Ghost a La Mode (18 page)

For the first time since the questioning began, Billy Winslow turned and looked Emma fully in her face. He had been a goodlooking boy with broad, friendly features.

"I didn't kill myself, Miss Emma." He spoke the words without expression, with the same flatness as if telling her he'd locked the door and put out the cat.

"Albert Robinson told me you did. Said the whole town was upset about it."

Billy looked back toward the town. "That might be what folks thought."

"So you didn't go into the barn and shoot yourself?"

The young spirit shook his head. "No, ma'am." He turned toward her again. "I was kilt in the barn, but not by my own hand."

Smelling important information, Emma leaned forward, almost coming nose to nose with the ghost. "You're sure?"

He didn't pull away. "I think I'd know if I was kilt or not."

Billy had a good point. If anyone should know if he took his own life, it would be him. Emma glanced around, looking for Granny, wanting her to hear this. But while the graveyard was a regular ghostly cotillion, there was no sign of Ish Reynolds. She never seemed to be around when Emma needed her, only when she could be a pain in the neck, like at the Bowers ranch.

Emma was struck by another thought. Didn't the ghosts talk amongst themselves? Albert Robinson only knew what the town assumed. Why hadn't he asked Billy about it once they met up in ghost land or wherever it was they all congregated? He had taken the time to communicate to Billy that he should talk to her, but hadn't, in all these years of death, asked about Billy's suicide?

Emma ran her hand through her hair. It was becoming a habit. By her side, Billy Winslow waited patiently.

The ghosts didn't seem to be interested in anything beyond themselves. She looked around. Although there were many ghosts milling about the graveyard, it wasn't like they were gossiping in clusters over backyard fences. While there were various pairings, most kept to themselves and had their own reasons for walking the earth. Albert wanted to keep watch over his hotel. The young mother wanted to rock her dead baby. Billy kept vigil over the only home he'd ever known. Their personal histories ended when their deaths occurred, and they'd seemed neither nosey or dishonest in their interactions with her. What you saw was what you got. Albert simply told Billy her name and suggested he talk to her if he saw her again. Billy didn't seek Emma out. He'd waited until she came to him without even knowing if she would.

Then there was Ish Reynolds. The ghost of Granny Apples seemed to be the most animated of the bunch. She got excited and chatty from time to time, though it only seemed to be with Emma, and that night in the bathroom with her mother. Maybe it had something to do with them being her descendants-kin, as Billy put it. But there were times when even Granny Apples seemed devoid of emotion and flat in her responses.

It was clear to Emma that she and Milo were going to have to compare notes when she got home.

"Billy," she said, returning her attention to him. "Do you know who shot you?"

"No, ma'am. They had hoods on."

Hoods, just like with Granny. "There were three of them?"

He shook his head. "Two"

Emma looked back over the now-dark cemetery. The ghostly figures shimmered like her aunt Kitty had the night she'd visited Emma, giving off faint pools of iridescence. Watching them, she wondered what had happened to the third assailant. Granny specifically said three men in hoods had attacked her.

"Two-and my pa."

Emma whipped her head around to face Billy. "Your father was there? He saw you get shot? Didn't he do anything to stop it?"

"One of the men had a gun on him. Told him it was too late."

Too late. Emma wondered what the assailants had meant by that.

"But why you, Billy?"

He shrugged his young shoulders in their leather suspenders.

Emma rephrased the question. "Why do you think you were shot?"

"Most likely 'cause I knew what Pa had done."

"Did your father do something to these hooded men?"

"No, ma'am. He did it with them."

Emma was getting frustrated waiting for Billy to say what it was he knew about his father, but obviously it was going to have to be pulled it out of him like an impacted wisdom tooth. It finally dawned on her that Billy wasn't embellishing his answers with comment but simply giving direct answers to her direct questions. She would have to come right out and ask him what she wanted to know.

"Billy, what did your father do that you found out about?"

Before he could answer, Billy disappeared.

It was then Emma noticed that it wasn't just Billy. As the air went from cold to merely cool, Emma cast her eyes around the graveyard. All the ghosts were gone, vanished to wherever they go, leaving behind an empty darkness that made her sad on top of surprised.

Emma stayed on the bench, listening to the sounds of the night, her ears keen, her eyes adjusting to the darkness illuminated only by slivers of moonlight penetrating the canopy of trees. She went on alert; all her senses were primed and ready, seeking out what had made the spirits disappear as quickly as a switch being thrown. There had been no warning, no indication from Billy that he had to leave. No slow fading from him or the others as she'd seen from Granny when her physical presence was weakening. One minute they were here, the next-poof-gone, like the puffs of mist they resembled.

When she saw nothing to have caused the mass bolting of ghosts, Emma concluded maybe it was just another one of the quirky things about them that she needed to learn.

After another moment of reflection, Emma decided it was time to leave. She needed to think about what she'd learned tonight. Billy had told her that he was murdered right in front of his father, and probably because of something his father had done. Emma wondered if Big John Winslow had something to do with Jacob and Ish's deaths too. Maybe that's what Billy discovered. And maybe that's why Mrs. Winslow took off. It's too bad Billy left just as he was about to tell her what it was. Emma would just have to seek him out again.

