Nine Lives (Lily Dale Mystery #1)(81)

But what if she just sends him a text? That wouldn’t be as intrusive as a phone call, would it?

He said to holler if I need help. And I need . . .

She looks back at the wilting bluebell lying beside the papers.

Sam.

He’s what she needs. But he isn’t answering her plea. Luther might.

She grabs his business card and her phone, wondering if he can even receive texts. Oh, well. She’ll soon find out.

She starts typing with trembling fingers: Sorry to bother you, but I figured out who did it. It’s— She pauses, realizing that her heart isn’t the only thing that’s pounding.

There’s a burst of loud knocking—banging—on the front door.

“Mom!” Max calls. “Someone’s here!”

Still clutching the scrunchy and her cell phone, she scurries out into the hall and down the stairs. Through the glass, she can see the outline of a man.

Has Luther, like Pandora Feeney, materialized at the mere thought of his name? Is that how it works here in Lily Dale?

For a fleeting instant, in her overworked, overtired brain, it seems entirely possible. Anything seems possible.

Then she opens the door and sees that it isn’t Luther at all. It’s a uniformed police officer.





Chapter Seventeen


For the second time today, Bella sits at the kitchen table with an authoritative man.

But John Grange isn’t the least bit avuncular, there’s no warmth in his blue eyes, and he isn’t retired law enforcement. He’s a police lieutenant. And she’s pretty sure he’s not trying to determine whether there’s been a crime. More likely, he’s investigating one that brought him to Bella’s doorstep.

Her legs had nearly given way when she saw him standing there.

He flashed his badge, asked if she’s the woman who’s taken over for Leona Gatto, and said he needed to speak to her.

Her voice quaked as she invited him in.

Conscious of Max and Jiffy watching, wide-eyed, from the parlor, she led him straight to the kitchen.

Now they face each other. He has a body builder’s physique, a blond buzz cut, and a hint of sunburn on his clean-shaven cheeks.

He reaches into his pocket.

Is he going to take out a gun? Handcuffs?

Pandora Feeney’s matching scrunchy?

Possibilities fly through her head as she steels herself for whatever is about to happen.

A pen. He takes out a pen. And a small notepad.

She attempts to resume breathing, but the boulder has rolled over her ribcage again, as if nudged into place by a barrage of questions.

Did Luther determine that Leona was murdered?

Or did Odelia go to the police?

Had the two of them been conspiring against Bella?

Has she been a suspect all along?

Is she going to need a lawyer?

Millicent—she’ll have to call Millicent. Her mother-in-law can afford to help, but at what price? She already seems to have concluded Bella is an unfit mother. What if she takes Max away, regardless of whether Bella is convicted for a crime she didn’t commit?

Convicted? Stop getting ahead of yourself.

She doesn’t even know why Lieutenant Grange is here.

He’s asking her questions, writing down the answers: her full name, date of birth, address . . .

She falters.

The cop rephrases the question. “Where do you live?”

Aware that stumbling this early in the game doesn’t bode well, she explains, “I’m actually on the move.”

She immediately regrets her phrasing. Does on the move sound too much like on the lam?

“That is, we’re moving,” she amends. “My son and I are moving. From New York to Chicago. We just stopped here for a few days when our car broke down.”

He asks her about that and for her last address and the one in Chicago. Her heart sinks as she provides it. Now Millicent is irrevocably involved.

After a few final questions, she works up the courage to ask him what’s going on.

“A woman was found a short time ago lying unconscious in the reeds at the edge of the lake.”

Her breath catches in her throat.

“Unconscious? So she’s not . . . ?”

“She’s alive, but barely. She’d been in the water, and it looks like she nearly drowned but managed to get to shore.”

“Who is she?” Bella asks. “The woman, I mean.”

“We don’t know. She had no identification. But we found this in her pocket.” He holds up a key ring that contains an old-fashioned bit key, a deadbolt key, and a silver heart-shaped disk inscribed with VVM. One of the sets Leona had engraved for this season.

That explains his presence. Wanting to believe that this has nothing to do with Leona’s drowning, Bella’s mind flies through the catalogue of female guests: Eleanor Pierson, Helen Adabner, the St. Clair sisters, Kelly Tookler, Bonnie Barrington . . .

Bonnie was nowhere to be found earlier.

“What does she look like?” she asks Lieutenant Grange. “Is she young?”

“Older.”

“Elderly?”

“No. Middle-aged. Short, dark hair.”

That description narrows it to Helen or Eleanor.

“What kind of build does she have?” Bella asks, her heart sinking. She likes them both. “Is she more athletic or heavyset?”