Nine Lives: A Lily Dale Mystery (22 page)

No, she didn’t. She was about to, but she was delayed trying to communicate with her dead husband after he sent her the bluebell. Then she found Pandora Feeney’s hair scrunchy in her pocket. Then the cop showed up.

Never a dull moment.

“Spidey’s still pretty hungry,” she tells the boys. “Maybe he needs some dessert. I’ll go give it to him, and then we’ll go. You two can watch TV until I’m ready.”

They nod agreeably and head into the next room as she goes back upstairs.

Stepping back into the Rose Room, she hears the litter’s familiar pipsqueak sounds. Bending over the crate, she’s reassured to find that pipsqueak Spidey is mewing heartily along with his siblings.

“I’m so sorry, little fellow,” she says as she inserts the tube and begins feeding him right there on the floor, not wanting to waste
time getting situated on the chair. “I didn’t mean to make you wait so long. I promise it won’t happen again.”

As he ingests the kitten formula drop by painstaking drop, she looks over at the closet. Again, she wonders how Pandora Feeney’s hair scrunchy wound up there.

She
did
live in this house at one time.

But she hasn’t in years. Her belongings shouldn’t be lying around here as if she still comes and goes freely . . .

Unless she does.

The door is open, the light still on. From this angle, she can see all the way to the back wall of the closet, beneath the row of hanging garments that are neatly arranged in order of length.

There, beneath the hems of Leona Gatto’s skirts and dresses, she can see a crack in the closet wall. Not a snaking fissure in the plaster like the one that runs along the ceiling above the bed and elsewhere in this house—in all old houses.

This is a perfect straight edge, perpendicular to the floor.

Somehow, Bella refrains from jumping up and jarring the swaddled, still-feeding kitten on her knees. Somehow, under Chance the Cat’s maternal gaze, she manages to carry on as if nothing has happened. She croons patiently to Spidey and strokes his head with her fingertip, hoping he doesn’t pick up on her tension as she gapes at the closet wall.

“Take your time, little guy. You deserve it. I sure took my time getting back here to you, didn’t I?”

At last, he’s ingested two milliliters of formula. She removes the tube and settles him back into the nest with the others. Chance the Cat gives her a slow, appreciative blink before busying herself grooming Spidey as his siblings continue to nurse and knead at her.

Bella pauses to pet Chance’s head as she dutifully licks her kitten’s fur. “After all you’ve been through, you’re such a good mommy.”

Everyone needs to hear that once in a while.

Sam used to say it, and often.

You’re such a good mommy . . .

She doesn’t suppose she’s ever going to hear those words again. Certainly not from her mother-in-law.

Again, she feels a prickle of dread when she thinks about leaving for Chicago. Again, she warns herself to focus on the moment at hand. Max and Jiffy must be growing restless downstairs.

She quickly goes over to the nightstand and opens the drawer where Max stashed Luther’s flashlight.

She takes it out, turns it on, and hesitates before going over to lock the Rose Room door from the inside. Just in case.

Then she hurries back over to the closet. Crouched down beneath the row of hanging clothes, she trains the beam along the geometric crack in the wall.

It’s definitely not due to a settling foundation. It isn’t a crack. And the back wall isn’t made of plaster. When she reaches out to knock on it, she hears a hollow sound.

For the second time today, her trembling fingers feel their way to a hidden latch. Yes, there it is, a raised ridge in the corner where the hollow wall meets the plaster one. She presses it and gasps as a piece of the back wall swings away from the back of the closet.

Okay.

Okay.

What now?

She leans out of the closet, listening for Max and Jiffy.

Instead, she hears the faint sound of the front door opening and closing downstairs, signaling the return of one or more of the guests.

Maybe it’s Steve Pierson. She wants to see him and Eleanor before they leave. She needs to know whether their daughter really is in labor or if they’re frightened, fleeing.

She thinks of Pandora and again looks into the closet.

She has to know. Before she does anything else, before anything else
happens,
she has to find out what’s hidden behind that wall.

She reaches past the hanging clothes and pulls the door open until it brushes against them. Then she crawls in and shines the flashlight into the wedge of opening.

The rectangular space that lies beyond isn’t a storage niche like the ones downstairs beneath the window seats.

