Something Buried, Something Blue

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Nor had Sam resembled his late father. Blond and strapping, Thierry Jordan was an avid sailor and skier with ruddy Nordic features. Bella hadn’t known him but couldn’t imagine what he’d seen in Millicent.

  Against her powdered-porcelain complexion, her red lipstick seems harsh as a splotch of blood on snow. Her black patent-leather pocketbook, which she would never call a “purse,” dangles primly from her forearm on leather horseshoe straps. She’s wearing pumps, of course, along with a two-piece skirt suit that reminds Bella of Margaret Lockwood in The Lady Vanishes.

  If only this lady would vanish.

  Bella closes her eyes briefly, but when she opens them, Millicent is still there, standing on the welcome mat beside a ginormous . . .

  “Is that a steamer trunk?” Bella asks. She’s not quite sure what a steamer trunk is, but whenever she’s read about one, she pictures exactly this: a large, black rectangle with brass trim and a latch.

  “It is.” Millicent nods proudly. “It belonged to my grandfather. One day, Max will get it.”

  “It’s beautiful.” The compliment comes from Odelia, standing behind Bella, who finds herself at a loss for words.

  “Thank you.” Millicent clears her throat uncomfortably, not making eye contact.

  “I’ll bet you can cram a lot of stuff in there.”

  “Cramming destroys fabric.”

  “Huh.” Odelia considers that. “Is that why you don’t use a regular suitcase?”

  “Well, I do when I’m only going on a short visit.”

  Alarmed, Bella looks from the trunk to Millicent, wondering how long she’s planning to stay and why . . .

  Why is she here? Why? Why?

  “How on earth did you manage to get that up onto the porch?” Odelia asks, breaking another uncomfortable silence as Bella struggles to form a question. “It must weigh a ton.”

  “It does, but my driver met me at the baggage claim with a cart and then he carried it up here to the porch.”

  Odelia shoots Bella a look: she has a driver. Not a question—an observation. As in, of course she has a driver.

  “Where is your driver?” Bella asks, looking around.

  “He had to get back to the airport. It’s well over an hour away, and he had another client to pick up.”

  “So you flew in?”

  “Yes, from Chicago.”

  “Did you get one of those last-minute airfare sales? Last spring, I saw round trip to Chicago for less than two hundred dollars.”

  “Unfortunately, it was more than twice that one-way.”

  One-way. Bella gulps.

  Thank goodness for Odelia, still holding up her end of the conversation, and Bella’s, as well: “And how was your flight?”

  “It was a little bumpy.”

  “You went right over the lakes, I’m guessing. I’ve been to Chicago. Not in years, but I remember the flight path. You just zip across Lake Erie from Buffalo, cut across Michigan, then Lake Michigan, and you’re there. Easy breezy.”

  Millicent’s pencil-darkened brows furrow as she digests this.

  “Yep,” Odelia agrees with herself. Then she seems to have run out of things to say, other than a final “Eeeeasy breezy.”

  Bella’s inner voice screeches into the ensuing silence.

  What the heck are you doing here?????

  At last, Millicent clears her throat. “May I come in?”

  “Oh—of course. I’m sorry, Millicent.”

  “Call me Mother,” she tells Bella, same as always.

  Bella can never bring herself to do that. She already has a mother, though Rosemary Angelo passed away long before Bella could imprint a memory of her. If she did want a stand-in mother in her life, however, Millicent would not be a prime candidate.

  But oh look, here she is anyway.

  She steps over the threshold and then looks back at her trunk. “If you can call someone to take that . . .”

  Someone . . . like who? Max? A couple of kittens?

  And take it . . . where?

  “Do you mean a bellhop?” Odelia asks Millicent. “Because this isn’t really that kind of hotel. It’s more of a guesthouse.”

  “I see.” Millicent takes in the round freckly face, orange sari, and pouf of rusty hair billowing beneath the newsboy cap. “Are you . . . ?”

  She trails off as if she can’t quite decide who, or what, Odelia might be.

