Medium Things (A Lost Souls Lane Mystery Book 3)

by Erin Huss

“Not much. You know Leah Sanders?”

  “I do.”

  “She told me Margo had been secretly meeting with a man who drove a brand-new Mercedes. She saw them twice behind the train station, alone, at night.”

  “How did Leah know this?” I ask. “Was she following Margo?”

  Billy nods her head. “Leah thought Margo was doing something illegal.”

  “Like what?”

  “Not sure. Leah retracted her statement and won’t return my calls no more.”

  “Why?”

  “Couldn’t say.”

  Huh. “What did Drew say to all this?”

  Billy rolls her eyes. “Drew listened to about a third of whatever came out of anyone’s mouth. The man has the attention span of a two-year-old. When I’d visit him, I’d have all this information and he’d be staring off into space. Prison changed him. I’d never seen a man so depressed in my life. Even when he got out, he wasn’t himself. The only way I’m able to cope with his death is knowing he’s in a better place.”

  Well, not exactly better.

  My eyes slide to Drew, who is patting the top of his head. “Hat!”

  Right. “Do you know where Drew’s hat is?” Please, please, please say yes.

  “No, when I went down to the coroner’s office to identify his body, his hat wasn’t there.”

  “You had to identify him. Where did he die?”

  “On a park bench.” The memory stirs up an intense wave of grief for Billy. I feel it so strongly I have to fight to keep my composure.

  Drew died alone, on a bench, without his hat. Such a sad way to leave.

  “I looked for the hat, but I haven’t found it,” Billy says.

  “What was the significance of the hat anyway?”

  Billy shrugs her shoulders. “He found it right before he went to prison and asked me to hold on to it for him. It was a cool raccoon-looking hat. I have no idea where he found it. But he sure loved it.”

  “It was on my head when I died,” Drew says. “I remember!”

  Great.

  The fact the hat was on his head when he died and wasn’t on his head when he arrived at the coroner’s office makes me think it was disposed of. Which means it’s in a dump. Which means my promise just got a lot harder (and grosser) to keep.

  “You don’t happen to have police reports, confessions, or any of that information, do you?” I ask.

  “I’ll show you what I have. Hold on.” When she stands, the corgis behind the screen start barking again, and she settles them down.

  “You’re lucky to have such a great sister,” I say to Drew. “She believes in you.”

  “I know.” He’s playing with his shoelaces. “She deserved better.”

  “You have way too low of an opinion of yourself.”

  “Maybe you have too high of an opinion of me.”

  Billy returns with a blue file folder stuffed with papers. “These are mostly notes I’ve taken over the years.”

  I flip through the stack. There are a lot of miscellaneous pieces of paper. It’ll take a while to make sense of this mess. “Do you happen to know who the neighbor was that originally called the police?”

  “Sure do. It was Portia Vance, Sheriff Vance’s now ex-wife.”

  I almost fall out of my chair. “Did you ever speak to her?”

  Billy is shaking her head. “She wouldn’t talk to us. Then she filed for divorce the week after Drew was arrested, took her son, and got the hell out of town.”

  “Do you know where I can find her?”

  “No idea.”

  “Do you know why she had to call the police twice?”

  “I always found that sketchy. Portia Vance said she’d called twice, but there’s only record of one call to nine-one-one from her.” She gestures to the file folder.

  I lick the tip of my finger and flip through the papers shoved inside until I find the transcription of the call from Portia to dispatch.

  Dispatch: Emergency nine-one-one, this is being recorded.

  PV: Yes, this is Portia Vance, why hasn’t anyone been sent out to Margo Stolper’s place yet?

  Dispatch: Hi, Mrs. Vance. I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re referring to. Do we need to send a medic to Margo’s home?

  PV: Not a medic. Somebody just broke into her house.

  Dispatch: I’m sending someone out right now. Do you have a physical description of the intruder?

  PV: He’s wearing jeans, a black shirt, a black ski mask, and black gloves. Hold on.

  Dispatch: Portia?

  PV: Margo just pulled up. (yells in background) Margo! Don’t!

