Ghost a La Mode (16 page)

PHIL BOWERS DIDN'T EXACTLY send Emma sprawling into the side of her car, but Emma felt that the only thing that stopped him was that she was a woman, or maybe it was the presence of his aunt. She was sure, given his druthers, he'd have splattered her over the hood of the Lexus like bird droppings.

As soon as the churlish Bowers heard that she was connected to Grant Whitecastle, he'd slammed his beer down on the table. Foam erupted from the bottle like lava from a volcano. Grabbing her purse and then her arm, he yanked Emma up and started marching her roughly down the steps of the deck and around the house to her car, half dragging her across the scrub grass like a sack of grain. He never uttered a word the whole time.

Trotting behind them was Susan, yelling at Phil to let Emma go. Granny was beating on Phil Bowers with her fists, but each blow went through his body like a knife through water. The dogs circled them all in a barking frenzy.

"Get your hands off me!" Emma yanked her arm away. Even free, she could still feel where his fingers had dug into her skin. "What in the world is wrong with you?"

Phil Bowers stared at her without saying a word, barely keeping a lid on his rage. The scent of his anger bubbled and stank like week-old garbage.

"Phil," Susan demanded, "what is this about?"

"She's a plant, Aunt Susan." He spoke without taking his burning eyes from Emma's face. "Reynolds said he was going to the media if we didn't give in. Said the history of the land would make good TV."

Susan Steveson turned eyes wide with disbelief on Emma. "Is this true, Emma? Were you playing me like some country rube?"

"No, Susan, it's not true." Emma's eyes darted from Susan to Phil. "It's true, I'm the estranged wife of Grant Whitecastle, but I have nothing to do with his show. In fact, except for our daughter, I have nothing to do with him anymore." She paused, sifting through her brain for something that might convince them, but all she came up with was garbled mush. Still, she forged on, hoping something would come out that would convince them she was on the level. "And it's true that I'm a descendant of Ish and Jacob Reynolds."

"So, after all this time, you chose now to investigate your roots?" Phil's voice was shrouded in sarcasm. "Now, right on the heels of " Reynolds' threats and claims? How convenient."

I have no idea who Ian Reynolds is, I swear."

"Tell them about me, Emma," said Granny, dancing about with nervous energy.

Emma glanced at the ghost but said nothing.

"So just how did you find out about the old Reynolds property?" Phil emphasized his question by tossing Emma's bag on the hood of her car and crossing his thick arms across his chest. "Seems odd that you knew exactly where it was located."

"Tell them about me," insisted Granny. "That'll convince 'em." "

I can't," Emma hissed at the ghost without thinking.

"You can't tell us how you found out?" Susan's face clouded with suspicion.

Emma turned away from Granny so as not to be distracted. "It's a bit complicated."

"Lies usually are." Bowers uncrossed his arms. Picking Emma's bag up from the hood of the car, he tossed it to her. She caught it and clutched it to her chest like a life vest.

"Now get the hell out of here," he ordered. "Before you find yourself in real trouble."

"But I'm telling you the truth." She looked at Susan, her eyes pleading for understanding. "Look, I don't know what this Ian Reynolds wants, but I don't want anything but information about something that happened over a hundred years ago. My interest is purely academic."

Susan's stance and face softened a bit. "But why now, Emma? Why now, right on the heels of Reynolds' threats?"

"I don't believe in coincidences," added Phil, still looking at her with contempt.

"I don't know why." Emma's voice got higher in frustration. She was on the verge of tears. "As I told you, I just found out about Granny Apples and the hanging a few weeks ago. I got curious and looked into it. From what I've learned, both Ish and her husband were murdered-that Jacob Reynolds wasn't killed by his wife." She paused and took a deep, exhausted breath.

"Finally," said Granny with satisfaction.

Emma gave Phil a challenging look. "I guess as a spoiled, almost-divorcee without a job, I have too much time on my hands. So I came up here to learn more about Julian and my family."

Susan approached Emma. "You told me you found some old documents-that the information was in them. Can you produce those?"

"I don't have them with me." Emma felt panic rise in her throat like bile. The few old family documents her mother had come up with had mentioned nothing about the Julian property or the hanging.

Bowers scoffed in disgust. "Another convenience."

Emma glanced from Phil to Susan. "I know this looks fishy, but I honestly just want to know what happened to Jacob and Ish Reynolds."

Bushed from trying to plead her innocence, Emma steeled herself for one last pitch before they ran her off with a shotgun. Even though there were still a couple hours of summer daylight left, the sun was making its descent, leaving long shadows across the small valley. Once again, she felt the pull of the comfortable bed back at her hotel.

"I know that their only surviving child, Winston Reynolds, sold the property to John Winslow right before he left town. He eventually became a very well-known attorney in Los Angeles. I'm descended from him." Emma's voice, chocked with emotion and exhaustion, sounded like it had been dragged over a dirt road.

"I also know that shortly after Jacob was killed, three hooded men came to the Reynolds farm and strung Ish up for murdering her husband. They hung her from that big old oak, right over there." Emma pointed in the direction of Ish's farm, across the road in the distance. Tears tracked down her cheeks. "She was never charged with her husband's death, she was killed by men with their own agenda. Probably to get their hands on the property." Emma was babbling, unable to stop herself. "Jacob found gold on the land shortly before he was shot in the back behind his own barn. After he died, people tried to buy the land, but Ish wouldn't sell."

