Medium Things (A Lost Souls Lane Mystery Book 3) Read online

  “I want my hat.” Drew rolls his shoulders.

  And we’re back to the hat. “Were you wearing it when you died?”

  “Yes. Someone must have stolen it!” He punches his palm. “And they’re going to pay.”

  “I’m sure your sister has it then,” I say, trying to calm him down. Drew seems to run on a short fuse. “Let’s worry about Margo and clearing up your name. Then we’ll find your hat.”

  “You promise?”

  I hate making promises to spirits, but how hard can it be to find a hat? “Sure.”

  He holds up his pinky.

  Ummm … I try to loop mine into his, but he’s a spirit, and I’m alive, so it doesn’t exactly work, but the sentiment is still there.

  “Good. Now let’s get to started.” I reach into my purse and pull out a notebook and a pen, which is engraved with my last name. A present from my dad on my first day of work. “You’re Andrew Foster, go by Drew, and you died two weeks ago. What have you been doing this whole time?” The last two spirits that appeared to me did so shortly after their deaths. But I guess it doesn’t matter when he decided to appear. It just matters that he did.

  “I’ve just been hanging out, caught a few movies, looked for my hat.”

  “Do you know how you died?”

  Please, please, pleeeaasseeee don’t say you were murdered I mentally plead with him, because I can only handle one murder at a time.

  “It was a combination of alcohol, drugs, diabetes, pneumonia, staph infection, and a touch of cancer,” he says.

  “Geez.” I write this down. “Do you have any clue as to who might have killed Margo Stopler?”

  “You’re sure it wasn’t me?”

  “Margo’s spirit came to me, and she said, ‘Please tell him my death is not his fault. I know he didn’t do it.’ I’m going to take her word for it.”

  “Wow,” Drew says under his breath. “When did she say this?”

  “Right after you died.”

  Drew goes back to rubbing his thighs.

  “Did you know Margo?” I ask.

  Drew lifts his chin, a goofy, lovestruck-type grin plastered across his face. “We had some good times together.”

  I hold my breath. Is he about to tell me the two were lovers?

  “Some days were harder than others,” he says. “There are a lot of judgmental people out there.”

  They were a couple! Oh my, how the plot thickens. “I can see why. Margo was ten years older than you.”

  “Man, she was so good to me. It was love at first sight.”

  “Really?” I can’t hide the astonishment from my voice. I would have never imagined the two together.

  I'd found a picture of Margo on the internet during a brief search right before Drew showed up. She was pretty. Had a big smile. Dark, curly hair that fell to her shoulders. Brown eyes. Her cheeks were pink, and according to her obituary she was liked and survived by her sister, Linney, and father, John Stolper, Jr. No other family or significant others mentioned. It’s hard to imagine she was secretly dating a young stoner. Just goes to show that you have no idea what happens behind closed doors.

  “She kept me so warm …” Drew continues. “Like she was made for me. Fit me like a glove.”

  “That’s nice …” And also making me feel a little uncomfortable. You’d think he’d have a little more conflicting emotions given he was accused of murdering Margo, his family was run out of town, and he spent years in prison.

  “We have to find her.” Drew swings his arm along the backside of the bench.

  Oh, for heaven's sake! “Are you talking about Margo or your hat?”

  “My hat! Why aren’t you writing this down?”

  “Sorry.” I scribble find hat along the margin to appease him. “Can we talk about Margo now?”

  He shrugs his shoulders.

  Drew is so flippant about the entire thing it’s hard not to be frustrated.

  I’m not in good standing with the law enforcement around these parts. When you go around solving murders, you step on a lot of toes. It’s going to be difficult to dig further into Margo’s death without ruffling a whole lot of feathers that I really don’t want to be ruffling. But it’s the right thing to do.

  Stupid moral compass.

  “So, did you ever meet Margo?” I ask.

  “We never met formally. Like, hi my name is Drew.”

  “Do you have any idea who could have killed her?”

  Drew puffs out his cheeks. “I heard she’d been hanging around a man who drove a Mercedes.”

