Nine Lives: A Lily Dale Mystery (8 page)

Disconcerted by how much this stranger knows about her, Bella merely smiles politely. Pandora Feeney may be clairvoyant, but Bella wouldn’t rule out that her knowledge comes courtesy of good old-fashioned small-town gossip.

Finally, as a car pulls up out front, Pandora checks her own watch. “I must go, or I’ll be late for my meeting.”

“The Mediums’ League?”

“How did you know?”

“I must be psychic,” Bella tells her with a shrug, and Pandora graces the quip with a delighted smile.

The car stops in the unloading zone, and Bella realizes it’s a taxi.

So much for Troy Valeri and his flying carpet comment. There are cabs around here after all. Why didn’t he tell her that? He could have spared himself the drive here to drop her off. Then again, he’s a nice guy, and he was probably trying to spare her the expense of a cab.

A man and woman climb out of the back seat. Both are pudgy, and both are wearing windbreakers, khaki shorts, and white sneakers with white crew socks.

“Ah, the Adabners have arrived,” Pandora comments as the driver helps them retrieve luggage from the trunk.

“You know them?”

“They fly in every summer from Des Moines.” She adds in a conspiratorial whisper, “Do be wary of the frisky old coot. I’m sure he’ll find you rather fetching.”

Terrific.

Pandora starts down the steps and then turns back. “I live in the little pink cottage over by the café, across Melrose Park. The one with the window boxes filled with red geraniums. Orville always said pink and red clash, but I find the combination quite smashing, don’t you?”

Bella assures her that she does, and Pandora tells her that she must “come ’round for proper tea” while she’s here over the weekend.

“Thank you. I’ll try,” she promises, with no intention whatsoever.

“Cheerio, then.”

The woman pauses to briefly greet the newly arrived couple before making her way down the leafy lane, carrying on an animated conversation with an invisible companion.

Where Bella comes from, people tend to give a wide berth—and unflattering nicknames like Crazy Jane or Ned the Nutcase—to the neighborhood regulars who wander around talking to themselves. But here, she notices, pedestrians don’t even give Pandora a second glance as they pass.

Karl and Helen Adabner pull their wheeled luggage toward the house. Bella descends the steps to offer a hand getting the bags up to the porch, but the man—a few inches shorter than his sturdy wife and a whole head shorter than Bella—insists on doing it himself.

“Heavy lifting isn’t for beautiful young women like you,” he tells her with a gleam in his eye. Thanks to Pandora’s comment about him, she fights the urge to take a giant step backward as he brushes past her to follow his wife into the front hall.

Helen—remarkably spry for a woman of her heft—is already ringing the little silver bell on the registration desk.

“Oh, you don’t need to do that. I can help you, Mrs. Adabner.”

“You? But aren’t you . . . staying here?”

“Where’s Leona?” Karl asks.

Bella takes a deep breath and introduces herself before delivering the carefully worded and well-rehearsed news of Leona’s demise. To
her relief, the couple’s shocked sorrow quickly gives way to acceptance. Like the others here, they seem comforted by the belief that death is merely a transitional phase.

“I was so looking forward to telling her that I finally figured out that the man with the glass eye—the one who kept talking about how much he loved me—was my grandfather,” Helen says, shaking her hand. “She kept insisting I knew him, and I kept insisting I didn’t. He passed when I was a little girl, and that eye was so realistic, I never knew it wasn’t real.”

“I thought it was a fine how-do-you-do that some other man was horning in on the reading I gave Helen as a Valentine’s Day gift,” her husband tells Bella.

“You were here for Valentine’s Day?” she asks, remembering that she’d seen Helen’s name followed by an asterisk in Leona’s appointment book on that day.

“Oh, goodness, no. Lily Dale is buried in snow at that time of year. So is Iowa. We go to Florida for the winter. But Leona does phone readings. I was so looking forward to telling her that, as usual, she was dead on,” she adds, without a hint of irony in her folksy midwestern accent.

“I’m sure you’ll have plenty of opportunities to tell her anyway,” Karl assures her. “Besides, it’s not as though she doesn’t already know.”

As she shows them up to their room, Bella decides there’s something to be said for treating a loved one’s sudden passing almost as you would an unexpected road trip: with regret that you didn’t get to say good-bye but confidence that they’ll be in touch when they get to wherever they’re going.

On the heels of Pandora’s quirky self-importance, she finds the Adabners refreshingly unassuming and ordinary.

