by Erin Huss
I’ve lost sight of the tree, because I’m moving up a hill, but I know this is the right direction. The adrenaline has reactivated my ability to navigate east from west. I jerk my head from side to side, looking for people or animals ready to take me out. Coast appears clear, and I keep trudging forward with my hands secured behind me. I pass a faded swing set and stop to step over a white picket fence. I’m on a residential street lined with run-down single-story homes with overgrown lawns, discarded furniture on the driveway, weeds growing out of the cracked cement, and windows covered in cardboard.
Right in front of me is a blue-trimmed house that looks more like a used car lot. And parked at the curb is the white truck. Bingo!
As I go to move forward, strong arms lift me, and suddenly my back is against a prickly bush. It takes a second to make sense of what happened, and then I recognize the face staring down at me. It’s Mike.
I go to scream, and he slaps a hand over my mouth. “What are you doing?” he asks, rhetorically, obviously, being that his sweaty palm is prohibiting me from speaking. His eyes drop to my arms. “Why are you cuffed? Are you running from Vance?”
Again, can’t answer.
Mike removes his hands, and I spit on him—for lack of a better defense.
“Dude, what did you do that for?”
“Where is Penelope?” I demand.
“I don’t know.” Mike keeps a firm hand on my shoulder and wipes his face using the inside of his shirt. “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“You took her!”
Mike stares at me in disbelief. “I took her? You’re accusing me of kidnapping when you’re the one in cuffs?”
“Look, there’s no time to argue about this. If you just tell me where she is, then you won't be charged with murder. She could live,” I say, even though I’m fairly certain attempted murder carries the same sentence as murder, but I’m trying to negotiate here.
Except Mike looks so utterly confused that I’m second-guessing whether he had anything to do with this. My suspicion is confirmed when he blurts out, “What are you talking about?”
“Didn’t you stop at Penelope’s apartment after the game last night?” I ask.
“No, I drank too much and caught a ride with Sheriff Vance.”
Oh.
“Did he stop at Penelope’s?” I ask.
“I don’t even know where Penelope lives. Everyone thinks you took her. And what do you mean if we find her she could live?” He lowers his tone and tightens his grip on my shoulder. “What did you do, Zoe?”
“Nothing! It was Tag,” I blurt out in desperation.
Mike’s face is motionless and jaw-dropped. I try to read his emotions, but panic is pumping through my veins, and I’m in no position to feel anyone else’s feelings right now. I need to break free.
So I do.
By spitting in Mike’s face again.
“Dude!” He moves enough for me to slip out from his grip and run across the street without looking both ways. The white truck parked at the curb doesn’t have a front license plate, but it does have a severely damaged bumper. In the driveway is a two-door red car with black interior. I know that truck is the one that rammed into me. But I also know that red car. It's Ira’s.
Or as Penelope calls him—Irky Ira.
"Stop her!"
I look over my shoulder. Fast approaching is a brigade of concerned Fernn Valley citizens, with Sheriff Vance leading the charge.
Crap!
I push open Ira's side gate with my shoulder and slam it closed with my hip. Using my legs, I tip over a wheelbarrow, and a bucket, and a rack, a potted plant, and anything and everything in my path making an obstacle course for anyone chasing me. Ira’s backyard is huge, at least half an acre, and unkempt. Twigs, leaves, and weeds carpet the ground. There’s a rusty El Camino, rundown shed, and the heart-shaped tree in the corner.
“Penelope!”
Ira slides open his back door. "Zoe Lane, what are you doing in my backyard?" He flicks a cigarette and brings his hands to his hips.
"Where is she?"
"You've lost your mind." He holds up his palms and walks toward me, as if approaching a wild animal. "A lot of people are looking for you."
"I know you took Penelope. I know your Instagram name is Tag. I know you've been DMing Penelope this whole time!"
"I don’t know what you're talking about."
