Nine Lives (Lily Dale Mystery #1)(11)

Branches of ancient trees sway high overhead as she bears left at the fork toward Cottage Row, following the GPS instructions. The wipers sweep away the raindrops, and she gazes through the windshield, wondering whether she made the wrong turn. This gated community looks like none she’s ever seen back in the New York City suburbs, or anywhere else, for that matter. There are no sidewalks, the pavement is rutted, and the houses . . .

The houses are more like cottages, really. Victorian gingerbread cottages with shutters and porches and gables, crowded into a network of narrow lakeside lanes. Some are shabbier than others, and all exude an unconventional charm. One is painted purple, another has bright turquoise trim, and nearly all are surrounded by bright flowers spilling from pots, planters, and beds. Tiny patches of yard are well-tended and host more than the usual share of birdhouses and birdbaths, seating areas and garden statuary.

“What kind of town is this?” Max asks.

“Just . . . you know . . . a regular town.”

“It doesn’t look like a regular town.”

“It’s just smaller than the ones where we live because it’s rural. We live—lived—in the suburbs. Oh, look, there’s a library.” She points at a stately, pillared red-brick building as they pass. A library is always a good sign. Libraries remind her of her bookworm childhood and well-worn books with happy endings.

She rolls down her window to lean her head out slightly, squinting into the gloaming. “Can you see the numbers on the houses, Max?”

“I see seven . . . and there’s nine . . . and that house has a sign, and so does that one. What do they say?”

“I can’t tell. Just look at the numbers. We’re looking for sixteen.” Thunder rumbles in the distance, and she resists the urge to drive faster. There isn’t another car on the road, and there are no pedestrians, but there are people scattered here and there, sitting on porches and in a small gazebo on the park-like green. The air is damp and heavy with woodsy greens and bark mulch.

“I see it! Sixteen!”

“You . . . have . . . arrived,” the GPS informs them simultaneously.

She slows to a stop in front of a three-story lavender-gray house with white trim and a wide porch. It, too, bears a wooden sign hanging from a post beside the front walk. This one she can read, and she does so aloud: “‘Valley View Manor Guesthouse.’”

“Where’s the valley?” Max asks.

“Good question.”

“What’s a manor?”

“It’s a big, fancy house.”

He surveys the place. “It’s big, but it’s not fancy at all. What’s a guesthouse?”

“It’s . . . like an inn. A hotel.”

“It doesn’t look like a hotel.”

“No,” she agrees, “it doesn’t.”

“Can we stay here?”

“We don’t have any money for hotels. We’re going camping, remember?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

Chance meows loudly, gazing so fondly through the back window that Bella laughs. “I guess that means we’re in the right place. Stay here with her, Max, while I go see if anyone’s there. It seems a little deserted.”

A gust of wet wind rustles leaves in the towering canopy of branches and stirs wind chimes that hang here, there, everywhere.

Wind chimes.

Home.

Sam . . .

Bella shivers, grateful for his warm sweatshirt and wishing she’d worn jeans instead of shorts. They haven’t even crossed a state line and it’s as though they’ve traveled to another climate.

A sign beside the car warns her that this is a no parking zone, for loading and unloading only. That’s fine. That’s all she’s doing, unloading a feline foundling, and then she’ll be on her way.

Thunder, closer this time, rolls off the lake as she hurries up the creaky steps onto the shadowy porch.

Along with a cushioned glider and a couple of chairs, she spots a well-used scratching post and a pair of empty feeding bowls. Okay, so this is must be the place.

She presses the old-fashioned bell and hears it reverberate inside. Then there’s no sound but the rain falling beyond the porch. The damp air is heavy with a strikingly familiar floral scent. It takes her a moment to pinpoint the source: just beneath the side railing lies a mock orange shrub in full bloom.

Just like at home.

Maybe it’s a sign.

Oh, come on . . . a sign of what?

It’s not like you could run down to the garden center a hundred years ago to buy exotic plant specimens. Lots of houses from that era have identical landscaping: lilacs, peonies, hydrangea, mock orange . . .

So really, this isn’t much of a coincidence.

And neither is the cat, she reminds herself as she rings the bell again and then knocks on the door. No answer. The house has a deserted air about it.

“Can I help you with something?”

The voice is so close Bella jumps. Turning, she sees a female figure standing behind a leafy trellis on the porch next door. She presses a hand against her galloping heart, spooked even though the woman sounds perfectly pleasant.

“Yes, I’m looking for the people who live here,” she calls. “I found their cat, and—”

“You found Chance the Cat?”

Chance the Cat. How funny that she phrased it that way. That’s exactly what Max has been calling her. On the drive over, when Bella asked why, he said, “Because it’s her name.”