beelined straight for Emma. One was a German shepherd almost identical to Baby. The other, a bichon frisé, was pure white with button eyes and looked more like a child’s stuffed animal than a living dog. The shepherd gave her a few short sniffs, then joined Baby by the door. The little dog sniffed her with an intensity that bordered on obsession.

  “Stop that, Killer,” Susan said to the little dog. “Don’t pay him no mind,” she said to Emma. “He thinks he’s a tough guy. The other dog, the other shepherd, is Sweetie Pie.”

  Emma glanced over at the two big security dogs, then down at Killer, who continued to sniff and give off little growls. At least the Bowers family had a sense of humor where their animals were concerned.