Discovering (Lily Dale #4)(2)

Again.

Only Dad doesn’t know about the first time, well over a month ago.

That, of course, was a different lunatic killer.

Right.

Incredible, really, the things that have happened to Calla since she came to live with her grandmother in this tiny, gated lakeside village filled with century-old gingerbread cottages . . . and psychic mediums.

“Odelia,”Dad says, “there’s a lot to discuss.”

“I’m listening.”Gammy looks from him to Calla to him to Calla. “Hello?”

Not knowing where to begin, Calla avoids her grandmother’s expectant gaze. She stoops to pick up Gert, who’s rubbing against her ankles, purring, welcoming her back.

“Why don’t we let Calla go up to her room and relax,”Dad suggests, “and I’ll fill you in.”

“That’s a great idea. Calla, why don’t you—”

“No!”She protests so loudly that poor Gert leaps from her arms and flees up the steps past Miriam, who’s materialized about halfway up, keeping a ghostly eye on things.

Both Dad and Odelia gape at Calla, who scowls back at them. “Please don’t shuttle me off to my room like a little girl. I’m not. I’m almost eighteen.”Well, she will be, in another six months. “I can deal with what happened. I mean, it happened to me, remember? Maybe I want to talk about it. Maybe I need to.”

She does?

You do?

Hmm. The protest sort of popped out of her.

Who knows? Her head has been spinning since the plane touched down. Maybe she does need to get everything out into the open.

Then again, just a few moments ago, the last thing she wanted to do was rehash the events of the past few days.

Face it.You really don’t know what you want.

“Oh, sweetie, you’ve been through so much. It just breaks my heart.”Her grandmother throws a pair of strong maternal arms around her.

Suddenly, for all her longing to be seen as an adult, Calla feels as though she’s about to crumple and cry like a baby.

“I’m okay,”she manages to squeak out unconvincingly.

No, she isn’t. She used to be okay. Before everything— before she lost her mother. Before her life fell apart.

She used to be sweet and accommodating and happy and normal.

“You can’t possibly be okay. And you don’t have to be. Not yet. But you will be,”Odelia promises, reaching out to brush strands of Calla’s long brown hair back from her face.

Then, for the first time, she seems to notice the laptop bag. “What is that?”

“Mom’s computer. Now I’ll be able to check my e-mail and do research for homework right from here, Gammy.”

Among other things.

“But this house isn’t wired for the Internet, sweetie.”

“That’s okay. All I need is a phone jack. I can do a dial-up connection.”

“Well, then, you’re in luck. We have a few of those. In fact, there’s one right in your bedroom.”

“Really?”She’d never noticed it before.

Odelia nods. “Your mother begged me for her own phone when she hit twelve or thirteen. Back then, we didn’t have cordless, and she wanted privacy to talk to her friends. She used to be on it forever.”

Calla finds it hard to imagine her hyperefficient mother lounging around chatting on the phone for hours. Mom wasn’t big on leisurely conversation— telephone or otherwise. She liked to get right to the point and then move on. In both business situations and in personal ones.

“Let’s go into the kitchen,”Odelia suggests. “I made lunch. You haven’t eaten yet, have you, Jeff?”

“We grabbed a couple of bran muffins at the airport earlier this morning, but Calla barely touched hers.”

“Well, they probably didn’t put the Raisinets in, like I do when I make them.”

“What?”Dad’s eyes are wide.

“Didn’t you ever hear of raisins in bran muffins?”

“Raisins, yes. Raisinets, no.”

“Well, chocolate is good in anything,”Odelia tells Dad with a shrug, eyes gleaming behind the pink plastic cat’s-eye frames of her glasses— which, of course, clash violently with her frizzy dyed red hair and her purple sweater.

If Calla were in a chatty mood, she might bring up the “snicker-noodles”her grandmother served for dinner one night—with cut-up Snickers bars as a featured ingredient.

Was that only a few weeks ago? It seems like a year, at least, has passed since that night.

And it seems even longer since Calla’s had any kind of appetite.

“Who am I to question your recipes, Odelia? You’ve always been a great cook.”Dad sniffs the air. “Something smells good. Tuna melts?”

Calla doubts that. Tuna melts would be far too ordinary for a creative chef like Odelia.

“No, but you’re close,”she tells Dad. “Come see.”

Calla smells tuna, too. Tuna . . . and a faint hint of lilies of the valley.

That can mean only one thing.

Aiyana is here.

She takes a quick look around the room for her Native American spirit guide, whose presence is always accompanied by the scent of Mom’s favorite flower.

No sign of Aiyana, but . . .