Ghost a La Mode (19 page)

"Forgive me, but it's a bit embarrassing to be caught lurking in the shadows like some peeping Tom."

He took a step toward Emma, but she backed away, going down to the next step. Supposedly long-lost kin or not, he was a stranger, and they were alone-in a dark cemetery. It wasn't like the ghosts could come to her rescue.

"Lurking and spying," Emma added, continuing to slowly ease herself down the remaining steps without taking her eyes off of Ian Reynolds. "Why are you here?"

This time, Emma did catch a glimpse of a broad smile.

"I could ask you the same thing. But truthfully, I came here to see you.

She made it down the last few steps. Ian was moving with her, keeping pace with her bit-by-bit progress yet keeping his distance so as not to scare her off. Back on the flat surface of the street, Emma felt safer. The Julian Grille was still open and not too far away should she need help. But she was still shaken from her fall and not ready to make a run for it, even for that short a distance.

"To see me?" She started back toward the midst of town, walking with the upper half of her body turned in order to keep an eye on Ian. If Ian Reynolds wanted to talk to her, he was going to have to follow her. She wasn't hanging around the graveyard anymore tonight.

"Yes" Ian walked next to her with a few feet between them. "I had just parked by the hotel when I saw you running. I followed you on foot but took the back way up. There's an access road up to the cemetery, you know."

"I know." Her words were sharp, her voice tight, letting him know she wasn't warming to him. "I was about to take it back when you spooked me."

"Speaking of spooks, Emma, who were you talking to up there?"

The directness of his question jarred her. They were almost at the intersection of Main and Washington. Emma stopped dead in her tracks by the vacant lot. The Rong Branch was to her right on the other side of the lot. She could see a truck and a car parked in front. She felt safer but still as uneasy as Archie on his way to the vet.

"Okay, what's this all about?" She put a low growl into her voice and placed both hands on her hips, ignoring the pain in her right hand. She didn't think she'd look tough worried about a few scrapes and splinters. "How did you know I was in Julian? And how did you know where I was staying? More importantly, how do you even know who I am?"

Ian Reynolds took in the determined set of her strong jaw and the growing fire in her eyes. He gave her a relaxed, almost sexy smile and reached forward, toward her head. She recoiled.

"You have twigs in your hair."

"Never mind the twigs. Answer my questions."

He took her by the elbow and started guiding her toward the Rong Branch.

"A little bird told me they saw you with Bowers earlier today and overheard part of your conversation. The same little bird knew I was interested in anything having to do with the old Reynolds property."

Emma pulled away. Ian stopped and looked at her with selfsatisfaction.

"The same little bird told me your name and where you were staying. Apparently, we're long-lost relatives."

"Industrious little bird. Should be working for the FBI instead hanging out in Julian."

Reynolds offered up a smarmy grin. "I see them too, Emma."

"See who?" She felt her heart stop.

"You know what I'm talking about-the ghosts. I see them too."

Emma took a half step back.

"Must be a family trait," he added. "And I know all about Granny Apples and Jacob-even Billy Winslow. You were talking to Billy tonight, weren't you?"

Something wasn't right. Emma could feel it in her gut but couldn't quite grasp what it was. Like a bowl on a top kitchen shelf, it was just beyond her tired mind's reach.

"So, cousin, how about a cup of coffee and a little chat? I think you'll be interested in what I have to say."

Emma felt as pulled as saltwater taffy. It wasn't even nine o'clock, yet she wanted to go back to the Julian Hotel, take a hot shower, and crawl into bed. The single day had turned into several days' worth of activities crammed into one short time slot. Her brain was muddled and saturated, her body tired and bruised. Yet, at the same time, she wanted to go with Ian and hear him out. She wanted to know why Ian had gone out of his way to track her down, but the biggest draw was the unknown-the bit of unremembered information that was nagging at her about his self-professed talent.

