The Medium Place

by Erin Huss

  The Medium Place

  A Lost Souls Lane Mystery #2

  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) with- out 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 trade- marked 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 author- ized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Praise for Erin Huss’ Books

  Series Information

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Free Book

  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

  Medium Things: A lost souls lane mystery #3

  French Vanilla & Felonies

  About the Author

  A note from the author

  Also by Erin Huss

  Praise for Erin Huss’ Books

  “Unpredictable and laugh-out-loud funny.” -Readers’ Favorite (Making a Medium)

  “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)

  Series Information

  If you’ve never read A Lost Souls Lane Mystery, you can start with MAKING A MEDIUM (only 99 cents), the first book in the series. If you prefer to start with THE MEDIUM PLACE (book #2), don’t worry, you won’t be lost. Each book can be read as a standalone, but there will be spoilers should you read them out of order. Happy reading!

  * * *

  You can get the first book at erinhuss.com

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you to my editor, Wendi Baker, always fun working with you; Sue Traynor for the lovely cover; Paula Bothwell for the editing; Jed Huss for being the loving husband that you are; Debby Holt, Ruth Bigler, Jessica L. Randall, and Nina Johns, for beta reading. A huge thank you to my mom and dad for your endless support.

  Dedicated to my son, Ryder aka Flash.

  I love you, buddy.

  Free Book

  Sign up for Erin’s newsletter to be the first to know about new releases, special bargains, and giveaways, and as a bonus receive a FREE ebook of the #1 Kindle bestseller, Can’t Pay My Rent!

  erinhuss.com

  Chapter One

  Don't panic, Zoe. You can do this. No sudden movements. No staring. No talking. But really, most importantly, don't panic!

  Okay, I'm feeling a little panicky.

  My stomach is doing that roller coaster-lurchy thing, and my fingertips are numb. Standing in front of me is a young woman in black yoga pants, a gray tank top, with an abdomen wound.

  Also, she’s dead.

  Last time a spirit appeared at The Gazette, he was a fit, thirty-something-year-old man in a dapper suit and shiny shoes. This woman looks like she walked straight off the set of a horror movie: her dark hair teased with twigs and leaves sticking out, a cut under her right eye, and mud smeared on her forehead.

  Frankly, she's freaking me out.

  "I heard Ira brought donuts," Beth says without taking her eyes off the computer. She's putting the finishing touches on her latest article—a recap of Fernn Valley's softball game last night against Trucker. "Do you want one?" She clicks save and smiles up at me, completely unaware of what's happening directly behind her.

  "I'll take a glazed if there's any left," I manage to say. "Thank you."

  "Not a problem. I'll be right back." Beth takes off her glasses and places them on the desk. I watch as she stands and adjusts her pants, tucks in the back of her shirt, runs a hand through her short hair, scratches her nose, and … holy crap. You're going to the break room not going to meet the Queen. Hurry up!

  I drum my fingers on my desk, waiting with a patient smile plastered across my face. Finally (hallelujah!) Beth deems herself break-room ready, pushes her chair in, turns around, and walks right past the spirit.

  Okay. Play it cool, Zoe.

  I retrieve my cell phone from my briefcase. Word of donuts in the break room travels fast, and the newsroom is empty—thank goodness. I flip open my phone and place it to my ear, giving the illusion that I'm taking a call and not talking to myself—one of the many tricks of the trade. "I'm Zoe," I say as I approach the woman slowly. "What's your name?"

  She frantically surveys the room with quivering hands. “It's … Penelope. Wh-wh-what happened?" She looks down at her stomach. "I'm hurt!"

  "You're going to be just fine," I say as convincingly as I can. Truth is, I have no idea what’s happening.

  "I don't remember anything." Her breath quickens. "Why am I at The Fernn Valley Gazette? How'd I get here? Why am I here?"

  "Penelope, I know it's hard. But try to keep calm." I inch closer, the phone still at my ear.

  Beth returns. "Bad news. Mike took the last glazed. I brought you an old-fashioned." She walks through Penelope and slides a paper plate with my donut across the desk. "Did you hear about the Chief's visitor?" She licks frosting off her fingertips. "Everyone in the break room says she came down for the three-day weekend to—oh, shoot." She covers her mouth. "I didn't realize you were on the phone. Sorry."

  “It’s fine.” I snap my cell shut and smile, which is really hard to do because Penelope has faded to a pale, translucent state. I'm new to this whole medium gig, and my experience is limited, but I've never seen a sprit do that before.

