Ghost a La Mode (13 page)

"Don't tell me," he said, his voice laced with angry sarcasm. "You're a descendant of that Reynolds woman, too. Granny Apples, isn't it?"

"Too?" Emma's interest perked up. "You mean you're related to Jacob and Ish Reynolds, as well?"

"Noooooo, not me. No murderers hanging from our family tree."

"I didn't kill anyone!" Granny insisted, looking straight at him, but only Emma heard her.

Phillip Bowers got up from the table, going through the indignant Granny to do so. He dug into his pocket and produced a couple of dollar bills, which he tossed onto the table. Before stalking away, he leaned down toward Emma, his face naked with anger. She pulled back.

"The next time you see Ian Reynolds, Fancy Pants, you tell him sending you to do his dirty work is a new low, even for him. The property's not for sale. Not now. Not ever." He paused and studied her at close range. Emma could smell the coffee on his breath. "And if I ever see you anywhere near the ranch again, I'll have you arrested."

He turned on his booted heel and made for the front door of the Rong Branch.

"Wait," Emma called out.

She jumped up from her booth and started after him, then realized she hadn't paid for her meal. Like a dog digging for a bone, she rooted around in her bag for her wallet, keeping her eye half on Bowers' retreating back.

"Wait," she called again. "Who's Ian Reynolds?"

THREE HOURS LATER, EMMA was back in her room at the Julian Hotel armed with a small assortment of jeans and casual shirts, as well as a pair of sneakers and a few pairs of socks, all purchased from the Kmart in Ramona, located about fifteen miles from Julian.

By the time Emma had paid her lunch tab and dashed from the Rong Branch Restaurant into the street, there had been no sign of Phil Bowers.

When she asked Granny about Ian Reynolds, all the ghost could tell her was that he, like Emma, was a descendant of her son Winston. But beyond that, she didn't know much about him. She'd tried to contact him once, but he couldn't see or hear spirits so Granny had found no use for him in her quest to find out about her murder.

Emma was tired and dirty after running around the Julian countryside all day. In a few hours, she'd have to think about dinner, and if she wanted to eat, she would have to shower and dress and leave her room. As charming as the Julian hotel was, she would have killed for room service and cable TV.

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.