The Long Road Home Again

By Patricia E. Flinn

Three women, grieving the loss of loved ones, are guests in a charming bed and breakfast inn in Lily Dale, a historic spiritualist community in upstate New York.
Tree Haven is owned by an eccentric ninety- year old former actress who adores animals, bakes delicious lemon butter cookies, and entertains her guests with colorful stories of her days in theater.
Shortly after the women’s arrival a series of horrific murders befall the scenic lakeside community.
The victims are an aging astrologer named Lady Moon; a woman who believes she is the reincarnated soul of Madame Petrona Blavatsky, founder of the Theosophical Society, and a nonagenarian who communes with trees and animal spirits.
Inspectors Robert McLeod and Tara Flanagan are in charge of the investigation, but shortly after learning that his old friends, semi-retired inspector Pequod Dyxx and his clairvoyant wife Evangeline are in town, McLeod persuades them to help with the case.
The suspects include a drifter who believes he is a messenger of God; a priest who terrorizes altar boys and condemns psychics as satanic; blind twin brothers who are members of a self-mortification group, and an unscrupulous real estate man who wants to build a development in the town’s center.
A philosophical mystery, The Long Road Home, is suspenseful, thought-provoking, and satiric from start to finish with multiple plots and unconventional characters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664127661

Patricia E. Flinn

Patricia E. Flinn has written several novels, short story collections, plays, and works of non-fiction. She received a doctorate in Drama from New York University and has taught in several New Jersey universities as an adjunct professor. She lives in Warren, New Jersey with her golden retriever, Dylan Thomas.

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Copyright © 2020 by Patricia E. Flinn.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 08/25/2020

Xlibris

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Dedication.jpg

To My Gene

Happy Birthday in Heaven

July 17, 2020

I Love You

….And when he shall die

Take him and cut him out in

little stars, and he will make

The face of heaven so fine

That all the world will be in love

With night, and pay no worship to

The garish sun. William Shakespeare,

Romeo and Juliet.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1     Memories and Meditations

Chapter 2     Searching the Unknown

Chapter 3     Inspector Dyxx and Evangeline

Chapter 4     A Life Long Student

Chapter 5     Murder Most Foul

Chapter 6     The Stars and Lady Moon

Chapter 7     An Unsettling Encounter

Chapter 8     A Body in the Bakery

Chapter 9     A Rude Awakening

Chapter 10   Born Again?

Chapter 11   Walking the Dog at Midnight

Chapter 12   Lily Dale Wakes Up to Murder

Chapter 13   The Investigation Continues

Chapter 14   Lunch and Serial Killers

Chapter 15   The Man in Charge

Chapter 16   A Troubled Soul

Chapter 17   What’s It All About, Grandma?

Chapter 18   Research at the Library

Chapter 19   A Possible Suspect?

Chapter 20   A Frightening Premonition

Chapter 21   Falling in Love While Being Fingerprinted

Chapter 22   A Note in the Woods

Chapter 23   The Haunted Library

Chapter 24   Remembering Barbara

Chapter 25   Contemplating Love While Studying an Autopsy Report

Chapter 26   Evangeline’s Vision

Chapter 27   Meeting Mrs. Grogan

Chapter 28   Portrait of a Marriage

Chapter 29   A Late Evening Conversation

Chapter 30   Two More Leads

Chapter 31   At the Library

Chapter 32   Meeting in the Bookstore

Chapter 33   A Set of Knives

Chapter 34   Matching Tire Tracks

Chapter 35   One Day in Your Life

Chapter 36   Dyxx Alias Father Thomas Sullivan

Chapter 37   More Evidence or Not?

Chapter 38   Liam Reynolds

Chapter 39   The Body Behind the Altar

Chapter 40   A Confession

Chapter 41   Bugging Pamela

Chapter 42   Checking Out the Stars

Chapter 43   Is There Really an AfterLife?

