Dead of Winter Page 18

  “I’m all shook up . . .” The Elvis song is still playing in her head. She sits on the edge of the bed, steeling herself for whatever is coming.

  “Listen, they found a body out by the skating pond, but . . .”

  Bella lets out a strangled cry that drowns out the rest of the sentence.

  “Bella!” Calla squeezes her arm. “I said it isn’t Jiffy! It was a grown man. Not a little boy.”

  “Not Jiffy.”

  “No. And not Drew.”

  “Drew!” Fresh dread slams her like an iceberg.

  She hadn’t considered that it could have been him. She’d assumed that he was safe at the animal hospital, caring for the puppies and their stricken mama, thinking about owls, and perhaps wondering, in an offhand way, why he hasn’t heard back from her.

  That’s how it happens. You’re living your life, assuming the people you love will go right on living theirs, and then . . .

  A horrific scenario zooms through her brain like a getaway car needlessly blowing red lights with no one giving chase. What if it had been Drew?

  What would she tell Max? How would she face another loss, just when she was ready to . . . ?

  No. This is why she wasn’t ready. Isn’t ready. Why she’ll never be ready. If you don’t love, you can’t lose.

  It wasn’t her this time, but someone has lost. A grown man—maybe a husband, a father. Another family struck by tragedy so close to Christmas.

  “What happened to him?” she asks Calla.

  “I don’t know. When Blue called me at Misty’s, he said he’d just seen cops and paramedics heading up Glasgow road. We walked over there to see what we could find out. Lieutenant Grange showed up, too.”

  “He got a call and went running, and then I heard all the sirens. No wonder. I was so worried it was . . .”

  “I know. Me, too. Do you know Al Katz?”

  “Al Katz?” Mitch had mentioned him just the other day when he was telling Max about nicknames. Alley Cat. “I don’t know him, but I know of him. Is . . . um, is he the one who . . . ?”

  “No. But he’s the one who found the body. He was out with his dog, and it went crazy and started digging. Al saw a hand sticking out of the snowbank and called the cops.”

  “You don’t know who it was?”

  “No, but Blue is still over there. He’ll update me. I wanted to get back to Misty’s.”

  “How is she doing?”

  “She didn’t answer when I knocked.”

  “Maybe she’s channeling again.”

  “I don’t think so. I went around back to see if she was out by the lake, and I could see right into her meditation room. She wasn’t there—or outside either—but the back door was open, so I went in and called for her. She’s not home.”

  “I hope she’s okay. If she heard all those sirens, she might have panicked. Maybe she went to see what was going on.”

  “If she had, I’d have seen her out there or passed her on the way. I couldn’t even call her because I have her phone and I left mine here. My head is spinning. I wish I could unsee that person lying in the snow.”

  “They just had him out there in the open?”

  “No, he was covered up. I saw a lot of blood, and it didn’t seem . . . nonviolent.”

  “Blood!”

  Panic surges into her gut. Yuri Moroskov’s killer is still here. She senses it. Knows it.

  With a trembling hand, she opens her texts and sees that she has a new message. Not from Drew. She still hasn’t replied to him about Max and the puppies. He’s probably wondering if everything’s okay. Then again, she hasn’t heard from him, so he must be busy.

  This text number is unfamiliar. The message consists only of an emoji. Enlarging the screen, she sees an image of a fountain pen followed by several trees.

  “What is it?” Calla asks, leaning in to see.

  “I don’t know. And I have no idea who it’s from.”

  “Must be a wrong number. That happened to Blue the other day. Some girl sent him a naked picture of herself. I know what you’re thinking,” she says quickly, seeing the look on Bella’s face, “but he swears it was random, and I believe him.”

  Bella shrugs, knowing what Odelia would say about that. She doesn’t approve of Calla’s rekindled relationship with her childhood sweetheart. The son of prominent celebrity medium David Slayton, Blue broke Calla’s heart more than once over the years.