But she revises her opinion when they emerge ten minutes later wearing visors and fanny packs and inform her that they’re heading out to hike the Fairy Trail.

“There’s a ferry here?”

“There are
many
fairies here, my dear,” Karl tells her.

“Where do they go?” she asks with a bittersweet pang, remembering that long-ago Saturday in Port Jefferson. “My son loves boats, and—”

The couple bursts out laughing.

“Not
ferries,
” Helen says. “
Fairies!
”

She blinks. “As in . . .
tooth?
”

They laugh again. Then Helen earnestly tells her about the fairy population and the tiny homes the locals build for them along a woodland nature trail, and Bella wonders why she’s the one who’s feeling absurd in this topsy-turvy conversation.

As the Adabners head out in search of tiny winged creatures, Karl calls back, “Welcome to Lily Dale, Bella.”

Yes. Wow.

Welcome to Lily Dale.

And this is only the first day.

The rest of the day passes in a pleasant and relatively uneventful whirlwind, with nary a fairy to flit by and convince Bella that there might be some truth behind the little town’s supernatural lore.

She borrows Odelia’s car—which is, indeed, a jalopy, not unlike many other vehicles in the Dale. She and Max make the fifteen-minute journey to a supermarket in neighboring Dunkirk, where she’s relieved to find that the Dale isn’t as removed from modern civilization as it seems. There are plenty of familiar chain stores and fast food restaurants along this commercial strip adjacent to the Thruway.

She buys a cartload of groceries, including a few things Odelia said she needed—“zucchini, jalapeños, and limes so that I can bake cookies tomorrow.”

“Using those ingredients? Together?”

“Oh, absolutely. They’re delicious. You’ll see.”

Bella and Max make a stop at a busy Walmart to get a few other odds and ends and then wait nearly half an hour to be seated for dinner at Applebee’s. Dinner out in a restaurant is a rare treat for both of them, but she’s glad to return to the quaint serenity of Lily Dale.

They join the line of cars waiting to roll through the gate—the only way in or out of the Dale during the busy summer season.

“I hope Chance the Cat was okay without us,” Max comments. The cat had gone into hiding before they left, and he was worried about leaving her behind.

“I’m sure she’s fine. Cats know how to take care of themselves, and we left food out for her.”

“I know, but she’s getting ready to have her babies. I can’t wait to see them. I already have eight names picked out.”

“She may not have that many kittens,” Bella reminds him, “and they may not get here before we have to leave for Chicago.”

“There are seven or maybe eight. And they’re coming tomorrow.”

She sighs inwardly. Sometimes, when Max gets an idea into his head, it’s best to let it go and deal with the inevitable disappointment later.

Inching the car toward the tiny gatehouse, she sees that a pretty brunette teenager has replaced the older woman who had been collecting the modest admission fee when they left. Odelia had promised to arrange a season pass for her. “In the meantime, when you’re coming and going, just explain that you’re working at the guesthouse.”

“I don’t need a season pass,” Bella had protested. “Just one I can use for a few days.”

“Oh, I know.” Odelia smiled that mysterious smile as if she knew something Bella didn’t.

Now rolling up to the gate, she leans out the car window and opens her mouth to introduce herself.

“You’re Bella! And you must be Max.” The girl’s broad smile reveals a mouthful of braces.

Bella is again startled to hear her nickname on a stranger’s lips.

The girl goes on, “I’m Roxi. It’s great to meet you guys in person. Everyone thinks it’s great that you’ve stepped up over at Valley View. We’ve been so upset about Leona, and I know her regulars would have been devastated if we’d had to turn them away today. You’re doing a great thing.”

“Yes, well . . . it’s nice to be here.” Bella smiles, feeling slightly guilty that if she didn’t need some quick cash and a place to stay, she’d be halfway to Chicago right now. “Do I need some sort of ticket to get in?”

“We’ll have your season pass ready tomorrow, so for now just drive on through. Oh, and if you ever need a babysitter for Max, just holler. I love kids.”

“What about cats?” Max asks Roxi from the back seat. “Do you like cats, too? And kittens?”

“I do! I love them. How’s Chance the Cat doing? She didn’t have her litter yet, did she?”

“No, that’s tomorrow,” Max tells her, going on to explain that if there are seven kittens, they’ll be named after the days of the week, and if there’s an eighth, its name will be Spider.

“Why Spider?”

