“At other kids? Were there other kids?”
“At trees. He was alone.”
“And where were you?”
“I was back there in the trees when I spotted him.”
“Lurking? Hiding?”
“No!”
Yes. She feels sick. “Did you say something to my kid? Did you—?”
“No!” He flinches and hits the brakes. The truck goes into a skid, sliding sideways along the road, toward a stand of trees.
Misty watches it unfold as if she’s slipped out of her body. As if her own physical well-being weren’t at stake here.
Watching him struggle with the wheel, she notes that he’s going to have to let go of the gun. When he does, she’ll grab it if she can, or jump out and run, or—
No. Somehow, he manages to regain control with one hand.
“You better not upset me,” he says, breathing hard and fast as the wipers, “or you’re going to get us both killed!”
“Okay, I’m sorry.” Resigned—for now—Misty stares through the windshield as the truck rolls slowly on down the road at the edge of the Dale, past one deserted cottage after another.
If she were to get out and run, where would she even go? No one is around to answer a frantic knock on the door or hear her scream and call the police.
The real Elvis sings; the fake Elvis coughs.
“Please . . .” Misty swallows hard and looks out the passenger’s side window. “You were there. So you didn’t talk to my son. Yet you were lurking in the woods, and—”
“Not lurking! Don’t upset—”
“I won’t! It’s just that I need your help! You were the only one who saw what happened. We can help each other, if you’ll just . . .”
She trails off as his asthma attacks with a vengeance. Under cover of the music and his coughing fit, she moves her hand a few inches to flip the unlock button on the car doors. The click sounds deafening to her ears, but he doesn’t seem to have heard it.
At last, the coughing subsides. None the wiser, he inhales. Exhales.
“Are you okay?” she asks, infusing her voice with concern. “Can I help?”
He shakes his head, breathing, driving.
After a minute, he says, “He was lying there making snow angels, you know?”
“What?”
“It’s where you swing your arms and legs up so—”
“I know what snow angels are! I just didn’t realize you were talking about Jiffy. What happened? He was making snow angels and . . . what?”
“I was going to go over and talk to him, you know? Real friendly-like. I just wanted to ask him a question, and I was going to say, ‘Hey, kid, you shouldn’t do that there.’”
“Do what where?”
“He was lying in the street, but I don’t think he realized it because it was covered in snow.”
Oh, Jiffy. Oh, no.
“So then the car came along . . .” Elvis stops to cough.
Jiffy, lying in the street. A car comes along.
The bitter self-loathing in Misty’s gut threatens to surge into her throat. How could she have allowed this to happen? How could she have spent a single minute of her life not watching over her child?
“The lady hit the brakes, and the car went sliding, you know, because the road was icy. The kid didn’t see it coming till the last minute.”
“And you just stood there watching?” It takes every ounce of self-control for her to keep from screaming the words.
“What do you think I am, a monster? I yelled for him to move. I saved your kid’s life, lady. He rolled over, and she just missed him.”
He pauses—this time not to cough but waiting for her to congratulate him on his heroics.
“Thank you,” she manages.
“You’re welcome. Look, I like kids. I was a kid.”
A kid in short pants with a lunch box, tormented by schoolyard bullies and asthma and who knows what else.
“What,” she asks evenly, “did the woman do after you saved my son?”
“She stopped the car and opened the door, you know, like she was making sure he was all right. The next thing I knew, she had him in the back seat. She took off driving pretty fast.”
Her breath catches in her throat. “Which direction?”
“Right out the gate.”
“What kind of car was it?”
“Turquoise Mustang.”
Chapter Nineteen
There’s no sign of Luther and Pandora downstairs, but Bella can hear Lauri and Dawn’s voices in the breakfast room. She leads Max and Grange into the kitchen, pours Max a bowl of cereal, and sends him off to the television room with it.
“Can I watch Ninja—”
“You can watch Admiral Dee. Go ahead.”
“But—”
“Admiral Dee,” she says, “or no TV.”
At that, he hurries into the other room. She turns back to Grange, who is regarding her without expression.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
“Tea? Cocoa?” She nods at the fridge. “I might have a juice box in there somewhere.”
It’s a quip.
Dead serious, he says, “Just ice water would be good, if you have it.”
If she has it?
She reaches for the freezer, then remembers.
Who needs ice on a day like today? Lauri had asked.
Mr. Freeze, that’s who.
“Sorry . . . I have the water part.”
“Bottled?”
“Tap.”
“No, thank you.”
She fills a glass for herself and gulps most of it down. Her challenges are mounting like stanzas in “The Twelve Days of Christmas”—overtired, undernourished, stressed, worried, and dehydrated.
Where is Drew? And . . .
“Where are Pandora and Luther?” Grange asks.
“I know as much as you do. I was upstairs with you until a minute ago, remember?”
“Well, then, maybe you know who’s talking in the other room?”
“Those are my guests.”
She quickly explains about Lauri and Dawn.
“I’d like to speak to them.” He heads for the breakfast room, and Bella hurries after him.