  Odelia disapproves of the way Blue’s father exploits spiritualism through his television show, Dead Isn’t Dead, and his recent book by the same title. But she has other, apparently valid, reasons for being wary of his son.

  Bella closes the cryptic message and opens her contacts list. She’d saved Misty’s number back when the boys first became friends, but she’s never called her.

  As she dials, she tries not to let her thoughts go to the dark place, tries not to think that the bloody man buried in the snow might have anything to do with Jiffy’s disappearance.

  The phone is ringing now—in Bella’s ear and in the room.

  Calla groans and reaches into her pocket. “I keep forgetting I still have her phone.”

  Bella disconnects the call, and the ringing stops. “Maybe she went over to your place to get it back.”

  “What should we do?”

  “Just wait, I guess.”

  “For . . . ?”

  “For . . . I don’t know. For Misty to show up here. For Jiffy to appear. For Luther to come. I called him.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “By any chance, do you sense any cat ghosts hanging around? I mean, cat spirits?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “How about whistling spirits?”

  Calla raises her eyebrows. “I did hear someone whistling earlier.”

  “Did you recognize the song?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,’ right?” Bella shudders. “I thought it was Hugo, but then he left, and—”

  “Wait, that wasn’t the song. It was ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem.’”

  “Earlier, I heard ‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.’ What do you think it means?”

  “I guess Spirit has Christmas spirit. At least someone does right now.” She sits heavily on the bed.

  Bella sits beside her. “Are you, um, getting anything about it? You know, from your guides, about the man who died in the snow?”

  “No, but when you experience something shocking, it can be hard to receive energy in the moment or in the aftermath.”

  “Like Misty? When she said she was blocked?”

  Calla nods. “Her aura was cloudy when we were over there, and I’m sure mine is right now, too.”

  “I didn’t know you can see auras.”

  “So can you. Ever see lightning strike? That flash of blue, yellow, white . . . It’s energy, and so is your aura. Yours is deep blue.”

  “That’s what Misty said. Pandora, too.”

  “Oh, Pandora.” Calla rolls her eyes. “She’s such a pain in the—but she does know her stuff, and I guess Misty does, too. You’re a deep blue. Indigo.”

  “Someday, you can explain what that means.”

  “I can explain right now if you’re interested.”

  Bella shakes her head. “I’m too worried about Jiffy. Misty, too.”

  Calla thrusts Misty’s phone into her hand. “Do you want to see if she has any texts? She took off the password so that I could use it.”

  “It still seems wrong. Answering it if it rings is one thing, but . . . Let’s just wait till Luther gets here. He’ll know what to do.”

  “Okay.” Calla wearily leans her head back onto the mattress, eyes closed. “I hate waiting.”

  Clutching Misty’s phone, Bella flops back beside her. “Me, too.”

  She stares at the ceiling, tracing the familiar crack from the crown molding to the light fixture. How many hours has she spent lying here trying to avoid getting out of bed because she couldn’t bear to
face the day ahead?

  They’re fewer and farther between now, but last summer when she first arrived, reeling from fresh losses . . .

  “Bella?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you really think everything is going to be okay?”

  “I’m not the psychic. That’s your department. What do you think?”

  “Spirit is just saying, ‘Things aren’t what they seem.’”

  “Well, what the heck does Spirit mean by that? Is it about Jiffy?”

  “I’m not sure. Remember, mediumship isn’t a perfect science.”

  It isn’t really a science at all as far as Bella is concerned, but right now, it’s all they’ve got.

  * * *

  Heading out to Inspiration Stump probably isn’t the best idea Misty’s ever had. In fact, it might be one of the worst.

  But she needs to see for herself that her son isn’t there.

  “Is the Stump really full of secrets, Mom?”

  She may not find Jiffy there, but she can sit and meditate. If Spirit can’t reach her on that hallowed ground with its powerful energy vortex, it won’t reach her anywhere.