"Yes you do! Penelope wouldn’t give you the time of day, so you created a fake Instagram account to connect with her …" I'm reading his thoughts, which are free flowing. "You went to tell her you were Tag several times over the last week but chickened out. Last night, you were drunk and stupid, and you went to her apartment. When she wasn’t there, you went to her parents’ house, snuck in through her window. She got mad, a fight ensued, and you accidentally killed her, you sick piece of crap, except you didn’t actually kill her!"
“H-h-how do you know this?”
“I can read your mind!” I scan the backyard again. There’re only two places to hide a body, the El Camino or in the shed. On a hunch, I go straight for the shed. Ira runs after me. Unlike the Sheriff, he doesn't have frontage pounds slowing him down. I’m tackled to the ground. I kick and scream and thrash. "Help!" I smash my forehead against Ira’s face, and he cries out in pain.
The brigade arrives. Ira rolls off of me, his face covered in red. "She attacked me."
Mr. Batch, Fernn Valley’s mayor, pulls me to my feet, and holds tight to my arm. “Calm down now, dearie.”
“Don’t call me dearie. I never attacked Ira. He took Penelope! He tried to kill her! Let go of me. Look in the shed!”
“I’ve got this.” Sheriff Vance pushes through the crowd, huffing and puffing, his forehead glistening. “I’ll take her.”
“Wait a second, Vance.” Mr. Batch holds up a finger. “She says Ira took Penelope.”
Sheriff Vance’s mouth curves into a sardonic grin. “She also said that she speaks to dead people.”
The crowd snickers.
This is ridiculous. I’m not wasting Penelope’s time explaining myself. So I kick Mr. Batch in the shin, feeling a bit guilty. He really is quite nice, and he's only doing what he believes to be his civic duty, but he needs to move.
I burst through the shed door. Which makes me feel like an all-mighty superhero, but in reality, the doors are rusty, and they basically crumble to the ground. "Penelope!" The shed is dark, smells like mildew, and is filled with old gardening equipment and spider webs. I start pushing stuff around using my legs.
"Step out of the shed," Sheriff Vance says, gun drawn.
"Vance, is that really necessary?” asks another familiar voice. I think its Rosa from the library. “Zoe, honey, why don’t you come out of there so we can figure this out.”
They’ll have to drag my dead body out of this shed. There’s no way I’m leaving until I know Penelope isn’t here. It would be a whole lot easier to look for her if my arms weren’t secured behind my back.
I kick a generator out of the way and find a large wooden chest with part of the brown blanket sticking out. "Penelope!"
Sheriff Vance grabs me by the arm, pulling me away.
"That's her!" I scream frantically. "She's in there! You need to check the chest! Check the chest!"
Sheriff Vance releases my arm and steps slowly over to the chest, gun drawn, as if expecting an armed jack-in-the-box to pop out and go all Rambo. He kicks the lid open and gasps. She’s there. I can feel it. Penelope is in the chest, and she’s barley hanging on.
My work here is done.
I stumble outside and assume the fetal position with my hands behind my back.
“She’s in here,” Sheriff Vance yells.
There’s a hushed silence while the news sinks in. Then, as if someone flipped a switch, the crowd bursts into action. Some run into the shed. Others are on their phones. I hear Rosa calling Mrs. Muffin. Mrs. Batch has a choke hold on Ira, whose face is beet red.
Wel
l, that’s one way to detain him.
I can hear the concern in the voices of those helping Penelope. “Hang on.”
“She has a pulse. It’s weak, but it’s there.”
“I need an ambulance.”
I close my eyes, the adrenaline drains, and the reality sets in. To think, today started with a donut … the donuts Ira brought in. Huh? He kills their daughter then goes and buys donuts from them.
Penelope was right. Ira is Irky.
Chapter Eleven
The ambulance has whisked Penelope away. The Muffins are meeting her at the hospital in Trucker—since Fernn Valley only has an Urgent Care. Ira is sitting in the back of a squad car, and I’m still on the ground with my hands locked behind my back. People are staring, and whispering, and afraid to come near me.
Well, all except Rosa, because you can always count on a librarian.