  “I’m Odelia Lauder, a friend of Bella’s and Max’s. And you’re . . . ?”

  “I’m Max’s grandmother.” If this were a card game, Millicent would have laid down a winning hand.

  “How wonderful that you’ve come to visit him in his new home.” If this were a card game, Odelia would have trumped her.

  “Home?” Millicent echoes. “It was my understanding that this is a hotel, although . . .”

  Clearly, she uses the term loosely.

  Bella straightens her spine, takes a deep breath of Millicent’s perfume, and tells her, “It’s home for Max and me. He’s making friends, and he’s already adapted to his new school.”

  “What kind of school is it, exactly?”

  “It’s an elementary school.”

  “A regular elementary school?”

  As opposed to . . . what?

  “Yes, it’s a regular school. Not private, or . . .” Irregular.

  “Not religious?”

  “No, not religious. Just . . . regular. Millicent, if you don’t mind my asking . . . I mean, I’m just . . . I’m so surprised to see you, and I can’t . . .”

  “I told you I’d visit sometime.”

  She might have. Their conversations tend to ramble. But Bella never imagined her coming here, to Lily Dale.

  “Is this a bad time, Isabella?”

  “This weekend is super busy. We’re hosting a wedding here.”

  “A regular wedding?”

  What does Millicent mean by that?

  “Yes, a regular wedding. You know, the kind that has a bride and a groom”—not that two brides or two grooms would be irregular, she wants to point out, but refrains—“and vows and food and guests and music . . .”

  And rain. Maybe snow. Good times.

  Millicent frowns, looking oddly unconvinced.

  “What other kind of wedding is there?” Odelia asks.

  “There are plenty of different kinds. There are . . . well, you see those mass weddings on the news.”

  “Wedding masses on the news?” Bella echoes cluelessly.

  “No, mass weddings. With thousands of brides and grooms. You know, like . . .”

  “Like the Moonies?”

  “Precisely!”

  Bella frowns. “Um, this is just a regular wedding. One bride. One groom.”

  Which might just be two too many, she reminds herself, remembering the rain and Odelia’s vision.

  “Don’t worry,” Millicent says. “I won’t bother anyone. I’ll stay out of the way in my room.”

  “Your room? But—”

  “I saw some photos online, and the Teacup Room looks most like my style, but if that’s been booked, I suppose—”

  “They’re all booked!” It’s a white lie. There is a vacant third-floor room. But Bella doesn’t want Millicent in it, and not just because the roof leaked in a recent storm, soaking the rug and rendering it temporarily uninhabitable. It’s become Max and Jiffy’s temporary playroom, strewn with Lego bricks and Matchbox cars.

  “How can this place be booked? It’s enormous.”

  “Like I said, there’s a wedding party checking in, so . . .”

  “So you’re saying you don’t have a room for me?”

  Bella hesitates.

  Sharing a leaky roof with the woman would be challenging enough, but this weekend? With a storm, a stoned cat, all those kittens, and a wedding upon which her future depends?

  What are you going to do? Turn her away?

  “I just wish you had called first.”

  “I would have, but . . . I wanted to surprise
you.” Millicent doesn’t meet her gaze.

  She’s lying.

  That isn’t Spirit’s voice in her head. It’s Bella’s own, loud and clear.

  Look at her. She’s obviously up to something.

  This isn’t an innocent visit. This is . . .

  What is it? An ambush? Is she here to talk Bella into leaving? Is she . . . what if she wants to prove Bella is an unfit mother? What if she wants custody of Max?

  That’s farfetched, even for Maleficent. But Bella doesn’t dare trust her. Not now.

  “We really don’t have anything available this weekend,” she lies.

  Forgive me, Sam.

  “Well, then, I’ll just stay someplace nearby.”

  “There is no place nearby. And you don’t even have a car!” Bella’s voice sounds thinner and higher-pitched by the second.

  “There’s my house. I’m right next door. You could stay with me.”

  Bella turns to look at Odelia, as does Millicent.

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” she says quickly.

  “She couldn’t,” Bella agrees.

