Read Nine Lives: A Lily Dale Mystery for Free Online

hundred . . . feet.”
    Chance, whose reverberations of contentment have punctuated the drive from the animal hospital, is purring even more loudly now.
    “Listen to her, Max. Maybe she knows she’s going home.”
    “You said animals are psychic. And the cows were right about the rain.”
    “They were. I wish they’d tell us it’s going to stop soon.”
    “I don’t see any cows. All I see is a tiny house. What does that sign say?” he asks as the road opens up to reveal a little hut flanked by stone pillars, topped by an arched sign.
    She reads it aloud: “Lily Dale Assembly.”
    “What’s ‘assembly’?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    She hears a loud meow from the back seat and turns to see that the cat is up on her hind feet, paws on the window as she peers out.
    “She knows she’s home!” Max exclaims, and Bella smiles as she turns right and drives slowly between the pillars, past the unmanned guardhouse.
    Branches of ancient trees sway high overhead as she bears left at the fork toward Cottage Row, following the GPS instructions. The wipers sweep away the raindrops, and she gazes through the windshield, wondering whether she made the wrong turn. This gated community looks like none she’s ever seen back in the New York City suburbs, or anywhere else, for that matter. There are no sidewalks, the pavement is rutted, and the houses . . .
    The houses are more like cottages, really. Victorian gingerbread cottages with shutters and porches and gables, crowded into a network of narrow lakeside lanes. Some are shabbier than others, and all exude an unconventional charm. One is painted purple, another has bright turquoise trim, and nearly all are surrounded by bright flowers spilling from pots, planters, and beds. Tiny patches of yard are well-tended and host more than the usual share of birdhouses and birdbaths, seating areas and garden statuary.
    “What kind of town is this?” Max asks.
    “Just . . . you know . . . a regular town.”
    “It doesn’t look like a regular town.”
    “It’s just smaller than the ones where we live because it’s rural. We live— lived —in the suburbs. Oh, look, there’s a library.” She points at a stately, pillared red-brick building as they pass. A library is always a good sign. Libraries remind her of her bookworm childhood and well-worn books with happy endings.
    She rolls down her window to lean her head out slightly, squinting into the gloaming. “Can you see the numbers on the houses, Max?”
    “I see seven . . . and there’s nine . . . and that house has a sign, and so does that one. What do they say?”
    “I can’t tell. Just look at the numbers. We’re looking for sixteen.” Thunder rumbles in the distance, and she resists the urge to drive faster. There isn’t another car on the road, and there are no pedestrians, but there are people scattered here and there, sitting on porches and in a small gazebo on the park-like green. The air is damp and heavy with woodsy greens and bark mulch.
    “I see it! Sixteen!”
    “You . . . have . . . arrived,” the GPS informs them simultaneously.
    She slows to a stop in front of a three-story lavender-gray house with white trim and a wide porch. It, too, bears a wooden sign hanging from a post beside the front walk. This one she can read, and she does so aloud: “‘Valley View Manor Guesthouse.’”
    “Where’s the valley?” Max asks.
    “Good question.”
    “What’s a manor?”
    “It’s a big, fancy house.”
    He surveys the place. “It’s big, but it’s not fancy at all. What’s a guesthouse?”
    “It’s . . . like an inn. A hotel.”
    “It doesn’t look like a hotel.”
    “No,” she agrees, “it doesn’t.”
    “Can we stay here?”
    “We don’t have any money for hotels. We’re going camping, remember?”
    “Oh. Yeah.”
    Chance meows loudly, gazing so fondly through the back window that Bella laughs. “I guess that means we’re in the right place. Stay here with