Nine Lives (Lily Dale Mystery #1)(50)

They nod, but Luther says with a shrug, “Old houses settle. Mine makes all kinds of strange noises.”

“So does mine,” Odelia agrees, sinking onto the sofa with a wince, as though her leg is bothering her. She points at a meandering crack that runs along the plaster wall. “See that? It hasn’t always been there. Even after all these years, the place is shifting on its foundation.”

The walls and ceilings of the Bedford apartment were also marred by fault lines. She feels a little better.

Then Odelia adds, “And of course, sometimes, it’s just Spirit.”

“Just Spirit? Do you mean just a ghost?”

Cringing at Bella’s reckless terminology, Odelia explains that Spirit energy can, on occasion, manipulate objects. “It’s called psychokinesis. If you’re interested in learning more about it, Patsy Metcalf is teaching a workshop on the subject this afternoon.”

She most definitely is not interested. She’s had her fill of Spiritualism for the moment, thank you very much.

Even Luther—seemingly sane, logical ex-cop Luther—doesn’t seem to balk at the suggestion that the creaking sound might be attributed to something that isn’t merely structural . . . or human.

He might not live here in the Dale, but he’s accustomed to the way people think here. He respects their beliefs, whether or not he practices them.

“Look,” he says, “I’m sure there wasn’t anyone prowling around, other than those little old ladies. Maybe it was one of them, just looking for a quiet place to read.”

“Then why didn’t they answer when you called out?”

“Because they’re hard of hearing.”

“And why didn’t they mention it when you asked them if they’d been in the parlor?”

“Because they forgot. In case you hadn’t noticed, Bella, they’re a little bit senile. It’s a wonder they remember each other’s names, let alone that they can tell themselves apart.”

She has to smile at that, but it’s fleeting.

She has to tell him. About last night.

She clears her throat and checks to make sure Max isn’t listening before saying, “There’s something you should know . . . it’s probably nothing . . .”

But as she fills them in about the intruder, she isn’t so sure.

“So it was a man?” Luther asks, pen poised.

“I don’t know for sure. I’m sorry. I just didn’t get a good look.”

Predictably, Odelia says, “It could have been Spirit.”

“Or one of the guests.”

“I’ve been trying to convince myself of that,” Bella tells Luther, “but the truth is, it could have been almost anyone.” Except Spirit.

“Were the doors locked?”

“Both the front and back doors were, until I stepped out onto the porch. Then I left the front door open to let in fresh air through the screen. But I was sitting right there the whole time. It’s not like someone walked past me.”

“Are you sure? Maybe you dozed off.”

She was tired last night.

But she shakes her head stubbornly, certain she’d been wide awake. “No, someone probably came in the back using the key. It seems as though everyone and his brother has one.”

“Why do you say that?” Luther asks.

“Because Pandora Feeney—”

At the mention of the woman’s name, Odelia makes an exasperated sound.

“What’s the matter?” Bella asks. “Do you know her?”

Silly question. She learned last night that Lily Dale has a year-round population of a few hundred people at most.

“Pandora Feeney,” Odelia says, shaking her head, “is easily the most meddling medium in town. I didn’t realize you’d met.”

“Yes, she stopped by yesterday. She said she has a key to the house, but she didn’t bring it because Leona never locked the doors.”

“That’s not true. She locked them at night and whenever she wasn’t home, just like anyone else with half a brain in her head. Which Pandora doesn’t have. And by the way, she and Leona can’t stand each other, so if she told you they were friends, she was lying, right, Luther?”

“They were not friends,” he agrees. “What did she tell you about the keys, Bella?”

“She said that Leona wasn’t very good about getting them back from guests when they checked out. And that she hadn’t bothered to change the locks when she bought the place from Pandora.”

“I doubt that.” Odelia scowls. “She’s a pathological liar.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed,” Luther inserts wryly, “Odelia and Pandora aren’t very fond of each other either.”

“Pandora isn’t fond of anyone in the Dale! Any female, anyway. She blames us—all of us—for her divorce.”

“Why?” Bella asks.

“Because she thinks we welcomed the advances of her skirt-chasing ex-husband. Let me tell you, I wouldn’t get involved with Orville Holmes if he had all the money in the world.”

“At this point, he might,” Luther says.

“Okay, Pandora told me he’s her ex, but I feel like the name Orville Holmes is supposed to mean something to me. Why?”