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

the sound of a mower.
    “How are you feeling, George?” Emma asked as she took a seat on the sofa closest to George’s chair.
    “Eh.” George held his hand out flat and tilted it back and forth with a slight movement. “So-so.”
    George had been diagnosed with lung cancer three years earlier, right after his last film was released. He’d held his own for a time, but in the last year the cancer had spread, taking no prisoners in its march to dominate his body. He’d once been a big man, strong and broad shouldered. Grant took more after his mother, whose build was slender and refined. It broke Emma’s heart to see how the disease had ravaged George’s body, leaving him a bag of bones and skin.
    “Would you like something to drink, Emma? There should be some sodas and water in the fridge. Or I can have Helen bring you something else, like coffee or tea.” George indicated a small wet bar located to the left of a large wall-mounted flat screen TV. The TV was currently turned to CNN, the sound muted.
    Emma got up and crossed to the wet bar. “Water’s fine. Can I get you something, George?”
    George declined with a slight shake of his head. Emma pulled a bottle of sparkling water from the small refrigerator. She poured it into a crystal tumbler and returned to her seat on the sofa.
    “Is Celeste home?” she asked.
    “Not right now. She’s out for an afternoon of lunch and shopping with her friends. I think there’s even a trip to the spa planned somewhere in the mix.” He sighed. “The sicker I get, the more she shops. As if it’s a celebration.”
    Emma felt awkward. Although she knew no marriage was perfect, in the years she’d known the Whitecastles, she’d seldom seen or heard a cross word between them. She passed off George’s remark as a bitter comment from a sick man. “I’m sure it’s just her way of coping with everything, George. Everyone has their own particular way of dealing with stressful situations.”
    “And is your way going on TV with your own show?”
    Emma studied George Whitecastle. His body may have been reduced to rubble, but not his quick mind and sharpshooter tongue. His days of directing movies were over, but he was still involved with the business, as evidenced by the stacks of scripts littering the desk and table next to his chair.
    “Actually,” Emma explained, “the producers approached me about the show, not the other way around. A friend referred me to them. It never occurred to me until then to have anything to do with show business.”
    “And how are the ratings?”
    Having no doubt that George had been following The Whitecastle Report’s progress, Emma flashed her ex-father-in-law a smirk. “I’d be surprised, George, if you didn’t know them better than I do.”
    The sick man let out a weak snort that deteriorated into a ragged cough. Emma stood up and went to his side. She picked up a glass of water from the table next to him and offered it, balancing the glass while he held it with shaking hands and took several long drinks from a straw, sputtering slightly between each one.
    “Thank you, Emma,” he said when he was finished. He wiped his mouth with a large cotton handkerchief clutched in one hand.
    “Should you be here alone?” She remained hovered in concern over the man who’d been like a second father to her.
    “The maid’s here, and a nurse comes in twice a day—all day on the maid’s day off.” He pointed to a small buzzer attached to a cord next to his chair. “I just have to hit this and someone will come.” His voice was raspy. “Just that the coughing knocks the shit out of me.”
    “Maybe I should come back another time?”
    George shook his head. “No, my dear, no. I’ve always enjoyed your company. Damn son of mine is a fool. Should have had two daughters, not one of each. Think it’s too late to trade Grant to the Millers in exchange for you?”
    Emma laughed. “Not sure my parents would find that an equal exchange.