Medium Things (A Lost Souls Lane Mystery Book 3) Page 10

  Oh, my …

  Mike presses his lips against mine, and I have no idea what is happening or what I should do. My eyes are wide open, my arms are stiff as boards, but my insides are fluttering around. I wrap around his shoulders, my eyes close, and my lips part. He shoves his tongue into my mouth, and it’s both a strange and invigorating sensation.

  Kissing is a sloppy business, yet I don’t care. I’ve read kissing scenes in my books, but this is the first time I’ve ever experienced one. Mike pulls me closer, and I rise to my toes to deepen our connection. I can feel his feelings mixed in with my own: desire, eagerness, and affection. The feelings are so intense my entire being feels like slush.

  And, oh man, My Hot Next-Door Neighbor has nothing on this moment.

  Mike pulls away slightly and rests his forehead against mine. “That answer your question?” he says against my lips.

  I had a question?

  My mind is blank.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Mike kisses me once more and walks to his car, leaving me a gooey, lusty mess.

  I watch him drive away. Still reeling from what just happened.

  Drew is standing on the grass, cringing. “I thought you liked the newspaper guy.”

  “I-I do.”

  “Sure didn’t seem like it.”

  I touch my lips. “That was my first kiss.”

  Drew appears in front of me. “First kiss? Aren’t you like forty?”

  “What? No. I’m twenty-three.”

  “Cool. We going to the Sanderses' house now?”

  “Yeah, I just need a minute before I can walk again.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Sanderses have a big Victorian-style house up on a hill, with blue shutters and a long driveway. Sure it’s late, but the lights are on inside.

  I take the walkway up to the front door (with a little extra pep in my step), raise my hand, and then lose my nerve.

  “Maybe I should come back tomorrow,” I say.

  “Too late.” Drew points to the security camera. “They already know you’re here.”

  “Crap.”

  “You have to scout the place out first before you just walk up.”

  “Noted.” I knock on the door, and Winston, Mrs. Sanders' poodle, barks. My nerves are all over the place. Mrs. Sanders is not going to be happy that I’m knocking at her door at nine thirty at night, wanting to talk about Stephen Handhoff. Every fiber of my being wants to walk away, but I remind myself this is for Margo. This is for Drew. This is for justice.

  Mrs. Sanders answers the door. She’s wearing a leopard-print fluffy robe, and her hair is in big foam rollers. “What’s happening?” she asks, barely able to move her mouth because of the hard, black mask smeared on her face.

  “Hi, Mrs. Sanders. I’m sorry to bother you so late. Um … I just have a few questions for you. I’m doing an article on Margo Stolper, and … um … it’s due tomorrow.” Crap, I really need to edit that. “I heard you knew Stephen Handhoff.”

  Drew snorts. “Is that tar on her face?”

  Mrs. Sanders steps outside, quickly closing the door quietly behind her. “Okay, I didn’t make good decisions in my twenties. I’m happily married now, and I don’t want you digging up my past.”

  “I’m only here to figure out what happened to Margo.”

  “We know what happened to her. Why are you trying to cause problems?”

  “I’m trying to find the truth,” I say. “I heard you saw Margo with a mysterious man who drove a Mercedes.”

  “My husband doesn’t think it’s wise for me to be involved in this.”

  “How does Mr. Sanders even know?”

  “It’s best if we leave it.”

  I feel the heat rising to my cheeks. Doesn’t anyone care about justice anymore?

  “I can’t leave it alone,” I say. “So, you can answer me now, or you can answer me later, but I will get answers.”

  “Damn, girl,” Drew says. “Look at you being assertive.”

  Yeah, I am assertive. And it feels pretty good. I roll my shoulders. “Tell me what you know.”

  Mrs. Sanders puffs her cheeks, causing cracks to form on her face mask. “Margo was keeping the kid from Handhoff, and I thought she was being unreasonable. I never trusted her. You could just tell she was lying. So I followed her around a few times. She met a man in a silver Mercedes behind the train station on two separate occasions. The first time, she was upset, and he was comforting her. Then he handed her a small white bag with a meds inside.”

