Back on the main floor, she hears someone calling her from above. Hope sparks, and she hurries toward the front hall, flailing and nearly losing her balance as she skids through a melting patch of snow she’d tracked in across the hardwoods.
“Whoa, are you okay?”
She looks up to see Dawn alone on the stairway.
“I’m fine. When I heard you calling me, I was hoping you’d found him.”
“No, but there’s a cat crying in your room.”
Bella turns toward the parlor. Though the archway, she can see Chance still on the window seat. Must have been Spidey.
“Our kitten was in Max’s room. I guess he escaped. Did you or Lauri open the door by mistake?”
“No,” Dawn says, following her up the stairs, where Bella sees that Max’s door is indeed still closed. Opening it, she peeks in and finds both her son and Spidey still sleeping exactly as she’d left them.
“How many cats do you have?” Dawn asks as she pulls the door closed again, frowning.
“Just the two now that all the kittens have been adopted.”
“Well, I definitely heard meowing in your room.”
Bella looks toward her closed bedroom door. “Maybe it was Jiffy trying to sound like a cat. Or the wind. It makes strange sounds sometimes.”
“Does it whistle Christmas carols?”
“Christmas carols?”
“I heard meowing, and someone was whistling.”
“Which song?”
Bella knows the answer before Dawn confirms it. “‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.’ You know, ‘You better watch out . . .’”
Yeah. She knows.
Bella scurries into the Rose Room.
“Jiffy! I know you’re here!” Bella stoops to check under the bed. Dust bunnies. No Jiffy.
She yanks open the closet door.
Empty.
She moves aside the hangers, presses a release, and a section of wall swings toward her. It leads to the tunnel she’d just checked on the opposite end, down in the basement.
Dawn gasps. “A secret passageway!”
Not so secret anymore.
Bella leans in, using her cell phone’s light to illuminate the wooden ladder leading into a cavernous hole.
“Come on, Jiffy. Stop fooling around right now! Are you down there?”
“I don’t think he is,” Dawn observes after a moment of silence. “Maybe it was a ghost, whistling and meowing. After all, this is Lily Dale.”
Yes, it’s Lily Dale, and Bella is the only person in town unwilling to accept a paranormal explanation for an invisible whistling cat.
It wasn’t Nadine.
Nor, unfortunately, does it seem to have been the missing Jiffy Arden.
Time to find out who killed Yuri Moroskov, Bella decides with a sinking heart, because that mystery might hold the key to this one.
* * *
Sitting on Jiffy’s bed, hugging his pillow, Misty stares out the window at the lake, trying to make sense of what’s happened.
At first, she’d feared the strange vision meant Jiffy’s school bus was going to crash, but that wasn’t it. He’d made it safely off the bus. Something happened to him afterward.
She should have been there to see him home safely. If only school hadn’t let out early. If only she’d received the text and gone to get him. If only she’d been a better mother. If only she weren’t so alone here.
After Bella left, Misty went to call Mike, wanting to tell him about Jiffy before Grange does. Unfortunately, Calla had walked off with her cell phone. She picked up the landline phone in the kitchen. No dial tone. Of course not. She’d never bothered to hook it up.
Sooner or later, Calla will be back with her phone. If—God forbid—Jiffy still hasn’t returned, she’ll let Mike know what’s going on then. It’s not like he can help from where he is, and it would take him almost a full day to travel here.
So easy for him to judge her from the other side of the world. He has no idea how challenging it is to do what Misty does every day, channeling Spirit, earning a living, and running a household while keeping track of a six-year-old who’s as likely to stay put as sand in a sieve.
It may be Mike’s fault that he isn’t here, that he doesn’t share her gifts or beliefs or love of Lily Dale or parenting responsibilities. But it’s hers that she wasn’t doing what she should have been when it comes to their son—not just today, but all along.
She just hopes it’s not too late to start.