He tried to take her arm again, but she yanked it back. In return, he sent her another oily smile. It curved his lips at one corner, giving his face a disturbing quality. He started walking. She followed next to him, careful not to make physical contact. Before entering the restaurant, she ran her hands through her hair, fingercombing out debris. She doubted it helped much.

The Rong Branch was mostly empty. The waitress, who was not the same one from lunchtime, seated them at a booth. Emma slid into the bench seat facing the door. Ian tried to slide in next to her, but she silently blocked him. Amused, he took the seat across from her.

"We close in just over twenty minutes, folks," the waitress told them. She was in her mid-fifties, with long, gray hair pulled back and fastened at her neck with a large clip, a handsome woman with a friendly face and plump figure.

Emma declined the offered menu. "Do you have soup?"

"Today we have beef with barley and vegetable."

"A bowl of vegetable, please."

"What about pie?" asked Ian.

"Best apple pie in town," the waitress boasted. "We also have cherry and lemon meringue today. We had chocolate cream, but that sold out"

"I'll take a piece of warm apple pie and a cup of coffee."

"Want ice cream with the pie?"

"Just the pie, please."

"Could you add a cup of decaf to my order?" added Emma. She picked up a napkin and dabbed at her injured hand.

The woman squinted through her wireframed glasses, taking in the injury along with Emma's dirty clothing and disheveled appearance. "You okay?"

Emma looked at Ian, then at the woman. She wasn't about to tell this woman she fell while being chased through the graveyard by the same man now having coffee with her. Ian busied himself looking around the restaurant, but Emma knew he was listening.

"I'm fine, just clumsy." Emma laughed lightly. "I tripped and fell." Emma turned her hand over and displayed the abrasions on her palm where her hand had dragged over the unfinished banister.

"That's a nasty scrape. Why don't you go wash that up while I get your order? The ladies' room is right down that hallway."

"Good idea. Thank you."

Her hand still hurt when Emma returned to her table, but at least it was clean. There were several wooden slivers embedded in her palm. As soon as she returned to her hotel room, she'd take care of those with the tweezers from her cosmetic kit. She'd also shaken out her hair and washed the dirt from her face.

Her soup and coffee were waiting for her, but so was a big surprise. Standing next to her table in a heated discussion with Ian Reynolds was Phillip Bowers. He was in a clean shirt and jeans, with his back to Emma. She suddenly wished she could disappear into thin air as easily as Granny and Billy Winslow.

Standing awkwardly a few feet behind Bowers, she checked out the other people in the place. Only two other tables contained customers. One held the Quinns, the older couple she'd seen in the lobby of the Julian Hotel when she'd checked in. At the other table, two men were finishing up their dinner. They looked like locals, a fact confirmed when the waitress wandered over to clear their plates.

"Not the same around here with the saloon closed, hey Beverly?" one of them said to the waitress.

"Sure isn't," she replied. "Tips aren't the same either." All three of them laughed.

One of the men, a clean-shaven redhead, said, "I hear everyone's heading to the casino at Santa Ysabel to do their drinking."

As the waitress left their table, she spied Emma, who was now casing the place for a back door.

"Everything okay, honey?"

Seven sets of eyes stared at her. So much for trying to make an unobserved getaway.

"Fine," she squeaked out. She headed to her table and slid into her seat, not looking at Bowers. A piece of apple pie and coffee had been set in front of Ian.

"Well now, isn't this cozy?" Phil Bowers hovered over her in a menacing stance.

Emma glanced up at him, giving him a dose of the family eye rolling. Then she picked up her spoon and started eating. His eyes pierced her as she worked on her soup. Ian watched her also. She seemed to be the dinner show.

She was waiting for Phil to accuse her of lying about knowing Ian Reynolds and about the two of them being in cahoots. But at that moment, she didn't care what he thought. Nor did she care what Ian thought. She'd placed them in the same category as Grant Whitecastle-men determined to have their own way, regardless of her feelings. Right now, men in general were on her crap list.

"Soup, pie, and coffee are always cozy," she said after swallowing. "Comfort foods like chocolate chip cookies and milk, don't you think?"