  “Of course she can. You can. It’ll be fun.” Odelia sounds about as convincing as Bella promising Max, last spring when they found themselves homeless, jobless, and Sam-less, that everything was going to be okay.

  But everything really is okay.

  As long as Millicent stays away.

  “No, really, I insist. I have my granddaughter’s empty bedroom clean and ready for guests.” Either Odelia’s psychic powers have kicked in and she knows Millicent is up to something, or she grasps that Bella won’t survive hosting her mother-in-law and a wedding.

  Having her right next door isn’t ideal either, but who knows? Maybe it will be fun for Odelia to have some company under her roof. And maybe a dose of Odelia will take Maleficent down a notch or two.

  Besides, the bride and groom will be here any second, and Bella would rather her nemesis wasn’t part of the welcoming committee.

  “It’s so sweet of you to offer, Odelia. And since it’s our only option, we’ll take you up on it.” Ignoring the alarm on her mother-in-law’s face, she suggests that the two women head directly next door so that Millicent can see the accommodations.

  “That’s a great idea.” Odelia pats her unwilling houseguest’s arm. “I’ll take good care of you, I promise.”

  “But . . . but what about my trunk, Isabella?”

  “I have some strapping young men checking in for the wedding.” Does she? Probably. Maybe. Who knows? Who cares? “I’ll have them carry it right next door when they arrive.”

  “But I can’t just leave it sitting there on the porch! I have special gifts inside for Max. What if someone steals it?”

  “This is Lily Dale,” Bella tells her. “There’s no crime here.”

  All right, there was a murder. But she isn’t about to disclose that to Millicent, whose mouth tightens.

  “Crime is everywhere, Isabella. Especially where one least expects to find it.”

  Something in her tone makes Bella wonder if maybe she did hear about Leona after all. But if she had, she wouldn’t have kept it to herself. She doesn’t keep anything negative to herself.

  Odelia speaks up. “Crime is everywhere. You’re right about that. But this is a summer community, so the only people here now are the locals who live here year-round. And we’ve been known to stop many a crime before it happens. I like to say that this is the world’s most efficient neighborhood watch because we—”

  “Because in a town this small, the residents can immediately spot anything and anyone out of the ordinary,” Bella cuts in before Odelia can mention that the neighborhood watch is largely made up of psychics or that the residents themselves are decidedly out of the ordinary.

  Bella had told her that that Lily Dale is a lakeside summer colony and nothing more.

  “Yes,” Odelia agrees, “and we—”

  “Besides, it would be impossible for anyone to steal something that large in broad daylight,” Bella interrupts again, gesturing at the trunk. “And I just have to ask—whose initials are carved on the lid?”

  Predictably, Millicent’s gaze goes to the trunk, allowing Bella to nudge Odelia and mouth the words “Don’t say anything!”

  Odelia’s eyebrows shoot up and she mouths back, “About what?”

  “Anything!” Bella screams the silent reply, concluding—not for the first time—that Odelia might be psychic, but sometimes she doesn’t have a lick of common sense.

  Meanwhile, Millicent is gaping at the trunk. “What are you talking about? There are no initials carved on the lid.”

  “There aren’t?” Bella steps out onto the porch, holding the door open behind her. “Are you sure?”

  Predictably, Millicent follows her out and peers at the trunk, trailed by Odelia. Bella closes the screen door firmly after them, as if they’re wayward cats who might escape.

  “Where are you looking, Isabella?”

  “Right there, see?” She waves at the trunk.

  Odelia, too, is peering. “I don’t see any initials.”

  “You don’t?” Bella leans in. “Oh, you’re right. Trick of the light. Or maybe it’s my eyes. I’m not getting any younger. Well, anyway . . . as soon as a couple of he-men show up, I’ll send them right next door with it.”

  “What about the wedding?” Odelia asks. “We were going to figure out—”

  “I think we’re all set for now. Let’s touch base after the bride and groom arrive. Millicent, you must be starved, and Odelia is a wonderful cook.”

  Before Millicent can request again that Bella call her “Mother,” Odelia takes the hint.