She’s been trying to envision Jiffy’s surroundings, but all she sees in her mind’s eye is a blizzard. Is it because that’s what Jiffy is seeing? Is he lost in the storm? Or is the snow meant to be a symbol of . . . ?
Of what? The icy chill in her heart? Her own blindness?
She’s can’t count on Lieutenant Grange to focus on finding him and bringing him home. His aura told her everything she needed to know the moment she saw him. He’s closed off and doesn’t trust anyone, including Misty. He may even think she has something to do with this—not just inattentive parenting but something more sinister.
As if she could ever, ever knowingly or willingly harm her child.
She’d wanted to come right out and tell him to stop focusing on her, but that would have made things even worse.
Never declare your innocence, kid, unless someone challenges it.
Mike once said that to Jiffy after being met at the door with, “Hey, Dad, someone tried to play catch with your autographed Cole Hamels ball, only it got lost, and I don’t know who did it, but it wasn’t me.”
Like Mike, Grange didn’t come right out and say he suspects her of lying. Unlike their son, the one-man toss team, Misty isn’t guilty. But his flinty glare made her so fretful that she got his message loud and clear.
Men.
Why, she wonders, do they always complicate matters? Even the ones she loves have caused their share of problems in her life.
“Men are trouble,” her mother has told her for as long as she can remember. “But it’s the worthwhile kind.”
Mom is no picnic herself. But with her, what you see is what you get. At least she’s dependable. She doesn’t drift or disappear. Misty knows exactly where to find her at any given moment of any given day. She knows what she should never say, ask, do in her mother’s presence. She knows just how much her mother is capable of giving—which is often nothing at all. But somehow, that’s okay. No expectations, no disappointments.
The same is true of her half sisters and grandmother—and of her late great-aunt Ellen, with one notable exception. She hadn’t let Misty down until the summer she’d turned thirteen. Until then, from the time her father died, her aunt had been the most dependable person in her life.
Not long after his funeral, she’d invited Misty to spend the summer with her at Echo Grove, her rickety Lily Dale cottage.
“Where does she want me to go?” Misty had asked her mother.
“Lily Dale. It’s not even three hours away. You’ll love it.”
Mom, who had considered the in-laws eccentric, had already been dating and needed a place to park Misty now that school was out. She’d talked up the Dale as if it were an all-inclusive beach resort with an elderly maiden aunt as activities director. The only thing she’d neglected to mention—or hadn’t known—was that Great-Aunt Ellen was a registered medium and that Lily Dale had been colonized by them.
“It wasn’t too horrible, was it?” she’d asked with a trace of guilt when Misty returned home on Labor Day.
“Not too horrible,” she agreed and shared stories of fishing off the little pier, learning to swim, and making new friends. She just hadn’t mentioned that some, like her pal Katie Harmon, weren’t . . . alive.
Great-Aunt Ellen hadn’t thought that was unusual. She hadn’t batted an eye when Misty told her about the vision and visitation she’d experienced the night her father died.
“I guess it skipped a generation, my dear.”
“What skipped a genera
tion?”
“The gift,” Aunt Ellen explained—sort of. “I have it and so did your great-grandmother and your grandfather, although he was a stubborn one, my brother. Denied it till the day he died. He changed his tune afterward, though, I’ll tell you! He still pops in once in a while.”
“What about my father?”
“He hasn’t popped in at all.”
“No, I mean the gift. Did he have it?”
She peered into Misty’s face, but said only, “If he did, he never mentioned it.”
The following summer, Mom had still been dating, working two jobs, and taking community college classes. She and Misty had both been thrilled when Aunt Ellen again extended her invitation, and Misty had spent another summer immersed in the unofficial family business—a tradition that continued for seven enlightening years.
The spring she’d turned thirteen, Aunt Ellen had done something Misty had never seen coming. Something so unexpectedly horrible that she’s never managed to forgive her or get over it.
On a warm May afternoon, Aunt Ellen had crossed over to the Other Side. No warning, no wee-hour farewell. She hadn’t even visited afterward.
