Nine Lives

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  At the table behind her, Max and Jiffy are in the midst of a surprisingly rousing game of Candyland with the St. Clair sisters, who showed up just as the boys were begging Bella to join in.

  “Candyland?” Ruby exclaimed. “It’s our favorite game!”

  “Candyland was around when you were kids?” Max asked in surprise.

  “Oh, my, no. Not until we were grown.”

  “But we play it nearly every night back home,” Opal added. “It’s great fun. Do you mind if we join you?”

  “Only four people can play,” Jiffy told her. “We already have three.”

  “You can take my place,” Bella said quickly, and after a short argument between the elderly women—both of whom wanted to be the red piece—the game was under way.

  That freed up Bella to put the breakfast room and kitchen back in order and mull over all that’s happened since Lieutenant Grange showed up yesterday to escort Eleanor Pierson away.

  As they left, Bella could hear her asking, “It’s Steve, isn’t it? Something terrible has happened to Steve.”

  She was right, of course. Perhaps something more terrible than her wildest imagination could fathom. It’s going to be a long road back for her.

  Eleanor has since been told about April, her husband’s longtime mistress, and Paris, his five-year-old daughter with her. He’d set them up in an apartment in Boston and had been living a double life for years—all the more reason he was worried about his financial situation.

  Last night at the precinct, after lengthy hours of being questioned by the police—as a witness, not a suspect—Bella was able to hear the audio recording of Eleanor’s last telephone reading with Leona. It was discovered on Leona’s laptop, which, thanks to Max and Jiffy, Bella had found stashed on a cobwebby shelf in the basement and handed over to the authorities.

  They didn’t have to let her hear it, she knows. It was a courtesy they’d extended via Luther.

  The reading didn’t just bring closure but gave her a glimpse into how the Lily Dale mediums communicate with their clients—and, if you choose to believe, with the dead.

  Do I believe that’s what they’re doing?

  Or do I believe in coincidences?

  Those are the questions Bella has been asking herself since yesterday.

  It’s not as though she’s seen any hard evidence. If she searches hard enough, she may very well find logical explanations for all the strange things that have been happened since she arrived here. For the moment, though, she’s suspended the search.

  She was astounded by accuracy with which Leona delivered the information. It came at the end of a long reading that was filled with information about personal things Eleanor may or may not have previously shared with Leona.

  The medium knew, for example, that there was a baby on the way and was feeling “female energy attached to it.” Whether that’s accurate remains to be seen. She talked about the importance of taking some time off—which most teachers do in the summer. She repeatedly stressed the importance of Eleanor getting plenty of rest, because “Spirit is showing me that you’re overextended.”

  Who isn’t? Bella found herself thinking, unimpressed with the reading at that point, feeling a familiar tide of skepticism washing over her.

  Then it came.

  “I’m getting something about Paris,” Leona’s voice said. “It’s very important. I don’t know if you’ve been to Paris recently, or maybe you have plans?”

  “No,” Eleanor replied. “Not at all.”

  “Europe, then?”

  “No. I’ve never been to Europe. I’ve always wanted to go, but it’s too expensive. We can’t afford it. Anyway, I’ve heard that they don’t like Americans in Paris, so that’s not even at the top of my list. Maybe they mean Rome? Or Venice? That’s where I’d really love to go.”

  “No. It’s Paris. Spirit is very persistent.” Long pause. “Paris. And something about the spring? April and Paris.”

  “Paris in April . . . isn’t that a song?” Eleanor asked. “Steve will know. He’s right here. Do you know—”

  She was cut off by a rumble of male voice in the background.

  “Steve says it’s a song. But it doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  “That’s what I’m getting. Paris. April.” Leona sounded like she was listening to someone and relaying their messages. “April. April. Eleanor, Spirit just won’t let go of this. Does the month of April have any significance to you?”

  “Other than my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary?” Eleanor’s voice laughed. “Honey? I think Spirit just blew your surprise. Are you planning to take me to Paris in April?”

  Again, the male voice.

  Steve, denying it.

  Was that the moment when he’d realized Leona was a threat?

  From his hospital bed, recovering from the superficial bullet wound to his leg, he’d confessed to killing her. He’d sneaked into the bathroom and knocked her unconscious, then carried her out to the lake and dropped her in.

  He was Jiffy’s pirate.

