Medium Things (A Lost Souls Lane Mystery Book 3)

by Erin Huss

  “I do. He lives up in Washington with his wife and my granddaughter.” Portia pulls out her phone. I can feel her relief, she’s happy to drop the subject of Sheriff Vance. She shows me a picture of a little girl with chubby cheeks and blue eyes. “That’s my grandbaby, Portia. They named her after me.” She swipes right. “That’s my son and his wife.” She shows me the photo of a handsome man with a shaved head, lip ring, broad shoulders, and hazel eyes.

  He is not the child from Sheriff Vance’s memory.

  “Does your son stay in touch with Sheriff Vance?” I ask.

  Portia sighs. “No, we left and cut all contact.”

  “Why’d you file for divorce right after Margo died?”

  Portia’s thoughts are guarded. “Can I give you some advice about Vance?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Have you ever heard the saying, keep your friends close and your enemies closer’?”

  “Yes.”

  “That about sums him up.”

  I nod my head with understanding. Sheriff Vance keeps his enemies close … like in the townhouse next door, or in his house.

  “I will not answer anymore questions regarding my ex,” Portia says, and she means it.

  But I ask one more anyway. “Handhoff has something on Sheriff Vance. Does this something have anything to do with a brown eyed child?”

  Portia’s cheeks flush. “I’m done.” She stands, and gestures to the door.

  Guess that answers my question.

  I thank her for her time, reluctantly say good-bye to Gus, and duck into an alleyway behind the café. There’s a plastic table with three mismatched chairs near the dumpster, and I take a seat.

  Drew appears to have recovered and slinks down into one of the chairs, looking like a toddler who hasn’t gotten his way. “What now?” he asks.

  I whip out my phone. “I need to call Mike.”

  “Ugh! Whhhyyyy?”

  “Because I want to talk to him. Sheriff Vance keeps his enemies closer. You can’t get much closer than a roommate, and Mike not even know he is an enemy.”

  Mike’s cell goes right to a full voicemail box, so I send him three text messages asking him to call me.

  “He’s never going to call you back,” says Drew.

  “Well, you said Portia Vance wasn’t going to talk to me and look what happened.”

  He shrugs.

  “I want to look up Margo’s dad. Clearly, there was something going on with her before she died. Portia is lying. I think Handhoff was blackmailing Sheriff Vance, and I’m wondering if Handhoff broke into Margo’s home. Sheriff Vance knew this was going to happen, which is why he didn’t rush over.”

  “If Linney wouldn’t talk to you,” Drew says. “I doubt her dad will.”

  He’s right, but I still have to try.

  “All I do is sit around and watch you stare at your stupid phone,” he says.

  “Because I’m doing research for you and Margo.”

  A wooden crate slams against the side of the building and crashes to the ground. My eyes slide to Drew.

  “What?” he says, mocking offense.

  “Behave.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I won't help.”

  “Fine then, don’t help. I’ll just leave.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  “I won't.”

  “Don’t.”

  I scroll through Margo’s obituary, highlight her father’s name, and start a new search. There isn’t any information on John Stolper Junior, but there is quite a bit of info on a John Stolper Senior. He was an Academy Award-winning producer in the 1950s. Which could mean absolutely nothing.

  Also, I told Drew I would no longer help him. But I’m too invested, and he’s still sitting across from me. Obviously we’re all talk.

  I read through John Stolper Senior’s bio on IMDb. “Margo’s grandfather was a big-time Hollywood producer, and he died the same year she did,” I read. “Do you think she had an inheritance? Or a trust? It would explain where the money came from. Not where it went. But it’s a start.”

  Drew fades in and out of focus again. “Why does this keep happening?” He clutches his head.

  I have no idea, but I fear our time is running out.

  And I still have a promise to keep.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Trucker City Landfill has a higher admission cost than the PuuurrrCat Café. They also have more cats, which makes sense. If I were a feral feline, I’d live here too. There are rodents in every shape and size.

