“Nadine? Was that you before? Are you texting? And whistling?”
She should probably feel foolish, whispering into an empty room, but she finds herself listening for an answer.
It doesn’t come.
Of course it doesn’t come. She’s trying to be open-minded here, but she’s pretty sure ghosts can’t send text messages.
And yet . . .
“Albie? Was it you? Or Sanchez? Here, kitty, kitty . . .”
She’s rewarded by the instantaneous jangle of a feline collar. A cat bounds into the room.
Chance.
Well, of course. Was Bella really expecting a ghost cat?
With a purry chirp of a greeting, Chance noses around Bella’s ankles and circles her legs, rubbing her affectionate furry self against her shins.
“Good girl.” She bends to pet her. “I bet you’re hungry, huh? I’ve been ignoring you.”
To be fair, Chance has also been ignoring Bella, preoccupied with staring out the windows all day. Whatever she was searching for—or watching—must have disappeared for now.
Bella dumps the food into a shallow metal bowl, fills another with water, and sets them on the mat for Chance. As the cat hungrily devours her dinner, Bella’s phone dings with another text. Again, it’s from the number that has her mistaken for someone else. Now, instead of emojis, she’s looking at a photograph, and not a very good one.
A grainy white blur takes up most of the frame with parallel diagonal slashes across the middle. There’s a rounded shadow in the lower left corner, and a faint hint of green breaking through the white—
Oh! That’s snow, viewed through a window.
No, not a window. A windshield. The slashes are wiper blades.
The green is a highway sign in the distance.
The shadow is the back of someone’s head—the driver’s head.
The photo was taken from the back seat of a car.
* * *
Misty stares up at Elvis, trying to absorb the fact that his presence here has nothing to do with her son’s disappearance.
It isn’t that she doubts him. She can feel the truth in his words. He really doesn’t know where Jiffy is. But she senses there’s more to his story. Her son didn’t wander off this time.
Spirit nudges her to remember something, dragging her out of this moment and back through the hours, back through the woods . . .
He pockets his inhaler. “Let’s go.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Huh?”
“Did you know where my son was, and then . . . I don’t know—he got away, maybe?”
“Got away? What the hell, lady? I didn’t kidnap your kid, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
It is. Just one thing she’s thinking and maybe not even the worst-case scenario. “But you said you’ve seen him. Just tell me where.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything.”
Something snaps inside her. “Just like I didn’t have to give you anything. But I did. I should have kept the inhaler and let you suffocate.”
“I said, ‘Let’s go.’”
“Where are we going? Graceland?” Great-Aunt Ellen’s gumption girl is back, more outraged than frightened.
He’s wheezing again, and she can see that he’s unnerved by this shift from helpless to sass.
Then he looks down at the gun in his hand as if he just remembered he has it. “Get up! I’ve got nothing to lose by shooting you.”
“If you shoot me, I won’t be able to get up.”
“I’ve got no time for a wiseass. Move.”
She squirms and struggles to her feet.
“Walk.”
Her thoughts churn as they resume their march along the path through the woods.
“When did you see my son? This afternoon? This morning?”
“Did I say it was today?” He pokes her with the gun.
“It wasn’t today?”
“Shut up!”
She does. For now.
But if Elvis isn’t behind Jiffy’s disappearance, who is?
* * *
Bella stares at the texted photo. Can it possibly be from Jiffy?
She’d rattled off her phone number when he’d asked for it the other day, and he had said he has a great memory, but he’s six. How could he possibly have remembered it now, especially under duress? And if these texts really are from him . . . what do they mean?
She hurries toward the front of the house, hoping Luther is still out front, shoveling. Maybe he can trace the number, or—
Wait a minute. Jiffy’s number would be in Misty’s phone. She looks around, wondering where she left it and how she could have let it out of her sight at a time like this. But there’s so much going on, too much—
Hearing a loud rap on the front door, she hurries to the hall and sees a small figure through the frosted glass. Not Luther. Calla?