  “What kind of meds?”

  “Not sure, but the bag was from the pharmacy.”

  “How was the man comforting her?”

  “He touched her shoulder, and you could just tell that the two were friendly.”

  “What did he look like?” I ask.

  “It was hard to tell since it was nighttime, but he had a shaved head and a nice-looking overcoat on.”

  “And you told this to Handhoff. What did he say?”

  “We figured she was involved in something illegal because, let me tell you, that woman was on edge right before she died.”

  I’d be on edge too if I was on Handhoff’s bad side, raising a child that wasn’t my own, and I had dead people talking to me.

  “Do you think there’s a chance this man was somehow involved in Margo’s murder?”

  Mrs. Sanders tightens her robe. “She met him the night before she was killed, and I heard her tell him that the deal was off and he could go home.”

  “Do you know what deal she was talking about?” I ask.

  “No, but the man got back in his Mercedes and sped away.”

  Huh? “Have you seen this man since?”

  “Nope.”

  Interesting.

  The door opens and Mr. Sanders steps outside. “Everything okay out here?”

  I want to cower. I want to hurry down the walkway to my car. I don’t want to confront Mr. Sanders.

  But I do it anyway. “I need information on Margo Stolper.”

  “We have no comment.” Mr. Sanders drapes a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders.

  “But this is a man’s life we’re talking about.”

  Mr. Sanders shakes his head. “Margo Stolper was a woman.”

  “Honey.” Mrs. Sanders touches his arm. “She’s talking about Andrew Foster, not Margo.”

  Mr. Sanders looks at me. “But you said Margo Stolper.”

  “No, honey,” Mrs. Sanders says. “She said she’s here for information on Margo, but then she said we were talking about Andrew Foster. That’s the his she was referring to.”

  Mr. Sanders pushes his brows together and looks at me. “I don’t understand what we’re talking about.”

  At this point, I don’t either.

  Drew laughs.

  Anyway. “Mrs. Sanders was telling me about a man in a Mercedes that was giving Margo a meds right before she died which … as the town’s pharmacist, you may know something about.”

  There’s a flash of horror on Mr. Sanders’ face. An imagine of Margo comes into my mind. This is Mr. Sanders’ memory, and it’s so clear, it’s almost as if I’m watching a movie in high-def. Margo walked into the pharmacy and gave Mr. Sanders a prescription for Benzodiazepine. I don’t know what that is, but Mr. Sanders didn’t feel good about filling the script. Partly because he’d never heard of the prescribing doctor before, but mostly because of Margo’s appearance. Her eyes were red-rimmed and blood-shot. She had on stained sweatpants and a shirt with a tear on the sleeve. He’d never seen Margo in such a state, and when she pulled out her insurance card, her hands were shaking.

  Two days later, an older gentleman with a shaved head, strong jawline, and brown eyes, with a permanent forehead furrow came to the pharmacy. The man was dressed nicely in a dark overcoat, leather gloves, and a black scarf. He told Mr. Sanders he was there to pick up a prescription for Margo. Problem was, Mr. Sanders had never seen this man before, nor had he filled the script. He was waiting for a call
back from the prescribing doctor. Instead of explaining this to the man, Mr. Sanders told him the pills hadn’t arrived yet. The man was calm, polite, and understanding. He purchased two boxes of a sleeping aids and left in a silver Mercedes. One week later, Margo was dead.

  “You’re making your poop face again,” Drew says.

  I gaze up at Mr. Sanders. Emotions are spilling out of him, and his thoughts fill my head: He has a stash of Halloween candy under his bed, even though he promised his wife he was on a diet. When he was in sixth grade, he stole a pack of baseball cards. Last year, he ran over Mrs. Ishmael’s cat on accident, but he never told her. He lied when he told his wife he likes her hair color. He lied to Mrs. Muffin saying he liked her berry pie. He dances naked to ABBA when he’s alone …

  “Ahhhh!” I slap my hands over my ears. Mr. Sanders’ thoughts keep crashing down on me in massive waves, and I’m drowning in a pool of information that I don’t want to know.

