Ghost a La Mode (24 page)

There were public restrooms just behind city hall. Emma made a beeline for them, then prayed she had a quarter when she noticed they were pay toilets. Granny continued hounding her while she dug out her wallet. Not finding any quarters, she started digging through the bottom of her large leather bag until she produced a stray coin. She quickly entered and shut the door on Granny.

"Now you listen to me, Emma Whitecastle. I'm still your elder." Granny had come through the bathroom door and was shaking a finger in Emma's face.

"A dead elder," Emma reminded the spirit. She was sitting on the toilet, praying that Garrett Bell didn't come in and join them. She finished, pulled up her jeans, and started washing her hands. "Just how old were you anyway, Ish? You know, when you died."

Granny crossed her arms in front of her and frowned, letting Emma know that no woman likes to be asked her age, not even a dead one. "I had just passed my forty-first year."

"Aha!" Emma dried her hands. "I'm forty-four. That makes me the elder here. And I'm taking my elder butt home, where there are no murders or murderers, past or present."

Before leaving the bathroom, Emma put on some lipstick and ran her hands through her short blond hair, trying to bring some order to it. She might be older than Granny, but she wasn't going to go through the rest of the day looking it.

She glanced at Granny Apples. The ghost was standing in a corner of the small bathroom wearing a thunderous scowl. Emma hung her head and gripped the side of the sink.

"Ish, be happy. You've been exonerated. You won't be considered a murderer any longer. Those letters even said who killed you.

"They did?" The ghost's face lightened a bit.

"Yes. John Winslow confessed in the letters. He confessed in the hope of gaining his wife's forgiveness for that and for the death of their son Billy. I'll bet the letters were written shortly before he died. And I'll bet his wife knew about his part in it. That's why she left him."

"Big John Winslow," Granny repeated, shaking her head.

"Yes, he and two other men, a guy named Parker and someone he called Bobcat, did it."

"Bobcat Billings," the ghost added. "He was a good-for-nothing drifter. Tom Parker owned property on the other side of the stream from us. Mean as a snake."

"It was over the gold, Ish, just like you thought. They did it knowing Winston would probably sell and leave town."

"Winston would never have sold the land to Parker or Bobcat."

"But he trusted John Winslow, didn't he? He was his best friend's father."

Granny nodded, her face down, her eyes locked on the cement floor of the public toilet.

"Billy was probably killed by Parker and Bobcat because his father was about to go to the authorities and confess. They did it to keep him quiet, making it look like a suicide. According to Winslow's letters, they also threatened to find Winslow's wife and daughter."

Her head still down, Granny said, "Senseless killings, all over some fool gold."

Emma leaned over and kissed Granny's cheek. Her lips fell through the air, but she knew Granny would appreciate the gesture.

"WHO YOU TALKING TO in there, Fancy Pants?"

Startled, Emma spun around. She'd just walked out of the public toilet when she heard Phil Bowers' voice. He was standing next to the door to the bathroom, leaning against the building, one foot up behind him flat against the wall. He was dressed in jeans and a light blue polo shirt and wore his cowboy hat pushed slightly back. He was relaxed and confident, a man sure of his place in the world. In spite of herself, Emma thought he looked finger-licking good.

"Are you following me now?"

"Just wanted to talk to you. I was walking back from the sheriff's office when I spotted you up ahead and saw you duck in here."

"Nothing to talk about, Phil. Now leave me alone. I'm leaving for home as soon as I get to my car."

She put on her sunglasses. Looking for the quickest way out of the city hall parking lot, she saw it was the way she'd come in, past him. She started walking that way. Phil left his post and fell in step next to her. Before they reached the street, he took her gently by the arm, stopping her.

"First, tell me who you were talking to in there."

Emma yanked her arm away. "It's none of your business, but since you insist on making it so, I was on the phone."

"Difficult to talk on the phone without one, isn't it?"

He held out his hand. In his palm was a cell phone just like hers. Emma dug around in her bag. She was phoneless.

"I found it on the ground," he explained, "just outside the bath„ room.

Emma realized the phone must have fallen out of the side pocket of her purse when she was rooting around for a quarter and arguing with Granny.

"Were you talking to your ghost buddies, Emma? Did they follow you into the bathroom?" He shook his head. "Man, don't you just hate when that happens?"

She started to say something but held her tongue.

"Come on, Emma. Let's talk. I'd like to know what you told the detectives. I want to know more about Ian Reynolds."

She stopped and turned to face him. "What? You want me to give you an alibi for last night?"

"First of all, I have-" He stopped short as a couple of older women strolled into the parking lot in search of the public restrooms. He smiled at them and moved closer to Emma before continuing. "I have an alibi for last night. The whole night. When I heard a guy named Reynolds was found dead in the old cemetery, I went to talk to the sheriff-to tell what I knew about him."

"And to point a finger at me."

He studied her. "Do you have an alibi for last night?"

"Do I need one? Am I a suspect?"

"Not that I know of. At least, not yet"

In spite of his abrasiveness, there was something solid, even trustworthy, about Phillip Bowers. But what if he had killed Ian and manufactured an alibi? He could be using her to make sure he wasn't nailed for the murder. Milo didn't think Phil had killed Garrett, but even he admitted he could be wrong.

"And if I do become a suspect, I suppose you'll want to represent me. Is that right, counselor?"

