Medium Things (A Lost Souls Lane Mystery Book 3)

by Erin Huss

  “You will do no such thing.”

  He’s not listening to me.

  “Drew!”

  He drops his arms. “What?”

  “Stop, and please, please, concentrate.” I pull out the whiteboard from under my bed and stare at my list of suspects: Handhoff, Sheriff Vance, Leah, a break-in gone wrong, and the mysterious Mercedes Man.

  Could Margo have been selling prescription drugs? Was the prescription she gave to Mr. Sanders fake? Why would Margo go all the way to Portland? Is that where all the money came from?

  A quick Google search tells me there is no Dr. Hagan in Portland, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t sixteen years ago.

  “I really need to speak to Portia Vance,” I say.

  Drew goes back to punching the air. “Don’t think she’ll talk to you.”

  “Not if she’s anything like her ex-husband.”

  Turns out Portia Vance is a popular name, and Googling her only results in over two-hundred social media profiles. Locating her is going to be a lot more work than I anticipated. I need more time.

  Which leaves me with no other option …

  When Brian answers, he sounds like he’s either been screaming or sleeping. Considering it’s nearly eleven, my guess is the latter. “Zoe, are you okay?”

  “Not entirely. I’m sorry, but I have to call in sick tomorrow … because I’m … sick.”

  “You’re sick too? There must be something going around the office.

  Mike just sent me a text. He’s not coming in either.”

  My heart skips over about ten beats, and I drop my head into my hands. I feel wretched about what happened with Mike. I need to find a way to make it up to him.

  “I’ve been considering the obituary for Andrew Foster,” Brian says. “And I think it would be in poor taste to publish one. You should have the family ask the Trucker Gazette if they’ll run it.”

  Drew screams, and I look up.

  What in the world? Drew is fading in and out of focus.

  “Hold on a second, Brian.” I put the call on mute. “What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know. It feels like I’m being pulled …”

  “Pulled where?”

  “Not sure. But I don’t want to go.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I don’t want to go,” he says with more conviction and comes back to focus.

  That was odd.

  I unmute the call. “That’s fine about Andrew. I’ll be sure to send you this memorial on Margo tonight. I just need to edit it.”

  “About that, Mike asked that we not run it anymore. I want to respect his wishes, given the relationship with Margo. I’m scrambling to come up with a new front page.”

  I’m baffled. Sure, Mike’s mad at me, but he doesn’t have to throw away the entire article. Why would he do that?

  “It’s a shame you won't be at work,” Brian says. “I was going to ask if you wanted to come with me to cover the town council meeting tomorrow night.”

  Wait a second … me?

  He was going to ask me.

  Shoot! I certainly wouldn’t mind a night alone with Brian. Why did I have to say sick? Couldn’t I have said a doctor’s appointment? Dang it. Dang it. Dang it.

  “What time is the meeting?” I ask.

  “It starts at seven thirty.”

  “Oh … yeah … I should be fine by then.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I have a twenty-four-hour thing, and … um … I’m totally not contagious … I just have you know … stuff.” Gah! I sound idiotic.

  “I don’t want you to come if you’re sick. But if you’re up to it, you can meet me there at ten till seven.”

  “Sounds wonderful.” Perhaps wonderful is a strong word to describe a Fernn Valley town meeting, but I can’t help but feel excited … and also a little guilty about Mike. But then again, Mike and I aren’t dating. We kissed, and now he’s not talking to me. But I still feel guilty.

  Gah! I need therapy.

  Brian and I hang up. I feel anxious and restless and spend the rest of the night searching for information on Sheriff Vance—and coming up with nada. He’s been reelected every four years since the eighties, and there is absolutely no information on the man anywhere. How do people even know who they’re voting for? I need to speak to someone who has lived here a long time, knows everyone, and is willing to actually talk to me.

  Luckily, I know the perfect person. Mrs. Batch. She’s the mayor’s wife. She and I have a fairly good relationship. She believes I’m a medium and asks me weekly to contact the dead for her. Mostly dictators, ex-boyfriends, and former presidents. She’s lived in Fernn Valley her entire life, so she should know where I could find Portia Vance.

