by Erin Huss
Making a Medium
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.
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Praise for Erin Huss’ Books
“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)
Contents
Free Book
Acknowledgements
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
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
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About the Author
A Note From Erin Huss
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Acknowledgements
Thank you to my editor, Wendi Baker, so fun to work with you again; Sue Traynor for taking my horrible mock-up and making it ten times better; Paula Bothwell for the editing (you’re amazing); Morgan Searcy for the series name; Jed Huss for being the wonderful supportive husband that you are; Debby Holt, Ann Rohrer, Miriam Packard, Ruth Bigler, Jessica L. Randall, and Nina Johns, for beta reading. A huge thank you to my favorite authors, Melissa Baldwin and Kathryn R. Biel for holding my hand through this process.
Dedicated to my son, Noah.
*doing hype dance*
Chapter One
"Take a seat."
I do as told. The chair is straight-backed with no arms. Not constructed for comfort or style, this chair is practical and to the point. Much like the man sitting behind the desk. I cross my ankles, pick off the few strands of cat hair stuck to my skirt, and rub my hands together.
"Are you cold?" Brian Windsor asks.
"No." I pull my scarf tighter.
He checks the thermostat. "It's seventy-five degrees.”
"I'm perfectly fine, thank you," I say with a smile, even though it feels like we’re sitting in an igloo. "Here is my application." I slide the papers across the desk and concentrate hard to keep my teeth from chattering.
Brian skims the first page. "Zoe Lane. Any relation to Mary and John Lane?"
"They're my parents."
"I didn't know the Lanes had children."
"It's just me."
Brian's brow is wrinkled. I'm sure he's wondering how in a town of fewer than 800 people, he and I have never crossed paths. He's not much older than I am, and my parents are real estate agents. Their faces are on everything from grocery carts to park benches. Everyone either knows John and Mary Lane or they know of them. Heck, this is Fernn Valley. Everyone either knows or knows of everyone.
Except me.
I don't get out much. I would blend in with the wall if I could. And nearly do. The floral wallpaper in the lobby looks awfully close to the pattern on my blouse.
"Why do you want to work at The Fernn Valley Gazette?" Brian leans back and adjusts his glasses.
"The Gazette is a respectable publication," I say, trying not to sound too eager. "I read it every week. My favorite column is ‘Squirrel of the Month.’ I enjoy the crossword puzzle and reading about the town events. The article you wrote about our Fourth of July parade was compelling journalism."
Brian blinks a few times then flips to the second page of my application. "You forgot to fill in your work experience." He clicks a pen and stares at me. I think he's waiting for me to rattle off my previous employers. There's only one problem.
"I've never had a job, per se."
He flips to the first page of my application to verify that, yes, I am in fact twenty-three years old.
"I write the MLS descriptions for my parents’ listings," I quickly add and hike up my sock, which has managed to slip below my kneecap. "I just don’t get paid to do it. But I'm a quick learner."
Brian puts my application down and rocks in his chair with his fingers steepled. His desk is pristine, and the room smells freshly Lysolled. His brown hair is parted on the side with wisps around his forehead. His glasses are dark-rimmed, and he smiles without showing his teeth—all this, of course, I know from his black-and-white editorial picture printed in the paper every week. What I didn't know before now was that behind those glasses are gray eyes with specks of brown in them. I didn't know he had freckles across his nose. I didn't know he was tall, at least a foot taller than I am.
I didn't know he was even more gorgeous in person.
"Unfortunately," Brian starts to say, and my stomach plunges. "We're looking for someone with more experience."
"But the ad said it was an entry-level position." I pull the paper from my briefcase. "See, right here. Entry-level position," I read aloud. "I'm happy to do office tasks like faxing papers, answering phones, or making a fresh pot of hot chocolate in the morning. Whatever you need."
Brian appears a bit shell-shocked, and I'm not exactly sure why. I make an excellent pot of hot chocolate. "We're looking to bring someone on who has fresh ideas. To shake things up around here."
"I have fresh ideas," I say louder than I mean to. "For example, what if you did squirrel of the week instead of the month? Papers would fly off the shelf!"
"I don't think it's a good fit." Brian stands and extends a professional hand. "I wish you luck."