  That’s where her father found her, years ago, on one of her first visits to the Stump. While Great-Aunt Ellen and the other mediums were busy channeling Spirit for the people gathered on the benches, Misty had spotted him standing in the woods. She’d felt his gaze before she’d seen him. He had been looking right at her as if he’d known exactly where to find her.

  She hadn’t been afraid or even particularly surprised. He’d motioned with his hand as if to ask if he could join her, and she’d nodded.

  He’d sat down beside her and rested his arm around her shoulder, enveloping her in his familiar scent—aftershave that reminded her of limes and trees and mint mouthwash no longer accompanied by a stronger medicinal odor. Booze, she’d later come to recognize. That day at the Stump, the mouthwash hadn’t been masking anything. It had just been there, a familiar part of him.

  He had just been there—with her, for her.

  He’d stayed until the message service was over.

  She’d expected one of the mediums to notice as they took turns giving readings. Someone might have said, “I have someone here for the little girl in the third row . . . A father figure . . .”

  But no one did. Even Aunt Ellen down front, channeling other people’s loved ones, seemed oblivious to her nephew’s presence.

  Walking home along the forest path illuminated by a flashlight, Misty had told her about Dad.

  “That stinker. It’s about time he showed up. Figures it was at the Stump.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s mystical.”

  “What is mystical?”

  “You know, full of secrets. The Stump is where things happen in the Dale.”

  “Good things?”

  “All things. So he was there right under my nose.” She’d laughed and shaken her head. “My nephew always did have a lot of gumption. So do you, young lady. That’s why you’ll always get through whatever is thrown at you in this life and those to come.”

  In that moment, as in this one, Misty hadn’t been concerned about what her next incarnation might bring. Her father’s unexpected visit had taken so much out of her that she had been able to think of nothing but crawling into bed.

  That would be nice now, too.

  But she has to find her son. Nothing else matters. The Stump is where she needs to be. Too bad she doesn’t have snow shoes, hiking poles, a team of sled dogs . . .

  A husband by her side?

  Funny, in a not-funny-at-all way. After all these months—years—of wishing Mike would come back, she’s no longer sure she wants him. He’ll insist on returning to the base or making a fresh start on another one in some other place . . .

  Any other place. Not here. He’d made that clear last spring, when she’d told him she was renting a cottage in the Dale.

  “I don’t want my son surrounded by . . . you know.”

  Yes. She knows.

  Mike is the one who doesn’t know.

  Your son is embraced here. He belongs and so do I.

  But she’d kept that to herself, saying instead, “When you go back to Arizona, I’ll go back.”

  At the time, she’d meant it. Now . . .

  Her husband’s return would mean leaving the only place she’s ever felt at home. It would mean going back to being an ordinary person with an extraordinary secret.

  People in other places can’t grasp what is accepted without question here in the Dale.

  For a few months now, she’s been wondering if their marriage will last. She used to think that it would be stronger if it hadn’t been in a state of suspended animation all these years. But it probably would have ended by now, she thinks as she struggles along the path through Leolyn Wood.

  Every bit of progress entails lifting her right foot out of nearly thigh-deep snow, plunking it back in about as far in front of her as it will stretch, then extracting her left to do the same. At this rate, it will take her days to get there.

  But she has to keep moving, keep trying. She refuses to become her mother. She doesn’t want her son to think of her as someone who has limits—someone who will only go so far, no matter how much she loves him.

  No, Misty is better than that, stronger than that. She’ll do anything for Jiffy. She’s the only person in the world he can count on. Mike may not be on the Other Side, but he sure as hell isn’t here, and—

  Misty stops short, spotting something unusual just off the path ahead, barely visible beyond a wall of snow thick as fog.

  As she stares, a tall, bulky shadow emerges from the trees.

  A bear?

  Her father?

  No, and no.

