Nine Lives: A Lily Dale Mystery (13 page)

Bella gets that. She did the same for Aunt Sophie.

“And Grant was her only heir?”

“Yes—but he has plenty of money.”

“How do you know?”

“He’s a venture capitalist.”

“Times are tough.”

“Have you ever
seen
the guy? His watch costs more than I make in a year.”

Luther shrugs. “I’ve never met him. Oh, and another thing I learned as a cop—rich people always want to be richer than they already are.”

“Rich people, maybe. But not everyone. Besides, it’s not as if Leona was worth a fortune. As far as I know, all she had was this house—and not even the land it sits on. It isn’t worth much to anyone outside the Dale.”

As they talk on, leaving Bella feeling as though she’s sitting on the bench at a Ping-Pong match, she realizes that Leona, like Odelia, lived quite a modest lifestyle for someone who can—ostensibly—give people a priceless gift. And they’re not the only ones.

Most of the cottages in the Dale are humble. Some could even be considered shabby. The cars parked on their weather-beaten driveways are typically as inconspicuous and unpretentious as the people who drive them.

There must be plenty of gazillionaires out there who would pay a fortune to contact their dearly departed. Orville Holmes is certainly cashing in.

But as far as she can tell, Odelia and most of the others remain committed to the Spiritualist camp’s original mission: to bridge the gap between the living and the dead for the greater good rather than for personal gain. They receive only token payment in return for their service and consider it a donation that allows them to carry on spreading hope and enlightenment.

“If we rule out Grant Everard—not saying that I have—who else might benefit with Leona out of the picture?” Luther looks from Odelia, who shrugs, to Bella.

“I’m afraid I can’t help. I never even met her.”

“Pandora Feeney begrudged Leona this house from the moment she bought it,” Odelia comments. “She thought it was a disgrace to turn it back into a ‘boarding house’—that’s what she calls it.”

How far would she go to get it back? She was insufferable and eccentric, but she certainly didn’t strike Bella as malevolent.

“It could have been anyone, even a total stranger—some random psycho who got angry with Leona and lashed out. Although,” she adds, remembering how quiet the Dale was before the onslaught of summer visitors, “I’m guessing she didn’t cross paths with very many strangers before the season started, right?”

Luther shakes his head. “Not likely. Good point.”

“All of us who live here year-round have our regulars,” Odelia comments. “I know all of Leona’s, and they wouldn’t hurt her in a million years.”

“People do come around looking for readings during the off-season.” Luther’s next words send a chill down Bella’s spine: “This is one of the few places in the world where it’s not just acceptable to open your door to a total stranger and invite him into your home, but it’s expected.”

“That’s true. But business has been slow lately for all of us. And I’ve spent a good part of the past month sitting on my porch, thanks to this.” Odelia gestures at her leg in the cast. “I’ve seen just about everyone who’s come and gone from Leona’s place.”

“What about on that last day?”

“Especially then. I remember because Jiffy only had half a day of school, and he’d come home with a big bag of colored chalk his
teacher gave him. He was out there until dark, coloring a mural on the road. I wanted to keep an eye on him.”

Bella bites her tongue to keep from calling their attention to the appointment book.

Luther writes something on his notepad. “You could have missed something. Someone.”

“I could have. But Leona made digital recordings of every reading, and she kept meticulous written records.”

“Where?”

“The audio files would be in her laptop, I imagine, and her notes must be around here someplace.”

“Have you seen them?” he asks Bella. “The laptop, the notes.”

She manages to keep her voice steady. “There’s an appointment book on the table in her study. Is that what you mean?”

“There should be a notebook, too,” Odelia says, shaking her head. “The appointment book just has her schedule.”

“I didn’t see a notebook. Or a laptop, either. Not since I got here. Do you want to take another look?”

Luther glances at his watch. “A quick one. I have to be someplace soon.”

The two of them step back into the study. Luther takes a cursory look around and then picks up the appointment book. “I guess I’ll take this with me.”

He’s going to discover that the page is missing. If Bella mentions it now, she might inadvertently incriminate herself. He’ll wonder why she didn’t bring it up before.

“Do you want to check the rest of the house for the other things?” she asks as they step back out into the parlor, in part hoping he’ll forget the appointment book and in part wanting to reinforce that she’s being cooperative.

“Unfortunately, I can’t. I’m already running late.”

“That’s right, you said earlier that you have a hot date,” Odelia says behind them as Bella locks the study door again and pockets the keys.

“Right now, I have a dentist appointment. I wouldn’t call that a hot date. And then I have to go spend some time at the hospital with my mom.”

