Nine Lives: A Lily Dale Mystery (5 page)

Giving in to morbid curiosity, she finds herself flipping back to June, looking for the week Leona died. Did she have some inkling? Is there some clue that she saw it coming?

Like what? An appointment to meet her maker?

Disgusted with herself, she starts to close the book when she notices something odd.

When the page is open to the first half of the first week in June on the left, the opposite side shows the second half of the second week in June.

There’s a page missing between the two.

Someone must have ripped it out. Usually, when you tear a sheet from a spiral notebook, at least a partial scallop-edged strip is left behind inside the wire coil, but not here. If she hadn’t noticed the jump in dates, she never would have realized a page is missing.

That bothers her for some reason.

Probably because you’re being nosy.

Guiltily aware that she’s violated Leona’s private sanctuary, she closes the appointment book, returns it to the table, closes the door, and locks it securely behind her.

Back in the parlor, she notices a stack of leather-bound albums.

Since they’re sitting right there on the marble coffee table in a public room, she wouldn’t be snooping if she looked at them, right?

Right. She settles onto the sofa and reaches for the first one.

Its pages, like the others, are filled with vintage photographs of the house dating back at least a century. The exterior remains remarkably consistent through several eras, as seen in the pictures. She notices that the formal turn-of-the-century furnishings are intact but looking threadbare by the Depression, only to be replaced by exceedingly modern décor before finally reverting to the current, classic style.

The occupants, too, are perpetually made over to reflect changing times. Pouf-haired Gibson Girls trade shirtwaists and suffrage banners for carefree grins and flapper fringe, then Depression-era cloches perched atop gaunt faces etched in worry lines. Argyle-clad Jazz Age dandies with slicked, parted hair become uniformed soldiers and then proud husbands and fathers in overcoats and fedoras. Gradually, the posed black-and-white portraits give way to Kodachrome candids featuring bobbysoxers and beatniks, hippies and yuppies.

Fascinated by the window into the past, Bella can’t help but marvel that generation after generation of inhabitants couldn’t appear more . . .

Well,
normal.

In this supposedly extraordinary setting, ordinary people seem to lead largely ordinary lives. The photos depict everyday folks engaged in everyday activities. They pose on porch steps, row boats on the lake, show off bicycles that have giant front wheels, and wave from Studebaker touring cars or fifties convertibles with enormous fins. They swing croquet mallets on summer lawns and pile atop sleds on wintry hills.

There are no floating tables or filmy specters, and again, certainly no Ouija boards or crystal balls.

Did Odelia exaggerate her claim that Lily Dale is populated by mediums? Bella decides she must have—until she decides to help herself to some herbal tea and stumbles across the daily summer schedule posted on the breakfast-room wall. Perusing the schedule while microwaving a mug of water, she finds it packed with mystical activities. There are daily message and healing services, classes on astrology and numerology, and workshops on astral projection and spoon bending. The guest speakers’ lineup features a few household
names: a best-selling author, a celebrity psychic who stars on a cable television show, and a self-help guru.

Okay, so Odelia wasn’t exaggerating.

Perhaps she should find it all disturbing, but there doesn’t seem to be anything dark or exploitative about what goes on here. The daily offerings, more detailed in the brochures and catalogues stacked on one of the café tables, proclaim peace and enlightenment.

Steeped in serenity, she sips steaming chamomile and browses the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in an alcove off the dining room. The steady rain beats a pleasant rhythm beyond the windows as the antique clock ticks away the minutes. When it chimes midnight, she rinses her mug in the kitchen sink and selects a couple of local history books to read in bed, turning off lights as she goes up the stairs. Peeking into the Train Room, she sees that Max and Chance are still in deep, snuggly slumber. She marvels that the cat stayed put.

Back down the corridor, she notices light glowing in the crack beneath the closed door of the Rose Room.

That’s strange. She doesn’t remember leaving a lamp on earlier. She hesitates, then knocks, feeling slightly foolish.

