Medium Things (A Lost Souls Lane Mystery Book 3)

by Erin Huss

  MEDIUM THINGS

  A Lost Souls Lane Mystery

  Erin Huss

  Copyright © 2019 by Erin Huss

  Written by Erin Huss

  Cover design by Sue Traynor

  Author photo by Ashley Stock

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Created with Vellum

  Praise for Huss’ Books

  “Unpredictable and laugh-out-loud-funny!” Readers’ Favorite (Making a Medium)

  “Hilarious and fun!” -The Huffington Post (French Vanilla & Felonies)

  "Laugh-out-loud funny, and written in such a descriptive way that you could picture everything that was happening." -Readers' Favorite (French Vanilla & Felonies)

  "This enchanting novel has hit a home run!" Night Owl Suspense (Rocky Road & Revenge)

  “Simply hilarious!" -Chick Lit Chickadees (For Rent)

  “Uproariously funny. Erin Huss is certainly one to watch!" - InD'Tale Magazine (For Rent)

  “Five stars!”- Cozy Mystery Book Reviews (Rocky Road & Revenge)

  “Fun! I highly recommend.” -KRL Reviews (Double Fudge & Danger)

  Silver Medal Winner in the International Readers’ Favorite Awards. (French Vanilla & Felonies)

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  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my editor, Wendi Baker, so fun to work with you; Sue Traynor for the beautiful cover; Paula Bothwell for the editing; Morgan Searcy for the series name; Jed Huss for being the wonderful supportive husband that you are; Debby Holt, Ann Rohrer, Ruth Bigler, Jessica L. Randall, and Nina Johns, for beta reading.

  Dedicated to my daughter, Emma.

  You are such a light in this world, and I love you.

  Contents

  Series Information

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  The Marvelous Ms. Medium

  A Note From the author

  About the Author

  French Vanilla & Felonies

  Also by Erin Huss

  Series Information

  If you’ve never read A Lost Souls Lane Mystery, you can start with MAKING A MEDIUM (only 99 cents), the first book in the series. If you prefer to start with MEDIUM THINGS (book #3), you won’t be lost. Each book can be read as a standalone, but there will be spoilers should you read them out of order. I strongly recommend starting with book one.

  Happy reading!

  You can get the first book at erinhuss.com

  Chapter One

  It could be worse.

  It could always be worse.

  I’m having a hard time coming up with a worst-case scenario at this moment, but I’m sure if I were given about an hour and access to Google, then I’d be able to come up with something. Like, sure, I’m sitting next to a dead, convicted felon, but at least I don’t have x, y, or z.

  Who am I kidding?

  I’d take x, y, z, a, d, f, and the whole dang alphabet instead of this. But that’s not how life works. At least, that’s not how my life works.

  I adjust the Bluetooth in my ear, a prop I use when talking to the dead. It gives the illusion that I’m not speaking to myself. Not sure why I bother using it anymore. Most everyone in my small town of Fernn Valley thinks I’m wacko. But I still have my pride.

  “Do you know why you came?” I ask the spirit. His name is Andrew Foster, and he appeared beside me on the park bench ten minutes ago. Andrew, or Drew as he goes by, looks like a ’90s boy band dropout. He has on high-top white sneakers, jeans, and a yellow and blue-striped shirt. His hair is blond, parted down the middle, and falls to his ears. If I had to guess, I’d say he was about nineteen years old.

  Drew rubs his hands along his thighs. “I’m here because you’re going to help me.”

  “Yes, I’m going to help you transition peacefully.”

  “Peacefully transition into what?”

  “Transition to the afterlife.”

  “But I made bad choices.”

  I keep my focus on the duck pond in the distance, trying hard not to react. “What did you do?”

  In my periphery I see Drew shrug. “A little of this, and a little of that.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Drugs, burglary, killed someone, I skinny dipped in that pond once.”

  I scrunch up my nose. “In that pond? With all the duck poop, and maggots, and … gross. Did you get sick?”

  “I said I killed someone, and you’re more concerned about maggots?”

  Obviously he’s never heard of norovirus, but he makes a point. “Did you actually commit murder?”

  “According to the police I did.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  Drew is still sliding his hands up and down his thighs. Typically, the sound of skin against denim would set my teeth on edge—like nails on a chalkboard. But he’s dead, and there’s no noise.

  “The court convicted me,” he says. “Can you just send me to the bad place, or hell, or eternal fire, or whatever it’s called then?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “So you’re not the gatekeeper?”

  I can’t help but laugh. Me, Zoe Lane, the gatekeeper. Ha!