Chapter 44   Twin Suspects

Chapter 45   A Philosophical Chat

Chapter 46   Red Roses, A Pale Moon, & You

Chapter 47   A Chance Encounter

Chapter 48   A Beautiful Friendship

Chapter 49   Homeward Bound

CHAPTER ONE

Memories and Meditations

T HE OLD FARMHOUSE was still shrouded in darkness when Miriam woke suddenly from a vivid dream. Beside her, snoring contentedly, on the big featherbed under a flaming red and blue quilt was Digger, her beloved golden retriever.

Outside the bedroom window angry wind was assaulting the naked branches of century-old trees.

The last week in February had been bitterly cold and snowy in Bedminister, New Jersey, wrapping the surrounding hills and nearby roads in a whitened hush of isolation.

Miriam sat up against her mountain of pillows, patted Digger on his sleepy head, and sighed.

She was glad she had stocked the freezer with plenty of vegetables, cartons of home made soup and bread to last a few days without venturing outside.

As the snow and ice pelted the rooftop, Miriam’s mind wandered back to her dream. It was late autumn and she and Edward were barreling down a country lane in their yellow convertible, a 1970 Volkswagen. They were young, full of life, singing out of tune to the Beatles hit single, We all Live in a Yellow Submarine.

Edward’s curly sandy hair glowed like gold under the afternoon’s bright sunlight. She was wearing her favorite summer dress, a soft blue chiffon with puff sleeves and high collar.

They had just returned from lunch at their favorite weekend getaway, Tice’s Apple Farm where mulled cider laced with cinnamon and fresh ripe apples lent a warm sweetness to the air. It was their secret getaway, their magical place where Edward had proposed, pulling a ring from his pocket as they sat inside the convertible munching on buttered muffins and hot tea.

She had never been so happy, so at peace with a man she adored.

It was a wonderful dream, one of many she had been having since Edward’s passing. That awful day in mid-September three years prior had come with such suddenness she was still reeling from the shock.

It was the first time in her life she found herself alone after years of marriage with a man she considered her soul mate.

During those first few awful months she wandered aimlessly through the dark chilly room haunted by visions of the past.

She recalled the windy Sunday afternoon they visited the Lamington Antique Store and bought a bright red curio cabinet made from an old British telephone booth; the morning they stopped at a country roadside flea market and found among the clutter of tables a Royal Albert tea set with four cups, a creamer, and sugar bowl; the time they visited neighbors at an estate sale and discovered the oak library table buried under stacks of books. These treasures were scattered throughout the old farmhouse, triggering many memories.

There were days when she struggled to get out of bed. At night during the long winter months following Edward’s death she found herself slipping deeper into grief.

But she knew Edward would not want her to suffer such sadness for the remainder of her life. So one morning as the sun peeked its way from behind a mass of billowing white clouds, Miriam brushed her teeth, combed her hair, got dressed in her favorite jeans and headed off to the local animal shelter to find a dog. That seemed like ages ago, but it was just one year ago since she found Digger.

She and Edward had raised several dogs over the course of their marriage, but after their last mutt, a beautiful sweet female named Robin died from lymphoma, they couldn’t bring themselves to get another pet.

But now things were different and Miriam realized a dog was what she needed.

She remembered that day at the shelter so well.

She arrived a few minutes after it opened and was met by a young woman with blue hair wearing a nose ring.

Hello, I’m Nicole. Come in, have a look, and take your time. Like choosing a husband, choosing the right dog is essential.

Nicole took Miriam’s hand and led her through a set of double doors into a large room where there were a dozen large crates carrying barking dogs of all shapes and breeds.

Miriam spotted him almost immediately, a large blond dog with light brown eyes, floppy ears, and the friendly demeanor of a golden retriever.

She fell to her knees and began playing with him. He responded with gusto, wagging his tail and licking her fingers through the grate of the cage.

Once Nicole opened the crate, he exploded with excitement, dashing around the two women and leaping up and down like a jack in the box.

Looks like you two are made for each other, Nicole laughed. He sure is one happy energetic pup.

Just what I was hoping for. He reminds me so much of my previous dog.

An hour later, paperwork complete, Marian wrote a check to the shelter, purchased a leash and collar, and strolled out to the parking lot with her new friend safely in tow.