  “I have some nice soup on the stove,” she says, steering Millicent down the steps. “Have you ever had menudo?”

  Bella, who somehow doubts that very much, watches them disappear next door.

  Saved.

  For now, anyway.

  She closes her eyes and inhales deeply. Exhales.

  Breathe. Just breathe. It’s going to be okay.

  She opens her eyes.

  Inhale. Exhale. Breathe.

  Carpeted in fallen leaves, its scallop-shingled gables bathed in late-day autumn sunlight, the Dale is steeped in earthy mulch, wood smoke, and bruised fruit scattered beneath an apple tree across the way. Aromatherapy, she thinks.

  Breathe. In. Out.

  It’s going to be okay.

  Or is it?

  A sudden breeze stirs the boughs, releasing a fresh scarlet confetti shower. Remembering Odelia’s premonition, Bella watches the leaves litter the landscape like droplets of blood.

  * * *

  In the flurry of arrivals—the first infinitely more welcome than the unexpected second, with a third looming any moment now—Bella forgot all about the mail.

  Remembering she’d tossed it into a large wicker basket beside the door, she sees that it’s perfectly camouflaged for the time being. But curiosity gets the better of her and she grabs the envelope she’d been about to open earlier.

  It’s probably just more junk mail, and she can toss it, along with everything but the credit card bill, into the recycling bin. That will give her something to do, other than pace and fret about Millicent, while she awaits the bride and groom.

  The envelope contains a single sheet of paper, folded into thirds. The short note was typed in a bold font.

  Dear Ms. Jordan:

  Please do everything in your power to stop this wedding.

  Signed,

  A Friend

  “What in the world?” she murmurs, staring at the bizarre message.

  Who would write such a thing?

  Possibilities race through her mind.

  Is it a prank, or a warning?

  Did it come from a well-meaning friend of the bride or groom?

  Or perhaps from one of the mediums, as it was mailed locally.

  Was it Odelia herself?

  The idea is counterintuitive, considering she’s the one who came up with
the plan in the first place. But what if this is an anonymous attempt to halt the wedding due to her premonitions?

  Bella can’t imagine that her friend would do such a thing, but who else would . . .

  Wait a minute. What about Millicent?

  She claimed to have arrived just today, and the letter was postmarked yesterday, but maybe she was lying. Maybe she’s been poking around the Dale, and she knew all about the wedding before she showed up here. Maybe she wants to sabotage it because she wants Bella and Max to come to Chicago as they were supposed to.

  Would she be manipulative enough to do such a dastardly thing?

  Hearing voices on the porch, Bella hurriedly folds the letter and shoves it into her back pocket. Johneen and Parker have arrived.

  “There you are! Happy wedding weekend,” she says, pasting on a cheerful smile as she opens the door.

  “What is that?” Johneen wrinkles her regal nose at the steamer trunk as if it were a coffin containing a fresh kill.

  “Oh, it . . . belongs to a guest.”

  “Not one of my guests.”

  “No,” Bella admits. And not exactly one of mine, either.

  “It can’t stay there.”

  “Don’t worry, it won’t. I’m going to have it moved as soon as possible.” Sizing up Parker, she concludes that he’s less than the half the he-man who might accomplish that task.

  Today, he’s wearing khakis, tasseled navy loafers, a suit coat with an open-collared shirt, and designer sunglasses. Johneen is in ivory slacks and a creamy cable-knit sweater, with a filmy chiffon scarf tied around her blonde ponytail.

  In the month since Bella last saw them, she managed to forget just how striking a couple they are—and just how frumpy they make her feel.

  She’s never believed in blaming others for one’s own insecurity, and she’s rarely insecure. She may not be drop-dead gorgeous, though Sam thought so, and that was all that mattered when he was around. But she’s no hideous crone, either.

  Yet Johneen Maynard’s withering visual assessment implies that she is. The woman wears her displeasure in Bella’s appearance as comfortably as Bella wore her tatty jeans and bleach-splotched T-shirt until this moment.