Without her, Misty had been stuck in Cleveland learning to smoke cigarettes, drinking pilfered cinnamon schnapps, kissing older boys behind the IHOP, and wondering what to do about all the needy, noisy souls hanging around her.
Looking back, she suspects that just as the gift hadn’t skipped her generation or her son’s, it probably hadn’t skipped the one before hers either. Her poor father had probably drunk to drown out the dead.
At thirteen, she, too, had learned to ignore the spirits with a little help from spirits. Not just cinnamon schnapps, but also vodka, whiskey, gin . . . whatever she could get her underaged hands on.
Now Misty can’t imagine silencing the whispering voices in her head. Now, especially now, she needs their guidance. Spirit is all she has left.
She closes her eyes, hugging the pillow, breathing deeply, wanting to inhale her son’s scent. Lord knows his sheets haven’t been washed in weeks.
But she smells only her own sour, metallic fear.
Chapter Twelve
Bella stands over Max’s bed, watching him sleep.
One night, when he had been just a newborn baby, Sam had deliberately woken him up. He’d just gotten off the commuter train after another long workday in the city and wanted to hold his son.
“Why on earth would you wake him up when he was sound asleep?” Bella had shouted over Max’s incessant wailing in his father’s arms.
“I wanted to play with him!”
“Play what, Scrabble? He’s ten days old, Sam!”
“Well, I miss him all day. I miss everything. I never get to see him awake!”
“Well, this is him awake at midnight. Happy now?”
Bella and Sam rarely argued, but a fussy infant could try anyone’s patience. They’d taken turns pacing the floor with Max that night, trying to settle him. In the wee hours, when the baby had finally fallen into an exhausted sleep, Sam apologized.
“You were right, Bella Blue,” he whispered as they sank into their own bed and found their way into each other’s arms. “We have to promise that we’ll never, ever, ever wake up this kid again.”
“Unless it’s morning, and he’s late for school.”
“Or work,” he added, and they’d laughed.
That night, they’d been dumbfounded by the thought of that tiny, diapered creature going out into the world one day, all grown up.
He isn’t there yet—far from it—but he is on his way, and Sam’s missing it all.
“Sorry I have to break our promise,” she whispers to her late husband as she pulls the comforter away from Max’s face. “But I have to wake him up and tell him, right?”
If only Sam were here. He’d know what to do.
Or even . . .
She finds herself thinking of Drew Bailey. She never answered his last text. Maybe she should let him know about Jiffy. Like Luther, he’s fond of the boy, and he might have some ideas Bella hasn’t yet considered.
But first, she really should tell Max. As Jiffy’s closest confidante, he might know something.
Bella taps his shoulder gently. “Max? Hey, Max?”
No reaction from her son, but Spidey yawns and stretches into a sitting position. He begins grooming his black fur, watching Bella warily as if he, too, knows this is a bad idea.
She pats Max’s arm. At last, his lashes flutter. “Max? Sorry, sweetie, but I need to talk to you.”
His eyes, when they finally open and meet hers, are glassy. His cheeks are flushed.
“I already know. He told me,” he murmurs and closes his eyes again.
Yes, just like his father.
Sam, too, used to talk in his sleep.
She feels Max’s forehead. He doesn’t seem feverish.
She strokes his head, pushing his hair away from his face. He needs a haircut. Before Jiffy, he never gave her a hard time about the barbershop. Now he wants whatever his new BFF has—shaggy hair, snowboard, cell phone, far too much freedom . . .
Darn that Misty Starr.
Bella wants to like her regardless of her permissive parenting style, but the woman has an edge that’s as much a part of her as her red hair and green eyes. Maybe it’s youth. Or maybe she’s simply had a hard life.
Around here, who hasn’t? The Dale draws people who are searching, hurting, or at a crossroads. Even those who provide truth by channeling Spirit for others are seeking answers to their own questions.
“Max? Come on, wake up.”
“I am awake. I’m just thinking.”
