Medium Things (A Lost Souls Lane Mystery Book 3)

by Erin Huss

  “Got it.”

  “Good. Now tell me what the relationship was like between Margo and Leah.”

  “You know how chicks are with their boyfriends. They get all clingy and don’t like when other chicks wrong them,” he says.

  “Okay, I think you’re saying Leah didn’t like Margo?”

  “Yep.”

  “Enough to kill her?”

  He shrugs his shoulders and says, “Sure.”

  Good enough for me! I add Leah to my whiteboard as the fifth suspect, and then grab the next journal.

  This one contains more recipes. “Why would Margo have Brenda’s family recipes”—I flip the journals over—“Oh, these belonged to Brenda. Her name is on the back. Shoot.” All the guilt I felt and all the precious minutes I spent agonizing over these journals was a complete waste of time. Well … I suppose not a complete waste of time. I found another suspect and that Jalapeño Pepper Jelly sounds pretty good. I may have to try it later. But first, Linney.

  “Who are you calling?” Drew asks.

  “Margo’s sister.” I sandwich the phone between my shoulder and ear and check my watch. It’s almost eight. She should be up.

  “Hello?” Linney answers on the third ring.

  “Hi, Linney.” I stand and pace the room. “This is Zoe Lane, we spoke yesterday.”

  “I remember.” There’s grogginess to her voice. Guess she wasn’t quite awake yet. Oops.

  “I had a few more questions for you about your sister.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m um … doing an article on her for The Gazette. A sort of tribute.”

  Linney lets out a short laugh. “Does Stephen Handhoff family know you’re doing this?”

  “Mike does. He’s working on it with me.”

  “Oh.” Her voice trails off. “What questions do you have?”

  There’re so many, but I start with the most pressing. “Do you know if Margo spent much time before she died with a man who drove a Mercedes?”

  The line goes silent.

  “Hello? … Hello? Linney … What the heck? She hung up on me.” I look at Drew. “Should I call her back?”

  “In my experience, when a chick hangs up on you, it’s because you ticked her off.”

  “All I did was ask about the Mercedes man.” I drop my phone on the bed. “I must have struck a nerve.” Which means I need to find the identity of this Mercedes man.

  “Are we going to look for my hat today?”

  “Yes, we’ll get to that. I need to get ready first.”

  “For what?”

  “I have to work.” I open my closet and pick out my clothes for the day. A pair of black slacks with a gray turtleneck and black blazer.

  “You have to work again. But you went yesterday.”

  “Most people work five days a week.”

  He grunts. “Suit yourself.”

  I get dressed, comb my hair, brush my teeth, apply enough makeup to hide the circles forming under my eyes, grab a bagel, say good-bye to my parents, and try to pet Jabba on my way out the door.

  “I never liked molasses cookies,” Drew says as we step outside. “Have a funny aftertaste.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” I go to unplug my car. “You have a very hard time staying on topic … no!” I drop my purse to the ground, staring in disbelief. Someone has keyed my car. Three squiggly lines have been scratched along the driver side door. They’re not big or that long, but they’re there, and there’s no doubt they’re intentional.

  “Someone hates you,” Drew says, standing on the passenger side.

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “No, really. Look.”

  I walk around to the other side of the car. Someone has carved a not very nice five-letter word into the beautiful copper paint just under the window. Except, “They spelled it wrong.”

  “No, they didn’t.”

  “Yes, they did.”

  Drew tilts his head.

  “They forgot the C,” I point out, since he doesn’t appear to be seeing it. “It says bith.”

  “Sorry, I’m not a fancy job person who can spell.”

  “Why are you apologizing? Did you do this?”

  Drew gives me a look. “Oh. You caught me! I grabbed a key and went—" He reaches out his hand and falls through the car door. “Yep, just like that,” he says from inside the car.

  “You moved a light,” I remind him.

  He crinkles his nose. “My bad. I guess your accusation isn’t so bi-thy.” He smiles. “Are you going to call the police?”