  Drew and I search for three hours and find several kitchen sinks, three couches, one bag of brand-new clothes, one sleeping homeless man, three bins of baby diapers, a basket of doll heads, six raccoons, and at least fifteen Davy Crockett hats.

  None of which belongs to Drew.

  The sky has turned an orangey hue, and the sun has disappeared behind a mountain of garbage. The mission is a total bust. I fear this will be one promise that I won't be able to keep, and I feel horrid.

  But not as horrid as Drew.

  “We could keep looking,” he says, following me back to my car.

  “The place closes in fifteen minutes, and we don’t have any light left.” I fish a bottle of sanitizer from my bag and get to work, starting with my fingers and lathering all the way to my armpits.

  “It could still be here.”

  I walk up to him, my Bluetooth in my ear. “Drew, I am so very, very sorry. I’ve tried my best, but I just don’t know where else to look.”

  He crosses his arms. “It has to be around here. What if we check dumps?”

  “There is only one in Trucker.”

  “What about Fernn Valley?”

  I highly doubt the hat was dumped in Fernn Valley since he died in Trucker, but at this point, it’s worth a shot. “We can look there tomorrow when it opens.”

  “Tomorrow? What about tonight?”

  “I’m sure it’s closed.”

  “That’s what bolt cutters are for,” he says.

  “I’m not breaking into the landfill, Drew.”

  “You only want to leave so you can go on your date.”

  “Date? What date? I don’t have a …” Crud! He’s talking about Brian. I check my watch. “It’s not a date, but it is my job. We have to go right now.”

  Drew takes a defiant stance. “I’m not leaving.”

  “So be it.” I get in and start the car. Drew is still standing, arms folded, jaw clenched, and brow furrowed. It’s a game of chicken. He knows I won’t leave without him, and I know he won't stay without me. We stare each other down, daring the other to take action.

  Typically I would cave. I’d get out of the car and go sift through trash for another fifteen minutes until we’re kicked out. Then I’d drive to Fernn Valley, jump the fence at the landfill there, and sift some more in the dark.

  But I’m not feeling typical today. I’m feeling bold, and I’m not sure why.

  I peel out of the parking lot, leaving a cloud of dust behind me, feeling rather triumphant. Until I reach Fernn Valley and Drew is still not in the passenger seat. I don’t see him. I don’t feel him.

  When I get home, I rush to the bathroom and shower, scrubbing off at least two layers of skin. When I get out, Drew is still not here. My room is eerily quiet, and I get dressed in jeans, a pink shirt, and a blue paisley sweater. I slip on my Vans, and rush out the door, stopping first to take a bite of the tuna and bean casserole my mother made for dinner.

  When she asks where Mike is, I shove another bite into my mouth, make a grunting sound, and I’m on my way.

  The entire car ride to Fernn Valley Town Hall, I try to reach Drew to no avail. Part of me wants to turn around and see if he’s still at the dump, but then again, maybe he hasn’t returned because he found the hat on his own. If he did find the hat, I hope he’ll speak to me before he transitions.

  It’s standing room only at Town Hall. I scrawl my name on a tag provided at the door, slap i
t on my sweater, and scan the room for Brian. He’s sitting in the middle of the second row with this iPad on his lap and his jacket on an empty folding chair beside him.

  I snake through the crowd and side-shimmy down the row until I reach Brian. He looks up at me, adjusts his glasses, and gives me the once-over. “You look nice, Zoe.”

  Okay, I may have put on a tad bit more makeup than normal, but that’s only because I wanted to look good for Brian, not because I was trying to impress anyone else.

  “Thank you.” I take a seat and cross my legs. “You got a really good seat.”

  “I’ve been here for an hour. Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes.” As in I’m no longer fake sick. I feel rather unsettled and quite crummy about the situation with Drew.

  “I’m glad you could make it,” he says.

  “Me too.” I put my bag on my lap. “How’s your computer?”

  He shakes his head. “Dead.”

  We take a moment of silence for his laptop.