“How is she feeling?”

“No better, no worse.” Then Luther explains to Bella, “My mother has been ill.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. It isn’t easy, watching your parents grow old.”

Nor is it easy
not
getting to see them grow old. Or your spouse, either, for that matter.

“So your mom is your hot date?” Odelia asks Luther. “Because I distinctly remember your saying you had one today.”

“That isn’t until later tonight—and I don’t recall saying
hot date.
”

“I have a feeling it will be.”

“I thought you were off your game, Odelia,” he says, heading for the hall with the spiral appointment book tucked under his arm.

“Not about everything,” she calls after him as Bella trails him out.

They find Max lying on his belly, shining the flashlight under the registration table.

“Still no cat?” Luther asks.

“Nope.” He clicks off the flashlight and holds it out. “Thanks for letting me use this.”

“You can keep it.”

“Are you sure?” Max happily clicks it on again.

“Positive. I’ve got lots at home.”

“Thanks!” Max shimmies across the floor on his stomach, flashlight once again in search mode.

“Good luck finding your furry friend, Max. If she got out, I’m sure she’ll come back when she gets hungry enough.”

“I just hope it’s before the kittens are born.” Max’s top half disappears under the low edge of an antique console table, but his voice floats from beneath it. “They’re coming today.”

“Scheduled C-section?” Luther asks Bella dryly.

“More like wishful thinking. He wants the kittens to be born while we’re here so that he can name them.”

“Maybe they will be. And listen,” he adds in a low voice, his hand on the doorknob, “if I thought you were in danger here, I’d tell you to get out right now.”

“So you don’t believe in this Lily Dale stuff?” she asks, now that Odelia is safely out of range.

She expects an ambiguous answer, but he nods. “I do believe it. Odelia’s good. She’s told me too many things she couldn’t possibly have known. But mediums can only interpret the information they’re given by Spirit. It’s not a perfect science.”

“Science? Is that what it is?”

“It’s all about energy. Ever study quantum physics?”

“I teach it,” she informs him, and enjoys the look of surprise on his face. “Well, I really just touch upon it. There’s a lot to cover. I’m a science teacher. I mean, I
was.
”

“Then you probably know what Einstein said.”

“About what?”

Luther reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet, and takes a folded slip of paper from it. He hands it to her.

She reads the handwritten note aloud: “
Everyone who is seriously involved in the pursuit of science becomes convinced that a spirit is manifest in the laws of the Universe.”

She looks up at him. “Einstein said that?”

Luther nods. “Odelia told me that when I met her. I didn’t believe her, so I looked it up. After she’d helped me solve that first case, I wrote it down, and I’ve carried it with me ever since so that I won’t forget.”

She digests that as she refolds the paper along its well-worn crease and starts to hand it back to him.

“Keep it,” he says. “I know it by heart. It might help you while you’re here.”

She tucks it into the back pocket of her shorts. “If you believe that there’s something to this, why are you telling me that it’s safe for us to stay here?”

“It’s just like what Odelia said about connecting the dots. I don’t immediately jump from one fact—
Leona died
—to another—
someone killed her
. There would have to be a lot of other facts for me to draw that conclusion, and right now, it’s all too fuzzy.”

“So are you humoring her, then? Is that why you came over here?”

“Absolutely not. Odelia’s been right about this kind of thing before. But she’s also been wrong.” He chuckles a little bit, shaking his head. “Way wrong.”

“Do you think she’s wrong this time?”

“I hope so. All we have to go on is what she says might have happened—what she
feels
might have happened—and what a little boy thought he saw in the middle of the night.”

“A pirate. I get it. I’m a mom.” She nods her head toward all that’s visible now of Max beneath the console: the rubber soles of his sneakers.

That, of course, brings her back to thinking about the muddy footprint and the creaking floorboard.

There are logical—and yes, illogical—explanations. It’s all about how you connect the dots. She went from point A—seeing someone in the house last night—to point Z—that it might have been Leona’s murderer.

“Here . . .” Luther takes a business card out of his wallet and hands it to her.
Luther Ragland, Private Investigator.

“I’m going to look into a few things as soon as I have time,” he says, “but in the meantime, holler if you need me.”

“Thank you.”

“Just please don’t mention any of this to anyone.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t.”

She unlocks the door for him, and he steps outside. Beyond the porch, the patchy lawn is pocked with marshy puddles, and the furrows worn along the road have become rushing streams that feed pothole ponds. A steady downpour falls from a contagiously monochromatic sky, washing away pretty pastels of the cottages, their vibrant garden blooms and verdant foliage.