“Zoe, Zoe, Zoe.” Rosa takes a seat on the ground beside me and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Why didn’t you tell me about Penelope this morning?”
I give a feeble shrug of my shoulders, not wanting to answer. I will no longer say anything to anyone ever again. I drove around Trucker, spoke to Penelope’s friends, followed clues, and found her. I discovered it was Ira. I solved this entire case on my own (okay, Penelope helped a little, and so did my unseen spirit friend). If I’d not involved anyone else, if I’d not called the police or talked to the Muffins, I still would have found Penelope. But I wouldn’t have been pushed to the ground, cuffed, and had the sheriff blurt my secret to half the community (really only five people, but it might as well be the community considering how fast news travels around these parts).
“I called your mother,” Rosa says.
“What did you tell her?” I ask.
“Only that you saved the day and found Penelope Muffin.”
“How’d she take it?”
“She was …”
“Worried?”
“That’s a word for it.”
Another word is fursterical (a combination of hysterical and furious, not a real word, but it should be), which is exactly the state of Mary Lane upon her arrival. There’s no amount of police tape that can keep her out. She pushes past the officers called to the scene, berates anyone who tries to stop her, and runs to me with open arms in her tweed blazer and big permed hair, mascara smudged under her eyes.
“I demand to know what is going on!”
Rosa stands and dusts off the back of her dress. “Zoe here saved the day.”
“Then why is she in handcuffs? Where is Sheriff Vance? I demand to speak to someone in charge!”
She’s creating quite the scene, and I love it.
Sheriff Vance walks over. “Mary.” He nods.
“Vance.” She politely nods back, and then explodes. “Why is my daughter in handcuffs? I demand you take them off right now.”
“She was a suspect.”
“Was? Was! I heard Ira was responsible for all this. What more do you need from my daughter?”
“We still have questions.”
“Cuffing Zoe and leaving her on the ground like some animal is not only immoral but illegal. She found Penelope Muffin; you didn’t. She did your job for you, and you reward her by treating her like a criminal. I demand that you take the handcuffs off of her at once, and if you want to speak to my daughter, you can do so with an attorney present.”
Wow. I haven’t seen my mother this mad since they cancelled All My Children. Way to go, Mom.
“And you’ve lost my vote in the next election, and you better believe I’ll make sure everyone in this town knows that you’re lazy and can’t do your job. We’re … we’re … we’re going to sue you!”
Too far, Mom. Too far. Yikes. When you work solely on commission, it’s not a good idea to threaten the most powerful person in town. Also, no one ever runs against Sheriff Vance, not sure whom she would vote for.
Rosa backs away slowly, not wanting to be party to this conversation any longer. I don’t blame her. The next election isn’t for two more years. Sheriff Vance has been the sheriff for basically ever. He’s not going to take a threat to his position lightly.
Mom has just put herself in a precarious position. She doesn’t see it yet. She’s blinded by anger.
I peer up at Sheriff Vance, his eyes narrow but he doesn’t speak. Instead, he takes a knee and unlocks the handcuffs. I sigh in sweet relief and rub my sore wrists.
“Let’s go, Zoe.” My mother yanks me up by the hand and practically drags me out of there.
“Mom, slow down.”
“I’m so mad I could spit.”
Wow, that’s really mad.
She marches me down the street to our van haphazardly parked in the middle of the street. Seeing my parents’ smiling faces plastered on the sliding door sparks a wave of anxiety.
My mom may have just ruined their careers by threatening the sheriff.
“Get in,” Mom says.
I do as I’m told and slide into the passenger seat. She shoves the keys into the ignition with more force than required and pauses, resting her forehead on the steering wheel.
“You okay, Mom?”
“I can’t believe I said that,” she says barely above a whisper.
“Thanks for sticking up for me.”
Mom turns to face me. “I will always stick up for you.”
I reach over and give my mom a hug. Her familiar scent of Aqua Net and geraniums brings tears to my eyes. No matter how neurotic she may get (and she can get very neurotic), there is nothing more comforting than being wrapped in her arms. And for just a moment, it feels like everything is okay.
