Nine Lives (Lily Dale Mystery #1)(19)

Back down the corridor, she notices light glowing in the crack beneath the closed door of the Rose Room.

That’s strange. She doesn’t remember leaving a lamp on earlier. She hesitates, then knocks, feeling slightly foolish.

There’s no reply.

Of course there’s no reply. You and Max are the only people in the house, remember?

Frowning, she opens the door and peeks in.

Flooded with cozy lamplight, the room is decidedly empty, and yet . . .

Somehow, Bella was expecting to find someone there.

Odelia? A ghost? Leona’s or Sam’s?

Even the prospect of an otherworldly visitor doesn’t frighten her much. Not in this particular moment, in this particular place.

“I wish we could stay here forever,” was the last thing Max said to her earlier, before she turned off his lamp.

Maybe not forever, she finds herself thinking sleepily as she sinks into a mound of downy pillows, but tonight is good. Really good.

She listens to the soft patter of the rain on the turreted roof high above her head, grateful that it’s not falling on thin canvas within arm’s reach.

Then, remembering something, she sits up and reaches for her phone, plugged into the charger beneath the bedside table.

The small screen glows in the dark as she types into the search engine: S-U-M-M-E-R P-I-N-E-S C-A-M-P-G-R-O-U-N-D.

Hmm. Not a single hit. Nothing that fits, anyway.

Taking a different tactic, she looks up a list of campgrounds located in Chautauqua County.

There are quite a few. None contain the words Summer or Pines and none are located off Route 60 ten miles north of the interstate exit.

There are also quite a few quaint cottage colonies in the area. Bear Lake, Van Buren Point, Sunset Bay—they all seem like regular waterfront resort communities frequented by regular people.

There is even, just a few miles away from Lily Dale, another century-old summer colony that happens to be gated and filled with charming Victorian homes. It, too, sits on the grassy shores of a picturesque country lake. It, too, is more than a mere resort. Similarly populated by like-minded souls devoted to a singular purpose—the arts—Chautauqua Institution has its own world-class symphony orchestra, ballet, opera, and theater company.

Why didn’t I find my way there, instead? Why did I wind up in the one that’s filled with Spiritualists?

Oh, well. She’s going to find her way right back out of here as soon as the sun comes up. But for now, she’s bent on locating the elusive Summer Pines Campground.

She expands the search to neighboring western New York counties—Erie, Cattaraugus, even over the Pennsylvania border, in case there was a typo on the billboard. In case it should have said fifty miles instead of ten or south instead of north . . .

No.

Even if the billboard was outdated and the place is long gone, there would still be an Internet trail. And someone—Odelia or Doctor Bailey—would have heard of it.

Okay, so what does that mean?

That Summer Pines Campground doesn’t exist and never did?

That the billboard didn’t exist, either?

Putting the phone aside and closing her eyes, Bella can still see it, clear as day, with its simple directions and photo of a picturesque lake not unlike the one behind the guesthouse.

The billboard was there. Of course it was there, because if it hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t be here. Max and I would be shivering in a damp tent somewhere instead of tucked into warm, dry beds.

As drowsiness overtakes her, that’s all that matters.





Chapter Five


Bella brushes her hair.

Beyond the bathroom window, the night sky is dark, and a stiff breeze tinkles Sam’s wind chimes, and something, something . . .

Something isn’t right.

Gradually, it dawns on her: nothing is right. It’s all wrong—the bathroom, the sound of the wind chimes, the length of the hair, and the face—dear God, even the face in the mirror above the sink is wrong.

Wrinkled, topped by cropped silver hair, it’s the face of an old woman.

But she must be me, because I’m brushing my hair and . . .

And she’s brushing her hair and . . .

It doesn’t make sense, but the reflected woman’s movements exactly mimic Bella’s. The trepidation in her eyes—eyes that are the wrong shade of blue and fringed by crow’s-feet—echoes the trepidation in Bella’s gut.

She’s me.

I’m her.

The wind chimes have gone from melodious to garish. Their deafening peal fills her head, drowning out her thoughts and . . .

Drowning . . .

Drowning?

Something about drowning.

What is it?

There’s something she’s supposed to remember.

But she can’t think clearly amid the noise, and now the wind chimes meld with a ringing doorbell, and . . .

And I was dreaming, she realizes, opening her eyes to bright morning sunlight.

Or maybe she’s still dreaming, because this isn’t right.

She stares up at the wavy crack in the plaster ceiling that leads from an unfamiliar light fixture medallion to the crown molding. Struggling to get her bearings, she looks over at the lace curtains fluttering in a windowed nook, the floral wallpaper in shades of vibrant reddish pink, the heavy antique furniture.

Slowly, it all comes back to her: The road trip. The cat. The guesthouse.