Guess that's my cue to leave. "Thank you for taking the time to meet with me." I slip my hand into his, and he flinches.
"Your hand is ice cold."
"It's a glandular issue," I say with instant regret.
"Uh … I’m sorry to hear about that." Brian avoids eye contact. "Let me get the door for you."
I pick up my briefcase and wait until his back is turned before I smack myself on the forehead. Wow. Brian is right. My hands are cold. Like touching fresh snow. Even my fingertips are numb. I’ve had bouts of cold flashes before, but nothing like this. If I weren't currently standing and breathing, I'd swear I was dead. I check my pulse just to be sure. Blood is pumping. Heart is pounding. Good.
Brian clears his throat to grab my attention.
Oh, right. Didn't get the job. Need to leave. Got it.
I exit into the main working space. Desks are pushed together in groups of two. It looks very much like a busy newsroom—minus the busy. Two employees are playing solitaire on their computers, and the woman in the corner is filing her nails. Everyone is dressed casually and appears pleasant, except for the man standing beside the copier, the one wearing a fitted tan suit, dark tie, shiny black shoes, and a vintage homburg hat. He's staring at me with such intensity that a sharp chill runs down my back and through my legs. I rush out to the lobby and push on the door several times until I realize it must be pulled open.
Outside, I take a seat on a bench and check the time. The interview took ten minutes. I have an hour before my ride will be here, which gives me enough time to walk down to Butter Bakery and buy two glazed donuts and a scone. I hate to eat my feelings, but I can't help the disappointment.
Jobs are nearly impossible to come by in Fernn Valley. When I read the help wanted ad in last week’s paper, I sincerely thought this was the perfect opportunity for me to enter the workforce, gain independence, and maybe even move out—one day.
My parents and I have been reading The Gazette together since I was a child. What a thrill it would have been to work for a newspaper. What a thrill it would have been to receive a paycheck. What a thrill it would have been to work alongside Brian Windsor, editor-in-chief.
I'm not exactly sure where it went wrong. I was professional and polite. My handwriting on the application was pristine, and I have on my best outfit.
Brian wants fresh ideas?
Pfft.
I have plenty of fresh ideas … I just can't think of what they are at this moment, but I know they're in there. If only I'd been given the chance.
I slip off my pumps, place them in my briefcase, and pull out my walking shoes. There's a smudge near the sole, and I scrub it off with a wet wipe. The shoes mold around my feet, just as the infomercial promised they would. I stand at the crosswalk, look both ways, and step onto the street. My body has finally warmed, and I unwrap the scarf from around my neck. My favorite scarf—a chic, pink chiffon fabric my mother bought me for Christmas—
A blaring horn grabs my attention. I look up just in time to see the car racing toward me. Next thing I know, I'm staring up at the blue sky, and dots dance around my periphery until my vision tunnels and the world goes black.
* * *
"You're not dead."
"It sure feels like it." I sit up slowly. A whoosh of nausea hits me, and I fall back down. I'm in Dr. Karman's office, lying on an exam table, and I have no recollection of how I got here.
"I promise you're very much alive." Dr. Karman swings his stethoscope around his neck and flashes a light into my eyes. "You do have a mild concussion."
"Mild?" This doesn't feel mild. This feels like a high school percussion band has taken up residence in my cranium. “But earlier today, I was freezing and my hands were—"
"Zoe, dear,” Dr. Karman cuts me off. "Like I've told you many times, it’s perfectly normal to get cold now and then. You're a healthy young woman with no glandular issues."
"Except for a concussion."
"Except for a mild knock on the head." He turns around and washes his hands in the sink.
I've never been a fan of Dr. Karman. He's got more hair in his nose than he does on his head, and he smells like corn. So does his office. The room has white walls with red trim and a picture of a clown framed above the exam table. The same creepy clown that's been staring at me since I was seven.
"It was Old Man LeRoy." Dr. Karman pulls two paper towels from the dispenser and dries his hands. "I've been telling him for years it's time to stop driving, but he won't listen. This should give him a wake-up call. He's badly shaken up."
That makes two of us. "Where is he?"
"We had an ambulance take him to the hospital in Trucker to be sure he's okay."
Old Man LeRoy is shaken up and taken to the hospital. I get hit by a car, lose consciousness, and am sitting in the pediatric wing of the town doctor's office.
