Nine Lives (Lily Dale Mystery #1)(69)

“Stuck, and out of luck, huh?”

“I thought so at the time. Now I’m grateful for every day I got to spend with Leona.”

Seeing the genuine sorrow in his eyes, she wonders how she could have thought he was an imposter. Thank goodness she hadn’t confronted him last night—or worse yet, tried to escape his clutches on the way to the animal hospital. Imagine if she had grabbed Max and the box of kitties and jumped out of the car at high speed?

Come on, you wouldn’t have actually done it. You just wished you could, in a moment of panic.

What a difference a day—or rather, just daylight—makes.

She turns on the flame beneath the teakettle and wonders how to segue into asking him to take over with the kittens.

“So,” she says casually, pouring half-and-half into a pitcher, “how long are you planning to stay here?”

“Only through the weekend. I have an important meeting next week in New York.”

“Is that where you live?”

“I keep an apartment there.”

Last night, he’d also mentioned a flat in London and a beach house in Southern California. Which of the three, she wonders, does he call home? Or are there other places as well?

“I thought you were here to settle Leona’s affairs,” she tells him, wanting to point out that those affairs now include a houseful of people—and felines.

“It’s going to be a long, drawn-out process. I can’t even meet with an attorney this trip because of the holiday weekend. I’ll have to do a lot of back and forth. But that’s fine with me, because I’m used to living out of a suitcase.”

She nods, rummaging through the cupboard for a platter so that she won’t have to make eye contact as she tells him, “I’m leaving on Monday, too.”

“What? Monday? Why?”

“I think I mentioned that I’m just helping out for a few days because Odelia asked me to. I was never planning to stay.” Or even be here in the first place.

She finds a platter, sets it on the counter, and reaches for yesterday’s leftover pastries.

“Where are you going?” he asks as she starts setting muffins on the plate.

“Chicago.”

“And you’ll be back . . . ?”

She knows he’s asking for a day or date.

But her answer is simply, “No.”

She won’t be back. Ever.

The guesthouse isn’t her responsibility. It’s his.

Still, the prospect of turning her back on this place is almost as hard to swallow as the thought of sticking around.

“That’s too bad,” Grant tells her, tucking the folded newspaper under his arm and depositing the paper cup into the garbage. Clearly, he changed his mind about waiting around for more coffee, telling her he’ll be back down later.

Left alone in the kitchen, she assembles the tray of day-old pastries. They’re still perfectly edible, but she’ll have to get to the store again later—courtesy of Odelia’s car and not Grant’s, she promises herself.

Startled by a loud knocking at the back door, she turns to see Steve Pierson gesturing for her to open it.

She hurries toward him. He’s holding his key in his hand, but it’s trembling violently.

“I’m sorry,” he says, panting, as she lets him in. He’s wearing running clothes and sneakers, his face flushed and damp with sweat. “When I saw you, I had to—I just . . .”

“Are you okay?”

He shakes his head no, pressing a fist against his chest. Is he having a heart attack?

“Here, sit down.” She hurriedly pulls out a chair at the table.

“Thanks,” he manages to say, his breath still coming too fast and hard.

Noting the terrified look in his eyes, she grasps that something is terribly wrong. Something far more serious than overexertion. “Can you speak? Is it your heart?”

Again, he shakes his head.

She fills a glass with water and hands it to him. He sips and then wipes his damp forehead on one shoulder and then the other. Seeing a faint streak of pink on his red T-shirt, she realizes his face is bleeding.

“You have a couple of scratches on your forehead,” she tells him, looking closer. “And on your chin, too. What happened? Did you fall?”

“No. Well . . . no.”

What on earth is going on? Her mind flies through the possibilities.

“Where’s Eleanor?” she asks, wondering if the couple might have gotten into some kind of . . . scuffle?

“She’s . . . still sleeping, I think. I left her in bed.”

“I’ll go get her.”

“Wait!”

She turns back.

“I don’t want to . . . she’ll get upset if she sees me like this.” He takes a deep breath, exhales shakily. “Let me calm down first. I need a few minutes.”

“But what happened?”

“I think . . .” He shakes his head. “I think someone just tried to kill me.”

*

In the half hour it takes for Luther Ragland to reach the guesthouse after Bella’s phone call, Steve Pierson has finally managed to regain his composure.

Bella, however, is just barely hanging onto hers.

Gone is her perception that everything is going to be all right. That newfound optimism vanished the moment Steve Pierson staggered into the kitchen, bleeding.