Connecting (Lily Dale #3)(5)

Even now, over a week later, she shudders when she thinks about what could have happened to her at his hands.

But it didn’t happen. I’m all right.

“I don’t know how you can stand to live in a place like that,” Lisa drawls on, “but if you’re staying, I just hope you can manage to get past all this dark stuff.”

“I will.”

“Call me when you decide what day you’re coming, okay?”

“Okay,” Calla promises. “I’ll see you.”

“Yeah. And, hey, don’t forget I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Calla returns, as always, before they hang up.

Hugging herself as if that can possibly banish the hollow feeling inside, she goes back over to the window.

The sky is blackening quickly beyond the leafy branches and gabled rooftops of Cottage Row. Calla turns her head, hoping to spot her grandmother attempting to beat the rain, hurrying home through Melrose Park from her afternoon mediums’ league meeting.

No sign of Odelia, though; the street and park are deserted, as are quite a few of the shuttered, clearly abandoned pastel Victorian cottages across the green.

Just a few weeks ago, with the official summer season still under way, the town was teeming with activity.

Every July and August, people come from all over the world to visit the local mediums in search of their dearly departed or psychic counseling or spiritual healing. Then September rolls around, and not only does the steady stream of visitors cease—literally overnight—but a good many of the locals disappear as well.

Not Calla’s grandmother. With maybe a hundred others, ODELIA LAUDER, REGISTERED MEDIUM—as the hand-painted shingle above her front porch refers to her—is a year-round resident of the gated little lakeside town whose claim to fame is being the birthplace of spiritualism and that remains almost entirely populated by psychic mediums.

Spotting movement across the green, Calla realizes it’s not deserted after all.

A man has materialized, walking slowly along the street, leaning on a cane. For a few moments, Calla isn’t sure whether he’s alive or dead—his wind-whipped overcoat and brimmed hat could be from another era.

But having grown up in Florida, land of retirees, Calla realizes he might just like to dress in old-fashioned, formal clothes. A lot of elderly gents do.

She watches him stop at a house across the street, look at the sign that reads REV.DORIS HENDERSON, CLAIRVOYANT.

He hesitates only a moment before painstakingly making his way up the steps to the door.

Watching him, Calla doesn’t have to be psychic to know Doris won’t be home. She’s at the mediums’ league meeting with Odelia and just about everyone else in town.

Sure enough, after several knocks and a lengthy wait at Doris’s door, the man gingerly descends the stairs and shuffles on down the street.

He’s looking for a reading, Calla realizes, as he stops at the next house that bears a shingle advertising a spiritualist in residence. No answer there, either.

Odelia’s house is next on his path, and sure enough, he’s heading deliberately—and with obvious effort—for her door, poor guy.

When Calla opens it, he’s visibly relieved that the exertion wasn’t in vain.

Tipping his hat to reveal a robust head of salt-and-pepper hair, he says, “Good afternoon, Ms. Lauder.”

“Oh, I’m not her . . . I’m her granddaughter.”

“Owen Henry.” He extends a surprisingly firm handshake for such a feeble-looking guy. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Calla,” she supplies.

“Calla. Like the lily. And you’re just as lovely.”

Standing here in her jeans and hoodie, she doesn’t feel as lovely as a lily, but he’s a charming old guy and she can’t help but smile and thank him.

“Is your grandmother home? I’m afraid I’m in need of her services to reach someone very dear to me.”

Ordinarily—especially after what happened to her Saturday night—Calla wouldn’t freely admit to being alone in the house, but this guy is obviously harmless. And in emotional pain, judging by the sad expression in his eyes.

“She’s not here right now. Sorry. But if you want to leave me your phone number, I can have her get in touch with you and set up an appointment.”

He brightens and offers a heartfelt, “Thank you. I’m desperate to get in touch with my wife, my sweet Betty.”

As he says the name, a vision flashes into Calla’s head. Just a quick glimpse of an elderly woman with a puff of white hair and gold-rimmed eyeglasses on a chain.

Betty?

She doesn’t dare mention it. Not after what happened the last time she got involved with one of Odelia’s clients, Elaine Riggs.

After taking down the man’s name and phone number, she sends him on his way.

Then it’s back to moping around until her grandmother comes home at last, about a half hour later. Thank goodness. It’s hard to stay glum with Odelia around.

Today, she has on a bright pink-and-white polka-dotted raincoat that clashes with her dyed red hair and purple cat’s-eye glasses, along with green rubber rain boots covered in yellow polka dots.

Calla, who was once mortified by her grandmother’s wardrobe style, now knows exactly how Odelia’s mind was working when she pulled together the outfit. The theme is polka dots—who cares about clashing colors? Not Odelia, who’s also wearing red lipstick and toting a teal canvas bag. And—surprise, surprise—she’s carrying on an animated conversation with . . . nobody.