Deciding it was too dangerous to take the long, steep stairway in the dark, Emma started to make her way across the uneven ground to the narrow, paved road that ran through the cemetery. From the guidebook, she remembered that it would lead her to the town below.

She was almost to the road when she heard something. It sounded to her like the snapping of a branch. She froze. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up like a mini blond forest.

Remember, Emma, she reminded herself silently, the ghosts won't hurt you.

Then she remembered that the ghosts didn't make noise, except when she heard them speak. She remained still as a statue, too frightened to turn around, too frightened to move. Something scampered across her path and she gave a slight, short shriek. Then something else ran by. It was small and close to the ground. When it crossed the road where the moonlight wasn't blocked by the trees, Emma saw that it was only a couple of squirrels. Critters. She could hear Granny's words as she gave a sigh of relief.

A few more steps and Emma reached the road. To her right was the uneven and steep staircase, a shorter but more uncertain path in the dark. To her left, the road continued, circling the graveyard until it wound its way out of the cemetery and down the hill. In front of her was a several-foot drop to a lower level of graves-the most dangerous path of all.

She was about to turn left and take the safer, more even road when a chill ran through her. It wasn't the same chill she experienced when she had ghostly company. This was an icy, foreboding chill that started within her and traveled outward. It was the chill of danger.

Very slowly, Emma started to turn, trying to seem as natural as possible. All her senses stood at attention, ready to see, hear, feel, or even smell something that didn't belong. But it was her sixth sense, the one that knew things beyond sight, touch, taste, smell, and hearing, that told her someone was out there. Another living being was in the cemetery and was watching her.

Emma started backing up toward the stairway. Whateverwhoever-was out there was on the other side. The road side. Her eyes struggled to see a form, an outline, anything, giving her the location of her watcher. In the dark, her ears fought for the tiniest sound.

"Who's there?" she called out.

No answer except the slight snap of a twig.

She thought about pulling the cell phone out of her pocket but realized by the time she did, the person could make a move on her, using any small amount of her divided attention as a window of opportunity to attack, if attack was what they had in mind. She wasn't going to stick around to find out.

Still making her way slowly backwards, Emma held out a hand until she felt the unfinished wood of the stairway railing. She grasped it. Feeling with first one foot, then the other, she descended the first step. Still moving backwards, she covered the broad step, and her foot found the next drop. Her eyes scanned the graveyard as she made her way painstakingly down each deep, wide step. She was halfway down when she spotted him. Just a glimpse, but it was enough to know he was moving with stealth, taking advantage of the dark and the old, thick trees. He was moving toward Emma.

Fight or flight. The words crossed Emma's mind as quickly as the ghosts had disappeared. She chose flight.

Turning, she scampered down the steep funereal steps as fast as her new Kmart sneakers could carry her. Halfway down, she stumbled. She tried to regain her balance by grabbing onto the railing. A sharp pain shot through her right palm as her hand slipped on the raw wood. Totally off kilter, Emma pitched forward, landing roughly on the step below her. She cried out as she landed.

"Miss Whitecastle!" came a voice from above her.

Slightly dazed, Emma heard someone running down the steps. She tried to get up and scramble away, but strong hands grabbed her from behind. She fought like a wildcat, pounding her assailant with her fists. Finally, she connected with the side of his head.

"Ow!" He ducked his head to avoid another blow but continued to hold tight to her. "Miss Whitecastle-Emma-please, I'm trying to help you."

Emma stopped fighting and tried to shake off her confusion. The hands repositioned her from a very unladylike sprawl into a sitting position with her back against the step above. The hands then traveled up and down her left leg, checking it for breaks. They did the same with the right leg.

"I know you can move your arms."

Emma demonstrated by lifting both arms and wiggling both wrists. Her right palm hurt like hell. She was banged up, but nothing was broken.

In the dark, Emma couldn't see the man's face. She only noted that he was slim and smelled of expensive soap.

"Can you get up?" His voice was even and crisp, almost perfect in its diction and clarity, like a trained speaker.

Without answering, she got one leg under her and hoisted herself upright. He helped by steadying her with an arm tight around her waist and the other holding one of her elbows. She stood still for a moment, testing her ankles and getting her bearings. Then she remembered. This man had been lurking in the graveyard. He'd been following her. He may be helping her now, but if not for him, she wouldn't have fallen in the first place.

She shook off his hands and grabbed the wooden railing for support. Taking in his size and fitness, she realized there was no way she could outrun him, fall or no fall.

It was time for the fight portion of the program.

"Who are you?"

In the patchy darkness, the man studied her a second in silence. Emma stared back at him, her strong chin firmly turned up in a challenging posture. Crossed by narrow shadows, his face looked like a photograph pieced together after tangling with a paper shredder.

He gave her a sliced smile and stuck out a hand. "Ian Reynolds. At your service."

"AT MY SERVICE? You nearly got me killed."

"I'm sorry. I assure you, I meant no harm."

"Then why didn't you answer me when I called out?"

In the semi-darkness, Emma thought she caught a grin.