  Dispatch: Mrs. Vance? Are you there?

  PV: Margo! Don’t go in the house!

  Dispatch: Mrs. Vance please stay inside and lock your doors. Sheriff Vance is five minutes out.

  PV: I can’t. Margo went inside and there’s a burglar in there … oh, no … where is the boy? (heavy breathing), I can’t find the kid.

  Dispatch: Mrs. Vance, where are you?

  PV: I’m outside … I just heard a scream. Margo screamed … the burglar just ran out the back door. Hurry! Should I follow him?

  Dispatch: Sheriff Vance is right around the corner, please do not follow the burglar.

  PV: (breathing heavily) I can’t find him!

  Dispatch: Sheriff Vance is at the Stolper’s residence now. Where are you?

  PV: (breathing heavily) I can’t find him anywhere!

  End of Call

  Wow. So many questions. Why did Margo go into the house if she’d been warned not to?

  Who had Portia Vance spoken to first? Her husband? Had she originally called the police station directly? But most importantly, “Where can I find Portia Vance?”

  “If you figure it out, let me know. I’ve been trying to find that woman for years,” says Billy.

  Chapter Eight

  I thank Billy for her time, draft up a quick obituary (since that’s technically what I came for), and tell her I’ll be in touch. I’m aching to dig more into Sheriff Vance’s divorce, find Portia Vance, talk to Mrs. Sanders about this mysterious Mercedes Man, and ask why she retracted her statement.

  But first, there’s a pinky-promise I need to fulfill.

  Ten minutes after leaving Billy’s, Drew and I are standing next to the bench where he died. It’s located in a small community park with a jungle gym, grass area, and a bike path. Based on the manicured bushes and the suburban feel, I can’t imagine Drew’s presence was welcomed.

  “I did like this bench. It has good shade,” Drew says. “And it’s close to the courthouse.”

  “I still can’t believe I actually met you when you were alive. What are the odds?”

  Drew blows his hair out of his eyes. “Do you think we’ll find my hat here?”

  Honestly, no. But we have to start somewhere, and Billy said she already checked with the coroner’s office. “Do you remember the day you died?”

  “A little bit. I’d been at the courthouse, came here because I wasn’t feeling good. Then … I was dead.”

  “Are you sure your hat was on you when you died?”

  “I never took it off.”

  “What about to shower?” I ask.

  “I never showered.”

  “Good to know. And why is this hat so important to you?”

  “Did you ever see Back to the Future?”

  “No.”

  Drew mouth hangs open. “You’ve never seen Back to the Future?”

  “No.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “Oh, man! You’ve got to see it,” he says. “They were my favorite movies growing up. My dad and I used to watch them together all the time. In the first one, Milton wears a Davy Crockett hat, and I thought it was super cool. I asked for one every Christmas and never got it. When I was this age”—he gestures to himself—“I finally got one.”

  “Where’d you get it?”
r />   “You’re not going to believe this, but I found it in a trash bag. Someone was going to throw it away!”

  Phew. I was a little concerned he’d stolen the hat.

  We scourer the park—not there.

  I call City Hall, to see if they have a lost and found. Turns out they do, but they do not have the hat.

  I try the coroner’s office, even though they already told Billy they didn’t have it. Turns out they still don’t.

  We check the park behind the Trucker County Courthouse—not there.

  We walk through downtown Trucker, where most homeless men and women sleep. Many have already set up camp for the night. I keep my purse tight to my side as I ask around if anyone has seen the hat. One man says, “No” then asks if he can smell my hair. Another man asks if he can have my socks. I tell him they won't fit his feet. He tells me that he collects pretty women’s socks and shows me his collection.

  In short, no hat.

  “I don’t understand!” Drew says once we’re back in my car. “It couldn’t have disappeared.”

  I squeeze an entire bottle of Purell into my palm. “If you had it on your head every day for almost a year, then chances are it didn’t smell great. My bet is someone threw it away.”

  “It was a perfectly good hat. Why would anyone do that? It wasn’t trash!”

