Dead of Winter

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “That concert was our fortieth birthday gift to each other,” Dawn tells Bella. “But we missed our connecting flight. There was a storm, and we were stuck in Denver for three days. That’s probably when the trouble started. We were jinxed, right, Laur?”

  “Right. Like I said, it’s the reason we’re here.”

  This, Bella notes, is how many conversations tend to go here in the Dale. She thinks she’s following along, then stumbles into a gap that leaves her certain she must have nodded off and missed a sentence or two.

  “I’m not sure I get it. Why are you here?”

  “You know, because of Sean.”

  “Hopefully by tonight, we’ll have the answer.” Dawn squeezes her friend’s hand. “Then everything will be back to normal again.”

  Lauri nods. So does Bella. By tonight, surely Jiffy will be accounted for, and everything will be back to normal—whatever that means here in Lily Dale.

  She helps them lug their bags upstairs and leaves them to settle in. A quick peek into Max’s room assures her that he’s still asleep. She returns to her own to check text messages.

  Still nothing from Calla.

  Drew texted a photo of the injured dog’s newborn puppies.

  She responds with a heart emoji.

  He sends a heart back, which gives her pause.

  Then he writes, All okay there? How’s Max?

  Not great. Sleeping.

  She hesitates, wondering if she should tell him about Jiffy, then hits send. She’ll have to call him for that. But not until she knows more.

  Poor guy, Drew texts back. Show him puppies to cheer him up.

  About to reply with another heart, she changes it to a thumbs-up.

  She heads back downstairs. It’s been nearly an hour since Jiffy would have gotten off the bus.

  She finds Chance perched on the window seat in the parlor, gazing out into billowing clouds of white.

  “What is it, kitty?” Bella rests a hand on her fur. “Are you looking for Jiffy?”

  For a long time, the two of them stare at the storm. Then she hears whistling again, somewhere in the house. It’s that same Christmas song . . .

  You better watch out, you better not cry . . .

  Hugo must have been pulling her leg before when he claimed he doesn’t know how to whistle.

  Maybe Bella should ask him to stick around while she dashes down the street for a few minutes to see what’s going on.

  “Hugo? Hey, Hugo?”

  No reply.

  She checks the hall, then the kitchen. The door to the basement is now closed. She opens it and sees that the light is turned off.

  “Hugo?”

  Silence.

  Puzzled, she returns to the hall. This time, she realizes that the electrician’s canvas work jacket is no longer draped over the coat tree. Looking out into the street, she sees that his van is gone.

  And her snow boots are sitting neatly on the mat beside her soaked sneakers.

  Chapter Ten

  Bella makes her way down the steps and onto snowy Cottage Row, glad her boots turned up, but wishing it had been Jiffy instead.

  When they magically appeared exactly where she’d left them last night, she figured Hugo must have come across them and put them there before he departed. Yes, that would make perfect sense . . . had he known she was looking for them.

  It makes no sense whatsoever to consider Nadine, so—

  “Bella?” a voice calls, and she looks up to see Odelia on the porch next door. Today, her ample figure is wrapped in a zebra print housecoat, and her orange hair is stacked in a pillar of rollers high above her round face and cat-eye glasses. “Any news about Jiffy?”

  “I don’t know. Calla is down there with Misty, and I’m going to find out what’s going on. I actually just tried to call you.”

  “Sorry, I was doing a phone reading with a client. Julius came through again.”

  “Caesar?”

  “How many Juliuses do you know?” Odelia asks as if that—and not the fact that she’s been chatting with a Roman politician who’s been dead for a few thousand years—is the outlandish aspect of the conversation. “We always go overtime. You can’t cut him off.”

  “I’m sure you can’t,” Bella agrees, “being a dictator and all.”

  “How is Max feeling?”

  “He’s asleep right now. Thank you for the soup. I was calling to see if you could keep an eye on him while I run over to the Ardens’, but I found someone else.”

  Lauri and Dawn, busy unpacking their bags in their adjoining rooms down the hall, were happy to watch Max for a few minutes.