  I fall asleep around five, and I’m up by six. Mrs. Batch goes to Butter Bakery first thing every day, and I want to catch her before the morning rush.

  It’s still hazy outside, and the lawn is damp with morning dew. The sidewalks are wet, the streets have recently been swept, and the Cub Scouts are raising the flags outside the church on the corner.

  I park in front of the bakery and find Mrs. Batch sitting outside with a coffee, scone, and a magazine with Jennifer Aniston on the cover. Mrs. Batch looks like the See’s Candy lady, with a gray bun, afghan over her shoulders, and round glasses.

  “Good morning,” I say.

  Drew huffs a sigh. “I’m going to wait on the ground.” He lies down on his back and folds his hands over his stomach, like he’s occupying a coffin.

  “Morning, Zoe. How are you doing?” Mrs. Batch says. “Are you ready for my list now?” She digs around in her purse and pulls out a piece of college-ruled paper folded into thirds. “I’ve added more people. I’d like to speak to JFK to hear his side of things.”

  “I’m not quite ready for that.” I take a seat in the chair across from her. “I came to ask you about Portia Vance.”

  “There’s a name I haven’t heard in a while.” Mrs. Batch takes a sip of coffee. The steam fogs her glasses. “Did she die?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Last I heard, she was going by her maiden name, Pepper.”

  Portia Pepper? What a mouthful.

  “Do you have any idea where I can find her?” I ask.

  “She was in Nevada for a few years, but I heard she moved back and opened a café … or maybe she was running a cat rescue foundation?” She shrugs her little shoulders. “Now that I think about it, I think she runs a cat café.”

  “I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

  “It’s in Trucker.”

  “Trucker! That’s great. I’ll look her up. Thank you.”

  Mrs. Batch sucks in a breath. “Why do you want to find her?”

  “I’d like to know more about Sheriff Vance. After all, he’s an elected official, and I deserve to know … everything.”

  “If you want to know more about a man, you shouldn’t be asking his ex-wife.”

  “Do you know why they got divorced?” I ask.

  “No idea. They appeared to have a good relationship, and I know he adored the little boy. But you never know what goes on behind closed doors.”

  No, you don’t.

  “Be careful, dear,” Mrs. Batch says. “Sheriff Vance won't like you meddling in his private affairs.”

  “I don’t care what he thinks.”

  Okay, that’s a lie.

  I care about what Sheriff Vance thinks.

  Which is why I park my car at the Trucker Mall and walk four blocks to the PuuurrrCat Café, ducking into alleyways, and making an extra loop around the street. I want to throw off anyone who could be following.

  The PuuurrrCat Café is a café with cats. Lots and lots of cats. Oh, my! I step inside and pick up a black kitten and rub my cheek against her fluffy fur. I’m in heaven.

  A woman no taller than me (and I’m short) with wavy shoulder-length blonde hair, glasses, and big brown eyes greets us at the entrance. “Welcome to PuuurrrCat Café. Do you have a reservation
?”

  Reservation? I look around. There’s no one here but cats. “I don’t. I’m here to speak to Portia. Is she around?”

  “Portia will be in soon. Did you want to stay and wait?”

  Do I want to sit in a room filled with cats?

  Pffft. Like she even has to ask.

  It cost twenty-five dollars to sit with the cats. That’s a lot of money for me right now. But also possibly the best twenty-five dollars I’ve ever spent.

  “I’m getting a headache.” Drew drops onto the chair across from mine. “I’m dead, and I’m getting a headache! Is there even a brain inside of my head?”

  My Bluetooth is shoved in my ear, and I pull a yellow tabby cat onto my lap. He’s large and grumpy, only has one eye, and purrs the second I touch him. I may be in love.

  “Are you even listening to me?” Drew says.

  “Yes, I am. No, I don’t know if you have a brain. You could be remembering what a headache feels like, and that’s what you’re experiencing.” A total guess on my part, but it makes sense.