  Silhouetted by blowing powder, whoever it is seems to be staring right back at her. If only it were her son. But this isn’t a child; it’s an adult. From this distance, she can’t tell if it’s male or female, mortal or apparition. Given the locale, she’d be willing to bet on the latter.

  She closes her eyes and bathes herself in white light, then attempts to tap into the energy. Having exerted so much effort to get here, she’s depleted, and there’s no sign of her guides.

  She musters the strength to take a few more steps. Now she can make out dark clothing and some kind of . . . is that a cloak? A coat with a hood? She senses that it’s a man and a living being. As much as she’d love to ask Spirit for help in finding her son right now, this person might provide greater assistance.

  She sees him turn as if he’s about to leave.

  “Wait!” she calls above the wind. “Have you seen a little red-haired boy?”

  No response, but he goes still, as if he’s trying to hear her.

  “I’m Misty Starr, and I live over on Cottage Place,” she goes on. “I’m looking for my son. Please . . .”

  He slowly turns back toward her. Did her words resonate?

  “Sir? Have you seen him?”

  He walks toward her, and her jaw drops in recognition.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lying on her bed in the Rose Room, Bella continues to gaze at the ceiling crack she’s stared at so many mornings as she musters the courage to face another challenging day.

  When that happens—when she makes it through the day and it’s over at last—she climbs back into bed. Somewhere above her, the crack is shrouded by darkness, and she drifts off to sleep knowing that everything turned out okay again.

  That will happen again tonight. It has to.

  She sits up and looks at Calla. Her eyes are closed, and she doesn’t stir.

  Is she meditating or sleeping?

  No longer able to lie still waiting for something to happen, Bella heads down the hall and looks into her son’s room.

  Spidey, giving himself a bath, stops licking his fur to regard her as she walks into the room. Max does not. Staring at the ceiling, hands clasped beneath his head, he doesn’t even blink.

  “Fe
eling any better?” she asks.

  “A little.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He doesn’t answer the question.

  Thinking of the bereft Misty Starr, Bella leans over to hug him. He squirms out of it.

  “Hey, Mom, by the way, I sneezed six times while you were gone. Not in a row. Three plus three equals six, right?”

  “Yes, it does, smarty pants. So gesundheit times six.”

  “How come Calla didn’t want me to hear what she told you?”

  “Oh, it was, um . . .”

  “Was it about a Christmas present?”

  She seizes that innocuous explanation. “Yes.”

  “You can’t trick me, buster!” Max says with a grin. That’s what Odelia tells him when he tries to get her to pick the Old Maid from his hand of cards.

  “Can you give me a hint, Mom? Does it start with a sssssss? Not like the sound Chance makes at Jiffy, but, you know, a word that goes sssssss.”

  As in sssssssnowboard, Bella thinks.

  And ssssssorry, buster, but that’s ssssssooooooo not happening.

  “Just one hint? I can give you one about your present if you want. There are two, and they’re golden and beautiful.”

  “I’m sure I’ll love them.”

  Mrs. Schmidt must have covered the plaster-of-Paris handprints in gilt spray paint. She’ll treasure it, just as her father had hers. She’d found it among his things after he passed away. And Sam’s gilded plaster handprint still holds a place of honor in Millicent’s otherwise stark Chicago condo.

  “Listen, Max. When Calla showed up, you were telling me about Jiffy’s friend, Albie. Remember?”

  He nods.

  “What’s his full name? Do you know?”

  “No, he’s Jiffy’s secret friend.”

  “Have you ever seen him here at our house? Maybe you did, and he wanted you to keep it a secret, like . . . you know.”

  “Like a Christmas present?”

  “Right. Like that.”

  “No. I don’t have any secrets with Albie. Just Jiffy does. Albie doesn’t come to our house.”

  “Are you sure? You said he whistles, and I’ve been hearing someone whistling around the house today. I keep looking around, and I can’t find anyone here, so I thought maybe . . .”