“It’s still raining!” she exclaims.

Luther turns to shoot her an amused glance. “Better get used to it.”

“Oh, I’m used to rain. I just meant—it hasn’t really let up at all since I got out of bed. Usually, it comes and goes.”

“Not here.”

“You mean it rains like this a lot, then? Like . . . all day?”

He nods. “But most of the year, it just snows all day. All night.”

“
Most
of the year?”

“All right, half the year—but that’s no exaggeration. This is blizzard country, Bella. We’re buried in lake-effect snow from October ’til April. Sometimes, it starts in September and lasts into May.”

It snows back home in Bedford—though not as much as here, by any means. But Chicago is blizzard country, too. Sam told her about the legendary Great Lakes storms. She always thought it sounded like fun, being snowbound for days on end.

But with Sam.

Not with Millicent.

“I like rain,” she says with a shrug, thinking that the drab weather suits her mood. “Not that it matters, since I’m only here a few more days.”

“So you mentioned. A few times. Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

“You forgot your umbrella by the back door. I’ll go grab it for you.”

“It’s okay. Leave it for Odelia. I’m parked right over there.” Pulling a key fob from his pocket, he aims it toward the parking lot across the street. A blue Jeep beeps and flashes its brake lights as he unlocks the doors remotely. “Oh, and Bella? Not an acceptable answer to my question, but I’ll take it. For now.”

When Odelia invited Max to come back next door with her to bake her famous zucchini-jalapeño-lime cookies, Bella let him go. He was so worried about the still-missing cat that he needed a distraction.

But what about me?

All afternoon, try as she might to forget it, that muddy footprint has dogged her as effectively as if it had been an actual shoe—
pair
of shoes—with a relentless predator in them.

No matter how busy she’s been around the house washing towels and making beds, no matter how eager she is to accept Luther’s reassurance that there’s nothing to worry about, she can’t seem to forget that someone might have been eavesdropping at the study door.

Now, as she goes about her domestic duties, putting the guests’ rooms back in order, Bella keeps an eye out for the cat.

There was no sign of her in the Rose Room, where she found that the papers scattered on the floor had apparently fallen from a box Max must have knocked off the closet shelf. How the heck did he reach it? He must have climbed on a chair.

He could have fallen and been seriously hurt.

I’m a lousy mother,
she decided as she haphazardly collected the papers on the bureau.

She’s had a couple of hours to reconsider.

Maybe she’s not a
lousy
mother. Just an overwhelmed one.

Thank goodness for Odelia. Lifting the blinds on the window of the St. Clair sisters’ third-floor, ballerina-themed guest room, Bella can see directly across the rainy yard into the kitchen next door. Her
son is contentedly mixing cookie dough and appears to be chattering a mile a minute.

It’s too bad her own mom isn’t around or that Millicent isn’t more like Odelia.

Millicent—Bella really has to call her just as soon as she finishes this last room.

She’s not looking forward to the conversation, but she can’t keep putting it off.

She turns to change the sheets on the queen-sized bed. Lifting one of the plump feather pillows, she finds a racy best-selling romance novel tucked beneath. She wonders which of the elderly spinsters is reading it and whether she intended to keep it hidden even from her sister.

Probably. If her journey through the guestrooms this afternoon has taught her anything, it’s that everyone has secrets.
Everyone.

For example, she never would have guessed that Bonnie Barrington’s long blonde hair isn’t her own, but there’s an empty Styrofoam wig form sitting alongside the collection of bone china teacups on the bureau in her room. The staid Piersons seem to have quite the active love life, judging by the kinky black lace lingerie hanging on the back of the bathroom doorknob. And the Tooklers, well, they’re in the opposite situation, judging by the self-help book and medication—prescribed for Jim by a urologist—on the nightstand.

Unaccustomed to glimpsing such intimate details in virtual strangers’ lives, she’s taken it all in with a twinge of voyeuristic guilt. It’s not as if she’s been snooping through drawers, though. She can’t help but notice what’s been left in plain sight.

As she finishes the hospital corners on the bed, she marvels that you never know what goes on behind closed doors, or even in people’s private thoughts.

That doesn’t mean Bella suspects any of the guests of having something to do with Leona’s death. None of them were even here when it happened . . .

Unless someone had sneaked into town, killed her, and sneaked away again, only to show up two weeks later feigning shock at the terrible news.

She supposes that isn’t out of the question, but why?

What if it was because—

“Hello?”

Startled by the voice behind her, Bella cries out. She whirls around to see a man standing in the doorway.