She decided to call him Digger since the first thing he did was dig a gigantic hole in the compost pile.

That night she ran the tub and gave Digger his first bath. Like most goldens he loved the water and Miriam had to be extra careful he did not eat the soap bubbles while she scrubbed his soft fur and poured buckets of water atop his big head.

After wrapping him in thick warm towels, she led him into the kitchen where a fire was burning in the hearth. Although he was nearly 60 pounds Miriam managed to lift him onto her lap where she nestled and hugged him until they both grew sleepy.

The next morning she bought him a large bed at Petsmart and plenty of toys and biscuits.

Every day they would play together in the backyard, Digger racing after the Frisbee and leaping high in the air. Unlike most retrievers, however, Digger never wanted to give the Frisbee back. Instead, he would dance around Miriam’s legs, teasing her to grab it from his mouth.

After a few weeks they became inseparable and Miriam knew she had chosen the perfect companion. He would sit beside her on the couch at night watching television and when another dog appeared on the screen, he would wag his tail and bark.

When Miriam drove to the local park for their morning walk, Digger would sit in the passenger seat of the pick-up, his head out the window, his long ears flapping in the wind, sucking in the passing scenery.

Although her heart still ached for Edward, her days were more bearable with Digger at her side.

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Alice Murphy was having a hard time trying to convince her good friend, Carol Wessman, to join her on a short vacation to Lily Dale.

Alice had been there several times and thoroughly enjoyed its kooky, savoir faire spirit. She believed it was just the kind of environment Carol needed to heal.

We can relax. Take walks in the woods, treat ourselves to a nice massage, and spend the day any way we want. People there are free spirits. A little crazy and eccentric, but definitely colorful and funny. It would be good for us.

Sounds inviting, but I just don’t have the energy. You need energy to travel, Alice.

Look, I’ll drive the R.V. There’s room enough for a family of four in that thing. You’ll have one bed, and I’ll have the other. No sweat. The R.V. has a small kitchen, so we can eat right in the van. Once we’re in Lily Dale, we’ll find a place to park and then enjoy the town one day at a time.

All that mumbo-jumbo spiritual stuff is not for me.

I know you’re not religious in a church-going way, but neither are the people there. They consider themselves Spiritualists. They believe in helping people.

How? By talking to the dead and telling old ladies angels are protecting them?

You don’t have to believe anything. I just think you might enjoy the visit. Besides, you’ll keep me company. We’ll have fun. Check out one of their haunted guest houses, and maybe even visit a psychic.

A psychic? Are you serious?

Sure, Alice laughed. A good psychic might be able to tell us the winning lottery numbers.

You’re crazy, Carol smiled.

Maybe that’s why I like Lily Dale. Lots of people are crazy there. I feel at home.

Carol was living the traditional life in the suburbs and teaching high school math when her life suddenly fell apart. In one short year she lost her husband, Frank, from a sudden heart attack; her teenage son Richard in a tragic automobile crash, and her brother, Tom, from suicide.

Overwhelmed, she took a leave of absence from her job, drank herself to sleep every night and woke up in the morning wondering what day it was.

If it weren’t for Alice, Carol would have slept her life away, wandering around the house in pajamas and ratty old slippers, a stray dog lost without a bone in no man’s land. Alice showed up at Carol’s front door several times a week bearing fresh coffee, home made muffins, and a heart full of love for an old friend.

She coached Carol out of the house, took her for long walks in the park, and signed her up for swimming lessons in the local YWCA.

In the afternoon they would swim laps together and then soak in the hot tub and sauna. Gradually Carol began to surface from her sinkhole. Therapy helped too, and so did talking to people, but Alice knew it would be a long time before her friend would truly recover.

Alice wanted Carol to experience something new that might pique her curiosity and stimulate her thinking so she could get back to being herself again. She thought visiting Lily Dale would be the trick.

Alice arrived there by sheer chance. She had been visiting a cousin who lived in Buffalo and was recovering from a serious bout of the flu. Alice stayed with her for a week, cooking meals and running errands.