  “Maybe we should call her parents,” Mrs. Sanders says.

  “No!” I remove my hands. “I just need … I need … I need you to stop thinking.” I point at Mr. Sanders, and an image of him prancing around the bathroom to “Dancing Queen,” buck naked, doing the hustle, and the disco finger, and the lawnmower … “Stop it!”

  “I think you should call nine-one-one,” he says to his wife.

  “No! Just …” I blow out a breath. “I need you to stop thinking about … dancing.”

  Mr. Sanders’ face skews into a question mark.

  “You’ve snapped,” Drew says. “It was only a matter of time.”

  “I haven’t snapped.” I rub my temples. “Please, please, just stop thinking about ABBA, and dancing, and running over cats, and hidden Halloween candy, and stolen baseball cards. I just need to know if you’ve ever told Sheriff Vance about the man who tried to get Margo’s prescription.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mrs. Sanders laughs then looks up at her husband. “Are you okay?”

  No, he’s not. He is now ninety-nine percent positive I’m some kind of witch.

  “What is she talking about?” Mrs. Sanders presses.

  “I told Sheriff Vance.” He’s looking off into the distance. “He said the killer was convicted and to leave it in the past.”

  “Do you remember the name of the doctor who filled the prescription?”

  A name flashes into my head: Dr. Hagan in Portland, Oregon.

  “I got it. Thanks.” I turn to leave.

  “What just happened?” I hear Mrs. Sanders saying to her husband as Drew and I take the walkway back to the street where my car is parked.

  “I think it's time to drop this.” Drew hurries to keep up. “You’re getting a little screwy.”

  “No, we’re close. Margo looked like she was hung over, and the Mercedes Man tried to get Margo’s prescription drugs for her.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw the whole incident in my head. Mr. Sanders had an interaction with the Mercedes Man right before Margo died.” I stop when we reach my car. “Do you know what Benzodiazepine is?”

  “Benzo? That’s like Xanax or anything that brings you down. Why? You need some? Cause I know a guy.”

  “No, I don’t.” Well … maybe. “There are a lot of pieces. Now I just need to fit them all together to figure this out.”

  “I think you should stop. You’re alive and I’m dead. I can’t protect you much longer.”

  “You’re not protecting me now.” I unlock my car and get in. Drew appears in the passenger seat. “Plus, I don’t need protection.” I start my car and decide it’s time to drive home and try to make sense of this mess. “I need to find a doctor Hagan, too.”

  “Who?”

  “He’s the prescribing … ahhhh!” I slam on the breaks when a car swerves in front of me, spins around, and faces us head on.

  “You still don’t think you need protection?” Drew asks.

  “Um … Let me get back to you on that.” I use my hand to block the car’s headlights, which are shining directly into my front windshield.

  “Back up and drive away,” Drew says. “Hurry up.”

  “Hold on.” I open the door.

  “You are doing the opposite of what I told you to do!”

  “Wait.” I get out and blink to focus. It’s Mike’s car. He steps out and slams the door behind him. I don’t need to read his emotions to know that he’s angry. It’s written all over his face.

  But just in case I was unsure, Mike says, “I’m mad.”

  “W-why?”

  “Are you investigating the murder of Margo? I thought we were writing a nice memorial on her, hanging out, and having fun.”

  Um …

  “Your wrist is fine. You weren’t at the doctor’s today. You were at Billy Foster’s house!”

  Um …

  “Don’t you realize Andrew Foster killed my godmother, the woman who took care of me after my mom died? He killed her, and if you want to bring it all back up again, then I’m done.”

  He turns to leave, and I panic.

  “Wait, Mike. You don’t understand.”

  “Did you go to Billy Foster’s house today?”

  “Yes, but it’s only because I don’t think Drew killed Margo.”

  Mike thrusts his hands through his hair. “Drew! You just called him Drew.”

  I’m not sure why this is bad, but I have a feeling Mike is going to tell me.

  “Only his friends called him Drew,” he says.

  Oh, got it.

  “You’re friends with the family. That’s why you wanted to write about Margo, so you could get close to me, get me talking, and then report back to his sister. Do you know she got him out of prison?”

