Nine Lives: A Lily Dale Mystery (18 page)

“No.”

“But it was a car? Not an SUV or a truck, something like that?”

“No.” Pause. “I’m not sure. It happened so fast.”

“And you couldn’t see the driver at all?”

“Not at all. Like I said, the sun was glaring.”

“And what time was this?”

Steve guesses it must have been around six thirty. He’d left the house, he says, just after five.

Bella remembers the footsteps she’d heard in the hall before she stubbed her toe . . . or was it after?

Everything is muddled in her sleep-deprived brain.

But there were footsteps, definitely. She’d thought she’d heard a cry, too, and then a thud.

What time would that have occurred?

Her night had been neatly segmented into time slots for Spidey’s feedings, but it’s all fuzzy now.

Was it at two?

No.

Four, probably. After the four o’clock feeding. She remembers thinking the footsteps belonged to one of the guests and not caring that she wasn’t downstairs to put on the coffee at that hour.

“What time did you get up?” she asks Steve Pierson.

“About a quarter to five. Maybe closer to ten of.”

She’d put the kitten back and returned to bed long before that. She’d heard the footsteps earlier. And the cry, the thud . . .

If she’d heard those things at all. Maybe she’d been dreaming. Her dreams here have been so vivid. Leona in the mirror, the wind chimes . . .

Her eyes are burning. She closes them and rubs them.

Is it all in my head? Is this place getting to me? Is the exhaustion getting to me?

“After the car drove away, I started running again,” Steve tells Luther. “But the next thing I knew . . . it was back. It was coming straight at me from the opposite direction. And then it swerved. It crossed over the line.”

Just as Grant did last night when he was driving Bella and Max to the vet with the cat and kittens. Grant swerved around the potholes. He crossed over the line.

“So the car swerved to miss you? Is that what you mean?”

“No,” Steve says flatly. “It swerved to
hit
me. I dove off the road into the bushes. I guess that’s how I got scratched up.”

“Let me get this straight.” Luther puts down the pen and rests his chin on his fist. “A car passed you from behind, missed you, turned around immediately, came back, and aimed right at you?”

“Yes.”

Luther’s eyes briefly connect with Bella’s. Clearly, he doesn’t like this.

Yeah, well . . . join the club.

“Is there anyone you can think of who might have reason to harm you?” he asks Steve.

“You mean besides the president of the teacher’s union back home?” Steve’s staccato laugh is met by Luther’s questioning brow.

“Look, Detective, I’m a school superintendent. There’s a lot of strife between the union, the administration, and the board. I’ve made a few enemies, I’m sure.”

“Has anyone ever threatened you?”

“Plenty of people have threatened to have me fired.”

“How recently?”

“Recently. In fact, just last week.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not bowing to pressure from people who don’t believe in diverting funding from other areas of the budget for our drama program. I’ve been involved in plenty of theatrical productions over the years, so yes, I’m a strong advocate for arts education. Stronger than most, maybe. But trust me—no one has ever tried to run me over because of that, and even if they wanted to, I can’t imagine how they’d find me here.”

“In Lily Dale?”

Steve nods.

Luther picks up his pen again. “So you didn’t mention to anyone back home where you were headed on vacation?”

“Are you kidding?” He shakes his head. “No way. I told them I was going to Niagara Falls—which we did do, on the way here.”

“Why
are
you here?”

“Because my wife insists. This is her thing. She used to come with her sister every summer, but then Mamie moved out west to be near her kids, so Eleanor talked me into coming with her. She doesn’t like to travel alone.”

“And you told people—your friends? your colleagues?—that you’re on vacation in Niagara Falls? Why?”

“Why do you think? I’m in a position of authority, and I work with kids. The parents, the teachers—these days, everyone’s a critic as it is. Do you think I want to jeopardize my job by having them buzzing about how Doctor Pierson hangs out with a bunch of Spiritualists?”

“In other words, you don’t want to jeopardize your job.”

“In this climate? Does anyone?”

Bella can answer that question:
definitely not.
Having been a victim of school budget cuts herself, she understands Steve’s point. Like most administrators, his head must perpetually be on the chopping block.