When her cousin was feeling better, Alice left, driving back along interstate 90 for about 60 miles when she had to exit to find a bathroom. She traveled along several winding side roads hoping to find a coffee shop when she noticed a sign for Lily Dale.

A short time later she found herself in a tiny community right out of a fairy tale.

Old Victorian homes- some in need of major repairs-sat facing the edge of Lake Cassadaga. Colorful cottages with sagging front porches and peeling shutters huddled together like dowagers in old aprons.

Painted statues of angels, saints and elves dotted tiny front lawns.

Cats roamed the sidewalks. Several were missing an eye or a tail. Old women rode bicycles with baskets filled with flowers strapped to the handler bars. One of these ladies, clad in a pink bathrobe, her grey hair trapped in rubber curlers, waved at Alice as she explored the town, savoring the strong scent of maple, and pine trees. Inside the old Assembly Hall pictures of dour-faced men lined the musty smelling halls.

On Cleveland Avenue she ventured into the historic Pinewood Manor where guests spent chilly nights in dusty rooms haunted by friendly ghosts.

Lyleon woods, known to locals as spirit-hangout was within walking distance.

An elderly woman in a long flowered skirt and plastic raincoat was sitting on a bench at the wood’s entrance.

Her name was Mama Cassandra and without much ado took Alice’s hand and led her through the woods to Inspiration Stump.

She explained its rich spiritual history where famous mediums spoke to the departed.

She laughed as she related how one medium dropped dead from a heart attack after contacting an evil spirit.

When Alice asked if the Stump was still in use, Mama Cassandra shook her head.

Only those who don’t believe the story. Others swear the dead man’s energy is still radiating from the Stump.

That night Alice rented a room on the second story of the Old Assembly Hall.

After her romp around Lily Dale with Mama Cassandra, she slept like a two year old and didn’t see any ghosts, but her dreams were unsettled.

In one she saw her dead grandmother sitting in a rocking chair holding a baby.

It was the child Alice had lost in still birth when she was an unmarried teenager.

In another dream she was riding in a yellow taxi in New York City when the cab suddenly left the road and began ascending skyward like an accelerating jet on an airport runway.

She watched from the back seat as the taxi sliced through a bank of clouds climbing steadily through oceans of blue sky, and wide open space. She zoomed past whirling planets, dying stars, burning suns, hurling headfirst into a vast blackness.

When the taxi came to an abrupt stop at a four-way intersection without street names, an elderly man in a camel-hair coat and grey fedora opened the door, got in, and handed her a slip of paper.

Alice smiled at the gentleman, put on her glasses, and read the small carefully penned writing.

I sent my soul through the Invisible

Some letter of that After-life to spell

And by and by my soul returned to me

And answered I myself am Heav’ and Hell

When Alice woke up, she remembered the vivid dream and the lines of The Rubaiyat by the Persian poet Omar Khayyam. She hadn’t thought of that poem in years, but apparently her memory never forgot the verse she had to memorize in high school for a difficult English course.

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Carol never told anyone but after her husband’s and son’s deaths, she felt intense guilt. There was nothing physical she had done to harm them. Nothing the police, science or doctors could blame her for. But she believed her thoughts were somehow responsible.

They had always been a close knit family sharing every experience the way a drop of water shares the sea. Even after decades of marriage she and Frank still loved one another with the intensity of newlyweds. They swore they could read each other’s mind.

They met in the early 80s. Strangers sitting at opposite tables in the Ancient Canadians, a world-renowned soup bistro hidden behind a fieldstone wall in a small alleyway on Rue Ste Louis in old Quebec.

As she sipped her fish chowder, her eyes wandered to his handsome face. He looked like Michael Caine, the English actor. Same high cheekbones, noble forehead, strong chin, curly reddish brown locks tucked neatly behind two lovely shaped ears.

She wondered what a handsome man like that was doing eating alone on such a beautiful night in Canada.