No, there are two figures. Calla and Misty? Lauri and Dawn?
Opening it, she finds three people.
Lauri, Dawn, and . . .
“Hallo, luv!”
Pandora Feeney is recognizable even swaddled in a long, red hooded parka with a thick pink muffler wrapped around her face, leaving only the bridge of her nose and granny glasses visible.
“Sorry to bother you,” Dawn says, “but our code didn’t work.”
“I must have given you the wrong one,” Bella lies, peering over their shoulders. Luther’s truck is still at the curb, and the walkway is cleared, but there’s no sign of him. “Did you see my friend Luther out there, shoveling?”
“He’s shoveling Odelia’s steps,” Pandora tells her. “I asked if he would mind doing mine next.”
Bella is sure he said he wouldn’t mind, and maybe he doesn’t. But Pandora is the last person she wants involved in whatever is going on around here.
She follows Lauri and Dawn across the threshold with the same proprietary air that always accompanies her into Valley View, her home for many years. The woman has a knack for working her way into the house and under Bella’s skin.
“You need to salt those steps, Isabella, or someone is going to go arse over teakettle. Speaking of which, it’s teatime. Is the kettle on?”
“It’s—no. It’s not on.”
“Time to light the flame, then.” Pandora turns to Lauri and Dawn, stomping snow from their fuzzy boots. “There, now. Do mind the hardwoods. Shoes off!”
She’s already plucked her own rubber Wellies from her feet and left them on the mat.
“I thought you were having a reading?” Bella looks from Lauri to Dawn.
“We were. Sean didn’t come through. And when we mentioned what happened with your friend’s son, Pandora was concerned, so we came back here.”
“I wasn’t even told he was missing, Isabella. I could have been helping in the search.”
“In this weather? It’s not safe out there, Pandora. The police are looking.”
“I don’t mean out there. But had I been told, I could have asked Spirit for guidance. And I might have known that certain things I’ve been sensing might have something to do with the lad.”
“What? What are you sensing?”
“I’ll explain once I’m situated.” She strips off her wet parka and thrusts it into Bella’s hands, saying, “There you go,” as if Bella had requested it.
With a muttered, “Thanks,” Bella hangs it on the overloaded coat tree that was well within Pandora’s reach. She drapes it over a hook already holding two jackets and a wood-handled umbrella. The whole thing wobbles precariously.
“Do be careful, Isabella! That’s a vintage piece carved from rare Circassian walnut! It’s very fragile, as is the map!”
She’s referring to the framed artwork on the wall between the thermostat and the coat tree. Earlier, trying to block out the news about Victor, Bella had stared at the yellowed Victorian railroad map of the region. A Rust Belt relic, it shows the main lines and connections between the steel and coal mining towns
of New York, Pennsylvania, and Ohio.
The coat tree rights itself. She does value it, when she can actually see its lovely ornamentation. Right now the hooks, sculpted to depict cherubs’ wings, are obscured by layers upon layers of garments along with the extension cords Hugo had left draped over the top.
She turns back to her visitors—welcome and not.
Had Pandora really had some kind of vision or premonition involving Jiffy? Or was that claim her ticket in the door, just as she had offered flowers from her garden and volunteered to sing at the wedding Bella had hosted in October? Having wrangled an invitation to the nuptials, she had been right in the thick of things when the bride collapsed.
What if—?
No. Pandora is a pain in the arse, as she might say, but she’s not dangerous. She’s the one who had provided key information that had helped Bella solve that case. If there’s any chance she can do the same thing now . . .
She turns to see Pandora reaching for the thermostat, nudging it up a few degrees as if she’s still the one paying the heating bills for this drafty old house.
“There,” she says. “That’s better. The place is an icebox. Now, what size are your shoes, Isabella?”
“Pardon?”
“My socks were soaked through on the walk over. I’ll need to borrow some slippers while I’m here. What size are yours?”