Steve steeples his fingers beneath his scraped-up chin. “I’m close to retirement with a nice pension and full health insurance coverage for me and Eleanor for the rest of our lives. There are plenty of taxpayers in the district who are looking for any possible way to trim the budget. Believe me, they’d jump at any opportunity to get rid of me and wriggle out of my benefits package.”

“By ‘get rid of,’ you mean . . .”

“I mean fire me,” he says with a jittery laugh. “Not . . .
kill
me.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I . . . I
thought
I was sure, but . . .” He breaks off and looks up at the ceiling as a floorboard creaks overhead.

Bella follows his gaze and then turns to glance at the stove clock. It’s nearly a quarter to eight.

Time for the guests to start trickling down to breakfast. Almost time to feed Spidey again, too.

“Why don’t we finish this conversation in the study?” Luther suggests.

“Study?” Steve echoes blankly, still looking shell-shocked at the notion that someone might be out to get him.

“Leona’s . . . office. Whatever you want to call it.”

The room that was locked when it shouldn’t have been. The room with the missing key.

“We can talk privately in there,” Luther tells Steve. “I just don’t want to alarm anyone who’s staying here. We don’t want them to think there’s any danger.”

Unnerved, Bella gets to her feet, as do Steve and Luther. She pulls the key ring from her pocket as they head toward the study.

“I’ll unlock the door for you. Then I have a few things to take care of . . . unless you need me?”

“No, it’s fine,” Luther tells her. “Go ahead. I’ll connect with you afterward.”

She nods. She has to tell him about Leona’s financial situation. And about Grant.

Not that there’s anything specific to tell, other than the fact that he’s arrived. And that she’s found herself suspicious of him one moment and convinced he’s a great guy the next.

A great guy?

Hardly.

Sam
was a great guy. No one else could ever compare.

Certainly not Grant. And not Doctor Bailey. Not Troy Valeri.

As she turns the key and opens the French door, she recalls that Troy mentioned he’d known Leona. He’d recently done some painting for her.

Odelia had mentioned Leona’s springtime study makeover. Was it Troy who had given the walls their fresh coat of yellow paint?

For some reason, she’s bothered by the notion of him hanging around this house—around this
room.

This was Leona’s sanctuary.

Yet Bella herself trespassed here just the other day. Who else did?

Has Luther had a chance to look over the appointment book? When he does, he’ll notice the missing page. He’ll ask her about it.

Or will he?

Not if he thinks I’m the one who tore it out.

Who knows? He might already have seen it, might already consider me a suspect. He wouldn’t let on. He’d act as if nothing is wrong.

“Thanks, Bella,” he says with a nod as she stands aside to let him cross the threshold, followed by Steve.

Yes, he’ll act just like this.

Standing in the doorway, she finds herself staring at the empty spot on the table where she’d found the appointment book on her first night here. Hoping Luther didn’t notice her gaze, she guiltily shifts it to the freshly painted walls.

That makes her wonder again about Troy, which leaves her feeling even more unsettled.

Then she notices the pillows.

There are three of them along the back of the window seat. Just yesterday, when she was in here with Luther and Odelia, they were perfectly aligned. She clearly remembers noticing that Luther, with his soldier-straight posture, didn’t allow his back to touch them.

Now the pillows are askew, clustered on one end of the seat as though they were hastily tossed there.

But they couldn’t have been. Not if they were straight before. Not if she hasn’t returned to the room or let her key out of her possession ever since she locked the door yesterday after Luther looked around and grabbed the appointment book.

She hasn’t. Of course she hasn’t.

It’s a classic locked-room mystery—and she alone has the key.

Except that I don’t.

Someone else got into this room within the last twenty-four hours. Either that person has the missing key . . .

Or Chance the Cat isn’t the only one around here who can walk through walls.

* * *

Looking for something out of the ordinary, Bella keeps a close eye on the other guests as they make their way to the sunlit breakfast room.

Everyone is eagerly anticipating this afternoon’s guest speaker, a renowned medium who may not be a household name everywhere but certainly is in the Dale.