  There’s a long table at the front of the room with name cards lined up. I’ve never been to Town Hall before, nor have I ever attended a council meeting. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.

  “Should I take notes?” I pull out a pad of paper and pen.

  Brian shakes his head. “I’ve got it covered.”

  Oh, okay. I shove everything back into my bag. Except … “What exactly would you like me to do?”

  “I thought it would be nice to have company and we could grab dessert afterward.”

  “Oh … okay. Sure.” I settle back into my chair … Hold on.

  Wait one second here.

  My mind is working hard to make sense of this.

  Surely anything involving the city council wouldn’t be considered a date … right?

  No, this can’t be.

  I turn and look at Brian. He has on a blue collared shirt with a pair of dark pants. He smells freshly showered and looks freshly shaven.

  But this couldn’t possibly be …

  No, there’s no way.

  But … he did say dessert.

  “Um … where is Va-ness-a tonight?” Crap, I didn’t mean to break her name into syllables.

  “She went back home to Oregon.”

  She went back home? Last I heard she was moving in. I’m trying really hard not to act as excited as I feel, but this could be a date. A real date with Brian Windsor.

  Holy crap!

  I’m going to get weird.

  It’s going to happen. I feel it in my bones. Suddenly I don’t know what to do with my hands or my legs, and I’m trying not to breathe too hard. Crap! Did I put on deodorant? I was so preoccupied with thoughts of Drew that I can’t remember if I did.

  Even if I didn’t, it shouldn’t matter. It’s not like he’s going to be sniffing my armpits. Unless he goes to hug me and I have to lift my arms. Dang it!

  I drop my bag onto the floor. “Oops,” I say with a smile and reach down to pick it up, taking a whiff on my way … nope, no deodorant. Which is unfortunate because I’m sweating. I rarely sweat. I’m typically cold because I typically have a spirit with me. But I’m spirit-less, deodorant-less, and so far out of my comfort zone I’m going to need a map to find my way back.

  “Are you okay?” Brian asks.

  “For-totally.” I try to get comfortable on the hard folding chair, crossing and recrossing my legs.

  The city council members file out of a door on the side of the stage area and take a seat. The biggest thing on tonight’s agenda is the proposal to put a stoplight on Main Street. Seems like a no brainer to me—I was struck before by a moving vehicle at the proposed intersection.

  But there are a lot of opinions being thrown around. Mr. Ishmael goes on a twenty-minute tangent about how a light would affect his business. He owns the dry cleaners. Not sure how waiting at a red light, allowing pedestrians to more safely cross, would cause people to stop getting their shirts dry cleaned, but whatever.

  While the stoplight is being discussed, my mind wanders back to Drew. I can’t believe he still hasn’t reappeared. Maybe he is waiting for me to give in. I wish he cared more about finding Margo’s killer. If he hadn’t said someone out there got away with homicide, then I’d swear he didn’t care about Margo’s death at all.

  Portia is hiding information, and so is Sheriff Vance. Makes sense Handhoff would have something on Sheriff Vance, otherwise how’d he escape jail time as a known drug dealer? What Handhoff has on the sheriff would have to be big. Really big. Big enough to ruin Sheriff Vance’s career or even put him in jail. If Margo were to became privy to the information Handhoff had then she’d be a target.

  Vance wants to keep his enemies closer …

  I check my phone. Mike still hasn’t responded to my texts and phone calls.

  Shoot.

  Another concerned Fernn Valley resident takes the floor and argues for the stoplight. I readjust in my chair and try to concentrate on the meeting.

  But I can’t.

  Why would Portia slap Sheriff Vance when he told her Margo was dead? Such an odd reaction. Portia ran after the burglar then came back to look for Mike … to look for Mike.

  I sit up a little straighter. Mike wasn’t in the car. Nor was he anywhere in Portia’s memory. She told dispatch that she couldn’t find Mike. But Mike was able to identify Drew. He said he saw Drew running from the back door. But the car was in the driveway. How is that even possible? Had Mike gone around the back? Was he there to witness what happened to Margo?