There’s no reply.

Of course there’s no reply. You and Max are the only people in the house, remember?

Frowning, she opens the door and peeks in.

Flooded with cozy lamplight, the room is decidedly empty, and yet . . .

Somehow, Bella was expecting to find someone there.

Odelia? A ghost? Leona’s or Sam’s?

Even the prospect of an otherworldly visitor doesn’t frighten her much. Not in this particular moment, in this particular place.

“I wish we could stay here forever,” was the last thing Max said to her earlier, before she turned off his lamp.

Maybe not forever,
she finds herself thinking sleepily as she sinks into a mound of downy pillows,
but tonight is good. Really good.

She listens to the soft patter of the rain on the turreted roof high above her head, grateful that it’s not falling on thin canvas within arm’s reach.

Then, remembering something, she sits up and reaches for her phone, plugged into the charger beneath the bedside table.

The small screen glows in the dark as she types into the search engine: S-U-M-M-E-R P-I-N-E-S C-A-M-P-G-R-O-U-N-D.

Hmm. Not a single hit. Nothing that fits, anyway.

Taking a different tactic, she looks up a list of campgrounds located in Chautauqua County.

There are quite a few. None contain the words
Summer
or
Pines
and none are located off Route 60 ten miles north of the interstate exit.

There are also quite a few quaint cottage colonies in the area. Bear Lake, Van Buren Point, Sunset Bay—they all seem like regular waterfront resort communities frequented by regular people.

There is even, just a few miles away from Lily Dale, another century-old summer colony that happens to be gated and filled with charming Victorian homes. It, too, sits on the grassy shores of a picturesque country lake. It, too, is more than a mere resort. Similarly populated by like-minded souls devoted to a singular purpose—the arts—Chautauqua Institution has its own world-class symphony orchestra, ballet, opera, and theater company.

Why didn’t I find my way there, instead? Why did I wind up in the one that’s filled with Spiritualists?

Oh, well. She’s going to find her way right back out of here as soon as the sun comes up. But for now, she’s bent on locating the elusive Summer Pines Campground.

She expands the search to neighboring western New York counties—Erie, Cattaraugus, even over the Pennsylvania border, in case there was a typo on the billboard. In case it should have said
fifty
miles instead of
ten
or
south
instead of
north
 . . .

No.

Even if the billboard was outdated and the place is long gone, there would still be an Internet trail. And someone—Odelia or Doctor Bailey—would have heard of it.

Okay, so what does that mean?

That Summer Pines Campground doesn’t exist and never did?

That the billboard didn’t exist, either?

Putting the phone aside and closing her eyes, Bella can still see it, clear as day, with its simple directions and photo of a picturesque lake not unlike the one behind the guesthouse.

The billboard was there. Of course it was there, because if it hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t be
here.
Max and I would be shivering in a damp tent somewhere instead of tucked into warm, dry beds.

As drowsiness overtakes her, that’s all that matters.

Bella brushes her hair.

Beyond the bathroom window, the night sky is dark, and a stiff breeze tinkles Sam’s wind chimes, and something, something . . .

Something isn’t right.

Gradually, it dawns on her: nothing is right. It’s all wrong—the bathroom, the sound of the wind chimes, the length of the hair, and the face—dear God, even the face in the mirror above the sink is wrong.

Wrinkled, topped by cropped silver hair, it’s the face of an old woman.

But she must be me, because I’m brushing my hair and . . .

And she’s brushing her hair and . . .

It doesn’t make sense, but the reflected woman’s movements exactly mimic Bella’s. The trepidation in her eyes—eyes that are the wrong shade of blue and fringed by crow’s-feet—echoes the trepidation in Bella’s gut.

She’s me.

I’m her.

The wind chimes have gone from melodious to garish. Their deafening peal fills her head, drowning out her thoughts and . . .

Drowning . . .

Drowning?