The doddering St. Clair sisters repeat themselves, squabble, and doze off between sentences. Fritz Dunkle reads his newspaper and occasionally expounds on some obscure topic. The Adabners chat animatedly about their upcoming aura identification seminar
like it’s an AARP bus to the casino. Kelly Tookler peppers the conversation with, “Right, Jim?” and Jim dutifully salts it with, “Right.”

Meanwhile, Bella goes about her own business—brewing coffee, wiping crumbs, replenishing the pastry platter—as though nothing unusual happened. In some moments, she almost manages to convince herself that nothing has. Maybe Steve’s near miss wasn’t significant—or particularly threatening—to anyone but Steve himself.

But then either logic or sheer exhaustion grips her again, and she finds herself looking for signs that someone is hiding something. She shifts her gaze to the windows as if expecting to see an evil predator lurking in the mock orange shrubs with the crosshairs set on her.

Finally, she hears the study door open and footsteps cross the parlor, heading toward the front hall. She peeks in just in time to see Steve head up the stairs.

Luther is in the doorway. He waves her in.

“Close the door,” he commands in a low voice. “We don’t want anyone to panic and flee.”

Panic
and
flee
are some strong words. The latter is exactly what Bella herself longs to do. Just grab Max and get the hell out of here.

Max—plus Queen Chance the Cat and eight kittens?

“Maybe everyone
should
leave,” she tells Luther as she closes the door. “Maybe it’s not safe here.”

He sits in one of the wingback chairs and gestures for her to take the other. The pillows are still heaped on the window seat, and she has to make an effort not to stare at them as he speaks.

“Nothing has happened inside of the house, Bella. Mr. Pierson wasn’t even in the Dale. And what happened to him could very well have been an accident.”

“What about Leona?”

“Accidents do happen.” He gestures at her bandaged hand and battered leg.

He’s right, of course. She shouldn’t let her imagination carry her away.

Yet she has to ask, “Don’t you think there’s a chance that neither of those things were accidents? And that one might have something to do with the other?”

“It’s a possibility. But if that’s the case, then every single person under this roof is a potential suspect.”

Including Bella herself. Yes, she gets that, loud and clear.

“If we let them scatter, we risk letting someone dangerous slip away,” Luther goes on. “I think that the best thing to do right now is go on with business as usual.”

Easy for him to say.

“I have a five-year-old child living under this roof, Detective Ragland.”

“Call me Luther. I haven’t forgotten that for a second, believe me . . . can I call you Bella?”

He might as well. The nickname is no longer reserved for Sam alone. Here in the Dale, for better or worse, she seems to have become Bella.

“I’m not asking you to stay indefinitely,” Luther tells her. “Or even overnight. I just need a chance to look into a few things, and I’d rather you didn’t mention Steve’s incident to anyone else just yet. You haven’t, have you?”

“No, but he just went upstairs. I’m sure he’s told his wife what happened, and by now, maybe some of the others, too. And if he hasn’t, Eleanor probably will.”

“Don’t be so sure. He doesn’t want any of this getting out. They both want to protect his job and his retirement benefits. I’m guessing he’s not going to tell anyone anything unless they ask. I hope you won’t, either.”

She hesitates before responding. “I won’t. But—”

“I honestly don’t think there’s any immediate danger.”

“So you don’t think it’s time to call the police?” she asks, even though she’s pretty certain that there’s no way to involve the authorities in Steve’s brush with danger without potentially opening the door to an official investigation into Leona’s death.

“Steve’s not ready to do it at this point,” Luther says. “He wants me to ask around, find out if maybe someone saw a speeding car this morning around Bear Lake.”

“And you don’t think we should report it?”

“We don’t have any solid evidence that a crime occurred this morning.”

“Just like with Leona’s death.”

“Exactly.” Luther’s comment is punctuated by his ringing cell phone.

“Sorry,” he says, taking it out of his pocket and glancing at it. “I have to take this call.”

He steps out of the room with the phone, leaving her alone to eye the bench beneath the window.

Does it, like the one in the living room, have a storage compartment beneath? Is that why the pillows were moved? Did someone open it, looking for something?