  “Okay, this is good.” I write Mercedes man on my notepad. “Who told you this?”

  “My sister. I’m not sure who told her, though. I remember her saying a mysterious Mercedes man.”

  Mysterious tells me the man isn’t from Fernn Valley. Everyone knows everyone around here. “I need to speak to Billy. Where does she live now?” I ask, just as my cell rings. It’s Beth from The Fernn Valley Gazette.

  I completely forgot that I’m in the middle of a workday. I’d only come to the park to have a moment alone, to think, and possibly reconnect with Margo. Obviously, that didn’t happen.

  I send the call to voicemail and turn to Drew. “I have to get back to the office. You can come, but keep in mind that no one else can see you but me.”

  “How long is this all going to take?”

  “My workday?”

  “No. This.” He gestures to the air around him.

  “I don’t know. Hopefully not too long. It just depends how hard it is to find all the information we need.”

  “Life is one giant curveball, and if you don’t have MLB skills, you take a pitch to the face and die,” he says with a sigh. “That’s what my dad used to say.”

  “Um … Okay. Thank you for that lovely analogy. Now, let’s go.” I swing my purse over my shoulder and start walking. Drew sulks along, kicking at the ground. I stop at the curb and wait for the traffic to stop before I cross. I’ve been hit once before at this intersection—and once is good enough for me.

  Drew looks around, taking in the surroundings. “I haven’t been here in years.”

  “Feel good to be home?”

  “Nothing has changed.”

  He’s right. Fernn Valley is a quaint community with brick buildings and brightly colored awnings, wide streets, and medians filled with grass so green it almost hurts your eyes. Nearly every house and business has an American flag proudly hung outside, and nothing seems to age.

  Except for the people, of course.

  “I see those guys still don’t have anything to do.” Drew points to Mr. Clark, Mr. Sanders, and Mr. Ishmael, who are sitting side by side, watching the street. “Do you see what’s on the back of that bench they’re sitting on? We’re in your Lane?” he reads. “That’s a tacky advertisement.”

  If he’s talking about the real estate ad with the man who has a Tom Selleck mustache giving a woman with big permed hair a piggyback ride, then yeah, perhaps it’s a little tacky. Also, “Those are my parents.”

  “Ha! Good one.”

  “Not a joke. That’s my mom and dad.”

  Drew looks from the bench to me. “You come from weird stock.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” He crosses his arms and starts laughing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Ever notice the sheriff looks like a walrus with legs?”

  Well, now that he mentions it … “Sheriff Vance the walrus. Ha!”

  “Excuse me?” comes a male voice from behind me, and I nearly soil myself.

  Crap! It’s Sheriff Vance. I know it without even having to look. I can see his shadow. I can feel his feelings. Dammit.

  Drew leans closer. “Sheriff Vance is behind you.”

  Thanks, I mouth and turn around slowly.

  Here’s the thing about Sheriff Vance: We have a history—and it’s not good. He’s been the sheriff for almost ever, has gray hair, a gray mustache, and appears to be about ei
ght months pregnant with a donut. Also, he looks like a walrus.

  The biggest problem with Sheriff Vance is that he knows about my gift. I’d blurted out my secret to him once in a heated moment. This was before Margo’s warning. I’m not sure if he believes me or not, but he went ahead and told half the town anyway. Which is why most people avoid eye contact.

  “Zoe Lane.” Sheriff Vance always says my name as if it were a type of toe fungus.

  “Sheriff.” I clear my throat. “I didn’t see you standing there. Sorry.”

  “Who are you talking to?”

  I point to the Bluetooth in my ear. “I’m on a call.”

  “Interesting, because I found this on the park bench.” He holds up my phone. “I was on my way to The Gazette to return it.”

  My heart skips over about five beats. “Um … thank you.” I grab my cell using my pointer finger and thumb, not wanting to make skin contact.