He was busy writing in a small notebook, seemingly indifferent to the bowl of clam chowder cooling before him on the small table. It wasn’t until a young waiter accidentally dropped a plate at a nearby table that he looked up and re-entered the world.

I’m afraid your soup may be getting cold, Carol smiled as their eyes met.

What? Oh, yes, I think you’re right.

He laughed, lifting a spoon to his mouth. "Cold or hot this chowder is delicious. No other place can beat the Ancient Canadians for making the best soup in the world."

Yes, I love their fish chowder. Every time I visit Quebec I try to have at least two or three lunches here.

Well, we have something in common then. I’m a frequent visitor here too whenever I’m in Canada. It’s worth the trip.

And their freshly baked bread is also out of this world, Carol said, holding up the basket. There’s more here than I can possibly eat. Please help yourself.

You’re very generous, he said, walking to her table. Say, I have a wonderful idea if you’re agreeable.

Yes, what’s your idea?

"Why not join me, or I can join you since we’re both dining alone and that’s no fun when you’re in a beautiful place like the Ancient Canadians."

I would love that. Please sit.

Terrific, he said, extending his hand. My name is Frank. Frank Wessman. And you are?"

Carol Courtney.

They talked for the next two hours like old friends, perfectly at ease.

"Strangers in the Night, Frank said, as the waiter cleared their table and brought them coffee. I keep thinking of that song. Do you believe in fate, Carol?"

I don’t know. I haven’t thought much about that.

No? That’s surprising because you strike me as a philosophical person.

Really. You are the first person who ever told me that.

I meant it as a compliment.

You barely know me.

Perhaps, but I feel I do know you. It’s strange. That’s why I asked you about fate.

"I’m sorry I can’t give you an answer. It’s really a mystery, but as Shakespeare believed—"There’s more things in heaven and earth that are dreamed of in our philosophy."

I’m impressed, Frank replied, sipping his coffee. Not many people can quote Shakespeare after a few drinks and a bowl of fish chowder.

After dinner they walked arm and arm down the winding stone steps leading to old Quebec with its ancient buildings, quaint inns, and cobblestone streets so reminiscent of Paris and other ancient European cities. They passed artists selling their paintings on sidewalks high above the flowing Saint Lawrence River.

Their evening ended over drinks at the famous Chateau Frontenac where Roosevelt and Churchill met secretly during World War II.

Edith Piaf was singing Sous Le Ciel De Paris from a stereo behind the bar. Light from a full moon streamed through tall windows casting a bewitching spell.

They exchanged goodbyes under a star-studded sky and arranged to meet in New York a week later.

Carol was in her mid-twenties and had dated several men, but none of them had the effect on her that Frank did.

Their first date in New York was dinner at Emilio’s, a small Italian Bistro on a quiet corner of Chamber Street. Small round tables with bright red tablecloths lined a rear brick wall covered in colorful prints of the city in the late 1890s’.

A large gold-framed mirror hung behind the bar. Rows of whiskey, gin, Scotch, and brandy bottles stocked the shelves and were reflected in the mirror’s curved glass.

It was nearing midnight as they strolled out of the restaurant, bewitched by the suddenness of how their lives had changed in such a short period of time.

A year later they married and a year after that Richard was born.

Frank’s birth sign was cancer, the crab. Carol often teased him that like the crab he held on firmly to all the things he loved. If he had his way, Frank would have spent every minute with her.

Carol loved her son and husband and never wanted to think about life without them, but there were times when she just wanted to be by herself, lost in the weird workings of her own mysterious head. At night before falling asleep she wondered what it would be like to live like a monk, silent, alone, connected to all and nothing at the same time. It wasn’t escape from a bad marriage or relationship she imagined. She was very happy, but these oddball musings often tempted and unsettled her.

When Frank and Richard died, she convinced herself these thoughts had been responsible. They haunted her all hours of the day and night. One day she was so desperate she called the national suicide hot line. A volunteer told her to seek professional help and gave her the number of a psychiatrist. On her first visit the doctor recommended she buy a pretty house plant and keep it on her kitchen table.

Every time you feel these thoughts coming on, just stare at the plant and talk to it the way you would your husband.

