Ghost in the Polka Dot Bikini: A Ghost of Granny Apples Mystery by Sue Ann Jaffarian

measure.
    “That’s not Granny, is it, Milo?” Emma’s voice was low and cautious. She hugged herself, more against the unknown than the cold.
    “No, it’s not.” Milo didn’t look at her when he spoke, but kept his eyes trained on the invisible air current, following it with his inner guides more than with his eyes. “What’s more, I’m not sure it’s friendly.”
    Emma tried to follow Milo’s lead, concentrating on the moving draft.
    “Whoever you are,” Milo called to the spirit, “make yourself known.” His voice was gentle yet commanding. “We are friends to those who have passed.”
    At his words, the draft picked up speed, swirling and buffeting them as if driven by a large oscillating fan. The drapes moved. Wisps of Emma’s hair lifted and fell against her face. One of the teetering stacks of books fell.
    Then it was gone.

Emma sat across the white linen-covered table from Celeste Whitecastle. It was the day after her visit with George, and they were at Celeste’s favorite lunch spot, a small, tucked-away bistro on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills with an exclusive clientele. From the street it looked like a smart but tiny café, but once inside patrons could bypass the small dining room and walk toward the back to a private courtyard where more dining tables awaited. The courtyard was landscaped with well-placed potted shrubs and flowers, giving each table a sense of privacy. The centerpiece of the courtyard was a stone fountain that gurgled happily as it serenaded the toney diners. Emma loved the place almost as much as Celeste did. It reminded her of the cafés she had visited in Paris.
    Originally scheduled to meet with Fran Hyland at ten o’clock, Ms. Hyland’s assistant had called the afternoon before and asked Emma if the meeting could be moved until the afternoon. With the restaurant and Hyland’s office only about a mile apart, Emma called Celeste, hoping to set up the luncheon before her appointment. She was pleased when Celeste quickly agreed to the date and place, and even more pleased to get a reservation. Emma had been shameless in using the Whitecastle muscle to gain the latter.
    Menu in hand, Emma looked around the charming restaurant courtyard. “I haven’t been here in a long time.”
    Celeste smiled. “I think the last time we were here together was when we took your mother out for her birthday. Remember that, Emma?”
    “Yes, of course. It was a lovely day. That was what, two years ago?”
    “Almost three.”
    Emma put down her menu and reached across the table to pat Celeste’s hand. “I’m sorry it’s been that long, Celeste. Really, I am.”
    Celeste put her hand over her former daughter-in-law’s and squeezed it quickly before drawing it away. “It’s understandable, dear. You’ve been through a lot in the past few years. But it looks like things are much better for you now.” She picked up her own menu and started reading it, even though she knew it by heart. “I’ll have you know, I’ve never brought Carolyn here, and I never will. She’s more the taco truck type.”
    Inwardly, Emma laughed at the comment, wondering what Celeste would think if she knew that Phil Bowers had recently introduced her to the dining delights of neighborhood taco trucks. “That’s not necessary, Celeste. This is hardly a competition.”
    Celeste set the menu down on the edge of the table and looked at Emma with the wise study of a martial arts sensei. “Oh, but my dear, it is. It’s always a competition where men are concerned, and don’t you forget that.”
    Even in her early seventies, Celeste Whitecastle was a great beauty. She’d had work done on her face, but it was not overdone. She preferred to wear just enough lines to place her in her fifties rather than stretch her face into the clownish denial of an aging woman trying to recapture her youth. Who did those women think they were kidding? The more pulled the skin, the more it advertised “scalpel at work.”