Nine Lives (Lily Dale Mystery #1)(68)

Another if—big if, huge if: if Leona was murdered, could money have been the motive?

That would make Grant one of the most logical suspects. As Leona’s trusted confidante and only heir, surely he had some inkling that her financial situation was hardly in keeping with her humble lifestyle.

But Pandora and her ex-husband Orville may also have been aware. According to another real estate contract in the stacked papers, Leona had purchased this place from Orville Holmes a few years after she’d sold her Wyoming property. Of course, Valley View Manor Guesthouse had cost her a mere fraction of what she’d made on Valley View Manor Ranch. But she’d paid in cash. That very well might have sent the message There’s more where that came from.

What about Odelia, Leona’s trusted friend? Had she really hurt her leg because she was clumsy? Or could she have hurt it in some kind of struggle . . . perhaps with Leona?

Is that any more implausible than anything else that’s happened here?

Quickly looking through the rest of the documents she’d gathered from the floor, Bella sees that they mainly consist of financial paperwork: bank statements, investment accounts, legal contracts—that sort of thing. She can’t go over it now—and maybe she should leave that to Luther. But it’s too early to call him, and anyway, it’s time to get moving.

She takes one last look in the mirror. With straggly hair and an outfit more suited to housework than playing hostess, she’s not likely to set any hearts afire this morning. Not even Karl Adabner’s.

Oh, well. At least I’m on my feet, she thinks, and shoves them into her sandals.

Oops—not hers at all. She takes one step in them, trips, and nearly falls.

Why do I keep trying to walk around in your shoes? she asks Leona silently. She could have sworn she’d put them away yesterday after this happened. She swaps out the sandals for her own pair. But the strap rubs so painfully against her pinky that she takes them right off again, remembering that she stubbed her toe on the bedpost in the middle of the night.

She’s definitely overtired. Maybe deliriously so.

But it’s worthwhile.

She looks down at the crate on the floor. Ever noble, Queen Chance reclines regally on the nest of towels. Most of her furry subjects are nursing, a couple of others are squirming around making pipsqueak sounds, and Spidey is snoozing contentedly beneath his mama’s arm. Chance bestows a dignified stare upon Bella.

“That was a long night for both of us, wasn’t it?” Bella whispers, reaching down to pet the M on her head. “But we made it through. Everything’s going to be all right. I promise. I won’t let you down. Any of you. I’ll figure this out.”

The promise is rewarded with a slow blink from those green eyes, leaving Bella feeling vaguely like Doctor Doolittle.

She turns toward the closet. Her suitcase sits within its shadows atop the tapestry straps of a folding wooden rack. Unwilling to wake Max by turning on the overhead light, she fumbles inside, feeling around for sneakers and a pair of socks.

She finds one sneaker, finds the socks, drops one as she looks for the other sneaker, and manages to drop the other as she crawls on the floor to feel around for the first one. As she blindly manages to retrieve both socks and shoves them into the back pocket of her shorts, she decides that unlike Grant, she doesn’t enjoy living out of a suitcase.

Yet the thought of unpacking doesn’t sit well, either. Is it because she doesn’t want to bother, since she’s only going to be here for a few days? Or because she wants to be able to make a quick getaway when it’s time? Or because she’s afraid she might be tempted to stay?

Where the heck is her other sneaker?

As frustrated with the search as with the flurry of questions in her mind, she gives up and puts on the sandals again—this time, the right ones. She’ll have to suffer with the sore toe for now.

Just as she did yesterday morning, she leaves the key in the inside lock for Max, using the one on her key ring to lock the outside. The hallway is deserted, every door still closed.

Morning sunlight falls through the stairway’s circular stained-glass windowpane, casting a fluid prism across the hardwood landing. The kitchen, too, is flooded with light, with a view of the sparkling, brilliant blue lake.

Yes, everything seems brighter today. Somehow, it’s all going to be okay.

She hears the front door open and then close. Footsteps head into the breakfast room.

“Coffee’s coming,” she calls to whoever it is as she hastily scoops coffee grounds into a paper filter.

“It’s okay.” Grant appears in the doorway, fully dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, holding a newspaper and a paper hot cup. “Already got my caffeine fix, though this is gas station coffee, so I’ll swap it for yours if it’s on the way.”

“It is. Sorry you had to go out for it.”

“I was going out for the paper anyway. Do you know how far you have to drive around here to get a copy of the Wall Street Journal?”

“Can’t you just access it online?”

“I like paper,” he says with a shrug as she presses the button to start the brew cycle. “I’m an old-fashioned guy. And Internet access isn’t always reliable around here. I learned that the hard way the first time I visited Leona here, when I couldn’t check in for my flight and lost my seat. I was stuck here an extra day.”