Something about drowning.

What is it?

There’s something she’s supposed to remember.

But she can’t think clearly amid the noise, and now the wind chimes meld with a ringing doorbell, and . . .

And I was dreaming,
she realizes, opening her eyes to bright morning sunlight.

Or maybe she’s still dreaming, because this isn’t right.

She stares up at the wavy crack in the plaster ceiling that leads from an unfamiliar light fixture medallion to the crown molding. Struggling to get her bearings, she looks over at the lace curtains fluttering in a windowed nook, the floral wallpaper in shades of vibrant reddish pink, the heavy antique furniture.

Slowly, it all comes back to her: The road trip. The cat. The guesthouse.

Downstairs, the doorbell rings again, this time followed by a sharp knock.

“Hello?” she hears a faint voice calling from outside, below the closed window. “Leona?”

Leona . . .

Leona died.

Leona . . .
drowned.

Unsettled by that thought, Bella gets out of bed, throws on Sam’s sweatshirt, and hurries out into the hall.

The door to the room where Max was sleeping is ajar.

“Max?” she calls, hurrying down the stairs. “Max!”

From the landing, she can see a pair of human silhouettes through the frosted glass panel in the door. The bell rings again as she reaches the first floor. She opens the door to a pleasant-looking couple standing on the front porch with suitcases and a bag of golf clubs.

Their healthy tans, the woman’s gold jewelry and designer handbag, and the emblems stitched onto both their polo shirts signify that they’re solidly upper-middle class. Upper-middle aged, too—probably late fifties, early sixties. The man’s blond hair is graying at the temples, and while his brunette wife’s chic, short cut is highlighted to perfection, a faint network of wrinkles extends from the corners of her eyes and mouth.

“I’m sorry—did we wake you?” she asks apologetically, eying Bella’s disheveled state.

“I—what time is it?”

“It’s only ten forty-five . . .”

Ten forty-five? What? She slept almost twelve hours? She’d been planning to be on the road right after sun-up.

“. . . and I know check-in isn’t until two,” the woman talks on, as Bella tries to gather her scrambled thoughts, “but we spent last night in the Falls, and Steve thought we might as well drive down and see if our room is ready early.”

“The Falls?” she echoes, even as she darts a look over her shoulder, hoping Max is still up in bed. He probably opened the door when he used the restroom in the night, or maybe the cat managed to open it and slip out.

“Niagara Falls,” the man clarifies.

The Falls . . . The Dale . . .

She really needs to get the hang of this local shorthand. Then again, why bother? As soon as she finds her son, who is safely upstairs—of course he is!—they’re out of here.

“Is Niagara Falls pretty close by?” she asks, weighing the prospect of a budget-friendly sightseeing detour. It can’t cost anything to look at a waterfall, right?

“It’s a little over an hour away,” the wife informs her. “Although the way Steve drives, about forty-five minutes.”

Her husband chuckles good-naturedly. “And if I let you drive the car, Eleanor, it would’ve taken us all day to get here.”

They’re obviously from the Boston area, judging by the way he pronounces
car—cah.
Sure enough, Bella can see Massachusetts plates on the silver sedan parked at the curb in the unloading zone.

“Are you staying at the guesthouse?” the woman asks.

“Me? Oh, I’m . . . we just stayed last night, but we’re about to hit the road. Max!” she calls again, then says, “I’m sorry, I need to find my son.”

“And we need to find Leona,” the man returns. “Is she around?”

She hesitates, wondering how to phrase it. “Leona is . . . I’m afraid she . . .”

Saved by the sound of running footsteps outside, Bella is even more relieved to see Max burst into view on the small patch of grass in front of the house.

“Hey, Mom, look what Odelia made for us!”

“Max! You went outside barefoot, in pajamas, all
alone?
”

“Not alone. Chance the Cat was with me. We were talking to Odelia through the window screen. She invited us over for breakfast and we were hungry, so we went.”