  “Yes, but just hear me out.”

  “Okay. Talk.”

  I stumble backwards. Um … I was not expecting him to say okay. “There are a lot of things about this case that don’t add up, Mike. Like … um …” Oh no, I have to tell him about the medium book, and the San Diego tickets, and the money. Which means admitting that I stole stuff out the storage unit.

  Mike already feels betrayed. It’s the strongest emotion I’ve ever felt from him.

  “Just spit it out, Zoe!” he says.

  Yikes. “I looked through the boxes yesterday when you were talking to your dad, and I found tickets to San Diego for both you and her. They were dated the day she died. She was planning on leaving with you and not returning.”

  “How do you know she wasn’t planning on coming back?”

  “Because they were one-way tickets, and on her bank statement it showed she had withdrawn twenty-thousand dollars in cash.”

  “You looked at her bank statements?”

  “They were in the box.”

  Mike runs his hands down his face. “I can’t believe this. You used me so you could report back to Billy!”

  His words hit me like a bullet. Mostly because they’re true. I did use him, but not for the reasons he thinks.

  “You have every right to hate me right now,” I say. “But please just think about it. If Andrew Foster didn’t kill Margo, then there’s someone out there who got away with the murder.”

  I can’t tell if Mike believes me or not. He refuses to make eye contact.

  “Sheriff Vance’s wife is the one who called nine-one-one the night someone broke into Margo’s house,” I say. “Then she filed for divorce a week later. Don’t you find that odd?”

  The vein in Mike’s neck is pulsing rapidly.

  “I also have your mom’s journals,” I say, forcing the words out. “They’re filled with recipes. But that’s how I found out Leah Sanders was your mom’s cousin, which is how I found out about Dr. Hagan, and the meds. Mike, there’s more to this story!”

  Mike closes his eyes, and I wait for him to lash out, call me names, tell me I’m insane. But he doesn’t. He just walks away. Which is almost worse.

  “Wait.” I follow him. “I’m only doing what I know is rig
ht.”

  Mike yanks open his car door. “I should have known better. Everyone says you’re crazy, but I didn’t pay any attention. Even when Vance told me that you had been at the Fosters’ home today, I didn’t believe him. Even after he showed me the pictures. It wasn’t until I got a text from my aunt Linney ten minutes ago saying that you'd called her this morning and yesterday to ask about Margo—before there was any talk about writing a memorial. Then I realized everyone was right about you. You’re nothing but a liar. You lied about not knowing Margo was my godmother. You lied about going to the doctor’s today. You stole the journals after I told you not to touch them. I know exactly what you’re doing. You want to make it look like Andrew Foster was framed so you can discredit Sheriff Vance for your own personal vendetta. And you used me to do it.” He gets in the car, slams the door, and speeds away.

  I stand there in the middle of the road, frozen in shock and horror.

  Drew moseys on over, his hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans. “Just … uh … wanted to be sure you caught that part about Sheriff Vance following you.”

  Yes, I did.

  Chapter Ten

  My life feels like a big game of Whac-a-Mole. New problems keeping popping up, and even though I have the mallet in my hands, I don’t have the reflexes to bonk them all on the head.

  Sheriff Vance has pictures of me at Billy Foster’s house, which means he followed me there. Obviously Mike and the sheriff are closer than Mike led on, otherwise why would he be so upset? Wouldn’t he want Margo’s real killer to be caught? Would Drew’s exoneration really ruin Sheriff Vance’s career? Why is he so upset if he had nothing to do with the murder? Something isn’t adding up.

  All I know for sure is that I’ve never seen Drew more angry.

  “I’ll take care of him,” he says, punching the air around my room. “I’ll haunt him, make him wish he never messed with you.”

  While I appreciate the sentiment, it has become clear to me that Drew does not make good decisions when I’m not around. “You will not go near Sheriff Vance.”

  “First, I’ll move his furniture around while he’s sleeping.” Drew is still bouncing around on the balls of his feet. “I’ll give that nosey walrus a heart attack!”