Strips of loosely peeling floral wallpaper in shades of peach and gold cover the back and one sidewall, indicating that they must once have been part of the bedroom itself. Shining the light upward to
where those walls meet the ceiling, she sees a carved right angle of wood that matches the painted crown molding in the room. Eerily shrouded in spun webbing, a curved metal bracket extends from the wall to a frosted glass shade with a gaslight key. The fixture is identical to the electric-converted sconce on the bedroom wall just outside the closet door.

This nook, and possibly the closet, too, must have been added long after the house was built. Angling the beam downward, she sees that the hardwood floors, which extend seamlessly from the bedroom into the closet, are abruptly curtailed at the edge of a yawning chasm.

So then, this isn’t a secret hiding place.

It’s a secret . . .

Portal.

Bella leans further into the secret doorway, shining the flashlight’s beam down into the hole in the floor, into a vertical tunnel. A crude wooden ladder is built into wall, appearing to extend well beyond fifteen, maybe twenty feet—down past the first floor and into the bowels of the house.

She reaches into her pocket and feels around for the change from the ice cream cones. The key ring is there, and her phone, and Pandora’s scrunchy, and—

Some coins. She pulls one out, not caring whether it’s a penny or a quarter. She drops it into the hole and then listens for a sound.

It hits solid ground with a clank. So then this isn’t a hidden well. Nor is it a bottomless pit. It sounded like metal on stone—the basement floor?

The coin drop is immediately followed by a rustling sound that makes her skin crawl. As she leans forward, training the beam in search of glittering rodent eyes and wondering whether she can possibly force herself to climb down that ladder, something furry brushes against the back of Bella’s bare leg.

She cries out, nearly toppling into the pit, catching herself on the roughly sawed-off edge of the floor.

It’s only Chance the Cat, who for the first time in two days has left the crate with her babies.

Shaken, Bella watches the cat walk calmly past her and hop onto the ladder’s top rung. For a moment, she peers into the darkness,
whiskers twitching. Then she deftly descends into the hole as if she’s done it thousands of times before.

She probably has, Bella realizes. It would explain how she manages to come and go without opening a locked bedroom door. Even a cat’s paw could probably depress the secret latch.

But where does the tunnel lead?

There’s only one way to find out.

Watching Chance stealthily slink into the darkness beyond the flashlight’s glow, Bella tries to convince herself to follow. Only the thought of Max and Jiffy stops her.

Well, not
only
that.

It would be stupid, perhaps even dangerous, to go down there alone.

This, too, will have to wait for Luther.

She clicks off the flashlight and crawls backward out of the closet, leaving the door ajar for the cat.

“Don’t worry, guys. She’ll be back soon,” she assures the mewing litter.

Having promised the same thing to her own offspring, she returns the flashlight to the nightstand drawer and steps out into the hall, locking the door behind her.

A glance down the hall shows that the door to the Piersons’ room remains closed, indicating that they haven’t left yet.

Sure enough, as she goes downstairs and is about to step into the parlor, she walks right into Steve coming around the corner from the opposite direction.

“Oops, sorry, there,” he says, reaching out to steady her. “Are you okay?”

“Yes—are you?”

“Still a little jumpy, I guess.”

She looks him in the eye. “Is that why you’re leaving?”

He seems taken aback. “Eleanor told you?”

“Yes. She’s upstairs, packing. She said your daughter is in labor back in Boston, but I’m guessing that might not exactly be the case. Did something else happen?” she asks. “To you or to her?”

He looks away and then back at her, and she realizes she’s hit the nail on the head. “You know, running scared isn’t something I’ve
ever done in all my years on the job. I’ve had to deal with some tough issues. Unions, the community, state mandates, budget problems—I’ve always prided myself on facing them head on.”

“But now?” she prompts when he stops talking and fidgets.

“But now I’m out of my element. If someone tries to kill me or . . . or hurt my wife, then . . . then I may be tough, but I’m no fool. We’re not going to stick around here like sitting ducks.”

“What happened to Eleanor?”

“What did she say?”

“She didn’t say anything at all. Only that you were leaving because of your daughter.”

“And you didn’t believe her.”

“I wasn’t sure. What hap—” she starts to ask again.

And then it hits her.

The house is too still.

She’d left the boys in front of the television, but . . .

But now the TV is off.

And the boys . . .

“Max?” she calls abruptly. “Max!”