  I saw it, too, Bella knows now. The first part, in the bathroom. I saw how it happened, what she was doing, how she felt.

  Was she channeling Leona’s spirit?

  Someday, she might get the chance to speak to Bonnie Barrington for more details about her own experience with that. Bonnie has yet to regain consciousness, but her condition has been upgraded from critical, and she’s expected to pull through. She can’t have visitors yet, but whenever she can, Bella will be there.

  Last night, she called Millicent to say that she and Max won’t be spending the summer in Chicago after all.

  “I’ve found a temporary job here in western New York,” she told her mother-in-law.

  “Doing what?”

  “Managing an inn.”

  There was a long silence as Millicent digested the news. “That’s great, Isabella. Will it lead to something full time?”

  “It’s just for the summer.” Grant had told her this morning that he’ll pay her—very well—if she’ll keep the place up and running for the rest of the season. She’d be a fool not to take him up on the offer.

  He didn’t mention September. Neither did she, no longer concerned with what the future might bring. Not the distant future, anyway.

  Right now, the only prediction she cares about is the weather.

  In keeping with the meteorological forecast of a dazzling Fourth of July, the day had dawned with golden promise. Now, however, the morning sunshine has turned thin and filmy.

  It doesn’t bode well for Odelia’s barbecue this afternoon. Yesterday, she’d invited everyone at the guesthouse to join the party, and they’d all said yes. Even Grant.

  She’d included Pandora, who had agreed to come, too, but only after mentioning that it’s hardly her favorite holiday.

  “Still loyal to the crown?” Odelia had asked. “Or do you have something against sparklers and hot dogs?”

  “I adore sparklers and hot dogs,” she returned, and launched into a diatribe against the American Revolution.

  Odelia nipped it in the bud. “Let’s put it to rest, Pandora. The war ended hundreds of years ago.”

  Bella half expected Odelia to add that she was there when it happened, but for once, she refrained from bringing up her past lives.

  “Just join us, Pandora. It’s going to be a spectacular day.”

  “I never pay attention to weather forecasts.”

  “I’m not talking about the weather. Rain or shine, we’ll be celebrating freedom,” Odelia said firmly, with a meaningful nod at Bella.

  How about rain and shine? At the moment, the sun is still peeking out, but it’s started to sprinkle.

  Rainbow weather.

  Max insisted he saw one yesterday, but it eluded her. Now finishing up with the dishes, she finds herself searching the sky above the lake. Nope. Nothing but clouds and sun. Rain and shine.

  That’s okay. I’ll take it.

  “Oh, no! Mom!”


  Bella turns to see Max, wide-eyed, clutching a crimson-stained napkin against his mouth.

  “What happened?”

  “My tooth!”

  His tooth.

  Thank goodness. Thank goodness.

  Bella hurries to his side and gently tips his head back. “Here, open your mouth. Let’s see.”

  “But I swallowed it.”

  “Just like you said,” Jiffy tells him admiringly. “On the Fourth of July.”

  That gives Bella pause.

  Do I believe in coincidences?

  “No, that’s mine!” Opal St. Clair is insisting to her sister. “Bella, dear, tell Ruby that it’s mine.”

  “Your what?”

  “My red piece, right there in the Lollipop Woods. She thinks it’s hers.”

  “I’m red, because it matches my name.”

  “No, you’re yellow.”

  “Yellow doesn’t match. My name isn’t yellow.”

  “It isn’t red, either.”

  “If I’m not in the Lollipop Woods,” Ruby says, “then where am I?”

  “But by the way,” Jiffy tells Max, “the tooth fairy won’t come if you swallow your tooth.”

  “Yes, she will. My mom says. Right, Mom?”

  “The tooth fairy will come no matter what,” she assures Max.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive. She pops in here all the time to, you know, hike the Fairy Trail.”

  “The Fairy Trail! That’s it.” Ruby studies the game board and then looks up, confused. “Where is the Fairy Trail, dear?”

  “I think you’re still back there in the Peppermint Forest,” Max tells Ruby.

  Noting that it’s time to feed little Spidey again, Bella leaves her son grinning a happy, gappy grin and makes her way back through the quiet house.

  Doctor Bailey had been pleased yesterday to see that the little kitten is thriving and that Chance hasn’t rejected him.

  “She’s an unusual cat,” he commented as he packed up his scale and instruments.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Bella replied.

  But at least she doesn’t walk through walls.