Phil Bowers leaned closer. "You're a little old to be acting coy, don't you think? Not to mention looking a little ragged around the edges. You get your fancy ass dragged behind a truck today?"

"It's not polite to reference a lady's age," chimed in Ian.

Emma stared at Ian Reynolds, letting him know she didn't find his comment cute or helpful. She needed to find out more about him, but now Bowers was spoiling it all. Or was he? She looked from one man to the other and decided that Phil Bowers' presence might help. It could be that his badgering personality might prod Ian into saying something useful.

She looked at Phil. "Why don't you pull up a chair and join us?"

He cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Or you could always squeeze in next to Ian."

The two men eyed each other. Emma noticed that besides the mutual distrust and dislike, their eyes silently asked each other what was going on. Bowers grabbed a chair from another table and set it, seat facing out, at the end of their booth. Then he straddled it in a macho move that almost made Emma groan.

She waved at Beverly, who had just finished cashing out the two men. "Would you please bring Mr. Bowers a cup of coffee?" When the waitress hesitated, Emma added. "I promise we'll be out of here so you can lock up on time."

"Make it decaf, Bev," Bowers called to the waitress.

Emma finished her soup while waiting for Phil's coffee to arrive. Ian sipped his coffee but hadn't touched his pie. Once Phil had his coffee in hand, Emma dabbed at her mouth with a paper napkin.

"Okay, gentlemen, enough is enough." She took a sip of coffee. "I have no idea what's going on here, but I want to know, and I want to know now."

Neither man made a move.

"First, you." She looked pointedly at Bowers. "Until a few minutes ago, I hadn't met Mr. Reynolds here. I hadn't even heard his name until you mentioned it today." When Bowers started to growl something, she held up her hand. "It's the truth, whether you want to believe it or not, and frankly, I'm sick and tired of trying to convince you of it."

Ian Reynolds started to laugh. He picked up his coffee mug and pretended to drink to hide his pleasure at Bowers being dressed down.

Emma turned to him. "Not so fast. At least Phil here had the decency to approach me openly. He didn't track me down through informants, then stalk me through a dark cemetery until I was so frightened I fled, falling down those steep stairs."

Upon hearing her words, Phil Bowers stared at Reynolds with open disgust. Ian started to say something, but Bowers had already turned his attention back to Emma. "What in the hell were you doing up in that graveyard after dark? It's dangerous."

"Is that a caution about my safety or a warning of a more menacing nature?"

"Just saying it's not smart to be up there after dark, Fancy Pants. We're not Los Angeles, but crimes do happen here."

Ian settled comfortably back into the corner of his seat. He draped one arm across the back of the booth and held his mug in the other hand. In the light of the Rong Branch, Emma was able to check him out better. She placed him in his late thirties or very early forties; average height and slim. His hair was light brown with highlights, cut short and spiked with gel in planned chaos. His face was fashionably stubbled and populated by dark brown eyes, a long, thin nose, and thin lips that framed slightly crowded teeth. He had the sort of looks that some women might find handsome; others, not so much. For Emma, the jury was still out. Dressed in designer casual wear, he wore it with the same air of self-satisfied elegance as Grant did. He was slick like Grant, too, Emma noted. Slick and calculating, and very show-bizzy. That was it, Emma thought, studying him. Ian Reynolds reminded her of the dozens of metrosexuals-straight men with the same fashion phobias and obsessions normally attributed to gay men-she'd met over the years as she accompanied Grant to one Hollywood event after another.

Emma was about to say something to Ian when Bowers put his mug down on the table with a solid thud. Coffee sloshed. He seemed to have a problem setting beverages down without making a mess.

"Oh my God!" Phil said, his sarcasm bright enough to illuminate the room. He stared at Emma. "Please tell me you weren't up at that cemetery communing with the dead."

"That she was." From behind his coffee mug, Ian smiled like the Cheshire Cat. "I saw her."