  Not going to lie, I’d love the job … someday … after I die, of course. Except, I’m not sure I’m heavy-handed enough to deny anyone access to heaven. A spirit would say, “I’m sorry. I promise I’ve changed.” And I’d say, “Well, if you promise …” Then I’d pull back the velvet rope (assuming heaven is like a night club) and allow them access. The great paradise in the sky would then become a cacophony of mobsters, and kindergarten teachers, and cranky Wall Street tycoons, saints, and crooks. A war would ensue. Heaven would become hell, and the entire universe as we know it would disappear. Now that I think about it, it’s probably best I not ever be in charge of who goes where.

  “No, I’m a medium,” I say. “You came to me because there’s business on earth you need to tend to before you can move on.”

  Drew turns his head. “To hell?”

  “Not necessarily. You have a light spirit.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do. It’s not blindingly bright—but it’s certainly not dark. I’ve been around a dark spirit before—they feel, well … dark.”

  “I’m not a good person,
” he says through gritted teeth.

  “Are you sure about that?”

  Drew jumps to his feet and clenches his fists. I instinctually cower, even though he can’t hit me. “Yes, I am! You don’t even know me!”

  That’s not entirely true.

  Here’s what I know about Andrew “Drew” Foster: He was convicted at nineteen for killing Margo Stopler back in 2003. Margo was thirty, and Fernn Valley’s real estate agent. As the story goes, the murder was a burglary gone wrong. Margo walked in on Drew rifling through her stuff, and then he killed her—blunt force trauma to the back of the head. He fled the scene. A joint was found outside the door, DNA was run, Drew was caught, and he served fifteen years in prison.

  Sounds like an open-and-shut case, except I don’t think he did it. Margo Stopler’s spirit came to me a few weeks back while I was at the hospital visiting a friend. Margo had already transitioned to the afterlife, and I can only see spirits when they’re still here on earth. But I could feel her, and she spoke to me. She said, “You’re in far more trouble than you know.”

  Then I said, “Gee, thanks. What kind of trouble?”

  And she said, “Be careful who you trust. And please tell him my death is not his fault. I know he didn’t do it.”

  Frustrated, I said, “Can you please be a more specific? Who didn’t do what? Why am I in trouble?”

  “Just be careful.”

  Then she was gone.

  Margo had also warned me not to tell others about my gift, then she directed me to the library where I just found out that she’d requested Reaching the Other Side, a how-to workbook for mediums. Which makes me think Margo was able to communicate with the dead. Which makes me wonder if her warning to be careful came from personal experience. Which has me questioning if her gift is the reason she’s dead. Which makes me a wee bit nervous because she’d said I was in more trouble than I could even imagine.

  Here’s the thing: I have a pretty good imagination.

  I’d tried to connect with Margo, to ask more questions, but Drew had appeared instead.

  And here we are.

  It would have been nice if Margo had told me who did kill her, because a ghost told me so doesn’t exactly hold up well in the court. And I suspect that’s why Drew is here. His family was run out of town after his conviction, and he needs to clear his name.

  To do this, we need to figure out who the real killer is.

  Sigh.

  Just once I’d like to be visited by a spirit who has come to reconnect with a loved one. A sweet soul who wants to say one last good-bye to a daughter, friend, sister, or parent. The reunion would be a tear-fest of happiness and closure, and there would be absolutely zero mention of murder or motive or Zoe, you have to find out who killed me!

  I’m not sure I have control over who appears to me, but it’s not like I can send Drew away. I mean, I suppose I could, but if I couldn’t deny a grumpy Wall Street tycoon access to heaven in a made-up scenario, then obviously I’m not going to send away a spirit who needs help. I’m not exactly a say no type of gal. I’m not a freaking homicide detective either. I’m a twenty-three-year-old wannabe journalist who likes hot romance novels and the occasional donut.

  And I could really use a donut about now.

  “Sit and let's talk about this,” I tell Drew, who is still towering over me with his hands clenched.

  “No.” He points a finger at my nose. “I thought you were supposed to help ghosts like me.”

  I shoo his hand away. “Yes, I am here to help you.”

  “Good. I want my hat.”

  “Wait … what?”

  “It’s a Daniel Boone hat. You know, the kind with a raccoon tail. I can’t find it.”

  Yes, I know the style he’s referring to. I’ve always called them Davy Crockett caps, but that’s neither here nor there, because we have bigger issues than a missing hat.

  “Let’s worry about clearing your name. Then we can look for your hat.”

  Drew runs a hand down his face, not even listening to me.

  In the corner of my eye, I spot Mrs. Sanders walking her poodle. Her nose is glued to her phone as the furry pooch pulls her along.