Bella eyes the woman’s enormous bare feet. Confident there’s no way they’ll fit into her slippers, she tells Pandora that she’s an eight.
“Splendid. We’re the same size. Off you go.”
“Wait, what about Jiffy?”
“Do go fetch them before my chilblains set in again, and then we’ll have a chat over a cuppa.”
Having learned to take the path of least resistance with Pandora, Bella hurries up to her room to grab her slippers, thinking about the text.
One moment, it seems obvious that it came from Jiffy; the next, like a long shot.
If it was, he’s in a car.
She’ll find out what Pandora’s vision involves, and then she’ll go tell Luther.
Vowing to muster patience for her visitor, Bella finds her slippers under her bed and looks around for Misty’s cell phone. No sign of it here.
Downstairs, she finds that the three women have moved into the drop cloth–shrouded parlor.
Pandora stands in the stepladder’s shadow, perusing the label on a paint can.
“Sylvan Mist? What shade is this? Gray?”
“It’s more of a green. You know, like your aura,” Bella adds. “Sylvan means woods, and it’s a nice forest gr—”
“I know what sylvan means, luv, but green isn’t the proper hue for this room.”
Pandora sits on the drop cloth–covered sofa to pull on Bella’s well-worn imitation suede moccasins—at first daintily, then with the herculean effort of a Cinderella stepsister.
“Maybe you’re not an eight anymore,” Dawn suggests tactfully. “My feet got a half size larger every time I had a baby.”
“I’ve certainly never had a baby! Isabella, are you an American eight or an English eight?”
“American eight. This is, you know . . . America.”
“Well, that explains it.” Pandora withdraws her foot and hands the slippers back to her with a harrumph. “These won’t do. They’re nearly three sizes too small. I won’t stay long.”
Ordinarily, Bella would seize the moment and show her to the door. Now she touches Pandora’s arm and says, “Just please tell me if Spirit has shown you anything about Jiffy. You said you’ve been sensing things . . . ?”
“The lad is quite all right for the time being.” Her quiet, confident tone sends a ripple of relief through Bella until she adds, “It’s his mum I’m concerned about.”
“Misty? Why?”
“I sense rather a lot of trouble around her.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“There’s a man . . .”
“Her husband?”
“I’m not quite sure. I’ll meditate over my cuppa.” She gestures at the kitchen. “A watched pot won’t boil, luv, but neither will one that isn’t on the hot flame.”
“That is so true,” Lauri says, and Dawn nods.
Pleased by their appreciation of her wisdom, Pandora offers a sage smile. “There’s nothing quite like a proper cup of tea to warm the cockles.”
“We like to warm our cockles with gin and tonics,” Dawn tells her. “Right, Laur?”
“Right. For us, teatime is happy hour.”
“Ah, yes, the dear Queen Mother did love her gin as well,” Pandora says fondly.
“Did you know her?” Lauri asks, impressed.
“Not until after she passed. She touches in from time to time. Most of the royals do.”
“Well then you have to have a gin and tonic with us. We brought everything, even the limes,” Dawn says. “I’ll run upstairs and get it if you’ll get the glasses and some ice, Bella?”
“Sure.” With an inward sigh, she heads to the kitchen, trailed by Pandora and Lauri.
She yanks open a cupboard and takes down three glasses.
“Wait,” Lauri says, “you have to have one, too.”
“No, thank you.” On her empty stomach, a cocktail is the last thing she needs.
“Are you okay? You’re white as a . . .” Lauri glances at Pandora. “Um, spirit energy?”
Pandora chuckles and looks at the plate of peanut butter cookies on the countertop. “Those biscuits look scrumptious. May I?”
“Help yourself.”
Pandora takes three as Bella opens the freezer to find that the ice trays are empty. Max, Jiffy, and their ice cubes in milk. Right now, Bella would give anything to have the boys here talking about warm milk and barfing or watching inappropriate television shows . . . even helping her paint.