  I lather my hands, arms, elbows, and neck in sanitizer. “Didn’t you find the hat in a trash bag?”

  He runs a hand through his hair. “Is the dump open?”

  “No.” Thank goodness, because I’m out of Purell. “Would you be against me ordering you one on Amazon?”

  “Yes.”

  Darn it. That was my backup plan.

  I start the car. “Let’s stop by the Sanders’ home and speak to Leah. Sound good?”

  “Whatever.” He folds his arms and falls back against the seat.

  My phone rings and my mother’s number flashes on the screen on the dash. I check the time, it’s almost six o’clock.

  “Hey, Mom, what’s going on?” I drive towards the main road.

  “Hi, dear,” she sounds abnormally cheery, like she’s speaking through a forced smile. “We were wondering when you might be home?”

  “I’m going to skip dinner tonight.”

  “You’ll be here soon? That’s wonderful.”

  “No, I said I’d skip dinner.”

  “You’re stuck in traffic? That’s terrible.”

  It’s like we’re having two different conversations. “Mom, are you okay?” I gasp. “Oh no, are you being held at gunpoint? Say okay if you need me to call nine-one-one.”

  “Goodness, Zoe. No.” I can hear footsteps in the background and a door closing. “Mike is here,” she hisses. “He said you invited him to dinner tonight. A little warning would have been nice.”

  I completely forgot about Mike! Oh, geez.

  “I’m in Trucker, but I’ll hurry.” I hang up and turn to Drew. “We need to sit through dinner before we can talk to Mrs. Sanders.”

  “Do you want me to get rid of Handhoff’s kid? Because I will.”

  “No! Please don’t do anything to anyone ever again. Okay?”

  Drew rubs his hands along his thighs but doesn’t answer.

  “Okay?” I try again.

  “I don’t like making promises I can’t keep,” Drew says, still rubbing.

  Well, at least he’s honest. I turn onto the highway, towards Fernn Valley. “Tell me more about the night Margo was killed. Where were you?”

  “At home playing video games, getting high, eating cheeseburgers from Wendy’s … the rest is blurry. I was baked.”

  “What does baked mean?”

  Drew laughs. “It’s when you’re so high that you can’t do anything.”

  “So it would be pretty hard to murder when you’re baked?”

  “Dude, it’s pretty hard to walk when you’re baked.”

  I guess that would be a yes. Not exactly a good defense. I couldn’t have committed that crime, officer. I was too busy committing a different crime.

  When we get home, my mom, dad, and Mike are sitting around the table looking at my childhood scrapbook. Oh, geez. At least I know that when/if I ever have a boyfriend, I will not be bringing him home. Honestly!

  “There she is.” Mom waves me over to the table. “We were just showing Mike your baby pictures.”

  “That’s … great.” I take a seat across from them.

  “Hey, how’s your wrist?” Mike asks.

  Wrist? Oh, right! Wrist.

  “It’s feeling better.”

  Mom gives me a look.

  Dad quickly flips the page of the scrapbook before Mom can ask the obvious, what’s wrong with your wrist? question. “This was Zoe’s eighth birthday party,” Dad says.

  “What happened to years three through seven?” Mike asks.

  Mom, Dad, and I all share a look. I’m not worried about them spilling the beans on this secret. The truth is, when I was three, I burned down the house, and told everyone I talked to dead people. My parents put me on drugs thinking I was schizophrenic, and I spent those years in a zombie-like state. They finally took me off the meds, moved to Fernn Valley, the most uneventful place on the planet, and resumed scrapbooking.

  Mom snaps the book closed. “How about dinner?”

  On the menu for tonight is mashed potatoes with tuna, which looks like something Jabba coughed up. Tastes like it too.

  It doesn’t feel right that we’re eating a fishy potato mash when I’m driving around in a BMW. I know Willie, the spirit who gifted me the car, wanted me to be free and have fun, but I don’t see how I can keep it any longer. Not when my parents don’t have any houses on the market right now and none coming up.