This feels off.
"You need to watch where you're going, dear," the doctor says with a stern shake of his finger. "Old Man LeRoy said you appeared out of nowhere."
"Well, Old Man LeRoy is also like a hundred years old." I rub my head. "Shouldn't I get an X-ray or a CT scan?"
Dr. Karman steps on the pedal of the trashcan, the lid flips up, and he tosses his dirty towels in. "All you need is Motrin. I'll be right back." He leaves and closes the door behind him.
I sit up, more successfully this time. My skirt is covered in dirt, presumably from Old Man LeRoy's clunker of a car. I'm not sure he's ever washed that thing.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" intones a deep male voice.
I yelp and nearly fall off the table. It’s Homburg-Hat Guy from The Gazette, and he's standing right in front of me. "Wh-wha-what at are you doing in—"
"Are you trying to get yourself killed?"
"No. I-I was in the crosswalk and—"
"Everyone can hear LeRoy's Buick clanking from a mile away."
“But … but … I was in the crosswalk." I don't know who this man is or why he’s here, but I shouldn't have to defend myself to anyone.
Pedestrians have the right of way!
"This is just great,” Homburg-Hat Guy paces the room, mumbling to himself. "What a waste of my time."
"Excuse me?"
"You're a dud!" He waves his arm around. "You're wasting my time, and you dress like an old woman."
"I do not." I grasp my pearls. "No one asked you to come here."
"You will do your job." He narrows his eyes. "Do you understand me?"
"I didn't get the job!"
There's a knock on the door, and the doctor returns. Thank goodness. He can kick this rude man out of here.
"I have eight hundred milligrams of Motrin for you. It should take the edge off." He drops the pills into my palm and hands me a small cup of water.
"Thank you." I sit up a little taller and take my meds. "Now, can you please ask this man to—"
Oh, no.
I can smell the Aqua Net coming.
"Where is my daughter?" Mom comes barreling into the room. "There you are, my baby girl." She hugs me so tight my back pops. "I heard you threw yourself in front of a car. Did the interview go that badly?"
"I didn't throw myself. I was in the crosswalk and Old Man LeRoy hit me."
“Oh, you sweet dear." Mom smooths a strand of hair off my forehead. "Everyone can hear Old Man LeRoy's car from a mile away. You need to be more vigilant."
"Told you," says Homburg-Hat Guy. He's now in the corner under the ABC poster, picking at his back teeth.
"She has a mild concussion," Dr. Karman explains to my mom. "I gave her Motrin, and she can have another dose in eight hours." He hands her a pill bottle. "I suspect she'll feel fine by tomorrow."
"Good thing your mommy came to help you," Homburg-Hat Guy says. "How old are you again?"
"You know what?” I leap off the table, and the world goes a bit tipsy.
"Hold on." Mom snakes her arm around my waist. "Goodness, Zoe. You’re so cold. Let's get you home."
"Good idea." I drape my arm around her shoulders, and she helps me outside. The sun hurts my eyes, and I use my hand as a visor. Dad is at the helm of our
minivan and gets out to slide open the door.
"That's your car?" Homburg Guy folds over in a laughing fit like he's never seen a real estate agent's vehicle before. On the sliding doors are pictures of my parents in matching denim, with my dad sporting a Tom Selleck mustache and my mom sporting a perm. He's giving her a piggyback ride, and they both are giving the camera a thumbs-up. We're in your lane is printed in blocky neon-green lettering along the bottom. It’s the same picture and slogan they've had since they got their license. It's memorable, my mom had said. Can't argue with that.
"It's the tacky mobile,” Homburg Guy says, still laughing.
"Leave me alone!"
"I don't think you should be walking on your own," Mom says.
"Not you."
Dad helps me into the back of the van, and I slump down into the captain’s chair and close my eyes. My head beats in time with my heart, and all I want to do is sleep.
Dad starts the car and eases away from the curb. "Do you want to stop and get ice cream?"
Homburg Guy is in the seat beside me. "Ice cream? Do they spoon feed it to you, too?"
"Wh-wh-how did you get …” Gah! I can’t formulate a sentence. Must be the concussion. I rub my temples and try again. “What are you doing here?"