  Ugh. “I don’t want to get Sheriff Vance involved …” I notice the neighbors across the street are staring, so I grab my purse, dig out my Bluetooth, and shove it in my ear. “Get in,” I tell Drew and open the car—it has butterfly doors, which are awesome, unless you’re parked too close to another car. Then they’re not so awesome.

  “Why can’t you call the police?” Drew asks.

  I back out of the driveway. “Seriously. Do you pay attention to anything I say?”

  “You need a police report so you can give it to your insurance company. That’s what my dad used to say.”

  “Well, your dad must not have had a twenty-five-hundred-dollar insurance deductible. Police report or not, I’m going to be out the same amount.” In short: I’ll be a bith for a while.

  I make a mental note to clean out the garage so I can park inside.

  “Keyed car is a warning,” Drew says. “I don’t want you to get hurt. Might be time to drop this.”

  “Pffft. I’m not scared.” That’s a lie. I’d obviously struck a nerve with someone who knows exactly where I live. I just hope that someone isn’t a pyromaniac. “Do you think Handhoff did this to my car?”

  “No. He’d steal it or burn it.”

  “I don’t think Sheriff Vance would risk being caught keying a car.”

  “Chocolate chip cookies are my favorite,” Drew says.

  Oh, geez. I wonder if there is some sort of ADD medication for spirits.

  My phone rings, and Mike’s number displays on the dash. I use the control on my steering wheel to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Zoe. Let’s meet at Butter Bakery for coffee, so we can put the final touches on the article.”

  “Final touches? We haven’t written a thing.”

  “I put together a rough draft last night. You can look it over and tell me what you think.”

  That’s not good. I thought I had another full day of investigation I could do under the guise of this memorial piece on Margo. I’m frustrated with his productivity.

  But I meet Mike at Butter anyway, because I can really use a donut.

  I park at The Gazette and walk over, not wanting Mike to see what happened to “her.” I don’t feel like dealing with his grief. I have my own.

  Butter Bakery is the most popular place in town. A pink and white awning hangs over the entrance, with three-tiered wedding cakes proudly displayed in the window. Inside, the tables are white wrought iron, the walls are painted lavender, and the display case is long and filled with the most delicious-looking treats. The aroma is a mixture of sugar and coffee, and on any typical day, like today, you’re lucky to find a seat.

  Mike was lucky. He’s sitting at a table in the corner with his laptop open, wearing a white shirt, tight tan pants, and his hair is not quite as coiffed as it usually is.

  Mrs. Muffin, the owner, greets me with a friendly smile, and we catch up on how her stepdaughter, Penelope, is doing. Penelope had been brutally attacked a few weeks ago and left to die. After a full-day search that resulted in a waxed face, totaled car, and handcuffs, I found Penelope and her attacker. She made it to the hospital in time and is now home recovering. Of course, the only reason I was able to find Penelope was because her spirit helped me. But we don’t get into that.

  I order a glazed donut, a chocolate croissant, and a small hot chocolate. Then I remember I’m broke with a keyed hundred-thousand
-dollar car to fix and change my order to a small tea instead. I don’t even like tea, but it’s the cheapest thing on the menu.

  I weave around the tables with my piping hot mug of chamomile, smiling at everyone as I go. There are a lot of sideways glances and whispers. It’s easier for people to think I’m looney than to accept the truth, that I do actually speak to the dead. But I don’t care what everyone thinks.

  Okay, that’s a lie. I do care, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Might as well put on a good front.

  Drew, on the other hand, he’s not so good at putting on a front.

  “What're you staring at?” he says to Mrs. Ishmael and Mrs. Stewart, who are leaning across the table whispering and giggling like two schoolgirls. “Why don’t you say that to her face? Huh?”

  I can’t tell him to calm down, not in front of everyone. So I let him work out his frustration. It’s rather hilarious—watching him bounce around their tables like a boxer preparing for a match while the two women continue to gossip. It’s also rather endearing. I’ve never had a spirit so fiercely protective over me before.

  “Good morning,” I say to Mike and sit down. The chair is hard and cold, uncomfortable, and a little wobbly. I put my purse on my lap and my tea on the table.