  The lights around the room flicker on and off several times. Everyone lets out a collective "ah, man!" as they come in from the break room to find black computer screens.

  "That was weird.” Mike walks over with a paper plate stacked with not one but three glazed donuts.

  Thanks, Mike.

  "Must have been an outage, I guess," says Irwin from the corner. "Good thing I saved my story."

  Oh, geez, now everyone is back at their desks, rebooting their computers. I need them all to leave again so I can get Penelope out of here. If only there were more donuts. In my four months of employment, I've come to learn that nothing clears the workroom faster than food. It doesn't even matter what kind. Chris from accounting brought in apricots from his tree last week, and it was like the freaking Hunger Games around here.


  Speaking of death, Penelope is putting two and two together. "Am I dead?" She spins around in a complete circle and holds up her hands, studying them as if she's never seen them before. "I-I can’t be dead. Is this a dream? It’s a dream, right? Yeah, this is totally a dream."

  I wish.

  “So, Zoe.” Mike leans against my desk, still holding his donut tower on a small paper plate. “You missed an epic game last night. We were down by two in the seventh inning when Ira crushed the ball into center field. Dude brought in three runs.”

  “Cool,” I say, not quite paying attention. Mike has barely uttered more than one word to me since I started working here. I’m not sure why he chooses now of all times to be friendly. Maybe he feels guilty for being a donut hog.

  “Is that Meathead Mike?” Penelope presses her nose up to his face. “It is! He works here?”

  If Meathead Mike is Mike Handhoff, then yes, he does.

  Here’s what I know about Mike: I’m not positive what his job title is, but he always looks busy; he’s in his early to mid twenties; he has a dark-coiffed mane, brown eyes, and broad shoulders; he mostly wears white shirts; and he uses “dude” as a noun, verb, and adjective.

  Also, he’s still talking. “So what do you think?”

  “Um … huh?”

  “About the game. Epic right? Dude, we celebrated so hard afterwards I could barely get out of bed this morning.”

  “The game?” I try to keep my face stoic, which is hard to do considering there’s a spirit circling him.

  “Now I know I’m dreaming, because Mike is looking good,” Penelope says, nodding her head in appreciation.

  “Zoe? You okay?” Mike asks with his mouth full.

  Nope.

  "I think … um … I think that I need to use the restroom." I jerk my head, hoping Penelope will follow me.

  No such luck. She disappears and reappears in the parking lot. I watch her panicking outside the window. Good grief.

  “I, um … okay, now I need to make a private phone call." I slap my phone to my ear and hurry outside, around to the back of the building, where Penelope is holding her stomach.

  "This is the worst dream I’ve ever had!"

  “Penelope, this isn’t a dream …” I search for a way to tactfully tell her she has died. “The thing is … well, you’re dead.”

  Okay, so maybe that wasn’t tactful.

  Penelope’s face blanches. It almost looks like she’s going to pass out. Then, as if making some sort of inner resolution, she peers up and narrows her eyes. “If I’m dead then why am I bleeding, huh?”

  "I don't know. But I have a feeling if you calm down you’ll get better." A total guess, but it makes sense.

  "Calm down. You want me to calm down? You’re telling me I'm freaking dead!" She runs her hands down her face. "I go to church. I pray every night!" She paces the length of the walkway, hands wringing. "I've dedicated my life to religion, and when I die I'm sent to The Gazette! Oh, no." She covers her mouth. "Is this hell?"

  "What? No!" Geez. The paper isn't that bad. "You're not in heaven, and you're not in hell. You're here because there is business you need to tend to before you can transition to the next phase. I'm going to help you."

  "I-I'm only twenty-one years old. Of course I have a lot of business left to do on earth! Like … living!"

  "Well, first things first. Let's get out of here because um …" I turn around. Everyone inside is gawking at me through the window.

  Great.

  "Wait right here," I say, my cell still at my ear. "I'll be back."

  I clap my phone shut and rush inside, feeling a bit unsettled. There’s a hushed silence as soon as I enter the workroom, and everyone puts their heads down, pretending to be engrossed in their work.

  Well, everyone but Ira, who follows me to my desk. "Who were you talking to?"

  "There's um … an emergency at home.” I grab my briefcase and go to turn off my computer then remember that I never turned it on. “My dad is … sick."

  "Really?" Beth rolls her chair over. "I just spoke to him. We have an offer on my house. I'm meeting your parents after work to sign the papers."

  Well, shoot. "Um, it's recent … food poisoning. Yeah, it’s food poisoning. Came on suddenly, and he’s super sick."