At the local supermarket she bought a purple hyacinth, but that night when she sat down to talk to it, she couldn’t concentrate. All she could think about was how thoughts had destroyed her life.

A week later when the hyacinth died from lack of water and sunlight, Carol opened a bottle of Johnny Walker and drank herself to sleep.

Now thanks to Alice she was at least surviving and taking one day at a time. Carol thought about Lily Dale. Even if the trip meant just a change of scenery, it might be good. Perhaps Alice was right. One never knows what’s around the corner."

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Alice was elated when she received Carol’s call agreeing to the trip. She promised to handle all the details. She was glad to help her friend, but she was also curious to see what her own future held in store. She hoped it would be a lot better than her past especially when it came to men.

Her first marriage had been a complete disaster. She was twenty when she met Baxter in a bar in Hoboken, New Jersey on St. Patrick’s Day. She and several of her girlfriends had decided to celebrate by going to Max’s Saloon on Fourth and Washington.

It was an old-fashioned tavern much like the famous McSoley’s in New York. Saw dust on the floor, decrepit fly traps hanging from the rafters, toilets that hadn’t been cleaned in centuries, and dirty glasses stacked on dusty shelves behind the bar. Alice knew it wasn’t the ideal place for romance, but it was a guy’s hang-out, and she was hoping to meet someone.

Her last boyfriend was as dull as burnt toast. Fred’s idea of a good time was sitting in his parents’ living room showing a home movie of himself stealing a base in a Little League game.

Ralph, a good looking hunk she spotted straddling a motorcycle outside Luigi’s Pizza Joint, was a psycho. She dumped him one month into their relationship after he removed a pair of handcuffs from a side pocket of his Harley Davidson leather jacket and tried to chain her to a fence outside the city recycling center.

She and her friends arrived in Max’s around noon after watching the St. Pat’s parade march down Washington Street which was painted a deep green in honor of the day. They had been drinking Guinness for over an hour and were more than tipsy when Baxter strolled into the bar.

Alice was the first to see him. He was wearing tight fitting jeans, a blue denim shirt open at the neck and cowboy boots. Alice thought him more than handsome. He was tall, muscular, blond, blue-eyed and simply gorgeous. Most people meeting him for the first time thought he was Paul Newman’s son.

He glanced around the crowded room, nodded to the bartender, and then leaned against a rear wall waiting for an empty seat at the bar.

Alice did not hesitate. She got up from her stool, and went for the kill.

Hello, she said, sliding beside him. I’m Alice. What’s your name?

Baxter, he smiled.

Nice to meet you, Baxter. Care to join me for a drink at the bar?

Love to. Lead the way, lady.

Their relationship was a roller-coaster plunging off the rails. Sex was heaven; conversation hell. But Baxter’s high cheekbones and cleft chin were so ravishing, Alice tried to ignore the drivel that came out of his mouth. He loved football, hunting, drag racing, and hard rock. They went bar-hopping, saw action movies, got high, and hung out with his friends in a local pool hall. When Alice suggested seeing a Broadway show, or visiting an art gallery, he balked.

Trying to turn me into a fag? That shit is for queers.

By the time Alice realized a cleft chin and great profile were not enough to sustain a relationship, she discovered she was pregnant.

Baxter was elated since he wanted a son to play pool with, but he didn’t want to marry or pay child support. One month after learning she was pregnant, Alice miscarried. A day later she bid goodbye to Baxter and seriously thought about entering a convent so she would never be tempted again by a good-looking man.

She was never a great student in high school, but working as a cleaning lady in Planet Fitness bored her to death. Her days consisted of scrubbing down exercise equipment and bathroom floors. She knew she needed a degree to get a better job, so she signed up for courses in the local community college. She enjoyed the introductory courses in literature so much she decided to major in English. After earning an associate degree, she headed off to a state university and eventually graduated with a B.A. in American Literature.

Much to her surprise she landed a job teaching English in a nearby high school. The pay was not great, but it was certainly better than what she had earned at the gym.

One night after a long day in the