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

Celeste’s breasts, however, did scream “boob job.” As long as Emma could remember, Celeste’s breasts were high and perky, even now. No bra was that good. And no septuagenarian could boast natural breasts that looked spectacular in a bikini top. Not many forty-year-olds could either.
    Celeste’s hair was the color of pale gold and worn shoulder-length. Today it was swept back tight from her face and captured at her nape with a tortoiseshell clip. She was a thin woman with eyes the color of a mourning dove and an aristocratic head held aloft by a long, stately neck. Her clothing—wool pants, cashmere turtleneck sweater, and matching coat—were by a famous designer and all in winter white. Everything about Celeste Whitecastle was impeccable and elegant, from her makeup and pearl and diamond earrings down to the nails at the tips of her ring-adorned fingers. Emma had worn gray lightweight wool slacks and a pale pink, long-sleeved silk sweater. Her own ensemble was also designer labeled, but unlike Celeste’s outfit, Emma’s had come off the rack.
    Celeste reminded Emma of a crown jewel. She was Hollywood royalty, with all the bearing and protocol of the real royals running around Europe. Elizabeth Miller and Celeste Whitecastle had hit it off when they first met back when Grant and Emma had been college students in the first blush of love. But Emma’s mother, while beautiful and elegant in her own well-kept way, also managed to exude a natural warmth toward friends, family, and even strangers. Even Grant had commented on the difference between the two women and often said he was more comfortable around Elizabeth. Elizabeth Miller could go easily between kitchen and garden, then on to a formal affair with little fuss. Celeste, on the other hand, was like a fine porcelain museum piece best shown in a glass case with a velvet lining.
    Not for the first time, Emma wondered if Grant had married her hoping to marry a woman like his mother–again, possibly competing with his father. Both Emma and Celeste were slender and blond, with fine features and a flair for presentation. One of the things that broke up Emma’s marriage, besides Grant’s infidelity, was his insistence that Emma have breast surgery. Funny thing: when Grant cheated, none of his flings had looked like either she or Celeste. It made Emma wonder if he would have married Carolyn Bryant if she’d not gotten pregnant.
    Emma was about to ask Celeste what she meant by competition when a man approached their table. He was in his late fifties, with ramrod posture and silver, wavy hair. Dressed in a stylish dark suit and tie, he looked more like an old world duke than a restaurant owner. Behind him hovered the spirit of an elderly portly man that Emma recognized immediately. The ghost playfully winked at her.
    “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Whitecastle,” the man said to Celeste with a courtly bow.
    “Good afternoon, Peter.”
    He bowed in Emma’s direction. “And you also, Mrs. White-
castle.”
    Emma nodded back with a small sympathetic smile. “Thank you, Peter. And I’m sorry about your father. He will be missed.”
    A flash of surprise crossed Peter’s face, but he held his considerable composure. “Thank you, Mrs. Whitecastle.”
    “I’m sorry,” a surprised Celeste interrupted. “What about Edmund?” she asked, referring to Peter’s father. “I know he’s been ill lately.”
    Peter turned to Celeste. “I’m afraid Edmund…my father…passed away two weeks ago, madam.”
    Surprised by the news, Celeste pressed a hand to her heart, then quickly extended it to Peter. “My condolences, Peter, to you and your family. Edmund was a lovely and gracious man.”
    He took Celeste’s offered hand and bowed quickly over it. “Thank you, madam. My father started this restaurant. It won’t be the same without him.”
    Emma glanced over at Edmund’s ghost and smiled. “Something tells me, Peter, your father’s presence will always