  “No, it feels like something is pulling at me.” He flickers in and out, like he did last night.

  “What happens if you allow yourself to go wherever you’re being pulled?”

  “I don’t want to leave.” Drew folds his arms and slinks down into the chair. “I’m staying here.”

  My twenty-five-dollar entrance fee comes with a complimentary tea, and the wavy-haired woman brings me a cup of chamomile. I dump three packets of Equal, one creamer, and a squirt of honey into my mug and stir it all together. I take a sip and … blah. Nope, still not a tea drinker.

  “My head really hurts.” Drew is hunched over in agony.

  “Could you be going through withdrawals?” I look around, hoping to find any kind of fan. But there aren’t any.

  Shoot.

  Drew fades in and out several times. I feel completely helpless. The orange tabby in my lap hisses and digs his claws into my leg.

  “Hang in there, Drew.”

  “What is happening?” he moans.

  “I don’t know.”

  Drew screams out in pain and clutches his head. “No, no, no, no,” he says through gritted teeth. “No! I’m not going!”

  I must look as distressed as I feel, because there’s a hand on my shoulder. When I gaze up, I find a tall woman with prominent cheekbones and long lashes. “Are you okay, dear?” she asks.

  “No. No. No!” Drew is on the floor, rolling around, fading in and out.

  “Stop!” I say. “Stay here!”

  The woman tilts her head to the side, her eyes as round as an owl’s. “Who are you talking to?”

  Drew rolls to his back and drapes his arm over his face.

  “Um … just a cat,” I say. “Are you okay, cat?” I’m staring at a gray kitten sitting on the floor near Drew’s head.

  “I’m better now,” Drew says, giving me a thumbs-up.

  I have no idea what just happened.

  “I was told you wanted to speak to me,” the woman says.

  “Oh, are you Portia?”

  “I am.” She takes a seat on the coffee table and pets the cat on my lap. “This is Gus. He’s up for adoption. Did you want me to draw up the papers?”

  Gus starts to purr and nudges me with his head, forcing me to pet him. So tempting. “He’s really sweet. But I actually came to talk to you about your old neighbors in Fernn Valley. I work for the paper, and we’re running an article on Margo Stolper …” Except we aren’t anymore. Shoot. Not being able to use that excuse any longer is going to make investigating harder.

  Portia folds her hands. “What did you want to know?”

  “I understand you’re the one who called the police the night Margo was killed.”

  She gulps loud enough for me to hear. “Yes, I called the police.”

  “Did you call nine-one-one, or did you call your husband at the time?”

  The mention of her ex causes her cheeks to flush. Not in a hidden desire kind of way, more like a he-makes-my-blood-boil-and-I-wish-he-were-dead kind of way. Which, ironically, are her exact thoughts at the moment.

  This should work in my favor.

  “I first called my husband at the time,” she says. “When he didn’t immediately respond, I called nine-one-one.”

  “Why didn’t he respond?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She’s lying. I can feel it. I see it on her face. “Is there a reason Sheriff Vance would want Margo dead?”

  “No, of course not.”

  Another lie. There is a reason, but I don’t know what it is. Her thoughts aren’t coming to me. “Do you remember what the person who broke into Margo’s house looked like?”

  “It was the Foster kid.”

  That’s not a lie. She whole-heartedly believes it was Drew. Shoot. Which means she does not believe it was Sheriff Vance.

  “You saw his face?” I ask.

  “No, but they found his joint right outside the door.”

  “But you didn’t actually see his face?”

  “No, he was wearing a mask.”

  “What was his build? Tall? Skinny? Short?”

  “He had the same build as the Foster kid.”

  She’s speaking her truth. An imagine of a person in all black wearing a ski mask, prying open a window comes to my mind. This is Portia’s memory from that night. “Per the transcript from the nine-one-one call, you chased the intruder. But did you know Margo was dead when you went after him?”

  She shifts in her seat. “No. I thought she screamed because she found someone in her house, not because she’d been attacked. If I had known, I would have gone to her aid instead of chasing down a burglar.”

