Nine Lives (Lily Dale Mystery #1)(36)
Until now.
Did leaving Bedford trigger some kind of mental breakdown? Is she delusional?
Standing at the edge of the water with the reeds tickling her bare legs, she searches for some logical explanation for what she saw.
There is none. The water ripples and rolls the way lakes do, but there are no zombie hands out there.
Terrific. Does that mean that she isn’t crazy? Or that she is?
“Mommy? Where are you?”
“Coming, Max,” she calls, turning away from the darkening lake to hurry back inside.
She finds Max and his furry friend already snuggled into her bed in the Rose Room and kisses them both good-night at her son’s insistence.
“Chance the Cat misses her mom. Hugs and kisses make her feel better,” he announces with the authority of one who knows only too well what it’s like to miss a parent.
“Pretty soon she’ll be a mom, kiddo.” Any second now, judging by the cat’s bulging stomach. “Then she’ll have a family again.”
“She wants us to be her family, too.”
“How do you know that?”
“She told me.”
Bella smiles, giving him—and the cat—one last kiss before grabbing the books she’d left on her nightstand.
Yes, she’s tired. But she wants—needs—to know more about Lily Dale.
Maybe there’s a chapter on . . .
On jumping fish that resemble floundering hands?
She shakes her head. What she saw—or rather, thought she saw—was merely a trick of the dying light reflected on the water.
Unless it wasn’t.
Like the other bedroom doors along the hallway, this one locks—and unlocks—from both sides. She inserts the key into the interior knob so that Max can turn it and open the door if he needs to. Then she closes it and locks it from the outside using the duplicate from the master set Odelia gave her.
The large key ring weighs heavily in the back pocket of her shorts as she heads downstairs, but she’s been carrying it around ever since the last guests checked in. The last thing she needs is to misplace it, as Odelia mentioned something about how the bedrooms’ antique bit keys can no longer be copied.
For that matter, neither can the modern deadbolt keys, according to the Do Not Duplicate notice stamped on each of them.
Downstairs, she steps out onto the porch. Aglow with streetlights, the narrow, rutted road is deserted. The parking lot across the way is filled with cars, most with plates from New York or the neighboring Pennsylvania; Ohio; or Ontario, Canada. Noticing a few that are surprisingly far-flung, she wonders whether Lily Dale is a mere pit stop in a cross-country road trip or the final destination.
The auditorium service is still under way, and she should have the place to herself a while longer.
She finds a lighter conveniently sitting alongside a couple of jar candles on the porch rail and lights them. Then, kicking off her sandals, she settles on the swing to read.
According to the first book, the very ground here was charged with spiritual energy long before it was used as a picnic grove for mediums back in the mid-1800s. By the turn of the century, the Dale had evolved into a full-blown cottage colony whose illustrious visitors would later include Mae West, Harry Houdini, and even Eleanor Roosevelt.
Susan B. Anthony was a regular here, as were other prominent suffragettes, whose American movement had been born in the 1840s in a western New York lakeside community: Seneca Falls, 150 miles east of here. The ongoing campaign for women’s equality found a fierce stronghold in Lily Dale.
A passage in the book jumps out at Bella: As a female-centric society of freethinkers, the community remains a magnet for encumbered women seeking a safe haven in which to nurture budding independence. Surrounded by healing energy and support, many learn to draw upon the inner strength necessary to achieve emancipation.
Bella looks out at the dusky landscape, pondering the words.
Odelia had told her that Leona found her way here after losing her husband. What she’d intended as a short visit became the rest of her life.
“You’d be surprised how often that happens, Bella,” she said, so emphatically that Bella wanted to remind her—yet again—that it won’t be happening to her.
Frowning, she snaps the book closed.
Then, after another long look at the view from the porch, she opens a map brochure to get her bearings. The lake runs behind the house and curves around the shadowy dead end to her left, where Friendship Park boasts a fishing pier, bandstand, and the beach where she saw people swimming this afternoon.
Again, she thinks of the hand she glimpsed out in the water.
Again, she tells herself it was a fish, a bird, anything.
But not a ghost.
Not a pirate, either.
She consults the map and then the view directly in front of the porch. Beyond the parking lot, stands of tall trees rise above low, gabled rooftops. Somewhere among them are the fire hall, a café or two, a few shops, and even a hotel. Judging by the skyline—or lack thereof—Bella assumes it’s not a Marriott. Or even a Motel Six.
To the right, she can see the light spilling from the large auditorium. The post office and the Assembly offices are down around the bend, near the gated entrance.
The Fairy Trail lies on the opposite edge of town, as does Leolyn Wood, the most sacred spot in the Dale. The small, ancient forest is home to nature trails as well as a couple more local oddities: a pet cemetery and Inspiration Stump.