Granny Apples, isn't it?"
"Too?" Emma's interest perked up. "You mean you're related to Jacob and Ish Reynolds, as well?"
"Noooooo, not me. No murderers hanging from our family tree."
"I didn't kill anyone!" Granny insisted, looking straight at him, but only Emma heard her.
Phillip Bowers got up from the table, going through the indignant Granny to do so. He dug into his pocket and produced a couple of dollar bills, which he tossed onto the table. Before stalking away, he leaned down toward Emma, his face naked with anger. She pulled back.
"The next time you see Ian Reynolds, Fancy Pants, you tell him sending you to do his dirty work is a new low, even for him. The property's not for sale. Not now. Not ever." He paused and studied her at close range. Emma could smell the coffee on his breath. "And if I ever see you anywhere near the ranch again, I'll have you arrested."
He turned on his booted heel and made for the front door of the Rong Branch.
"Wait," Emma called out.
She jumped up from her booth and started after him, then realized she hadn't paid for her meal. Like a dog digging for a bone, she rooted around in her bag for her wallet, keeping her eye half on Bowers' retreating back.
"Wait," she called again. "Who's Ian Reynolds?"
THREE HOURS LATER, EMMA was back in her room at the Julian Hotel armed with a small assortment of jeans and casual shirts, as well as a pair of sneakers and a few pairs of socks, all purchased from the Kmart in Ramona, located about fifteen miles from Julian.
By the time Emma had paid her lunch tab and dashed from the Rong Branch Restaurant into the street, there had been no sign of Phil Bowers.
When she asked Granny about Ian Reynolds, all the ghost could tell her was that he, like Emma, was a descendant of her son Winston. But beyond that, she didn't know much about him. She'd tried to contact him once, but he couldn't see or hear spirits so Granny had found no use for him in her quest to find out about her murder.
Emma was tired and dirty after running around the Julian countryside all day. In a few hours, she'd have to think about dinner, and if she wanted to eat, she would have to shower and dress and leave her room. As charming as the Julian hotel was, she would have killed for room service and cable TV.
She removed the tags from her new clothes and put her dirty ones in one of the Kmart bags. She wasn't quite sure what to do with her shoes. The fabric was stained from the cow manure and looked and smelled disgusting. Tucking them inside the box her new sneakers came in, she made the decision to take them home and see if a shoe repair shop could salvage them. Considering the ruined shoes and torn blouse, the trip to Julian had been costly in the wardrobe department.
The shower stall was the size of an upright coffin, but the water was hot and the water pressure good. While shampooing, Emma thought about Phil Bowers. He'd been tolerable while he grilled her, but as soon as she'd mentioned that her ancestors used to live on that land, he'd gotten as riled up as a disturbed bull. When he said the name Ian Reynolds, he'd been bordering on rage. If Phillip Bowers had been a cartoon character, steam would have shot out of his ears. Emma laughed at the thought of the image.
And he knew about Granny and the fact that she'd been hung for murder. The hanging may have happened a century ago, but it was still remembered, at least by Phil Bowers.
As she toweled off, Emma felt a chill come into the bathroom from the bedroom. Granny must be back. She wanted to ask Granny again about Ian Reynolds, hoping that maybe she'd remember more if she thought about it again. Emma stumbled out of the bathroom, her head down, towel-drying her hair. When she removed the towel and looked up, she let out a small, short shriek and dashed back into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
Several seconds later, there was a knock at her room door. "Ms. Whitecastle, are you all right?"
Emma slipped
"Too?" Emma's interest perked up. "You mean you're related to Jacob and Ish Reynolds, as well?"
"Noooooo, not me. No murderers hanging from our family tree."
"I didn't kill anyone!" Granny insisted, looking straight at him, but only Emma heard her.
Phillip Bowers got up from the table, going through the indignant Granny to do so. He dug into his pocket and produced a couple of dollar bills, which he tossed onto the table. Before stalking away, he leaned down toward Emma, his face naked with anger. She pulled back.
"The next time you see Ian Reynolds, Fancy Pants, you tell him sending you to do his dirty work is a new low, even for him. The property's not for sale. Not now. Not ever." He paused and studied her at close range. Emma could smell the coffee on his breath. "And if I ever see you anywhere near the ranch again, I'll have you arrested."
He turned on his booted heel and made for the front door of the Rong Branch.
"Wait," Emma called out.
She jumped up from her booth and started after him, then realized she hadn't paid for her meal. Like a dog digging for a bone, she rooted around in her bag for her wallet, keeping her eye half on Bowers' retreating back.
"Wait," she called again. "Who's Ian Reynolds?"
THREE HOURS LATER, EMMA was back in her room at the Julian Hotel armed with a small assortment of jeans and casual shirts, as well as a pair of sneakers and a few pairs of socks, all purchased from the Kmart in Ramona, located about fifteen miles from Julian.
By the time Emma had paid her lunch tab and dashed from the Rong Branch Restaurant into the street, there had been no sign of Phil Bowers.
When she asked Granny about Ian Reynolds, all the ghost could tell her was that he, like Emma, was a descendant of her son Winston. But beyond that, she didn't know much about him. She'd tried to contact him once, but he couldn't see or hear spirits so Granny had found no use for him in her quest to find out about her murder.
Emma was tired and dirty after running around the Julian countryside all day. In a few hours, she'd have to think about dinner, and if she wanted to eat, she would have to shower and dress and leave her room. As charming as the Julian hotel was, she would have killed for room service and cable TV.
She removed the tags from her new clothes and put her dirty ones in one of the Kmart bags. She wasn't quite sure what to do with her shoes. The fabric was stained from the cow manure and looked and smelled disgusting. Tucking them inside the box her new sneakers came in, she made the decision to take them home and see if a shoe repair shop could salvage them. Considering the ruined shoes and torn blouse, the trip to Julian had been costly in the wardrobe department.
The shower stall was the size of an upright coffin, but the water was hot and the water pressure good. While shampooing, Emma thought about Phil Bowers. He'd been tolerable while he grilled her, but as soon as she'd mentioned that her ancestors used to live on that land, he'd gotten as riled up as a disturbed bull. When he said the name Ian Reynolds, he'd been bordering on rage. If Phillip Bowers had been a cartoon character, steam would have shot out of his ears. Emma laughed at the thought of the image.
And he knew about Granny and the fact that she'd been hung for murder. The hanging may have happened a century ago, but it was still remembered, at least by Phil Bowers.
As she toweled off, Emma felt a chill come into the bathroom from the bedroom. Granny must be back. She wanted to ask Granny again about Ian Reynolds, hoping that maybe she'd remember more if she thought about it again. Emma stumbled out of the bathroom, her head down, towel-drying her hair. When she removed the towel and looked up, she let out a small, short shriek and dashed back into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
Several seconds later, there was a knock at her room door. "Ms. Whitecastle, are you all right?"
Emma slipped
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