  “So you’re not able to confirm that Margo was killed by the intruder?”

  My question confuses Portia. “What are you implying?”

  “You weren’t there when Sheriff Vance arrived on the scene, so you can’t say for sure the person who broke in is the one who hit Margo on the back of the head and killed her.”

  My question gives her pause. Images of Portia running down the street, barefoot, the phone at her ear, come to my mind. She’d lost sight of the person she was chasing and turned around, her adrenaline pumping. When she came up the hill, she saw Sheriff Vance parked in front of Margo’s townhome, the red and blue lights flashing against a darkening sky. Margo’s car was in the driveway. A new Ford Explorer without license plates. Portia looked inside for Mike, but he wasn’t there. A man walked towards her in a police uniform. It takes me a minute to recognize the man as Sheriff Vance. He didn’t have a mustache, his hair was dark, and he was about thirty pounds lighter.

  “It’s not good,” he’d said to Portia. His face glistened with sweat.

  “What do you mean?” Portia chocked out. “What do you mean, Vance? Vance!”

  “She’s gone.”

  Portia slapped Vance across the face and ran off.

  This is where the memory ends.

  “Do you think Vance killed Margo?” I ask.

  Portia lifts her eyes. She’s considering the possibility, but ultimately says, “No. It wasn’t him.”

  The fact my question gave her pause makes me think there is a reason why he’d want her dead.

  “Does Vance know you’re here?” she asks.

  “No, he doesn’t,” I admit. “Are you going to tell him?”

  “I haven’t spoken to him in sixteen years, and I don’t plan to start now.” Portia touches my arm. “If you’re writing an article about Margo, you should concentrate on her life rather than her death.”

  If only I could. “Were you and Margo friends?”

  “We were neighborly. She’d come over after the kids were in bed, and we’d sip wine and unwind. But we didn’t talk about deep stuff.” She frowns. “Then one day … she stopped coming over. I never found out why.”

  Lie.

  She’s either lying about Margo coming over, or she’s lying about not knowing why Margo stopped. E
ither way, she’s not telling the full truth.

  “Did you ask Margo why she stopped coming over?” I ask.

  “No.”

  This is the truth. Portia didn’t ask because she already knew the answer.

  “Did you ever see a Mercedes in front of her house?” I ask.

  “No.”

  This is the truth. Darn it.

  “Was Margo dating anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever see a man at her house?”

  “Never.”

  “What about Handhoff? Did Margo ever mention him?”

  “A few times. She didn’t want him near Mike, which I understand. Everyone knew Handhoff was a drug dealer.”

  “If everyone knew Handhoff was dealing drugs, then why didn’t Sherriff Vance … gee … I don’t know … arrest him?”

  Portia rolls her eyes. “I asked the same question, and Vance’s response was ‘I don’t have any proof. It’s only hearsay.’” Portia picks up a black and white cat, shaking her head. “He was very quiet about his policing work, and I assumed he was looking into Handhoff but was unable to give me the details. That was before I knew Handhoff could do as he pleases in Fernn Valley.”

  “Why is that?” I try not to sound as frustrated as I feel, but honestly. I look at the sheriff wrong, and he’s following me around, taking pictures, ruining my parents’ career, and tattling on me. What does Handhoff have that I don’t … wait a second … “Does Handhoff have something on Sheriff Vance?”

  Portia lowers the cat to the ground and folds her hands. Her thoughts are guarded, but I catch a hint of sudden panic. Handhoff does have something on the sheriff! And Portia knows exactly what it is.

  “I won't tell anyone,” I blurt out. “Not a single soul.” Well, except for Drew, who is still lying on the ground with his arm draped over his face. If he weren’t already dead, I’d be checking for a pulse.

  Portia scoots to the edge of the table. “There are certain things that are best left in the past.”

  That’s exactly what Sheriff Vance said. I feel like Don Music again, wanting to bang my head on the coffee table. But I don’t, because that would upset the cats. Instead, I switch gears.

  “You have a son, right?” I ask, thinking about the child in Sheriff Vance’s thuoghts.