  “He probably won’t wake up,” Bella told them, “but if he does, tell him I just had to check in on someone, and I’ll be right back. Oh, and keep your distance. His cold might be contagious.”

  “Don’t worry, we’re moms,” Lauri said as if that gave them some kind of super-immunity.

  Certain she’s left Max in capable hands, Bella wishes she felt the same confidence about Jiffy. Seeing Odelia’s worried expression as she gazes out into the falling snow, Bella says, “You know Jiffy. He’s probably building the world’s biggest snowman somewhere out here.”

  “He isn’t.”

  Bella nods. She doesn’t think so either.

  She tells Odelia what she found out about Yuri Moroskov. “I feel like what happened to him must have something to do with Jiffy.”

  Odelia is shaking her head before she’s even finished the sentence. “I don’t think so.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My guides aren’t pointing me in that direction.”

  That’s the trouble with Lily Dale. Occasionally, when something—or someone—is amiss, the locals rely heavily on Spirit for answers when they could be, in Bella’s opinion, channeling their time and energy into more productive, logical pursuits.

  Okay, maybe it isn’t entirely fair to think that Odelia is illogical. Maybe Bella is being too hard on her. She has plenty of perfectly reasonable moments . . .

  “I’d come over to the Ardens’ with you, Bella, but I have a bun in the oven.”

  . . . and this just isn’t one of them.

  Seeing her expression, Odelia quickly explains that she isn’t pregnant—as if that were a biological possibility. “It’s a giant cinnamon sticky bun. You bake it in a round cake pan.”

  Ah. A bun. In the oven.

  “It’s Luther’s favorite dessert,” Odelia goes on. “He’s coming for dinner.”

  If Bella hadn’t already known that, the head full of rollers would have been a dead giveaway. Last time he joined them all for dinner, Odelia had set her hair and worn full makeup and a black velvet hostess gown with a plunging neckline. “Oh, this old thing?” she’d said when he complimented her, as if she’d just thrown it on, rhinestone sash, tiara, and all.

  Bella heads on down the street, wanting to believe Odelia is right. But she’s the one who claims there are no coincidences. When a child goes missing twenty-four hours after a murdered corpse turns up . . .

  As she climbs the Ardens’ snowy steps, she prays that Jiffy is back and she’ll find him sharing his adventures over a cup of hot chocolate.

  But Calla answers the door, cell phone in hand, wearing a grim expression.

  “Still missing?” Bella asks needlessly, stepping into the house. She looks for a doormat, but there isn’t one. She gingerly stomps her boots on the worn patch of hardwood, where melting snow is already pooling.

  “Still missing,” Calla confirms.

  “I’ve been trying to text you. I was hoping you weren’t answering because he was back at home and you were back at work.”

  “No, I forgot my phone at your house. This is Misty’s. I’ve been using it to call around. Most of the local kids I talked to saw him get off the bus, but no one paid attention to where he went from the gate. I’m glad you came over.”

  She leads Bella through an entry hall that’s far smaller than the one at Valley View. No hint
of old-world elegance here. The ceilings are low, fixtures basic, moldings unembellished, hardwoods scuffed and scarred. A steep, narrow staircase leads to a shadowy second floor.

  In the parlor, Bella sees far too much furniture for such a compact room. Rickety antiques mingle with seventies-style colonial pieces—1970s, not 1770s—and eighties’ Victorian odds and ends—1980s, not 1880s.

  On the white wall above the red sofa appears a child’s artwork in black marker: a clumsy stick figure with black scribbles over the eyes. Bella recognizes Jiffy’s depiction of a ninja zombie warrior.

  Her gaze falls on a framed photo nearby. Jiffy beams between his mother and a young man with a short military haircut. They’re posing against a familiar backdrop—Times Square, crowded with people, yellow taxi cabs, and neon signs.

  Misty is wearing a floppy sun hat and a sleeveless dress covered in a colorful zigzag print, with turquoise and silver bracelets stacked along her fleshy arms. Jiffy’s dad is wearing a collared dress shirt and perfectly creased khaki slacks. They don’t seem to go together, Bella thinks. It isn’t just fashion diversity or the fact that Misty is overweight and her husband lean and muscular.