  Here’s what I know about Mrs. Sanders: Her lemon-rosemary cake wins first prize in the Fernn Valley Spring Festival every year. She’s married to Mr. Sanders, who is at least twenty years her senior and the town’s pharmacist. She has a serious love of self-tanner, bleached hair, and wears some form of animal print every day.

  I clear my throat and pick a strand of cat hair off my pants, which are navy slacks paired with a white dress shirt. “Anyway, we can’t really get into all this in public,” I say, keeping my eyes on the duck pond.

  “You said you’d help me, though. Right?”

  “Right,” I say casually and lift my hand to wave at Mrs. Sanders who strolls through Drew. “How are you doing?” I say, and Mrs. Sanders startles at my overly cheery voice, obviously having not seen me sitting there.

  She curls up her lip then continues walking.

  “Have a nice day!” I call after her.

  Mrs. Sanders doesn’t acknowledge my salutation, which is fine by me. I was simply being polite and trying not to appear as if I was talking to myself. No offense taken.

  Drew, however, is a different story.

  He blocks her path, hands on hips, chest puffed. “She’s talking to you!”

  Mrs. Sanders’ poodle stops, but Mrs. Sanders does not. She continues to walk, dragging her dog along and goes right through Drew again.

  “You don’t just walk through people!” He’s now shouting in her face. “Zoe was talking to you. Go back and talk to her!”

  I drum my kneecaps, trying to appear unfazed. But Drew is now red in the cheeks, shouting so loudly Mrs. Sanders’ poodle starts howling.

  “What is wrong with you, baby?” Mrs. Sanders tugs on the leash.

  “Go talk to Zoe!”

  Oh, geez.

  I place my finger on the Bluetooth. “I’m perfectly fine,” I say, looking at the sky.

  Drew doesn’t hear me.

  “Can you please come here?” I say a little louder. “Now!”

  Drew continues to scold Mrs. Sanders until her eyes gloss over and her breath quickens. She shuffles backwards, pulling her poodle along and stops in front of me.

  “Good!” Drew crosses his arms. “Now apologize for being rude.”

  I’ve never had a conversation with Mrs. Sanders before, and she looks so confused and uncomfortable that I want to melt into the ground.

  “Hi,” she says, as if unsure of herself.

  I tuck a strand of my dark blonde hair behind my ear. “Hi.”

  Silence.

  “I … um … like your dog,” I finally say.

  More silence.

  Mrs. Sanders stares down at her poodle. “His name is Winston.”

  “Like Churchill?”

  “No, like Harry.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool.”

  “Mmmhmm.”

  I bite at the corner of my lip. “It’s a nice day.”

  “There’s a slight breeze.”

  “Yeah.”

  “This is pathetic.” Drew shakes his head. “Wait a second …” He takes a step closer. “This is Leah! I remember her. We used to hang back in the day, before I was locked up. Damn, she’s aged well. She has to be …” He pauses to do the math in his head, counting his fingers. “At least mid-forties. Tell her she looks good. Chicks like compliments.”

  There’s no way I’m telling Mrs. Sanders she’s aged well. Nope. “You know, I better … umm …” I move my hands around, as if juggling imaginary balls.

  “Me too,” Mrs. Sanders blurts out. “Nice chatting.” She yanks on Winston’s leash and practically sprints away, dragging the poor dog along.

  Well, that was sufficiently awkward.

  “Please don’t do that again,” I say once Mrs. Sanders is out of earshot.

  “She
was rude to you.”

  “I don’t need you to stick up for me. What I do need is for you to help me help you transition.”

  Drew nods his head along, trying to follow. “Help you help me?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Good. I’ll help you find my hat.”

  I blow out a breath and pat the bench beside me. Drew sits. “I don’t believe you’re here to find a hat. You’re here so we can clear up a wrongful conviction.”

  Drew looks at me as if the thought had not crossed his mind. “But what’s the point? I’m dead. Who cares?” He shifts his focus to the ground, and I lean down to catch his gaze. He has the most magnificent brown eyes.

  “I’m sure your family cares,” I say.

  Drew goes back to rubbing his thighs. “What do you know about my family?”

  “I met your niece, Jack. She was a friend of the last spirit I helped. She went to your funeral along with her mother.”

  “Billy,” he says, and I can feel the genuine love he has for this person.

  Aside from seeing the dead, I can also feel other’s feelings. Because my life isn’t weird enough.

  “Who is Billy?” I ask.

  “My sister. She never gave up on me. No matter how many times I asked her to.”

  “Do all the women in your family have boy names?” I ask out of curiosity.

  “My dad’s name was Kelly.”

  Not an answer to my question, but a wise person once told me that names don’t have genders. And truthfully, it’s not relevant. What is relevant is someone out there committed murder and got away with it.