“Can you think with your eyes open while I tell you something?”
“Is it about Jiffy? Because I already know. He told me.”
She stops stroking, her hand frozen on his tousled hair. “What are you talking about?”
“Everyone thinks he got lost. But he didn’t.”
“Why would you say that?”
“He told me,” he repeats, opening his eyes to stare up at Bella.
“So he’s here? In your room? Or maybe hiding somewhere in the house?”
“He’s not hiding,” Max shakes his head, takes a tissue from the box on his nightstand, and blows his nose. “Uh-oh. That’s the last one. Do we have any more?”
“Yes, I’ll get you another box, just . . . what do you mean about Jiffy not hiding?”
“He’s not hiding. And he’s not lost.”
“Then where is he?”
“Kidnapped. He told me that he was going to get kidnapped in the snowstorm.”
Kidnapped.
That’s it. She remembers now. Jiffy had told her the same thing.
One night back in October, he’d asked if she was insisting on walking him home after dark because of kidnappers. When she’d assured him that there were no kidnappers around here, he told her he’d dreamed that there were.
“But don’t worry,” he’d gone on. “In the dream where I get kidnapped, it’s cold and snowy, and it’s Christmastime.”
Jiffy says a lot of bizarre things, but that comment had resonated for its odd detail. He’d had other dreams that some people around here—the ones who don’t believe in coincidence—might consider premonitions.
And what about Max? Earlier, he’d told her his head hurt from the inside and that something bad was about to happen. As much as Bella longs to take that with a grain of salt, she can’t help but wonder if—
The doorbell rings below, curtailing the troubling idea.
Luther made it here in record time. Thank goodness.
“The TV guys!” Max shouts.
“TV guys?”
Ah, he’s delirious with fever. That would explain a lot.
“Bella?” Dawn calls from below. “Want me to get that?”
“Would you? Thanks.” She turns back to Max. “Why would it be TV guys?”
“They want me to tell them that Jiffy is a great kid and super brave. He
’ll be a lot famous then, and I’ll be a little bit famous. I need to get dressed, because people don’t wear their PJs on TV.”
“Don’t worry, it’s not TV guys. It’s Luther.”
“How do you know? Are you psychic now?”
No, and neither are you.
“Has Jiffy said anything lately about his dad? Or running away?”
“His dad didn’t run away. He’s in the army.”
“Right.” And Max couldn’t know about an argument that Jiffy’s parents had this morning because he hasn’t seen his friend since yesterday. “Max, does Jiffy ever whistle?”
“He can’t, on account of the song.”
“What song?”
“The one we learned in school about ‘All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth.’ Jiffy only needs one front teeth, but he still can’t whistle. Wait, I know! It was probably Albie! He’s Jiffy’s friend.”
“Albie? Who is he?”
“I told you! Jiffy’s friend. You better check your listening ears, Mom.”
“I’ve just never heard you talk about Albie before. Is he a boy at school?”
“No, he’s a man. Jiffy said he wears a suit and tie and he likes to whistle a lot.”
There goes her smile. She’s certain no one named Albie lives here in the Dale off-season.
“What else do you know about him, Max?”
Max shrugs.
Maybe he’s someone who visited one of the mediums or perhaps someone whose path Jiffy crossed in his considerable wanderings beyond the gates. She’s always warning him not to talk to strangers, and it never seems to sink in, and now . . .
“Bella?”
She looks up to see Calla standing in the doorway, wearing a troubled expression.
“Your guests let me in. Oh, hey, Max,” she says with a little wave, attempting to smile. “Feeling any better?”
“Nope.”
“Bummer. Can I talk to you for a second, Bella?” She jerks a thumb, pointing down the hall to indicate the need for privacy.
Fear clogs Bella’s brain as she tells Max she’ll be right back. She closes his door behind her and leads Calla down the hall to the Rose Room.
“Might want to close this door, too,” Calla suggests, and Bella’s hand trembles as she does.
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