  Her smile is open and warm. His mouth is set beneath a pair of aviator sunglasses. Her posture is relaxed, his visibly rigid. The soldier and the free spirit.

  Jiffy is his mother’s son.

  He often mentions the New York City weekend of last spring when they last saw his father. He’s more cheerful than wistful, but that’s his personality. He must miss his dad and surely Misty does, too. Heaven knows raising a little boy single-handedly is challenging even when you’re surrounded by helpful friends.

  Maybe Misty, like Bella, was at a crossroads when she stumbled across the Dale. Maybe there’s a mysterious stray cat somewhere back in her story, too.

  Bella turns away from the photo. “Where’s Misty?”

  “She’s meditating.”

  “Shouldn’t she be calling the police? Or out looking?”

  “Blue organized a couple of people to search the Dale, and I called the police.”

  “What did they say?”

  “The desk sergeant took down the information. They’re sending someone over.”

  “Did he seem concerned?”

  “He was a she. And she was until I mentioned Jiffy’s name. She said she knows all about him and that he tends to wander. She’s sure he’ll turn up.” Calla doesn’t look any more convinced than Bella feels.

  “Did you have a vision, too?”

  “You mean like Misty? No. More just a feeling that something is wrong.”

  She breaks off as a door creaks open. They hear footsteps in the next room and then the refrigerator opening and closing. Through the doorway, Bella spots Misty clutching a bottle of water, still huddled in the crocheted poncho, hair bedraggled.

  They join her in the kitchen. Like the rest of the cottage, it’s seen better days. The cabinets are dark, the mustard-colored appliances dated, the stainless steel sink loaded with dirty dishes. Two upper cabinet doors are ajar, revealing crowded shelves. The countertop below is littered with packaged goods, as if they’ve jumped out to make a run for the back door.

  It, too, is ajar. The outer storm door is closed but still wears its summer screen, allowing a wintry draft to permeate the room. No doormat here either, Bella notices. Just a puddle on the linoleum and wet tracks across the floor.

  No wonder she always has to remind Jiffy to wipe his feet when he walks into Valley View. He doesn’t know any better. Maybe Misty doesn’t either, having come from arid Arizona, though you’d think common sense would tell her otherwise.

  Then again, Bella has met plenty of people here in the Dale who pay little attention to their physical surroundings. Odelia frequently mentions that she’s far more interested in channeling energy than she is in expending it on mundane household chores.

  Misty is, too. Laundry, anyway. Dirty clothes spill from a tall, stuffed bag propped by the back door, with a container of detergent and a jar of quarters sitting on the floor alongside.

  Last week, Jiffy wore the same stained sweat shirt four days in a row, unusual even for him. Bella hadn’t commented, but Max had asked him why, and he’d mentioned that his mom’s washing machine was broken. Why hadn’t it occurred to Bella to make a phone call and offer hers?

  You were too caught up in your own problems to worry about anyone else’s.

  “Have you heard anything?” Misty asks, fumbling to open her water bottle.

  “The police are on their way,” Calla tells her. “And my . . . uh, friend, Blue Slayton, has rounded up a couple of people to go door to door asking if anyone has seen him. He’s already checked a few places where kids hang out.”

  “Like where?” Misty frowns, peering down at the bottle top. She attempts to twist it again.

  “The gazebo, the playground, the parking lot over by Leolyn Wood, the skating pond . . .”

  “Skating pond?” She looks up. “I didn’t know there was one, but Jiffy’s been asking if we can get ice skates this winter. Where is it?”

  “On a farm off Glasgow Road. After it freezes, usually later in January, the guy who lives there hangs lights for night skating.”

  “Wait . . . is it Virgil Barbor’s farm?” Bella asks, remembering what he’d said about buying new lights.

  At Calla’s nod, Misty makes a choking little sound.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, just . . . he’s my landlord. I just remembered he was supposed to stop over here at noon. Maybe he won’t because of the weather.”