  Beth's dark eyes grow in diameter. "When I spoke to him he was at Butter Bakery. He must have gotten food poisoning from there."

  "Butter!" echoes several voices.

  "Where'd you get the donuts, Ira?" someone else asks.

  "I bought them from Butter this morning," squeaks Ira, a young guy with birdlike features and curly hair. He's over obituaries and "The Squirrel of the Week" article. When you live in a town of fewer than 800 people, you have to get creative with the news.

  Side note: it used to be squirrel of the month, but I suggested it be weekly—because I'm innovative like that.

  Beth inspects her donut. "I thought they were day-old."

  "Dude, my stomach feels weird." Mike dumps his plate into the trash.

  "I feel fine." Beth tears off a chunk of deep-fried dough and pops it into her mouth.

  Everyone else quickly discards donuts into the trash.

  "We should run a story about this," says someone.

  "I think I'm going to be sick," says someone else.

  "Should we call the health department?"

  "I'm going to vomit!"

  "I swear the donuts are fresh," Ira says in a panic. "I-I bought them this morning."

  Oh, for heaven sakes.

  This is precisely why you don't lie.

  The Chief's door opens and out walks a slender woman with a brown choppy haircut and legs for days. Everyone watches as she glides across the floor and out into the lobby.

  Beth leans over and whispers, “I heard that’s his girlfriend. She lives in Portland. According to Mike, their relationship was getting rocky, and she came to win him back."

  "Yeah, I think it worked." Right before Penelope arrived, I'd walked in on Brian—the editor-in-chief, and the slender, choppy-haired girl making out. Which wouldn't have been a big deal if I weren't totally and completely head-over-heels-I-want-to-have-your-babies in love with Brian Windsor.

  Not that he's completely aware of my feelings.

  Brian steps out of his office and adjusts the bottom of his shirt. He's a little older than I am, has black-rimmed glasses, gray eyes, dark hair, freckles across his nose, and he smiles without showing his teeth. Also, he's gorgeous. "Can I speak with you?” he asks me.

  Penelope is still outside the window, holding her stomach, and she appears to be counting.

  "Err, I don't have time. I need to go home."

  "Me too," says Mike, stifling a burp. "Food poisoning. Don't eat the donuts in the break room." He rushes to the bathroom.

  Geez. The power of suggestion is … well, powerful.

  "I'm not feeling so good either, Chief," Beth says. "I should probably go home." She grabs her purse and winks at me as she passes by.

  Gah! I need to call Dad and tell him he has food poisoning.

  "Are you sick, too?" Brian asks me.

  Um … "Yes. I. Am. Very. Sick. Gotta. Go."

  Penelope appears in front of Brian, and the lights flicker again. "I can't wait anymore!"

  "Zoe? Are you okay?" Brian steps forward with his arm extended. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

  He has no idea.

  "Zoe?" Brian tries again. "Zoe?" He waves his hand in front of my face.

  I look from Penelope to Brian and back again.

  "Is this about Vanessa?" he asks, his brow wrinkled with concern.

  Vanessa?

  His girlfriend's name is Va-ness-a?

  Really?

  In most every romance novel I've ever read (and I've read a lot), the other woman's name is always Vanessa. Granted, in this case, Vanessa is not technically the other woman since she's the girlfriend. I guess I'm the other woman, except we’ve had almost zero physical contact.

/>   Bottom line: there are no grounds for me to be upset.

  Except, I am.

  "I have to go," I say and beeline for the door.

  "Don't leave, Zoe!" Brian calls after me.

  When your boss tells you not to leave, especially when you’ve been at work less than an hour on the Friday before a three-day weekend, you should probably stay put. But if Brian knew there was a spirit following me around, I'm sure he'd be fine with me taking a personal day.

  I slap my phone to my ear. "Come with me, Penelope." I power walk to the parking lot, my briefcase swinging at my side. "Get in my car and we'll go someplace to talk privately."

  Penelope's mouth falls open when we reach my copper-colored BMW i8—a hundred-thousand-dollar car with Back to the Future style doors. "The Gazette pays really well!"

  "No, it doesn't. This was a present from the last spirit I helped." I slide into the driver's seat and unlock the passenger door out of habit when Penelope appears beside me. She reaches for the seat belt several times until she realizes she can't grab anything.

  "Do I have to pay you? Cause I don't have any money, and I don't have a BMW!"

  "Shhhh, calm down. You don't need to give me anything." I press the start button located on the center console, but nothing happens. "Shoot." I slam my foot on the brake and try again. No such luck.