  “Mor’nin.” Mike yawns. His eyes are red rimmed like he’s been up all night drinking, or crying. The thought of him crying tugs on my heartstrings. Yesterday had to have brought up a lot of emotions, and I don’t want to bring them up again.

  Except I have to.

  “Are you feeling okay?” I ask.

  “Feeling good. Do you want to read what I have?”

  “In a minute. We’re in no rush.”

  “The article is due tomorrow.”

  “Well, I mean … you practically wrote it already. So, we can just enjoy ourselves. Yeah?”

  A smile creeps across Mike’s face. “Yeah, we can.” He closes his laptop and holds up what looks like some kind of latte. “Cheers.”

  We clink our mugs, and I take a sip. Blah. Nope. Still don’t like tea. Tastes like watered down leaves. Which, I guess, is exactly what tea is. So it should be no surprise. But still, blah.

  “I had fun last night,” Mike says.

  “We did too. My parents would probably like for you to come to dinner every night,” I say with a laugh.

  “What time?”

  Err … that wasn’t an invitation. “Um, around six?”

  “Works for me.”

  Shoot.

  There’s a tap on my shoulder, and I gaze up.

  It’s Mrs. Ishmael. “I am sorry for being rude to you.” She turns around and walks to her table. Drew gives me two thumbs-up.

  Oh, geez.

  “That was random,” Mike says.

  He has no idea. I clear my throat and take a sip of my tea. Blah! Why did I do that?

  Anyway, concentrate, Zoe.

  “So … how long have you lived with Sheriff Vance?”

  “About two years,” he says. “I moved in after college.”

  “Where’d you go to college?”

  “I went to San Francisco State. It’s in … San Francisco.”

  “And you studied … tech stuff?”

  “Mmmhmm.”

  “That’s cool,” I say.

  “Yeah, it was … cool. I liked San Francisco.”

  “Why move back then?”

  “Because … I like home.”

  “Good.”

  This conversation is not going how I want. Other people make conversing look so easy.

  Drew drops to his knees and folds his arms on the table. I work hard not to look at him.

  “What are we talking about?” he asks.

  I bite my lip. “Are you and Sheriff Vance good friends?”

  Mike shrugs. “Sometimes we watch football together.”

  It dawns on me that I don’t know much about Sheriff Vance. I assume he’s not married since I’ve never heard of a Mrs. Vance.

  “What’s wrong?” Mike asks. “You’re making your … ah … concentration face.”

  I feel my cheeks turn pink. Why, oh why, did my mother have to tell that story? Honestly. I should enroll us both in Socializing 101.

  “I was just thinking that I don’t know much about Sheriff Vance,” I say.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything. Actually. Does he have a wife, girlfriend, mistress? Does he have a child with brown eyes?”

  Mike blinks a few times. “He’s divorced. I think he had a stepson at one point, but I don’t know what color his eyes were. I don’t think he has a girlfriend, which would rule out the mistress, right?”

  A stepson … hmmmm. I need to look into this. “Are his ex-wife and stepson still around?”

  “No, I think they moved away a long time ago.”

  Shoot.

  “You want to look at the article now?” Mike asks.

  Oh, right. That.

  “Sure.” I take a sip of tea. Blah! I need to stop doing that.

  Mike opens the laptop and turns it around for me to read.

  Margo Stolper left the world too soon at the age of thirty …

  I continue to read. Mike wrote about her real estate business, how she grew up in Washington, met Brenda in college, and moved to Fernn Valley to raise him. He doesn’t mention how she died, who killed her, or anything other than the basics I already know.

  Also, Mike has terrible grammar. For a college graduate who aced English, he should at least know the basic rules of punctuation.

  “So … this is a great start,” I say. “But, um … we could add a little more.”

  He frowns. “Like what?"

  Like commas, is what I want to say. But that would be mean. “We could talk about her hobbies. Did she enjoy cooking?”

  “We ate a lot of TV dinners. That’s what I remember.”