  “I doubt that. I ran into him at Mitch’s the other day, and he said the weather never keeps him from doing anything.”

  “Do you think Jiffy went over there to try to skate?”

  Bella knows what she’s thinking, and her own heart shivers as she imagines a little boy out there testing the ice alone.

  “No. Blue said there were no footprints around the pond.”

  “There are no footprints anywhere! That doesn’t mean anything! Why won’t this stupid cap turn?” Misty hurtles the plastic bottle across the room. It ricochets off the wall and rolls into the puddle by the door.

  Bella’s head is starting to ache. The house, drafty a few minutes ago, now seems too close and warm as she wordlessly retrieves the bottle. She twists the cap to break the seal and hands it back to Misty.

  “Thanks,” she mutters and sips. “Sorry. My emotions are all over the place. Did your friend check the Stump, Calla?”

  Inspiration Stump, Lily Dale’s most sacred landmark, is located on a peaceful forest path in Leolyn Wood. The spot is said to be highly charged with spirit energy. During the season, mediums gather there to demonstrate their abilities at public readings. Year-round, they visit to meditate and channel Spirit.

  “He did check. He said no one was out there. Why? Does Jiffy go there?”

  “Not usually. But I just remembered that he mentioned it last night.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked me if it’s really full of secrets. I told him that when we first moved here. It’s the same thing someone said to me when I was a little girl.” She frowns. “You know what? I’m going to go over there now. If he’s not there, I’ll wait. Maybe he’ll show up.”

  “You wouldn’t stay long in this weather,” Calla says. “You probably can’t even get there in this deep snow. You need to stay warm and safe yourself. Just try to relax, and meditate. Maybe you’ll get something.”

  “Or,” Bella says, “maybe instead of trying to get something, maybe you should . . . I don’t know . . .”

  She can’t bring herself to tell Misty to do something like go out and join the searchers or even just stop meditating—forget the spirit guides and the Stump and use common sense.

  “What?” Misty snaps, turning to Bella, eyes gleaming. “What should I do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I don’t either!” Her voice breaks, and Bella r
ealizes she’s more distressed than irritated. “Tell me, and I’ll do it.”

  “Maybe try to put yourself into Jiffy’s shoes.”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing? I just told you, I can’t channel him.”

  “Okay, well, he’s been telling Max he wants a snowboard for Christmas. Maybe he’s over at the sledding hill.”

  “Blue was headed there next,” Calla says.

  “But he doesn’t have a snowboard yet. He doesn’t even have a sled.”

  “Maybe he found one or borrowed one from a friend,” Bella tells her as Jiffy’s words echo in her head.

  My mom says I shouldn’t borrow stuff because I lose everything . . .

  “I guess he might have done that. But I don’t know who he’d get it from, other than your son . . .”

  “Max,” Bella says, when Misty trails off as if she doesn’t remember his name.

  “I know. Are you sure he’s not over at Valley View with Max?”

  “No, Max has been in bed, mostly asleep, all day. I’m pos—”

  Wait a minute.

  Is she positive Jiffy isn’t at Valley View?

  She did hear someone whistling.

  “You thought of something. What is it?”

  “Nothing, just . . .”

  “What?”

  “Jiffy and Max love to play hide-and-seek. Maybe that’s what he’s doing.”

  “At your house? By himself?”

  “You never know with Jiffy. He’s such a creative thinker, and he has all those imaginary friends.”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying that here! That’s what our neighbors in Arizona used to say. They didn’t understand about Spirit, but you . . . You live here. You know better.”

  Backtracking through her own comments, Bella pinpoints the offensive phrase. “Sorry, all I meant was, a lot of kids do have imaginary friends.”

  Bella wonders if Jiffy could have slipped into Valley View while she was busy in the parlor. Or maybe he sneaked in through one of the hidden tunnels. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “Misty, does Jiffy know how to whistle?”

  “Whistle?”

  “Yes, I heard—” She breaks off at a loud knock on the door. “Do you want me to get that?”