  Doctor Bailey promised he’d be back to check on the kittens again later today.

  “On a holiday? Is that necessary?” she asked, worried that the kitten might not be doing quite as well as he’d implied.

  When he assured her that it is necessary—and that he doesn’t have other plans anyway—she found herself wondering whether he’s simply the most conscientious veterinarian in the world or looking for something to do on this first holiday of summer.

  Maybe a little bit of both. Maybe something more, too.

  Before he left, Odelia managed to invite him to the barbecue.

  He accepted immediately.

  Doctor Bailey . . .

  Grant . . .

  Bella isn’t sure how she feels about that.

  As she starts up the stairs, she sees that sunlight is falling through the stained-glass window. Multicolored light arcs across the landing.

  There. She got her rainbow after all.

  Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe it means that everything is going to be—

  Her foot catches a stair tread.

  She falls forward.

  So much for signs, Bella thinks wryly, sprawled on her hands and knees. I really hope that wasn’t—

  Wait a minute.

  The landing’s hardwood floor, now just inches from her face, is . . .

  Off.

  One of the cracks between the floorboards is a little too wide.

  Heart pounding, she looks for evidence of a hidden latch or hinge. Finding nothing, she feels her way along both sides of the crack, pressing, probing. Nothing happens.

  She hurries back to the kitchen.

  “What are you doing, Mom?” Max looks up from the game as she jerks open a drawer and fumbles around inside. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

  Grabbing a butter knife, she races back to the landing. With a trembling hand, she slides the tip into the space between the floorboards. She runs it along the length of the crack, jiggling it back and forth.

  Nothing happens.

  This isn’t like the closet. No hidden panel swings open or springs toward her.

  Maybe she was wrong.

  As she pulls the knife out of the slot between the floorboards, she sees one of them rise. Just a little—but enough.

  She jams the knife back into the crack and begins to pry.

  It isn’t easy. She has to wiggle and tug for a long time before anything happens.

  At last, it comes free: a rectangular wedge of wood camouflaged as floorboards.

  Beneath lies a shallow hidden compartment.

  Probably empty, she thinks, as she pokes her hand into the shadows. Or maybe she’ll find a ninety-year-old bootleg stash.

  But there’s a box inside.

  A small box that fits into the palm of her hand. It’s wrapped in white paper imprinted with golden angels and tied with a blue ribbon.

  Slowly, she tears it away and lifts the cardboard lid.

  Inside, on a rectangle of cotton, is a necklace.

  A delicate tourmaline pendant that exactly matches the color of her eyes.

  There is no wilted bluebell tucked beneath the ribbon.

  It doesn’t come with a note from Sam.

  It isn’t even a Christmas present. Not really.

  No, she thinks as she fastens the chain around her neck, it’s an Independence Day present.

  She smiles through a flood of tears, tilting her face upward, bathed in rainbow light falling through the circular window.

  “Thanks, Sam.”

  Acknowledgments

  This series would not have come to fruition without my editor, Matt Martz, who may not be able to communicate with the Other Side but makes incredible things happen on This Side, and my agent, Laura Blake Peterson of Curtis Brown, who’s held my hand, picked up the pieces, hit me over the head, and carried me through for over twenty years now. I also extend deepest gratitude to Laura’s assistant, Marnie Zoldessy, and to my film agent, Holly Frederick, at Curtis Brown; to Dan Weiss, who published my first novel back in 1993 (we’ve come full circle twenty-two years later!); to John Lippman for this fantastic opportunity, Nike Power for wrangling and wrestling many Wendy things, and to the rest of the gang at Crooked Lane; to PR powerhouse Dana Kaye; to Carol Fitzgerald and the gang at the Book Report Network; to Peter Meluso; to the Atwell/Cody family—Laura, Todd, Diana, and John—who lovingly fostered Chance and her six newborn kittens while I was away on my summer book tour; to Penelope Smith-Berk and her Community Cats Rescue Organization in Bedford, New York, who help save the lives of hundreds of strays every year (Chance and her babies included); to Doug Halsey and Ready For Rescue, for pulling my fosters Frenchy and Cha Cha and Sunday and more from the kill shelter; to my husband, Mark, who read, reread, and reread again. And again. And—you get it. Finally, to my readers, who can never get enough Lily Dale. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have been inspired to make this mystical place come alive again in my work. Thank you for believing in me and in Lily Dale. Stay tuned!