Bowers shook his head. "Sorry, but since I'm a witness, it'd be a conflict of interest. Besides, I specialize in estate planning. Wouldn't do a murder suspect a lick of good."

She looked him up and down, taking in the jeans, knit shirt, boots, and hat. He didn't look like any estate planner she'd ever met.

"So, if you're not my attorney and you're a witness, anything I tell you could go straight to the authorities. There'd be no attorney-client privilege, would there?"

"Afraid not. I just want to know about Ian Reynolds-who he was and where he came from. Seems odd that after all these years, suddenly the two of you come sniffing around that old property. And now one of you is dead."

Phil Bowers took a booted step closer to her. She could feel warmth from his body mingling with the heat of the air. Her nostrils flared, sucking in the earthy and sensual scents of sweat and sweet hay. She shook herself to break its spell.

"I want to make sure my family doesn't go through anything like this again."

"Don't worry, Mr. Bowers." Emma stood her ground, not backing down from his invasion into her personal space. "I have no intention of messing with that property. Frankly, I'd rather see it remain with you than have some cardboard condos destroying the landscape. It's nice out there; it should remain that way. I'm just someone interested in her family's past. Like I've said many times, I didn't know Ian Reynolds even existed until yesterday."

She dug around in her bag. "In fact, I have something for you." She pulled out the Winslow letters and handed him the extra copies. "These are copies of letters I got from the museum. They were written by John Winslow-a confession that he and some others killed both Jacob Reynolds and his wife. They wanted the property because of gold."

Phil Bowers took the letters from her. He fanned through them but didn't read them.

"I have reason to believe," she continued, "that Ian Reynolds saw these same letters, possibly several weeks ago. Maybe he felt the property should be his. Maybe he thought he could bully you and your family into selling it to him. And maybe it wasn't about building condominiums. It could be that he thought there might still be gold out there."

"There's been no gold around here for years."

Emma shrugged and held her hand out for her phone. "Now, if you'll give me back my phone, I'll be moving along. It's hot out here, and I have a long drive ahead of me."

"But you can't go, Emma. We still need to stop him."

At the sound, Emma turned around and faced Granny, who'd disappeared during the initial face-off with Bowers.

"Stop who, Granny?" In her frustration, she forgot about Phil. "Garrett Bell is dead."

From behind her, Emma heard a throat clear. Sweat beaded on her forehead and dampened her underarms. She closed her eyes and wished she could transport herself somewhere, anywhere. She tapped her sneakers together, hoping beyond hope that they could whisk her back to Pasadena.

"Who's Garrett Bell, Fancy Pants?"

Emma slowly turned around, pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head as she moved. With a set jaw, she locked eyes with Phil Bowers. They stared at each other in an emotional standoff for nearly a minute.

"Who's Garrett Bell?" he asked again, his eyes hard as steel. "Or should I go get one of the detectives? They sent three up from San Diego, you know. I'm sure one of them would have time to hear what you have to say. Just don't forget to cop the insanity plea."

"Keep the phone," she snapped. "I'll get another." She started marching out of the parking lot. Bowers was on her heels.

"Who's Garrett Bell, Fancy Pants?"

At the sidewalk, Emma stopped and faced Phil. "Stop calling me that!"

"Then tell me who this Garrett guy is. Is he another partner in this land scheme? Or maybe he's another body-one you have stashed somewhere else."

"Do you really think I killed Ian Reynolds?" The question came out in a half snarl.

"I didn't, but now I'm not so sure."

At the same time, they both noticed that a few people had stopped to stare at them. Bowers took her arm once again and steered Emma back a few steps into the shade behind city hall.

"Do you have an alibi for last night?" He let go of her arm.

"As I told Detective Hallam, I went directly from the Rong Branch to the hotel and straight to bed."

"Anyone see you?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact." Emma stood defiantly in front of him. "Someone did see me. Someone was in my room all night."

When she didn't continue, Phil nudged her along. "And that person was ...?"

"Is it any of your business?"

"I'm making it my business."

There, on the spot, Emma decided to slap him with the truth. "Albert Robinson. That's who saw me."

"Albert Robinson." Phil said the name out loud, rolling it over and around his tongue while he searched his memory. Once the name clicked, he narrowed his eyes at her. "Nice act, Mrs. Whitecastle. Guess being married to that TV freak rubbed off on you.

"Come on, Emma," said Granny, her whispery voice filled with determination. "You can't go now."

Emma held up a hand but looked at Phil while she spoke. "Not now, Granny. One pest at a time is all I can handle." With a huff and a puff, Granny disappeared.

"You're psychotic." Phil gave a little laugh. "Cute but psychotic"

Psychotic. The word jarred her like a slammed door. Emma had used that same word when she'd first found out about her mother and Granny Apples. Thinking about it now, she was ashamed she hadn't been more open minded, especially concerning Elizabeth.

"This isn't an act, Phil."

She spoke in an even tone, forcing herself to remain calm. Let him go to the police with this-with everything. She didn't kill Garrett Bell, and she wasn't the only one in the world who talked to ghosts.

"Last night, I was scared, afraid Ian would find me at the hotel. You heard him; he said he was staying there. When I got to my room, I bolted the door and barricaded it. At some point, the ghost of Albert Robinson appeared."