Nine Lives (Lily Dale Mystery #1)(73)

Except that I don’t.

Someone else got into this room within the last twenty-four hours. Either that person has the missing key . . .

Or Chance the Cat isn’t the only one around here who can walk through walls.

*

Looking for something out of the ordinary, Bella keeps a close eye on the other guests as they make their way to the sunlit breakfast room.

Everyone is eagerly anticipating this afternoon’s guest speaker, a renowned medium who may not be a household name everywhere but certainly is in the Dale.

The doddering St. Clair sisters repeat themselves, squabble, and doze off between sentences. Fritz Dunkle reads his newspaper and occasionally expounds on some obscure topic. The Adabners chat animatedly about their upcoming aura identification seminar like it’s an AARP bus to the casino. Kelly Tookler peppers the conversation with, “Right, Jim?” and Jim dutifully salts it with, “Right.”

Meanwhile, Bella goes about her own business—brewing coffee, wiping crumbs, replenishing the pastry platter—as though nothing unusual happened. In some moments, she almost manages to convince herself that nothing has. Maybe Steve’s near miss wasn’t significant—or particularly threatening—to anyone but Steve himself.

But then either logic or sheer exhaustion grips her again, and she finds herself looking for signs that someone is hiding something. She shifts her gaze to the windows as if expecting to see an evil predator lurking in the mock orange shrubs with the crosshairs set on her.

Finally, she hears the study door open and footsteps cross the parlor, heading toward the front hall. She peeks in just in time to see Steve head up the stairs.

Luther is in the doorway. He waves her in.

“Close the door,” he commands in a low voice. “We don’t want anyone to panic and flee.”

Panic and flee are some strong words. The latter is exactly what Bella herself longs to do. Just grab Max and get the hell out of here.

Max—plus Queen Chance the Cat and eight kittens?

“Maybe everyone should leave,” she tells Luther as she closes the door. “Maybe it’s not safe here.”

He sits in one of the wingback chairs and gestures for her to take the other. The pillows are still heaped on the window seat, and she has to make an effort not to stare at them as he speaks.

“Nothing has happened inside of the house, Bella. Mr. Pierson wasn’t even in the Dale. And what happened to him could very well have been an accident.”

“What about Leona?”

“Accidents do happen.” He gestures at her bandaged hand and battered leg.

He’s right, of course. She shouldn’t let her imagination carry her away.

Yet she has to ask, “Don’t you think there’s a chance that neither of those things were accidents? And that one might have something to do with the other?”

“It’s a possibility. But if that’s the case, then every single person under this roof is a potential suspect.”

Including Bella herself. Yes, she gets that, loud and clear.

“If we let them scatter, we risk letting someone dangerous slip away,” Luther goes on. “I think that the best thing to do right now is go on with business as usual.”

Easy for him to say.

“I have a five-year-old child living under this roof, Detective Ragland.”

“Call me Luther. I haven’t forgotten that for a second, believe me . . . can I call you Bella?”

He might as well. The nickname is no longer reserved for Sam alone. Here in the Dale, for better or worse, she seems to have become Bella.

“I’m not asking you to stay indefinitely,” Luther tells her. “Or even overnight. I just need a chance to look into a few things, and I’d rather you didn’t mention Steve’s incident to anyone else just yet. You haven’t, have you?”

“No, but he just went upstairs. I’m sure he’s told his wife what happened, and by now, maybe some of the others, too. And if he hasn’t, Eleanor probably will.”

“Don’t be so sure. He doesn’t want any of this getting out. They both want to protect his job and his retirement benefits. I’m guessing he’s not going to tell anyone anything unless they ask. I hope you won’t, either.”

She hesitates before responding. “I won’t. But—”

“I honestly don’t think there’s any immediate danger.”

“So you don’t think it’s time to call the police?” she asks, even though she’s pretty certain that there’s no way to involve the authorities in Steve’s brush with danger without potentially opening the door to an official investigation into Leona’s death.

“Steve’s not ready to do it at this point,” Luther says. “He wants me to ask around, find out if maybe someone saw a speeding car this morning around Bear Lake.”

“And you don’t think we should report it?”

“We don’t have any solid evidence that a crime occurred this morning.”

“Just like with Leona’s death.”

“Exactly.” Luther’s comment is punctuated by his ringing cell phone.

“Sorry,” he says, taking it out of his pocket and glancing at it. “I have to take this call.”

He steps out of the room with the phone, leaving her alone to eye the bench beneath the window.