Lauri and Dawn are sitting at a table with their cocktails, flipping pages of what appears to be a scrapbook. Before she can make introductions, Grange flashes his badge, introduces himself, takes down their names, and asks where Luther and Pandora went.
“They’re over at Misty Starr’s house,” Dawn tells him.
“Why? Did something happen?”
“No, Luther thought someone should be there in case Jiffy comes home, and Pandora wanted to channel Jiffy’s energy,” Lauri says. “She thought it might help if she could be around his stuff. So we decided to do the same thing.”
“That’s Jiffy’s scrapbook?”
“No, it’s mine,” Dawn tells Bella. “It’s all the clippings about Sean’s last concert and the tragedy.”
About to turn away, Bella notices something in one of the photos. Is that . . . ?
She leans in.
Maybe. Probably.
Bella looks up, about to tell Lauri and Dawn, but Grange is in her face.
“Who,” he asks, “is Sean?”
“Sean Von Vogel.”
“Who?”
“The rock star,” Lauri explains. “We’re doing what Pandora is doing. She says anyone can do it.”
“Do what?” Grange asks.
“Channel Spirit. We’re trying to soak up Sean’s energy from the scrapbooks so that he can tell us where our locket is.”
“And maybe just hang out with us,” Dawn adds, “if we’re lucky. Pandora says you never know.”
Grange stares at them, sitting there in their Santa hats, then at Bella. “What am I missing?”
Ordinarily, she’d relate to the question.
Today, she merely shrugs. “To each his own. Listen, Lauri, Dawn, I just—”
“Not when they’re violating a crime scene.”
Bella’s jaw drops, and she forgets all about the scrapbook photo.
“Wait, this is a crime scene?” Dawn asks, wide-eyed.
“No, I’m talking about Pandora Feeney, down the street trying to do whatever she calls this frivolous nonsense.”
“She’s trying to help,” Bella tells Grange. “She doesn’t believe Jiffy just ran away to get attention, and neither should you.”
“There are investigative procedures to follow, and there’s a lot going on around here today, and—”
“I know, but I’m trying—we’re all trying—to make sure this missing child doesn’t get lost in the chaos. Jiffy has to be your priority. Please.” She clamps her mouth shut, realizing she might burst into tears at any moment.
“Look, the last thing I need right now is a mentally unstable woman interfering with this investigation, so—”
“Mentally unstable?” Dawn is on her feet, indignant. “How can you say something like that right to someone’s face?”
Lauri rises beside her. “Bella is one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known!”
“I didn’t mean—”
“And she’s smart and reasonable, right, Laur?” Dawn cuts him off.
“Right,” Lauri agrees, “and if she says Spirit is whistling and meowing in the secret passageways, then I believe her!”
Terrific.
Grange looks at Bella, as if deciding that she might have just earned herself a mentally unstable assessment after all.
“Actually, I said that,” Dawn tells Lauri, “and Pandora said it was Spirit.”
“Pandora,” Grange says. “Again. Secret passageways, Ms. Jordan?”
Bella sighs. “This is an old house. It has some quirks.”
“Which would make for a good game of hide-and-seek. Even if there’s only one person playing.”
No! You’re wrong! Bella wants to shout. But Grange is all about facts and evidence, just as she herself tends to be. Now is not the time to give him anything more than what he’s asking for.
Unfortunately, Dawn missed the memo. “We’ve all heard someone whistling Christmas carols and meowing,” she tells Grange, “and we were worried that it might be the kidnapper.”
“In my experience, kidnappers don’t whistle and meow. Six-year-old boys, though,” Grange says, thrumming his pen on the tabletop. “That’s a different story.”
“You have experience with six-year-old boys?” Bella asks.
“I used to be one. They’re mischievous. I’m going to guess that someone was pulling your leg. Either your son or his friend.” He turns back to Lauri and Dawn. “I’d like to just ask you a few quick questions so that we can move on.”
“Wait, are we suspects for something?” Lauri asks. “Because I’ll take a lie detector test if you want.”
“Me, too,” Dawn volunteers.
“That won’t be necessary right now,” Grange says tautly. He takes down their addresses and a few other cursory details, then asks what brought them to Lily Dale on this stormy day.
“We’re looking for our locket with Sean’s hair in it, and we thought the mediums could help us find it.”
Not bothering to write that down, Grange seems to have had enough. He turns abruptly to Bella. “Mind if I take a good look around?”
“We already did,” Lauri speaks up.
Ignoring her, Grange asks Bella if Jiffy knows about the secret tunnels. At her nod, he asks, “Who else knows?”
“We do,” Lauri says, indicating herself and Dawn. “And Pandora does, too. Did you know that she used to own Valley View?”
“And she told us there’s a spirit named Nadine who’s been hanging around here for over a hundred years!”
“I’m sure she did,” he mutters, writing something down.
“Pandora really knows what she’s talking about,” Dawn goes on, “and I’m sure Misty does, too. She nailed Lauri’s Aunt Sassy.”
“She . . . what?”
“She brought Aunt Sassy through to me last summer,” Lauri says. “Talked about her spinach pie and everything!”
“It was the best spinach pie you’ve ever had,” Dawn says. “Fabulous.”