“Without telling me?”

“You were sleeping. She made us kittycakes! See? And she sent some for you!” Bounding onto the porch, Max holds out a plastic-wrapped plate.

Kittycakes, at a glance, consist of a large pancake with chocolate chip eyes and bacon whiskers topped by French toast triangle ears.

“Isn’t that clever!” The woman—Eleanor—peers at the plate. “Leave it to Odelia. She’s quite the creative cook.”

“That’s the understatement of the year,” her husband mutters.

“You know her, then?” Good. Bella can send the couple next door, and Odelia can break the sad news about Leona while she and Max pack up and get ready to leave.

“Eleanor knows everyone in Lily Dale,” Steve informs her. “She’s been coming here for years. Now she’s roped me in, too.”

“Only because he likes to attend the productions over at Chautauqua Institution,” Eleanor clarifies. “He’s a theater buff.”

“The summer arts colony? I just read about that last night,” Bella remembers.

“You really should visit while you’re here,” Steve tells her. “Do you like plays? The theater company is kicking off the season with
Our Town.
I’m hoping to see it tonight.”

“I thought you were coming with me to the opening message service!” his wife protests, and he sighs.

“I said I would if you insist.”

“You have all week to see the show.”

“But you know how I feel about
Our Town.
It’s one of my all-time favorites.”

“They’re
all
his all-time favorites,” she tells Bella, rolling her eyes. “Especially when the alternative is to hang around with me here in ‘Silly Dale.’”

“I don’t call it that anymore,” he protests.

“No, but plenty of people do. And sometimes I think you’re as skeptical as they are.”

Who can blame him?
Bella wants to say, relieved to have found a kindred spirit among . . . well, the spirits and the spirit whisperers.

But now isn’t the time to engage in a debate about the dubious nature of the local industry. Instead, she asks the logical question.

“What, exactly, is a message service?”

“It’s a very large group reading, really. The mediums face the audience and take turns standing up and delivering messages.”

“From?” she asks, though she has a pretty good idea.

“From loved ones.”

“And they give messages to everyone in the room right there in public?”

“Well, not to
everyone.
Just to a few people. It’s basically the ones whose loved ones are the pushiest.”

“Which is why I’m shocked that your mother doesn’t come through to you every single time,” Steve says with a laugh.

On that note, Max thrusts the plate into Bella’s hands. “I have to go get dressed. Jiffy’s waiting.”

“Jiffy . . . what?”
Great. Now even Max is speaking the inscrutable localese.

“Jiffy. He’s my friend. He came over for breakfast, too, and we’re going to play Candyland. He lives next door to Odelia on the other side.”

For a moment, Bella is so taken aback by the realization that Max made a friend—a friend at last!—that she forgets the rest.

Then it comes back to her:
we’re leaving, and these people are waiting, and they need to be told that Leona is dead, and . . .

Wait a minute. What if . . .

What if Jiffy isn’t real? What if he’s an imaginary friend, or even . . .

A ghost?

“Max, listen . . .”

He’s already on his way up the stairs, taking them two at a time. “I’ll be right back! I have to get dressed, Mom!”

Feeling helpless, she turns back to the strangers on the doorstep. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I kind of have my hands full here and I’m just a guest myself, but I think that Odelia can—”

“Steve! Eleanor!”

Odelia comes limping across the lawn as if summoned by the mere mention of her name—and who knows, maybe that’s precisely the case, considering the circumstances. Chance trails behind her, belly swaying just above the grass.

“Odelia! What happened to your leg?” Eleanor asks as Steve descends the steps to take the older woman’s arm.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I just took a spill.” She brushes off the help, gripping the railing tightly and joking about her clumsiness as she makes her way up the porch steps to greet Eleanor with a warm hug.

“I can see that you’ve all already met, but I’ll do the formal introductions. Stephen and Eleanor Pierson, meet Bella Jordan.”