The spirit from before has returned. She’s watching this tender exchange between my mom and me.
“My goodness, Zoe. You just got so cold.” Mom cups my cheeks in her hands, her brown eyes meeting mine. “Why are you …” her voice trails off, and she studies me under an intense gaze.
She knows.
Deep down, she knows about my gift. But she’s too afraid to admit it. So she does what she does best—fret. “You need to be seen by a doctor. You could be in shock. You could have a bruised pancreas or kidney.”
“Can you bruise your pancreas?”
“I don’t know!” Mom yanks the car into drive and speeds down the street. She doesn’t even know about the car accident, and I don’t tell her. Not the right time.
“Hey, Mom?”
“What!”
“Can you drop me off at The Gazette? I need to pick up my car, and I’d like go to the hospital to see how Penelope is doing.”
Mom blinks a few times. “Wh-ho-wha … you have a car?”
Oh, right. I haven’t had the opportunity to tell her about the BMW gifted to me this morning. So I fill her in, leaving out the whole spirit element.
“They gave you a hundred-thousand-dollar car?” Mom is near hysterics. “Why would they give you a hundred-thousand-dollar car? How are you going to pay for the maintenance, and the gas, and the insurance?”
“Not sure, not sure, and not sure. But I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”
“Well, you can’t cross that bridge in a hundred-thousand-dollar car! Not on your income. Not on mine … especially now …”
“It’ll be okay, Mom. Worst case scenario, I sell it.” Though I really don’t want to, and it’s not because it’s fast, and sporty, and fun, but because it was a gift.
“I just don’t know what to do about all this, Zoe Matilda Lane. I just don’t know …”
That makes two of us.
We arrive at The Gazette. I really don’t want to tell Brian that on top of having to cover for me all day, I totaled his car.
But I have to.
“Do you want me to go with you to the hospital?” Mom asks. “Your father has been sick all day, but I’m sure he can manage for a few hours alone.”
That’s right. Dad is “sick” with food poisoning. Gah! Another issue I forgot about. I’ll have to make sure everyone knows Bu
tter Bakery is a safe place to buy baked goods.
“No, I’m fine on my own. Thank you.” I reach over and give Mom a quick peck on the cheek. I’ve never done that before, at least not in my adult years, but it felt like the right thing to do. I don’t give her enough credit.
Now I must get my car, drive to the hospital to check on Penelope, figure out who the spirit is that’s been following me around, and profusely apologize to Brian.
I start with the latter.
Brian is in his office, looking every shade of green, with his chin in his hand, and his eyes glued to the computer. I tap on the door to get his attention.
"Zoe!" He springs from his desk, sending the chair crashing against the wall, and rushes toward me. I think he's about to give me a hug, and I open my arms, ready to receive him. But he slips past me and closes the door.
Well, that’s embarrassing.
I pretend to stretch my arms, as if preparing for a run, to cover the blunder. Which reminds me of how sore my body is. There’s a good chance I won't be able to move for the next three weeks. Ouch.
Brian doesn’t seem to notice that I’m standing in the middle of his office, stretching. He takes me by the shoulders and gives me a little shake. "Where have you been?”
“Looking for Penelope Muffin.”
“Trucker PD just called. They found my car totaled on the side of the freeway just over the county border. What happened?”
“Yes, about that … um … I’m so sorry. See, I was run off the road by Ira and rolled a few times. But I promise that I’ll find a way to pay you back. It truly was an accident.”
“Zoe, I don’t care about my car. That’s what insurance is for. I was worried about you. The cop said there was no one in or around the vehicle. I thought you’d been kidnapped or worse … and did you say Ira?”
“Yes, Ira. It seems he’s been playing Penelope for a while.”
Brian drops his arms and runs a hand through his hair. “Ira who is over obituaries and Squirrel of the Week?”
“Yes.”
“Ira who brought in donuts this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Ira who is on the softball team?”
“Yes.”