“Sorry,” he says.

She’s never seen him before, yet he looks very much at home, leaning against the doorjamb as though he belongs here and she’s the interloper.

She knows the hammering in her rib cage is because he scared her and not—no, of course not—because he’s incredibly good looking.

He is, though. Dark and slick and clean-shaven, he’s wearing a well-cut suit and polished shoes. His devil-may-care elegance reminds her of the Gatsbyesque dandies she glimpsed the other night in the vintage photo albums.

He’s quite the suave, seductive charmer . . .

What if Odelia’s “Rudy” Valentino showed up at the wrong house this time?

Even as the thought crosses her mind, she acknowledges the utter ridiculousness of it.

She starts toward him and slams her thigh squarely into the bedpost. Ouch.

“Are you okay?” he asks mildly, watching her wince and rub the spot with her burnt fingers.

“I’m fine.”
Just clumsy
. “Are you . . . ?”

She can’t quite decide how to finish the sentence.
Are you . . .

A ghost?

A crazy psycho killer?

Or maybe,
Are you . . . checking in?

Or . . .
checking me out?

Judging by the appreciative look in his black eyes, the last part is entirely true.

He completes the sentence for her: “Grant Everard.”

“You’re Grant Everard?” Her gaze shifts immediately to his wrist, but she can’t see the fancy watch Odelia mentioned—the one that’s a dead giveaway just how wealthy he is.

It’s his turn to offer a fragmented question: “And you’re . . . ?”

He obviously has no idea who she is, but he doesn’t look as though he wonders whether she might be a ghost, a killer, or checking into the guesthouse. He may, however, believe she’s checking him out.

Probably because you are.

“I’m Isabella.”

“Nice to meet you, Isabella . . .”

“Jordan.” She crosses over to shake his extended hand with her sore one. “I’m taking care of things around here for a few days.”

His gaze flicks from her face to the erotic novel on the nightstand, waiting to be slipped back under the pillow when she finished making the bed.

He raises those decidedly masculine brows and flashes her a look that brings instant heat to her cheeks.

“That’s not mine,” she tells him quickly.

“That’s what they all say.” He flashes a lazy grin, and she resists the immediate urge to reach up and smooth her hair, wondering whether she remembered to brush it this morning—or her teeth, for that matter. Not that it matters, because she certainly isn’t going to be kissing anyone, but . . .

Kissing? Since when is she thinking about kissing?

It’s been a long time since she felt this kind of flustered.

No, he’s not the first good-looking man to come along since Sam died. Not even the first one since she started her new life.

She thinks of Doctor Bailey, Troy, and Luther, too. She isn’t blind; she’s not immune to the opposite sex.

Grant, though, seems to have ignited a spark in the cool, dim place inside her where something warm and vibrant once glowed.

Yes, but look what happens when you play with fire,
she reminds herself.

And for that matter, look at how you look.

She may never have been beautiful, regardless of what Sam called her.

My Bella Angelo.

No, but she’d been pretty enough, in a sporty, casual kind of way. Now whenever she looks in the mirror, all she sees are dark circles and worry lines and sad blue eyes.

My Bella Blue.

“How did you get in?” she asks Grant abruptly, determined to focus on the throbbing ache in her fingers and not the one in her heart.

“Sorry. I had a key.”

Of course. Doesn’t everyone?

“I probably shouldn’t have let myself in. Sorry,” he says again.

“It’s okay. Odelia told me about you.”
Warned
her, really.

“Oh yeah? What did she say? Wait, let me guess. She said I’m a ne’er-do-well?”

“Actually, she mentioned you’re a . . .
do
well.” Despite her effort at restraint, the quip escapes her lips with a flirtatious little smile and is met by a devilish grin.

“Well, I
ne’er
expected to hear that. I’ve always had the feeling Odelia doesn’t think very highly of me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She may have mentioned it on the phone last week,” he says with a laugh. “She doesn’t mince words—and she doesn’t take kindly to being awakened in the middle of the night, either. But I couldn’t seem to keep my time zones straight.”

“Where were you?”

“On a camel trek in Mongolia.”

Bella starts to laugh but then sees his expression. “Wait—seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” he returns with a shrug. “Anyway, I had to fly back to New York and get my car. I got here as soon as I could, and it wasn’t exactly easy to walk into this house just now without Leona waiting for me. She and Edgar were the closest thing I ever had to parents. They took me in when I was a kid in trouble with nowhere else to go.”

“That’s what family does.”