“Because Spiders have
eight
legs,” he says, as though she should have known.

“Oh, of course.” Roxi grins at Max, then at Bella. “He’s adorable. Make sure you call me. I’ve got references if you need them.”

“Thanks, but we’re actually only here for a few days, so—”

“I heard. But you never know, right?”

Bella just waves and drives on, though pretty sure that she does know.

The streets are dappled in blue twilight shadows. The house is quiet, the cat still in hiding and the guests most likely down the street at the open-air auditorium. There’s a speaker tonight, followed by the nightly message service.

Having forestalled the inevitable all day, she reaches for her cell phone and dials her mother-in-law.

“Jordan residence, Millicent speaking.”

She always answers the phone that way regardless of the fact that she lives alone and that she has caller ID and knows very well who’s on the other end of the line.

“Hi . . . it’s Isabella,” she says needlessly, inserting the awkward little pause, as always, instead of her mother-in-law’s name.

When she and Sam were married, Millicent announced that she’d like her new daughter-in-law to call her “Mother.”

Bella couldn’t bring herself to do that. It isn’t just that there’s nothing maternal about the woman, but it would feel wrong, somehow. She already had a mother. Had beautiful, big-hearted Rosemary Angelo lived past Bella’s toddler years, she’d undoubtedly have been “Mommy” or “Mama” rather than “Mother.” But still.

Whenever Bella called Millicent by her first name after she and Sam were married, Millicent admonished her. “It’s improper. All my friends’ daughters-in-law call them Mother. It’s what you do.”

“It’s not what I do,” Bella said privately to Sam. “You don’t mind, do you?”

He shrugged. “No, you can call her whatever you like.”

Maleficent.
A few times, Bella almost slipped and said it to her face. Better not to address the woman at all.

“Isabella. I’ve been expecting to hear from you.” Her tone makes it clear that Bella has, yet again, disappointed her. “What time will you be arriving tomorrow?”

“Unfortunately, we won’t be there until early next week. We’re stranded in western New York.”

“What do you mean, ‘stranded’?”

She explains about the car repair and having to wait for the part.

“You should have had it fixed before you left home.”

Her jaw clenches. “I would have if I’d known, but I didn’t.”

“Your regular service person should have caught it.”

Yes, he might have. If she had one.

Reading into her pause, Millicent asks, “You do take the car in for regular service?”

She does not.

“So you set out on a thousand-mile drive without having had the car serviced in God knows how long?”

“Millicent, Sam always took care of that, and I’ve had my hands full just trying to get through the last six months. I’ve tried my best, but . . .” She pauses to swallow a lump in her throat.

Don’t you dare cry.

Hearing Millicent’s heavy sigh, she anticipates an apology. Instead, she says, “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you to please call me Mother, Isabella.”

Mother.
If only she had a mother right now—someone warm and nurturing who would assure her that she’s done a fine job picking up the pieces so far, someone who’d promise that everything is going to be all right—someone to
make
everything all right.

After her mother died, her mother’s best friend—Bella’s godmother, Aunt Sophie—did her best to fill that role. But she, too, is gone now. And so is Daddy. And Sam.

Everyone who ever took care of me. Everyone I could have turned to at a time like this.

She swallows hard. Clears her throat. Swallows again.

Don’t you dare cry . . .

“I’m sorry, I—I have to hang up now. I’ll let you know which day we’re arriving.”

“But I don’t even know where you are or—”

“Good-bye,
Millicent.
” She disconnects the call and immediately turns off the phone.

Her throat is still clogged with emotion, and her blood simmers with anger. She’s going to have to swallow it, along with her pride, between now and next week. Like it or not, she needs Millicent.

She should probably call and apologize for . . .

For what?

Her mother-in-law is the one who should be apologizing, for . . .

For being who she is? She can’t help that any more than I can help who I am.

Bella and Millicent are oil and water. But they’re stuck with each other, so . . .

Stuck and outa luck.

She picks up her phone to call back but thinks better of it. The call can wait until she’s cooled off—literally. The kitchen feels hot and close. She leaves the phone on the counter and steps out onto the backyard to get some fresh air.

It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.

She watches the rim of sun slide into the lake against what Sam would have called a “sushi sky.”

“What do you mean?” she’d asked the first time he referred to the sunset that way.

“All those streaks of red and pink and orange—it reminds me of the omakase platter at Oishii. You wait and wait for it, and it’s absolutely beautiful when it gets there. But it lasts only a few seconds before it disappears.”

