Free Nine Lives: A Lily Dale Mystery by Wendy Corsi Staub

something she’s supposed to remember.
    But she can’t think clearly amid the noise, and now the wind chimes meld with a ringing doorbell, and . . .
    And I was dreaming, she realizes, opening her eyes to bright morning sunlight.
    Or maybe she’s still dreaming, because this isn’t right.
    She stares up at the wavy crack in the plaster ceiling that leads from an unfamiliar light fixture medallion to the crown molding. Struggling to get her bearings, she looks over at the lace curtains fluttering in a windowed nook, the floral wallpaper in shades of vibrant reddish pink, the heavy antique furniture.
    Slowly, it all comes back to her: The road trip. The cat. The guesthouse.
    Downstairs, the doorbell rings again, this time followed by a sharp knock.
    “Hello?” she hears a faint voice calling from outside, below the closed window. “Leona?”
    Leona . . .
    Leona died.
    Leona . . . drowned.
    Unsettled by that thought, Bella gets out of bed, throws on Sam’s sweatshirt, and hurries out into the hall.
    The door to the room where Max was sleeping is ajar.
    “Max?” she calls, hurrying down the stairs. “Max!”
    From the landing, she can see a pair of human silhouettes through the frosted glass panel in the door. The bell rings again as she reaches the first floor. She opens the door to a pleasant-looking couple standing on the front porch with suitcases and a bag of golf clubs.
    Their healthy tans, the woman’s gold jewelry and designer handbag, and the emblems stitched onto both their polo shirts signify that they’re solidly upper-middle class. Upper-middle aged, too—probably late fifties, early sixties. The man’s blond hair is graying at the temples, and while his brunette wife’s chic, short cut is highlighted to perfection, a faint network of wrinkles extends from the corners of her eyes and mouth.
    “I’m sorry—did we wake you?” she asks apologetically, eying Bella’s disheveled state.
    “I—what time is it?”
    “It’s only ten forty-five . . .”
    Ten forty-five? What? She slept almost twelve hours? She’d been planning to be on the road right after sun-up.
    “. . . and I know check-in isn’t until two,” the woman talks on, as Bella tries to gather her scrambled thoughts, “but we spent last night in the Falls, and Steve thought we might as well drive down and see if our room is ready early.”
    “The Falls?” she echoes, even as she darts a look over her shoulder, hoping Max is still up in bed. He probably opened the door when he used the restroom in the night, or maybe the cat managed to open it and slip out.
    “Niagara Falls,” the man clarifies.
    The Falls . . . The Dale . . .
    She really needs to get the hang of this local shorthand. Then again, why bother? As soon as she finds her son, who is safely upstairs—of course he is!—they’re out of here.
    “Is Niagara Falls pretty close by?” she asks, weighing the prospect of a budget-friendly sightseeing detour. It can’t cost anything to look at a waterfall, right?
    “It’s a little over an hour away,” the wife informs her. “Although the way Steve drives, about forty-five minutes.”
    Her husband chuckles good-naturedly. “And if I let you drive the car, Eleanor, it would’ve taken us all day to get here.”
    They’re obviously from the Boston area, judging by the way he pronounces car—cah. Sure enough, Bella can see Massachusetts plates on the silver sedan parked at the curb in the unloading zone.
    “Are you staying at the guesthouse?” the woman asks.
    “Me? Oh, I’m . . . we just stayed last night, but we’re about to hit the road. Max!” she calls again, then says, “I’m sorry, I need to find my son.”
    “And we need to find Leona,” the man returns. “Is she around?”
    She hesitates, wondering how to phrase it. “Leona is . . . I’m afraid she . . .”
    Saved by the sound of running footsteps outside, Bella is even more relieved to see Max burst into view on the small