  I can feel the sheriff’s feelings. He knows I’m lying, which doesn’t take a genius to figure out. I can’t very well be on a call if I don’t have my phone. There’s an overwhelming mixture of anger, frustration, and pride radiating from him. A brown-eyed child comes to his mind. The child is crying, begging for help, and a woman wearing blue pulls him away. I’ve seen this child in his thoughts before, but I can’t tell if it’s a little girl or a little boy, because the feeling is shadowed. All I know is it’s a haunting, dark memory for the sheriff that causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up.

  “How are your parents doing?” the sheriff asks.

  “They’re well, thank you.”

  “Business good?” He has such a smug look on his face I want to slap him. He knows very well that my parents' business has dramatically declined since my mom threatened to tell everyone that he’s a lazy sheriff who can’t do his job.

  She also threatened to sue him. For what? I don’t know exactly. It’s not like she can afford an attorney, and it’s not like anyone would take a case against Sheriff Vance. Mom was mad and not thinking when she said these things. If she were rational, then she wouldn’t have threatened the most powerful man in Fernn Valley. Not when she has a business 100% reliant on commission and referrals.

  “They’re doing well,” I say.

  “It’s best to leave the past in the past. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes,” I say. Not entirely sure what he’s referring to, but I’m in no position to question Sheriff Vance. And it’s not because I’m a pushover. This sparring match between us has to end at some point, and that point is not right now, standing at the busiest intersection in town, with people watching, and a ghost who is telling me to hurry up.

  “Until next time,” Sheriff Vance says with a nod of his head.

  “Until next … um … time.” I check both ways and cross the street, feeling shaky all over. Why can’t that man just leave me alone?

  Drew hurries to catch up. “Pretty sure he doesn’t like you.”

  “You’d be correct, but maybe he’s ready to forgive, forget, and move on.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

  “It’s possible,” I say. “He said it’s best to leave the past in the past.”

  “Forgive, forget, and move on doesn’t sound like Sheriff Vance.”

  It doesn’t. But people can change. Right?

  I wait until we’ve safely crossed the street before I check my phone. The last thing I'd looked up was Margo Stolper’s sister, Linney, and when I press the home key, her information appears. Crap. No doubt Sheriff Vance checked my phone, otherwise, how would he have known it belonged to me?

  So that’s what he meant when he said, it’s best to leave the past in the past. Wouldn’t you agree? I should have known he wasn’t interested reconciliation. He was more interested in ambiguous threats. And I’m about to unravel the only murder he’s ever solved.

  I really hate ruffling feathers.

  Chapter Two

  When I arrive at The Gazette, everything’s quiet apart from a couple people murmuring on the phone. Beth from Sports is filing her nails. Leon from accounting is mid-yawn. Two people are playing solitaire, and I think Rosie from Community Events is asleep.

  Every day is a slow news day when you live in Fernn Valley.

  The desks are pushed together into groups of two, and I pull out my chair, pretending there’s not a spirit following me.

  Beth, who sits across from me, blows on her nails then continues to file. “I called you. Everything okay?”

  “Um … yes.” I shove my purse into the bottom draw, take a seat, and wiggle the mouse to wake up my computer, not entirely sure what I was working on before I left. Not entirely sure I can concentrate on anything right now. The screen wakes up and, right, I was downloading the pictures for my latest article. I’m in charge of "Squirrel of the Week" and obituaries. No one has died this week, so I just need to get my squirrel article finished and I’m done.

  Okay, concentrate, Zoe. I need this job.

  “Hey, Zoe.” Drew’s face is pointing to the ceiling. “If you stare hard enough, you can trick your brain into thinking the blades are moving in the opposite direction.”

  I gaze up. I assume he’s talking about the big fans.

  Drew is tracing circles with his nose in the air and smiling. Good. That’ll keep him busy while I finish my work.

  Except, he’s laughing. Not a hardy-har-har type of laugh. More like a: uh-huh-huh-huh-hey-hm-hm-hm-hm like he’s simultaneously clearing a hairball and sneaking a peek at his dad’s Playboy. It’s possibly the most annoying sound on the planet. I’d like to throw my stapler at him or tell him to shut up, but I can’t do either right now.

