Read Online Nine Lives: A Lily Dale Mystery by Wendy Corsi Staub - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Wendy Corsi Staub
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securely behind her.
Back in the parlor, she notices a stack of leather-bound albums.
Since they’re sitting right there on the marble coffee table in a public room, she wouldn’t be snooping if she looked at them, right?
Right. She settles onto the sofa and reaches for the first one.
Its pages, like the others, are filled with vintage photographs of the house dating back at least a century. The exterior remains remarkably consistent through several eras, as seen in the pictures. She notices that the formal turn-of-the-century furnishings are intact but looking threadbare by the Depression, only to be replaced by exceedingly modern décor before finally reverting to the current, classic style.
The occupants, too, are perpetually made over to reflect changing times. Pouf-haired Gibson Girls trade shirtwaists and suffrage banners for carefree grins and flapper fringe, then Depression-era cloches perched atop gaunt faces etched in worry lines. Argyle-clad Jazz Age dandies with slicked, parted hair become uniformed soldiers and then proud husbands and fathers in overcoats and fedoras. Gradually, the posed black-and-white portraits give way to Kodachrome candids featuring bobbysoxers and beatniks, hippies and yuppies.
Fascinated by the window into the past, Bella can’t help but marvel that generation after generation of inhabitants couldn’t appear more . . .
Well, normal.
In this supposedly extraordinary setting, ordinary people seem to lead largely ordinary lives. The photos depict everyday folks engaged in everyday activities. They pose on porch steps, row boats on the lake, show off bicycles that have giant front wheels, and wave from Studebaker touring cars or fifties convertibles with enormous fins. They swing croquet mallets on summer lawns and pile atop sleds on wintry hills.
There are no floating tables or filmy specters, and again, certainly no Ouija boards or crystal balls.
Did Odelia exaggerate her claim that Lily Dale is populated by mediums? Bella decides she must have—until she decides to help herself to some herbal tea and stumbles across the daily summer schedule posted on the breakfast-room wall. Perusing the schedule while microwaving a mug of water, she finds it packed with mystical activities. There are daily message and healing services, classes on astrology and numerology, and workshops on astral projection and spoon bending. The guest speakers’ lineup features a few householdnames: a best-selling author, a celebrity psychic who stars on a cable television show, and a self-help guru.
Okay, so Odelia wasn’t exaggerating.
Perhaps she should find it all disturbing, but there doesn’t seem to be anything dark or exploitative about what goes on here. The daily offerings, more detailed in the brochures and catalogues stacked on one of the café tables, proclaim peace and enlightenment.
Steeped in serenity, she sips steaming chamomile and browses the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in an alcove off the dining room. The steady rain beats a pleasant rhythm beyond the windows as the antique clock ticks away the minutes. When it chimes midnight, she rinses her mug in the kitchen sink and selects a couple of local history books to read in bed, turning off lights as she goes up the stairs. Peeking into the Train Room, she sees that Max and Chance are still in deep, snuggly slumber. She marvels that the cat stayed put.
Back down the corridor, she notices light glowing in the crack beneath the closed door of the Rose Room.
That’s strange. She doesn’t remember leaving a lamp on earlier. She hesitates, then knocks, feeling slightly foolish.
There’s no reply.
Of course there’s no reply. You and Max are the only people in the house, remember?
Frowning, she opens the door and peeks in.
Flooded with cozy lamplight, the room is decidedly empty, and yet . . .
Somehow, Bella was expecting to find someone there.
Odelia? A ghost? Leona’s or Sam’s?
Even the prospect of an otherworldly
Back in the parlor, she notices a stack of leather-bound albums.
Since they’re sitting right there on the marble coffee table in a public room, she wouldn’t be snooping if she looked at them, right?
Right. She settles onto the sofa and reaches for the first one.
Its pages, like the others, are filled with vintage photographs of the house dating back at least a century. The exterior remains remarkably consistent through several eras, as seen in the pictures. She notices that the formal turn-of-the-century furnishings are intact but looking threadbare by the Depression, only to be replaced by exceedingly modern décor before finally reverting to the current, classic style.
The occupants, too, are perpetually made over to reflect changing times. Pouf-haired Gibson Girls trade shirtwaists and suffrage banners for carefree grins and flapper fringe, then Depression-era cloches perched atop gaunt faces etched in worry lines. Argyle-clad Jazz Age dandies with slicked, parted hair become uniformed soldiers and then proud husbands and fathers in overcoats and fedoras. Gradually, the posed black-and-white portraits give way to Kodachrome candids featuring bobbysoxers and beatniks, hippies and yuppies.
Fascinated by the window into the past, Bella can’t help but marvel that generation after generation of inhabitants couldn’t appear more . . .
Well, normal.
In this supposedly extraordinary setting, ordinary people seem to lead largely ordinary lives. The photos depict everyday folks engaged in everyday activities. They pose on porch steps, row boats on the lake, show off bicycles that have giant front wheels, and wave from Studebaker touring cars or fifties convertibles with enormous fins. They swing croquet mallets on summer lawns and pile atop sleds on wintry hills.
There are no floating tables or filmy specters, and again, certainly no Ouija boards or crystal balls.
Did Odelia exaggerate her claim that Lily Dale is populated by mediums? Bella decides she must have—until she decides to help herself to some herbal tea and stumbles across the daily summer schedule posted on the breakfast-room wall. Perusing the schedule while microwaving a mug of water, she finds it packed with mystical activities. There are daily message and healing services, classes on astrology and numerology, and workshops on astral projection and spoon bending. The guest speakers’ lineup features a few householdnames: a best-selling author, a celebrity psychic who stars on a cable television show, and a self-help guru.
Okay, so Odelia wasn’t exaggerating.
Perhaps she should find it all disturbing, but there doesn’t seem to be anything dark or exploitative about what goes on here. The daily offerings, more detailed in the brochures and catalogues stacked on one of the café tables, proclaim peace and enlightenment.
Steeped in serenity, she sips steaming chamomile and browses the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in an alcove off the dining room. The steady rain beats a pleasant rhythm beyond the windows as the antique clock ticks away the minutes. When it chimes midnight, she rinses her mug in the kitchen sink and selects a couple of local history books to read in bed, turning off lights as she goes up the stairs. Peeking into the Train Room, she sees that Max and Chance are still in deep, snuggly slumber. She marvels that the cat stayed put.
Back down the corridor, she notices light glowing in the crack beneath the closed door of the Rose Room.
That’s strange. She doesn’t remember leaving a lamp on earlier. She hesitates, then knocks, feeling slightly foolish.
There’s no reply.
Of course there’s no reply. You and Max are the only people in the house, remember?
Frowning, she opens the door and peeks in.
Flooded with cozy lamplight, the room is decidedly empty, and yet . . .
Somehow, Bella was expecting to find someone there.
Odelia? A ghost? Leona’s or Sam’s?
Even the prospect of an otherworldly
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