Grange looks at his watch and then at Bella. “Can we wrap this up in private, please?”
Dawn jumps to her feet. “We were just about to go upstairs for a few minutes anyway. Come on, Laur.”
She gives Bella’s arm a quick squeeze as she passes. Lauri pats her shoulder, and they’re gone, leaving their scrapbook open on the table.
Later, Bella thinks. I’ll tell them what I saw in that photo.
It might not mean anything, but she suspects—
“Have a seat, Ms. Jordan.” It’s more a command than invitation.
“Not here. I need to be where I can keep an eye on Max, especially with . . .” All this talk of abduction and the reminder that she really did believe someone was lurking in the passageways.
She heads toward the front of the house with Grange on her heels. In the parlor, he eyes the renovation disarray, every horizontal surface draped in paint-stained, plaster-dusted canvas. “Maybe there’s a better spot?”
“Not where I can keep an eye on Max.” She grabs the edge of a drop cloth, yanks it to reveal a patch of velvet sofa, and sinks down onto it.
She peeks through the doorway into the TV room. Max is munching his cereal, transfixed by Admiral Dee buzzing around in her yellow-and-black-striped uniform, singing seafaring nouns that begin with the “Letter of the Day.”
“Salt . . . Ship . . . Starboard . . .”
Bella can think of a few of her own as she imagines Jiffy out there in a car with a stranger. Snow. Storm. Scared.
She turns back to Grange. “You saw those texts. Jiffy isn’t in this house. He’s in the back seat of a car somewhere, scared out of his mind.”
“Based on . . .”
“Based on the picture he sent. From the car.”
“We don’t know when it was taken or who took—”
“This isn’t hide-and-seek! Two men were murdered here in the last few days!”
“I’m aware, and that’s why I’m taking this situation seriously, Ms. Jordan. I want to find the Arden boy as much as you do.”
Bella just shakes her head, swallowing a dismal lump of dread as she stares out the window at the storm.
* * *
A turquoise Mustang. Like the car her client Priscilla drove. Why in the world—this world, any world—would Priscilla Galante abduct Misty’s son?
It makes no sense.
She wants to believe Elvis made it up, but her instincts tell her he didn’t. Just as her instincts had told her there was something familiar about Priscilla the first time she showed up at the door.
“Have we met?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve never been here before . . .”
Since it hadn’t been in this life, Misty had been so certain it must have been in a past one. Souls connected somehow, destined to connect again like her own and Mike’s.
But what if she had been wrong? What if she’d felt that flicker of recognition because of what lay ahead? Not Priscilla as a client but in a much darker role, one involving Jiffy’s welfare.
“With more experience, you’ll be able to grasp the significance of various familiar strangers you meet.” So said Pandora.
Misty’s tide of self-loathing begins to surge again.
Priscilla, a stranger, in her house. Getting to know her—and maybe Jiffy, too, in passing.
She should have been more careful! She should have sensed that there was something dangerous about her!
But . . .
Was there? Wouldn’t Spirit have found a way to warn her that this person meant to harm her child? She did get the school bus vision, but if Priscilla was the danger, why wasn’t she driving it?
“So there you go,” Elvis is saying. “Happy now?”
Dazed, Misty looks over at him.
�
�I answered your question. Hell, I answered way more than your question. Now you can answer mine.”
“Wait a minute, you have to tell me—”
“I’ve told you everything! I don’t know anything else.”
“Okay, then please, you have to let me go. I need to tell the police so that they can look for her, the car, my son—”
“No police. No way.”
Too late, he’s realized he shouldn’t have told her any of this information. The wheezing is back—and so is the dangerous glint in his eye, reminding her that he isn’t just some asthmatic Elvis wannabe with superhero fantasies. He’s an armed killer, and Misty is his hostage.
He’s not going to let her go. When she tells him what he wants to know, he’s going to kill her.
She can’t let that happen.
If she doesn’t save herself, she won’t be able to save her son. He belongs here, in his earthly body, just as Misty does. Every incarnation comes with lessons that must be learned. She has yet to master hers for this lifetime.
“I won’t go to the police,” she tells Elvis.
“You already did.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw the squad car parked in front of your house.”
“You were at my house?”
“I was around it.”
“Why?”
“Looking for something.”
“Outside? In the snow?”
He nods, glancing at the long-handled instrument beside her. An image flashes in her head—he’s outside, holding it out in front of him like a divining rod, and she understands what it is.
“You were out there with the metal detector,” she says. “Right? You were using it to look for the gold.”
“For the . . .” He swallows, and his breath whistles in his lungs. Perspiration beads on his forehead. “Gold. Yes. Right.”
“But you didn’t find anything there.”
“I might have if that damned cop hadn’t shown up.”
“No, you wouldn’t have.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it isn’t there.”
She looks back through the rear window at the path into the woods. He was out at the Stump, but he didn’t have the metal detector with him. Why not?
Because, for whatever reason, he knows it isn’t there.
“So when Lieutenant Grange showed up,” she says, “you left and came out here? Why?”
Dead of Winter Page 26