  I’m pushing dinner around my plate using my spoon and sneaking chunks of tuna under the table to Jabba. I notice Dad is doing the same thing, while Mike is on his second helping.

  “I’m glad I don’t have the ability to eat. That looks gross.” Drew is lying under the table with his hands folded over his stomach. “But I do miss cheeseburgers.”

  Me, too.

  “How was your day today, Zoe?” Mom asks.

  “It was good.”

  Mom turns her attention to Mike. “How is your article coming along?”

  “Good. I’m waiting on Zoe’s edits.”

  Right. The article. I need to do that.

  “Tell us more about you, Mike,” Mom says. “You grew up here in Fernn Valley, right?”

  Mike’s mouth is full, and he nods his head.

  “Your mother was Brenda Johansson, right?”

  Another nod of Mike’s head.

  “Margo wasn’t from Fernn Valley, right?”

  “No.” Mike doesn’t want to talk about Margo. But lucky for me, my mom can’t feel his feelings like I can, and she launches into a series of questions, feeling hopeful and motivated. She thinks Mike would be the perfect companion for me, and she wants to know everything about him. I’ve never been so grateful for her meddling, because she’s asking all the right questions.

  Mike feels obligated to answer because he doesn’t want to come off as rude, not after my family has fed him.

  Through Mom’s interrogation I learn that after Margo’s death, Mike had bounced around between different family members before he ended up with his dad. I learn that Margo had homeschooled Mike. It was his dad who'd put him in the public school system. It was his dad who'd signed him up for sports and forced Mike to socialize with other kids more.

  Mike remembers going to open houses with Margo and passing out flyers and giving out business cards at the door. He remembers riding bikes with her at Earl Park. He remembers making tents out of bed sheets. Mike doesn’t recall much about his mother, but Margo used to tell him stories, show him pictures, and tried to keep her memory alive. I catch a hint of restraint from him. He’s choosing his words carefully.

  Much to my frustration, Dad brings out the Scrabble board again. We play one round, and I w
in with the word thugs (ten points on a triple letter). Before anyone can suggest another game, I yawn and stretch my arms above my head.

  Except no one is paying attention to me.

  So I yawn again.

  Mom, Mike, and my dad are all talking.

  “I should probably go to bed,” I say, adding in another yawn.

  Mom checks her watch. “But it’s only nine o’clock. You don’t have one more round in you?”

  Only nine o’clock? This is coming from a person who is asleep on the couch by eight most nights.

  “I better get going.” Mike catches the hint. Hallelujah. “Thanks for dinner. And you’re sure you don’t want me to help with the dishes?”

  Mom brushes off his offer with a wave of her hand and starts to clear the table. “Zoe, why don’t you walk Mike to his car.”

  “Um … sure.” Why not?

  Mom is going to be devastated when she learns there is nothing between Mike and me and that I’m actually head-over-heels in love with my boss, who has a girlfriend.

  Mike says goodnight to my dad, and we step out into the cool night air. I lead the way, cutting across the grass, not wanting Mike to walk by my car. I don’t feel like talking about the scratches.

  “Thanks for inviting me.” Mike shrugs into his jacket. “It’s fun hanging out with your family.”

  “Sorry my mom was asking so many questions.”

  “She’s just trying to get to know me. No problem.” I feel that he means it.

  Huh?

  Then perhaps I can get a little nosey myself. I want to ask him about the day Margo was murdered. I want to ask him more about the man he saw running from their townhome that night. I want to ask him about his neighbor, Portia Vance. I want to ask him if he really believes they caught the right guy. I want to ask why Linney hung up on me when I mentioned the Mercedes Man. I want to ask why he’s hiding Margo’s things from his father.

  “This might seem a little off topic, and it’s hard for me to ask,” I say, tracing the cracks in the cement with the toe of my shoe. “I have a question for you.”

  Mike cups my cheek, and I can feel his other hand rising until his palm is nestled against the small of my back.

  What is happening?

  He pulls me closer and lifts my face until I’m looking at him. Our eyes meet. Brown on brown, and my stomach tightens.