Noticing that Odelia has once again used her nickname, Bella shakes their hands. She’s about to excuse herself to go find Max when Odelia asks if she’s told the Piersons about Leona.

“No, I was about to . . .”
About to send them over to Odelia’s so that I wouldn’t have to break the bad news myself.

“Tell us what?” Eleanor asks.

“What about Leona?” Steve looks from Odelia to Bella and back again.

Odelia sighs. “There’s no easy way to say this. I’m afraid she’s passed on.”

Eleanor gasps, clasping her hands to her mouth with a jangle of gold bracelets. “But I just talked to her last week!”

“It was very sudden.”

Steve settles a protective arm around Eleanor. “What happened?”

As Odelia explains quickly about the freak accident, he shakes his head grimly.

Tears fill Eleanor’s eyes. “She was always afraid of the water. She couldn’t swim.”

“How do you know that?” Steve asks.

Odelia answers for his wife. “I’m guessing everyone does.”

Even
I
know it,
Bella thinks.

“It’s a good thing we got here so early in the day.” Steve takes the car keys out of his pocket, and Bella notices a keychain imprinted with the comedy and tragedy masks dangling from the ring.

That makes her think of her own key ring, still safely tucked under her pillow upstairs. She hopes.

“We can go over and see if we can get a room near Chautauqua and see the play tonight,” Steve tells his wife, “and then head back to Boston first thing in the morning.”

“What do you mean?” Eleanor asks.

“We’ll go to the Cape, like we had talked about. It’s been years since we’ve been there, and you said yourself you miss it.”

“We can’t get a place on the Cape at the eleventh hour on a holiday weekend. And probably not tonight near Chautauqua, either.”

“Maybe there will be a last-minute cancellation. If we can’t find a place to stay, we’ll just go home and do some day trips.”

“You have a place to stay,” Odelia speaks up. “Right here.”

Steve blinks. “But we can’t stay here if Leona isn’t . . . if she’s . . .”

“Of course you can. She would have wanted business to go on as usual, and you know how meticulous she was about keeping notes. I know exactly which room you prefer and it’s all set for you. No feathers. Allergies,” she adds for Bella’s benefit.

“Leona always took such good care of us.” Eleanor smiles through her tears. “Thank you, Odelia.”

Leaving them to get checked in and settled, Bella heads upstairs to find Max in the train room. He’s wearing only underpants and fishing through his open duffle bag on the floor. “Do I have a purple shirt, mom?”

“Purple? I don’t think so, no. Why?”

“That’s Jiffy’s favorite color.”

Jiffy again. The ghost kid.

She doesn’t really believe that, of course.

“Listen, Max . . . I don’t think we’re going to have time for Candyland this morning.”

He looks up, crestfallen. “But I told Jiffy I’d be right back!”

“I’m sorry, sweetie.”

“I don’t want to go!”

“I know, but we have to.”

“Why?”

“Because this isn’t . . . this is just . . . it’s a place where we stopped to spend the night, that’s all. I’m sure the next place we stop will be just as much fun.”

“Where? The tent? Grandma’s? Those aren’t fun places.”

“You don’t know that. You’ve never been camping, and you haven’t been to Grandma’s in years.”

“I don’t want to go, ever! I want to stay here.”

“I know you do.” She kneels beside him, touches his bony, pale little shoulder and finds it trembling. “I wish we could stay.”

“Odelia said we can.”

Odelia.

A crazy thought materializes in Bella’s brain. She tries to push it right back out, but it’s as persistent as Odelia herself.

“I’ll make a deal with you,” she tells Max.

“Can we stay forever?”

“No, not forever, or even for another night. But let me talk to Odelia, and maybe we can figure out a way to stay long enough for you to play Candyland. Okay?”

“But—”

“Candyland is better than nothing, right?” she reminds him, hating that it’s all she can offer. He’s been through so much and has so little.

He looks up at her with sad, brown eyes. “I guess so.”