Nine Lives (Lily Dale Mystery #1)(72)

“Why are you here?”

“Because my wife insists. This is her thing. She used to come with her sister every summer, but then Mamie moved out west to be near her kids, so Eleanor talked me into coming with her. She doesn’t like to travel alone.”

“And you told people—your friends? your colleagues?—that you’re on vacation in Niagara Falls? Why?”

“Why do you think? I’m in a position of authority, and I work with kids. The parents, the teachers—these days, everyone’s a critic as it is. Do you think I want to jeopardize my job by having them buzzing about how Doctor Pierson hangs out with a bunch of Spiritualists?”

“In other words, you don’t want to jeopardize your job.”

“In this climate? Does anyone?”

Bella can answer that question: definitely not. Having been a victim of school budget cuts herself, she understands Steve’s point. Like most administrators, his head must perpetually be on the chopping block.

Steve steeples his fingers beneath his scraped-up chin. “I’m close to retirement with a nice pension and full health insurance coverage for me and Eleanor for the rest of our lives. There are plenty of taxpayers in the district who are looking for any possible way to trim the budget. Believe me, they’d jump at any opportunity to get rid of me and wriggle out of my benefits package.”

“By ‘get rid of,’ you mean . . .”

“I mean fire me,” he says with a jittery laugh. “Not . . . kill me.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I . . . I thought I was sure, but . . .” He breaks off and looks up at the ceiling as a floorboard creaks overhead.

Bella follows his gaze and then turns to glance at the stove clock. It’s nearly a quarter to eight.

Time for the guests to start trickling down to breakfast. Almost time to feed Spidey again, too.

“Why don’t we finish this conversation in the study?” Luther suggests.

“Study?” Steve echoes blankly, still looking shell-shocked at the notion that someone might be out to get him.

“Leona’s . . . office. Whatever you want to call it.”

The room that was locked when it shouldn’t have been. The room with the missing key.

“We can talk privately in there,” Luther tells Steve. “I just don’t want to alarm anyone who’s staying here. We don’t want them to think there’s any danger.”

Unnerved, Bella gets to her feet, as do Steve and Luther. She pulls the key ring from her pocket as they head toward the study.

“I’ll unlock the door for you. Then I have a few things to take care of . . . unless you need me?”

“No, it’s fine,” Luther tells her. “Go ahead. I’ll connect with you afterward.”

She nods. She has to tell him about Leona’s financial situation. And about Grant.

Not that there’s anything specific to tell, other than the fact that he’s arrived. And that she’s found herself suspicious of him one moment and convinced he’s a great guy the next.

A great guy?

Hardly.

Sam was a great guy. No one else could ever compare.

Certainly not Grant. And not Doctor Bailey. Not Troy Valeri.

As she turns the key and opens the French door, she recalls that Troy mentioned he’d known Leona. He’d recently done some painting for her.

Odelia had mentioned Leona’s springtime study makeover. Was it Troy who had given the walls their fresh coat of yellow paint?

For some reason, she’s bothered by the notion of him hanging around this house—around this room.

This was Leona’s sanctuary.

Yet Bella herself trespassed here just the other day. Who else did?

Has Luther had a chance to look over the appointment book? When he does, he’ll notice the missing page. He’ll ask her about it.

Or will he?

Not if he thinks I’m the one who tore it out.

Who knows? He might already have seen it, might already consider me a suspect. He wouldn’t let on. He’d act as if nothing is wrong.

“Thanks, Bella,” he says with a nod as she stands aside to let him cross the threshold, followed by Steve.

Yes, he’ll act just like this.

Standing in the doorway, she finds herself staring at the empty spot on the table where she’d found the appointment book on her first night here. Hoping Luther didn’t notice her gaze, she guiltily shifts it to the freshly painted walls.

That makes her wonder again about Troy, which leaves her feeling even more unsettled.

Then she notices the pillows.

There are three of them along the back of the window seat. Just yesterday, when she was in here with Luther and Odelia, they were perfectly aligned. She clearly remembers noticing that Luther, with his soldier-straight posture, didn’t allow his back to touch them.

Now the pillows are askew, clustered on one end of the seat as though they were hastily tossed there.

But they couldn’t have been. Not if they were straight before. Not if she hasn’t returned to the room or let her key out of her possession ever since she locked the door yesterday after Luther looked around and grabbed the appointment book.

She hasn’t. Of course she hasn’t.

It’s a classic locked-room mystery—and she alone has the key.