"That's an astounding story, Emma," said Susan.

"Sounds more like the movie of the week to me," scoffed Phil Bowers, but Emma noticed that his body language had relaxed a bit. "And you got all this from a few old documents?"

Emma didn't say yes or no. She just stood there, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand.

Susan, Emma's one hope for an ally, shifted her head from side to side slowly. "I've lived here all my life, Emma, and I've never heard that story. And this town thrives on colorful history like that. If it were true, don't you think it would be common knowledge amongst the old families who still live here?"

"Not if it was a cover-up." Emma didn't know if there was a cover-up or not, but it was the closest straw to grab.

"A cover-up?" Phil let loose with a deep, short laugh. "You've been watching too many cop shows, Fancy Pants. A turn-of-thecentury cover-up, that's rich."

"Why not? You think cover-ups were invented just last week?"

When Phil didn't answer, Emma turned to Susan Steveson. "You said yourself that your family didn't come by this property honestly." She swallowed, her throat dry and strained. "What did you mean by that?"

"Well, nothing to do with murder, I can assure you." Susan looked at her nephew a moment, then turned her attention back to Emma. "Our own black sheep of the family was Buck Bowers."

"He was a mine worker," Emma added. "Given to drink and gambling. Correct?"

Phil started to say something, but Susan gestured for him to remain still.

"Yes, that's true. He was also a cheat and a thief. Buck Bowers won the Reynolds property from John Winslow in a poker game, and he most likely cheated to do it. Several years later, he was shot and killed during a game after he was caught red-handed."

"John Winslow was probably a broken-down drunk by the time he lost the property," Emma declared.

"What do you mean by that?" Susan leaned forward with interest. "John Winslow was a pillar of the community. One of the founding fathers. He wasn't a drunk."

Emma caught herself. She'd let too much slip. Obviously, the town history didn't include the tale of Winslow's breakdown after his wife left and his son died.

"I meant, he must have been drunk to have lost the property like that."

"No, you called him a broken-down drunk." Phil Bowers was staring at her. "Sure you're not making this up to pump up viewer interest?"

"You still don't believe that this is not about Grant Whitecastle, do you?"

"Not for a minute. I think Ian Reynolds contacted you or that slimy husband of yours, and you smelled a sensational story-a bit of colorful history to tweak the old folks." He stepped closer. Emma stepped back a bit, then stopped, determined to hold her ground even if she did it half crying. There was less than a foot between them.

"I'm not making this up," she insisted, going eyeball to eyeball with Bowers. She could feel tears of frustration, big as bowling balls, ready to roll again.

"But how could you know all this otherwise?" asked Susan.

Granny stood to the left side of Susan Steveson. "Tell them, Emma," she pleaded. "If you don't, they'll think you're a scalawag."

At wits' end, Emma swung her attention to Granny. "And if I tell them, Granny, they'll think I'm nuts."

The silence that followed was thick and fluffy, like cotton batting, shutting out everything but the three of them and Emma's last words. Everyone stopped. Time hung like a tethered heliumfilled balloon.

"Emma, dear," Susan said in a soft voice, "who are you speaking to?"

Phil started to steer his aunt away from Emma. "Aunt Susan, go into the house. I'll take care of this."

Emma continued to look at Granny, too embarrassed and afraid to look at Susan and Phil-especially Phil.

The ghost gave Emma a weak grin. "At least the cat's out of the bag."

If Ish Reynolds wasn't already dead, Emma might have killed her on the spot.

"ARE YOU HAPPY Now?" Emma tossed the question into the emptiness of her car. From the warmth inside the vehicle, she didn't think Granny was with her as she drove back to town, but she didn't care. She was going to rant at her anyway.

Granny had disappeared as soon as the spook hit the fan, so to speak.

Despite her nephew's efforts to protect her, Susan Steveson remained rooted to the ground in front of Emma, looking like she'd been goosed from behind. Unable to get Susan to go into the house, Phil Bowers stepped forward, trying to put his aunt behind him.

"I'm counting to ten," he said to Emma in a slow, moderated voice. "Get in your car and leave. If I ever see you around here again, I'll shoot first and ask questions later."

Emma started to open her bag to dig out her keys. Bowers stopped her by snatching away her purse.

"If you don't mind, I'll do that." He opened her bag and dug through it-every inch of it-like he was on a tiny scavenger hunt.

"I don't have a weapon, if that's what you're looking for."

He tossed the keys to her. Emma, still in shock from her confession, let them drop to the ground. When she stooped to pick them up, Phil Bowers dropped her designer bag at her feet. It landed with a dull thud in the dirt. She collected both the keys and the bag and started to climb into her car. Halfway in, she stopped and turned to face Susan and Phil. She had nothing to lose, might as well go out spilling the whole pot of beans, whether they believed her or not. And why should they believe her? She didn't believe it herself half the time.

"I really have no idea who Ian Reynolds is or what he wants."

Phil Bowers shifted on his feet, unsure of whether to stop her and shove her into her car or let her continue. Susan stared at Emma, her face an uncommon blend of anger and compassion.

Phil shook his head in disgust and took a menacing step toward her. "Don't tell me, some spirit from god knows where told you about the Reynolds property. Right? You seeing things that aren't there, Fancy Pants? Is that your gimmick?"

She held up her hand, palm out, to stop his advance. "It's no gimmick, but yes, the ghost of Ish Reynolds, Granny Apples, told me about the property-and about the hanging."