“He left,” Steve tells her. “He and his friend.”

“
What?
”

“They were just leaving when I came in.”

“What?” she says again and rushes toward the front door with Steve hurrying behind her. “Where were they going?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Did they say anything about the playground?” she asks. “We were there earlier. They were looking for buried treasure.”

“That must be what they were talking about. I heard one of them mention treasure.”

Darn that Jiffy Arden. He might be a sweet kid, but he’s a terrible influence. Max would never have wandered outside alone before meeting him.

She pushes out onto the porch, hoping she’ll see the boys riding recklessly, perhaps even helmetless, on the street. As long as they’re here and in one piece . . .

But the scooters are right where they left them at the foot of the steps, helmets dangling from the handlebars.

The weather has, indeed, changed. Rain wasn’t in the forecast, but Odelia isn’t the only one around here who pays little attention to meteorologists. When Fritz Dunkle mentioned over breakfast that the newspaper’s weather report was calling for a picture-perfect Fourth of July weekend, several of the regulars shook their heads knowingly.

“The weather around here changes on a dime,” Kelly Tookler said. “There’s really no use trying to predict it.”

At the time, Bella found that ironic, since Kelly had just finished talking about a psychic development seminar she’d attended yesterday.

She darts a worried look up and down the lane, gloomy and deserted beneath the darkening sky.

Down in Friendship Park, the ambulance is gone and so are the paramedics, the bystanders, and the victim. Bonnie.

“Max!” she calls. “Max!”

Silence, and then a smattering of applause from the auditorium where the speaking event is still in progress. Across the way, the parking lot is still jammed with cars. A silver sedan with Massachusetts plates sits parked in front of the house.

She takes it all in, searching, but there’s no sign of Max.

Panic edges in. She turns to Steve.

“How long ago was it?”

How long has it been, she wonders, since she heard the front door open and close? How long was she upstairs poking around in the closet while her son was . . . he was . . .

A sudden gust off the lake stirs the wind chimes that hang from the porch eaves. They sound louder than they should. Discordant.

Like the wind chimes in her dream.

Startled, she looks up at them.

“It may have been five minutes,” Steve is telling her. “Ten, maybe?”

Even one minute is much too long for a boy to be out on his own here, among so many strangers, with the lake . . .

“I wasn’t paying much attention,” Steve says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”

“Max!” Bella starts to run, limping on her sore toe. “Max! M—”

Steve chases after her, jangling car keys. “Wait, Bella, I’m parked right there at the curb. Come on, I’ll drive you over to the playground. I know where it is. I run near there every morning.”

Grateful, she hurries with him to the car. He removes a plastic shopping bag from the front seat and tosses it to the floor. Looking down, she sees that it contains bottled water and snacks, all set for the long drive home.

If sensible Steve and Eleanor Pierson are leaving town, then so should Bella and Max. Yes, as soon as she finds him, she decides, they’re out of here. They’ll take the cat and kittens and . . . and just figure something out.

Like what? Stealing a car? Asking Troy Valeri for a ride to Chicago?

She buckles her seatbelt as Steve climbs behind the wheel and inserts the key into the ignition. Noticing his keychain with its dangling drama masks, she’s reminded of the
VVM
-engraved keychain, a troubling thought that leads her right back to poor Bonnie Barrington.

How did she wind up in the lake?

Pushing aside thoughts of menacing pirates, Bella keeps an eye on the road as they bump along. Surely they’ll come across Max and Jiffy, or at least people out walking. They can ask if anyone has seen the boys.

But with a big-name draw in the auditorium and a storm brewing, the Dale is a proverbial ghost town. A couple of cats prowl the streets, as always. One—a black one—walks in front of the car as Steve brakes at a corner. She chooses not to interpret that as a sign—not even here.

“We need to stop and ask whoever is working at the gate if the boys have come by,” she tells Steve anxiously, looking down the street toward the little hut beside the entrance.

“I’m sure they wouldn’t leave town. They must know better.”

“Max knows better than to leave the house at all without permission,” she blurts. “But that doesn’t seem to have stopped him!”

“Hang in there, Bella. Let’s just get to the playground. It’s going to be okay. I know they were talking about a treasure. They were caught up in an adventure. That’s how kids are. I’m a dad, remember?”