“Are you talking about the sushi or the sunset?”

“With our appetites? Both.”

“Very poetic. I think you really did miss your calling, there, Keats.” Sam had passionately studied—and written—poetry in college.

“Nah. Poets are always broke,” he said with the hubris of someone who had chosen a financial career and expected to always afford lavish dinners at their favorite Japanese restaurant.

Life was good back then. Good for a long time.

I have to figure out a way to make it good again, for Max’s sake.

“Chance the Cat?” her son is calling, somewhere in the house. “Where are you, Chance the Cat?”

Staring at the sushi sky, Bella can feel her pulse slowing down and blessed tranquility seeping into her. She inhales deeply. The warm night air is scented with freshly mowed grass and mock orange blossoms. A firefly ballet begins to light the lawn. The lake is calm, barely lapping the tall grasses at the water’s edge, where a chorus of croaks and chirps grows louder by the second.

Then, suddenly, something splashes up from the still water just beyond the dock.

It hovers, flailing in the air for a long moment before disappearing into the lake again, and it looked like . . .

A hand?

She could have sworn it was a hand, reaching, grasping.

Heart pounding, she stares at the spot, certain she must have imagined it.

But no—she can see radiating ripples in the water.

Something was there.

“Mommy! I found Chance the Cat upstairs!” Max’s voice reaches her ears from a screened window above.

It couldn’t have been a hand, because she’d have seen someone out there, or it would have surfaced again by now, unless . . .

It’s Leona.

Is it her? Her ghost? Is she trying to tell me something?

Of course not. That’s crazy.

It must have been a fish jumping out of the water.

They do that, don’t they?

But do they hover in midair?

Enough. She’s had enough.

It’s been a long day, a
crazy
day, and . . .

And now
I’m
crazy?

No. She strides toward the lake, infuriated—with this place, mostly, but with herself, as well. She’s lost many things over the past year, but her sanity is not among them. She may not always be in control of her emotions, but she prides herself on her strength, and she’s certainly had a firm grip on reality . . .

Until now.

Did leaving Bedford trigger some kind of mental breakdown? Is she delusional?

Standing at the edge of the water with the reeds tickling her bare legs, she searches for some logical explanation for what she saw.

There is none. The water ripples and rolls the way lakes do, but there are no zombie hands out there.

Terrific. Does that mean that she isn’t crazy? Or that she is?

“Mommy? Where are you?”

“Coming, Max,” she calls, turning away from the darkening lake to hurry back inside.

She finds Max and his furry friend already snuggled into her bed in the Rose Room and kisses them both good-night at her son’s insistence.

“Chance the Cat misses her mom. Hugs and kisses make her feel better,” he announces with the authority of one who knows only too well what it’s like to miss a parent.

“Pretty soon she’ll
be
a mom, kiddo.” Any second now, judging by the cat’s bulging stomach. “Then she’ll have a family again.”

“She wants us to be her family, too.”

“How do you know that?”

“She told me.”

Bella smiles, giving him—and the cat—one last kiss before grabbing the books she’d left on her nightstand.

Yes, she’s tired. But she wants—
needs
—to know more about Lily Dale.

Maybe there’s a chapter on . . .

On jumping fish that resemble floundering hands?

She shakes her head. What she saw—or rather,
thought
she saw—was merely a trick of the dying light reflected on the water.

Unless it wasn’t.

Like the other bedroom doors along the hallway, this one locks—and unlocks—from both sides. She inserts the key into the interior
knob so that Max can turn it and open the door if he needs to. Then she closes it and locks it from the outside using the duplicate from the master set Odelia gave her.

The large key ring weighs heavily in the back pocket of her shorts as she heads downstairs, but she’s been carrying it around ever since the last guests checked in. The last thing she needs is to misplace it, as Odelia mentioned something about how the bedrooms’ antique bit keys can no longer be copied.

For that matter, neither can the modern deadbolt keys, according to the
Do Not Duplicate
notice stamped on each of them.

Downstairs, she steps out onto the porch. Aglow with streetlights, the narrow, rutted road is deserted. The parking lot across the way is filled with cars, most with plates from New York or the neighboring Pennsylvania; Ohio; or Ontario, Canada. Noticing a few that are surprisingly far-flung, she wonders whether Lily Dale is a mere pit stop in a cross-country road trip or the final destination.