“I wouldn’t know about that. I never had any family—I mean other than Leona and Edgar, but they weren’t blood relatives. Just a nice couple who couldn’t have children of their own, and instead of pressing charges against the juvenile delinquent who broke into their house to rob them, they took him in and turned his life around.”

Bella’s mouth falls open.

“What’s the matter? You can’t believe I was a teenage thug? Come on, it’s not so hard to imagine, is it?”

She doesn’t know what to say to that.

He doesn’t wait for a response. “I used to blame my bad behavior on being abandoned by my mother. It was a long time ago, though. And lousy luck doesn’t give you license to live by your own set of rules. Leona and Edgar taught me that. I wish I’d met them sooner, but I owe them everything,” he adds, bowing his head.

“I just . . . I thought you were Leona’s nephew,” Bella says lamely. “That’s what Odelia told me.”

“I guess that’s what Leona told her. It probably made things easier. Although I have to say, I’m astounded that Odelia didn’t figure out the truth, considering she’s psychic.” Judging by his tone, he’s not astounded at all.

She doesn’t respond to that comment either, feeling unexpectedly protective of Odelia—and of the others, and even of the wacky goings-on here in the Dale. Ironic, given her own newcomer status and blatant skepticism, not to mention the loss that ripped a gaping hole in her life.

If the people who inhabit this serene little village are convinced that they have all the answers and that you never really lose anyone you love, well then, more power to them. It must be nice to dwell in this luminescent little bubble, protected from the harsh realities of uncertainty and bereavement.

Bella gestures at the half-made bed. “I have to finish up in here,” she tells Grant. “I made sure your room is vacant, though.”

“Which room?”

“The one with the trains. Odelia said it’s yours.”

He smiles. “It is. I loved trains when I was a kid. Probably because I used to hitch a ride on a freight train out of town whenever I didn’t like whichever foster home I happened to be in. Which was all of them, until I met Leona and Edgar.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s the past.” He shrugs. “Anyway, it’ll be nice to sleep in a familiar bed for a change.”

“I take it you’ve been on the road a lot?”

“On the road, the rails, the water, in the air . . . This has been one heck of a trip.”

“You forgot the camels.”

“Right—on camelback, too.” His grin gives way to a yawn. “I’m so beat, I think I’ll go to bed right now, if you don’t mind.”

“Why would I mind?” she asks defensively, wondering if he somehow thinks she’ll miss the pleasure of his company this evening.

As if she imagined the two of them sitting together on the porch swing in the twilight . . .

“You know, the room. Is it ready?”

“My son slept in there the first night, but I changed the sheets, so it’s all set for you.”

“You have a son?”

She nods.

“How old?”

“Five.”

“And your husband . . . ?”

“He died,” she says flatly. No wide-eyed delusions here.

“I’m sorry.”

Yeah. Me too.

She gives a little nod and turns away, staring at a print on the wall: lithe, carefree Parisian girls in frothy tutus lined up at the barre, not a care in the world.

She can feel Grant watching her for a long moment, as if he wants to say something else. But he doesn’t.

She waits until he’s back downstairs to exhale.

* * *

There’s no fiery orange sunset to light the sky tonight. The rain hasn’t let up all day, shrouding the lake in dense, gray mist.

For dinner, Bella and Max sit down to macaroni and cheese from a box, a far cry from the healthy, delicious dinners she used to cook for three in the cozy kitchen back in Bedford. Max picks at the gummy, orange pasta with his fork and leaves most of it untouched, still worried about Chance. There’s been no sign of her all day.

Earlier, when Bella went next door to collect Max from Odelia, she speculated that the cat is probably still holed up somewhere staying out of the rain.

“I’m sure she’ll be back when the sun comes out,” Odelia assured Max as she packed several dozen surprisingly delicious cookies into a tin to take back next door.

“But she’s going to have her babies today.”

“Is she? That’s nice.” Odelia seemed preoccupied, probably because Bella had just filled her in about Grant’s arrival.

She wanted to see him, but Bella told her he’d gone straight to bed.

“Well, tell him to come see me when he wakes up. I’m going to the message service, but I’ll be home after that.”

“He said he might sleep straight through until tomorrow.”

“Oh, really? Well, good for him.”

Now, other than Grant, still behind closed doors in the Train Room, the guests are all out at the evening message service. With Max fed—more or less—bathed, and moping in front of the parlor TV, Bella sits at the kitchen table and dials her mother-in-law’s number again.

Millicent answers on the third ring. One more, Bella knows, and it would have gone to voice mail. She also knows her mother-in-law always has the phone close at hand, always checks caller ID, and always answers on the first ring.