She says nothing. If the boys aren’t by the playground, she’ll ask Steve to drive back over to the gatehouse. No one can come or go without passing that way.

Not officially, anyway. It’s not as if the town is an impermeable fortress surrounded by high walls and a moat.

A raindrop splats on the windshield as she spots the swing sets at the end of the road, beside the Lyceum—the Spiritualist Sunday school.

Steve accelerates toward the little patch of gravel near the playground.

She scans the wide field, not wanting to even consider the forested acres that wrap around it. Even earlier, in the sunshine, the dense thicket of trees felt ominous. Now it’s downright sinister.

She’s aware that this land backs up to Leolyn Wood, with its mysterious Stump and spirit vortexes. She’d said no earlier when Jiffy asked if they could go there so he could show Max the pet cemetery.

Maybe that’s where they are now. At least there’s no drowning danger there. The lake is back in the other direction, and—

And Jiffy was convinced there might be treasure in the water, she remembers. Sunken, not buried.

Steve has driven beyond the gravel lot and out across the grass, rolling the car to a stop at the edge of the tree line. “Let’s go take a look.”

Bella sits motionless in the passenger’s seat, her mind flying through the possibilities. Searching the woods is going to take a long time. Precious time wasted if the boys don’t turn up.

But if they are, and they’re in trouble . . .

What do I do?

Sam would know. If he were here, he’d know exactly what to do.

Useless thinking. Sam isn’t here, despite what the residents of the Dale would like her to believe. Despite the bluebell, even. She has no one to count on but herself.

And in this particular moment, Steve Pierson. She turns to him, grateful she isn’t alone out here. “What if they didn’t come this way?”

“Then they went somewhere else, and we’ll find them there,” he says logically, turning off the car and removing the keys. “But right now, we’re
here,
and hopefully so are the kids. Come on.”

A soft summer rain is falling in earnest as she steps out into the field and follows him toward the edge of the field. The tall grass, wildflowers, and shrubby undergrowth are broken in a few places. If the boys had entered the woods, they’d have taken one of those paths.

“Max!” she shouts as they circle the perimeter of the field. “Jiffy!”

Steve calls, too. No reply.

Her hair is plastered to her head, and her shoes are thick with mud. But at least there’s no thunder or lightning. Max won’t like being out in this, though. He’ll be wishing he’d stayed home.

Oh, Max. Why would you leave without telling me?

“They must have gone down one of the trails,” Steve says when they’ve circled all the way around to the other side of the field near the car. “Let’s start with this one and work our way back.” He points at a barely visible break in the foliage.

She hesitates. “If they’re in there, they can’t have gotten very far. Wouldn’t they have heard us calling?”

“Probably. But they might be hiding.”

“Max would never do that.” Jiffy very well might, though.

They shoulder their way into the woods, Steve walking ahead and holding the boughs so that they won’t snap back in her face. High overhead, the leafy canopy does little to shield them from the pattering rain. A few spots are slick with moss. She peers into the dense undergrowth on both sides of the trail, trying to imagine Max willingly venturing this far.

If he came, he was trying to impress Jiffy. Slightly older, far more worldly Jiffy. Anger stabs Bella’s gut as she thinks of him. Anger and guilt. He’s only a child. He isn’t to blame for Max’s actions or, really, even for his own.

It’s his mother’s fault. What is she thinking, letting him roam around unsupervised?

She’s to blame. So are the rest of them, these so-called mediums who are so focused on contacting the dead that they seem to have lost touch with the living.

It’s what Bella wants to believe, and yet . . .

That isn’t entirely true, is it? Maybe it’s not true at all.

Look at Odelia. She may be unconventional, but her heart certainly seems to be in the right place.

Then again, Bella doesn’t really know her, does she? She’s not a surrogate mother, a close friend, or a godmother.

Maybe I just wanted her to be those things. And more.

Maybe I just wanted this to be . . . home.

“Max!” she screams, hating her vulnerability almost as much as she hates this place and those people. “Jiffy! Max!”

What if they’re not here? What if they are and can’t respond?

Are they injured? Has someone taken them?

“What if somebody got to them?” she asks Steve, clutching the sleeve of his polo shirt.

“What do you mean? Why would somebody—who?”

“Leona might have been murdered,” she blurts. “And Bonnie Barrington was pulled out of the lake this afternoon.”