  Holy crap!

  What if Mike knows the truth, but he was brainwashed by Sheriff Vance to think something else?

  Holy crap!

  What if a spirit visited Margo, and gave her the incriminating information on Sheriff Vance?

  Holy crap!

  What if the visiting spirit was Brenda?

  I almost slide off my seat, enough so that Brian grabs ahold of my arm.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  I stare into his beautiful eyes and say, “I have to go.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry.” So unbelievably sorry.

  I stand and side-shuffle down the row, trying not to step on anyone’s toes or cause too much attention. Which is a losing feat. Everyone’s eyes are on me as I race down the center aisle.

  Outside, the air is crisp, the moon is full, and there’s not a cloud in the sky. I get in my car, close my eyes, and try to reach Drew again.

  But he doesn’t respond.

  Crap. I know what I want to do, but I’m trying to talk myself out of it because I don’t want to go alone. But if Drew isn’t here, I don’t have a choice.

  I have to figure out what Margo knew, which means digging through her stuff.

  Chapter Twelve

  I park down the street from the storage place. The office is closed, but the lights are on. I tiptoe around the building. Handhoff’s apartment is attached to the office, and I peek in through his patio door. He’s lying back in a recliner with a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and a rerun of The Golden Girls on the television.

  I sneak past the window and go towards the back entrance. There aren’t any security cameras, which I find odd. But then again, maybe there are things happening around here Handhoff would rather not be recorded.

  When I reach the back door, there’s a loud rattling sound that causes me to jump. I use the light on my phone to see where the noise is coming from. The German Shepherd next door in the tow yard is scratching at the chain link fence, trying to get over.

  “It’s just me,” I whisper. “Don’t worry.”

  The dog rapid fires a series of baritone barks, and I fumble my phone into my back pocket.

  “Shhhh,” I tell the dog, not that he can hear me over his barking. I type the code into the door, singing the numbers to the tune of “Mary Had a Little Lamb” in my head. Thank goodness I remember! Once I’m granted entrance, I hurry inside, praying Handhoff doesn’t investigate what w
as upsetting the dog.

  I reach Mike’s storage unit, use his code to open the combination, place the lock in my purse, slide open the door, and close it behind me. I feel around for the light switch, but I can’t find one. Before I have a complete panic attack, I remember there’s a light on my phone. Which is still on.

  Everything appears exactly the same as the last time I was here. Margo’s boxes are in the back, and I grab the first and start looking. There’s got to be something in here that will tell me what Margo knew about Sheriff Vance.

  There are some sweaters from college, a pennant from the San Francisco Giants, and a poem Mike wrote Margo on Mother’s Day.

  Sorrow crawls its way into my brain, and I fall back on my butt. Mike lost his mother, then his second mother, and then had to live with his dad who blackmails authorities and sets things on fire, and he thinks I betrayed him. Which I did. If only he knew Margo had visited me. Then he’d be okay with this. I think.

  I pull myself together and keep searching. Brenda’s things are mixed in with Margo’s, and I find seven Danielle Steel books with Belongs to: Brenda J. written on the inside of the cover. There’s a thesaurus and a medical dictionary that looks untouched.

  It makes me think about the medication Margo was prescribed by Dr. Hagan (and whether he was real or not). Taking care of a child and working full-time is enough to break anyone. Add in seeing the dead and any person would need medication.

  I need a Xanax just thinking about it.

  My breath huffs out in a cloud, and a shiver runs down my spine. I’m no longer alone. I look over my shoulder and find Drew sitting in the recliner, rubbing his thighs.

  I stand, still holding the medical dictionary. “Where have you been?"

  “Looking for my hat without you.”

  “Did you find it?”

  “No!”

  Shoot. “I’m sorry I left, but you have to understand I have a job to do.”

  “You were on a date, not a job. Get over yourself.”

  Technically, he’s right. I was on a date, but I didn’t know I was on a date until I was on the date, so it doesn’t count.