She slams the freezer door shut. “Sorry. Out of ice.”
“I noticed scads of icicles hanging from the roof,” Pandora says, munching a cookie. “Have you had the shingles checked lately?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Aren’t you going to refill the trays, luv?”
“No.”
“That’s okay. Who needs ice cubes on a day like today?” Lauri says, and Bella shoots her a grateful glance.
Noticing the freezer door failed to close all the way, she gives it another push.
Still open.
She shoves harder, using her shoulder this time.
“You’re going to tear the bloody thing off the hinges! Let’s have a look.” Pandora pads barefoot across the floor, popping the last bit of a cookie into her mouth.
Lauri offers Bella an apologetic little shake of her Santa cap.
“Oh, my. Frozen dinners? These aren’t nutritious at all. Toss them into the bin. And . . . are these tea bags?” she asks as if she’s just discovered human remains. She whirls to look at Bella, the plastic baggie containing Odelia’s puffy-eye remedy dangling between her spindly thumb and forefinger.
“I was about to use them to brew your tea,” Bella says darkly, well aware that Pandora only drinks “proper” tea—whole leaf, painstakingly brewed, and certainly not fresh from the freezer. “But since you’ve changed your mind . . .”
Relishing her flabbergasted expression, Bella plucks the bag from Pandora’s hand, tosses it back into the freezer, and closes the door. This time, it stays closed. She gives a satisfied nod as Dawn returns, carrying a bottle of gin, one of tonic, a couple of limes, and the Catch Phrase game.
“What fun!” Pandora claps her bony hands. “I do love a musical challenge. I was a contestant on Name That Tune back in the eighties!”
“The game show?” Lauri asks. “I loved that! I wonder if I saw you?”
“Not unless you were watching the telly in England, darling. I was on the UK version.”
“Did you win?”
“I very nearly did. Tripped up by ‘Dirty Laundry’ in the golden medley. Otherwise, I was brilliant!”
Pandora
, tripped up by a song called “Dirty Laundry”? Talk about poetic justice.
“I have to get back upstairs to Max,” Bella says. “But first, Pandora, I really need to know about Misty and Jiffy.”
“There, now, don’t be stingy with the gin, darling,” Pandora tells Dawn as she begins mixing the drinks.
“Pandora—”
“Yes,” she says, fixing Bella with a look. “I’m getting to that.”
She closes her eyes and bows her head. After a long moment, she says, “She must tread carefully around him.”
“Who?”
“Misty.”
“But around who?”
“Whom.”
Bella bites her tongue.
“Around this man.”
“Where is he? And where is she? Is she with him?”
After a moment she nods as if listening to a voice only she can hear and murmurs, “Out in the cold.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s what Spirit is saying. ‘Out in the cold.’”
“Literally?”
“That isn’t clear.”
Bella looks toward the window, remembers the blue lights flashing as divers searched the lake. She swallows hard, tasting blueberry buckle and bile, and glances over at Lauri and Dawn. They’re somber, arm in arm, listening to Pandora.
Misty had warned Bella not to trust anyone, and Calla had said things aren’t what they seem. But when it comes to these two women, they aren’t murderers. She’s certain of that.
Nor is Pandora. She genuinely wants to help in her own way.
“Is Misty with Jiffy?” Bella asks.
“I don’t feel as though she is. There’s quite a good bit of distance between them. The lad is . . .” She inhales deeply through her nose and exhales out through her mouth for several breaths, nodding. “He’s very peaceful. He may be asleep.”
It shouldn’t be an ominous message. Deep breaths could mean she’s channeling someone in slumber.
“Is he asleep in a car, do you think?”
Pandora ignores the question, brows knit above her closed eyes as if squinting at something only she can see. “I see . . . golden . . .”
“The locket?” Lauri asks, and Dawn shushes her.
Pandora sways a bit as if in rhythm with music in her bowed head.
Dead of Winter Page 22
