Nine Lives (Lily Dale Mystery #1)(31)

Prepared to welcome Karl and Helen Adabner, she reaches for the doorknob just as someone jiggles it from the other side. A female voice floats through the screen. “Bloody hell!”

Bella opens the door to a middle-aged woman wearing a flowered green-and-yellow dress, ballerina flats, and a straw sunhat. A pair of salt-and-peppery braids poke from beneath the brim, draped over her shoulders, with the tip of each wrapped in a bright scrunchy that exactly matches the fabric of her dress. The few stretches of skin she’s allowed herself to expose are as pale as the porch trim and just as spindly.

“The door was locked,” she announces.

Bella—who locked it—is taken aback by her accusatory expression. “Didn’t you get a key when you checked in?”

“I’m not a guest, luv. I’m Pandora Feeney.”

Judging by her tone—and expectant pause—that information should mean something to Bella.

It doesn’t.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Isabella Jordan.”

Pandora extends her pasty hand—not to shake Bella’s but to clasp it tightly. She closes her eyes and bows her head, murmuring something.

“Pardon?” Bella attempts to pull away, but the woman grasps her fingers.

“Shh! Shh!”

For a long moment, Bella stands awkwardly holding hands with her.

Then, abruptly, Pandora lets go. Her eyes snap open and she nods. “It’s all right. You’re supposed to be here.”

Yes, I am. But what about you? Bella wants to ask as the stranger brushes past her, into the entry hall.

Spotting the mug in Bella’s hand, she shakes her head in dismay.

“What’s the matter?”

“For one thing, I’ll have to teach you how to brew a proper cup of leaf tea. For another, Leona never locked that door during the day.”

Maybe she should have.

Bella doesn’t say that aloud, only, “The guests”—which you are not, lady—“get deadbolt keys when they arrive.”

“Yes, and I’m quite certain I must have one somewhere. It’s a good thing Leona never bothered to change the locks, isn’t it?” Pandora strolls across the room to glance at the open guest register on the table with an almost proprietary air.

Apparently, Leona wasn’t diligent about getting the keys back from prior visitors. Does that mean there are other strangers out there who can get past the deadbolt?

It’s bad enough that a hotel in this day and age relies on metal keys in the first place. But Valley View Manor is, like the town itself, a throwback to an old-fashioned time when people couldn’t pop into the nearest Home Depot and get a key copied.

Or when you trusted people enough that they wouldn’t come in uninvited even if they had the means.

The thought is unsettling enough that Bella forgets, momentarily, to be irritated by Pandora Feeney as she helps herself to a handful of M&M’s from the bowl beside the guest book.

She notices that it needs to be refilled—one more thing to add to the shopping list, as soon as this woman leaves, which . . .

When are you leaving? What are you doing here? Who are you, anyway?

“So you’ve stayed here before?” she asks Pandora, and the question is met with a buoyant chuckle.

“I ‘stayed here’ for years, luv. After all, it was my house.”

“You owned it?”

“My ex-husband did—as much as one can ‘own’ anything here, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I’d forgotten—you’ve scarcely been in town twenty-four hours. I presume no one bothered to tell you how things work here?” Her smile isn’t entirely condescending, but it’s close.

“I’m pretty much in the dark”—and probably better off that way—“but I’m sure you wouldn’t mind enlightening me.”

As luck would have it—go figure—Pandora wouldn’t mind at all.

She informs Bella that all the land in the Dale is owned by the Spiritualist Assembly, which, she painstakingly explains with the air of a benevolent guru addressing a dullard, is a religious organization made up of mediums and healers. Only their members can obtain property leaseholds.

“So you’re saying that I couldn’t buy a house in Lily Dale if I wanted to?” And if I wasn’t flat broke?

“Do you want to?” Pandora’s expression betrays a potent blend of surprise and dismay.

“No. It’s a rhetorical question.”

“Right, then . . . are you a Spiritualist, Isabella?”

She shakes her head, though Pandora already seems to know that—along with a lot of other details about her.

“Then you, my darling, cannot buy a house in the Dale,” Pandora informs her tidily. “Just as I couldn’t have bought this house back when I met my ex-husband. He bought it and left it to me to strip the ghastly old paint and wallpaper and tear out acres of frightful carpet. I was the one who sanded the bloody floors and restored the woodwork. Do you see that bay window in the parlor?”

Bella follows the direction where she’s pointing.

“I made the cushions with my own two hands. The other ones as well. And the custom draperies in every room.”

“That’s a lot of work,” Bella murmurs.