  Okay, concentrate, Zoe. Block Drew out and keep working. Yes, you must figure out who killed Margo Stolper, but you also must bring in an income. Deep breath in and …

  “Uh-huh-huh-huh-hey-hm-hm-hm-hm. The fan. Huh-hey-hm-hm-hm-hm.”

  Gah! I roll my head from side to side, working out a kink, and crack my knuckles. Okay. Back to work. I continue to format my picture for print, a beautiful shot of a cute squirrel I named Alfredo.

  “Whoa!” Drew is looking over my shoulder. “That’s one ugly rat.”

  “It’s a squirrel,” I mutter under my breath.

  “What was that?” Beth casts a puzzled look across the desks.

  “Nothing,” I say with a smile.

  “I wanna help with the rat.” Drew reaches for the mouse and falls through my desk.

  Oh, for heaven's sake!

  “Whoa! You have freakishly small feet,” he says from the floor. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

  I should get an Academy Award for keeping a straight face, especially since Drew is now counting the pieces of gum stuck under my desk.

  “Seven, eight, nine … huh-hey-hm-hm-hm-hm.”

  I’ve worked here almost five months, and I’ve never, not once, looked under my desk. Now I’m scared to—he’s up to twenty. How hard is it to walk six feet and discard your saliva-soaked gum into the trashcan?

  “Who sat here before me?” I ask Beth.

  She arches a brow. “I don’t remember.” She spins her chair around and addresses the room before I can stop her. “Who used to sit at Zoe’s desk?”

  There’s a stretch of silence, and I feel myself shrinking. It was a casual question. No need to involve everyone.

  Leon from accounting stands and taps his chin. “I believe it was vacant for a few years after Chloe quit.”

  “Nah, Chloe sat by the copier,” someone chimes in. “It was Kent who used to do formatting. He sat there.”

  “That’s not right,” says someone else. “He liked to be near the bathroom.”

  Now everyone is on their computers, trying to figure out who sat at my desk. Honestly! This is what happens when you have a room filled with bored reporters.

  “Why don’t you remember, Beth?” asks Mike. He sits near the window. I’m not sure what his job title is, but he’s the only one here who ever appears busy.


  “I didn’t always sit here. I switched desks after Todd started jogging during his lunch break.” Beth swivels in her chair to look at Todd. “Sorry, I’m sensitive to smells.”

  Now we’re all looking at Todd, a thirty-something-year-old man with a dimpled chin. He pulls up his tie and rubs his nose. “I’m pretty sure it was Sol, the one who was always chewing gum. Then before that it was Brenda.”

  There’s a hushed silence at the mention of Brenda. Rosie from Community Events wakes up and crosses herself.

  Here’s what I know about Brenda: Nothing. I’ve never heard of her before.

  Drew pokes his head out from under my desk to give me the grand total of, “Thirty-seven piece of gum.”

  Gross.

  “Who is Brenda?” I ask.

  A few people frown. Leon does a full body shudder, and Mike studies his hands.

  Drew stumbles to his feet. “Is that Stephen Handhoff’s kid?” He crosses the room and puts his face up to Mike’s. “That is Handhoff’s kid! Tell him his old man once swallowed a live goldfish for a dollar. Story is legend.”

  Disgusting, and no.

  “Really, who is Brenda?” I ask.

  Beth rolls her chair over to my desk. “Brenda was over obituaries,” she says, her voice low. “She died in two thousand and one.”

  Her tone suggests it was a traumatic death. I know it wasn’t murder because there have only been two homicides in Fernn Valley, Margo and another one in the thirties.

  “How’d she die?”

  “She hit a deer, rolled off the road, and didn’t make it.”

  “How awful. Did she have children?”

  Beth turns her head, and I follow her gaze. She’s either looking out the window, or she’s looking at, “Mike?”

  She nods.

  Oh, gosh. I feel horrid for blurting out his mother’s name so carelessly. “How old was he when she died?”

  “He was around six or seven.”

  Poor Mike. I just brought up his dead mother in front of everyone. To make it up to him, I could try to reach Brenda … but I doubt he’d be receptive to my offer. And Margo did warn me against telling others about my gift.