  “Did you travel much? Or plan to take any trips to … I don’t know … SeaWorld?”

  “No.” Mike takes a sip of his latte.

  “What about your dad?”

  Mike stiffens. “What about him?”

  “What was their relationship like?”

  I catch a hint of aggravation from him, but I’m not sure if he’s aggravated with me for asking about his dad or aggravated with his dad. All I know is the subject makes him uncomfortable. I can tell without having to feel his emotions. I can read his body language. Which makes me wonder if he knows something. He was there, after all, the night Margo was murdered.

  “Can we please go now?” Drew says with a groan. “You promised we’d find my hat today.”

  “In a minute,” I say.

  Mike narrows his eyes. “In a minute what?”

  Oh, geez. “I’ll … um … need a minute to go over this again.” I read the article again. It’s even worse the second time around. I cannot attach my name to this without some serious editing. “Can you email it to me?”

  “Not a problem.” Mike takes his laptop and starts typing, back to his happy-go-lucky-everything-is-awesome self, emitting only positive emotions.

  He’s a bit too happy.

  Like he’s trying to cover something.

  Chapter Seven

  Mike, Drew, and I walk to work. Mike and I keep the conversation light, mostly talking about the weather, community events like the parade next week, and the Fall Festival coming up. Mike talks a little bit about softball but doesn’t stay on the topic for long. He asks about my car, and I change the subject.

  Drew inserts little comments here and there, most of which revolve around his hat. Like, “When are we going to find my hat?” and “You gonna look for the hat this morning?” and “Why aren’t we looking for my hat?”

  When we reach The Gazette, a blue sedan is parked at the curb. It’s Va-ness-a’s car.

  I can see through the window. Brian leans over and plants a quick peck on his girlfriend’s lips before he gets outs. Watching the display of affection causes a hollow ache in the pit of my stomach.
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  Mike follows my gaze then drapes his arm around my shoulders and pulls me in tight, so I’m nestled right in his armpit.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “A little jealousy never hurt anyone.”

  I push him off me, and he laughs.

  Making the guy jealous is the premise of ninety-nine percent of every high school romance movie ever made, and I’m not interested in playing that game. Mostly because the story goes like this: Girl wants to make guy jealous. Girl finds fake boyfriend. Guy is jealous. Girl and fake boyfriend break up. Girl gets the guy of her dreams. Girl realizes the guy of her dreams isn’t all that great and she’s in love with the fake boyfriend. Fake boyfriend becomes real boyfriend. The end.

  This is not how I want my story to go.

  Brian swings a messenger bag over his shoulder and hooks his sunglasses into the collar of his shirt. Drew comes out from behind me, hands clenched.

  Oh, no.

  “You’re the guy who made Zoe sad.” Drew approaches Brian, and I feel helpless. I can’t stop him, because neither Mike nor Brian can see what I do. And what I see is a spirit looking for a fight.

  Brian waves to Mike and me. “Good morning.”

  Drew gets in Brian’s face and screams, “Boo!” Brian stops and turns around.

  Drew is by far the most powerful spirit I’ve ever encountered. It could be because he’s been dead for several weeks and is better acquainted with his abilities. Or maybe every spirit, like every living person, is equipped with a unique set of talents.

  Drew places his fingers to his temples. Brian’s bag unzips, and out falls his laptop, hitting the ground with a crash so loud both Mike and I cringe.

  “No!” Brian drops to his knees and picks up what’s left of his laptop. “It’s cracked. Dammit.”

  Mike and I go to his aid, and I shoot Drew a look.

  “What?” he says. “He made you sad. The man had to pay.”

  Oh, geez.

  Mike grabs the laptop from Brian and holds down the power button, shaking his head.

  “I must not have zipped my bag all the way.” Brian adjusts his glasses and peers over Mike’s shoulder.

  I feel so horrid. I should have stopped Drew. Now Brian is out a laptop because of me.

  He’s also out of a car because of me. I’d borrowed it when I was looking for Penelope. Long story short, it’s now a twisted hunk of metal sitting in a tow yard somewhere between here and Trucker.