A Medium Education (A Lost Souls Lane Mystery Book 6) Page 3

  Right. That. It’s going to be a lot harder to find Connie’s killer if she refuses to believe she is dead.

  “What is the last thing you remember,” I ask, hoping to jog her memory.

  Connie closes her eyes. “It's Tuesday, and our late day. The office doesn’t open until noon. It is exactly nine fifteen, and I am eating one of my Hostess Donettes. I allow myself two packages a week, one on Tuesday and one on Friday. I keep them in my white coat pocket to nibble on throughout the day. I am checking emails, and there’s something there … in my email … something … upsetting … but I can’t recall what it says. Then I hear someone walk into the reception area.” She slowly lifts her lids. “Why can’t I remember the rest?”

  “Spirits typically block out their deaths. As we get closer to the truth of what happened, you’ll remember everything.” I check my watch. It’s ten thirty, which means she has been dead at least an hour—assuming she died right away.

  I write this on the board.

  “No, that can’t be the case because I’m not dead,” she says. “I can’t be. This is not how it works. When you die, you’re dead. There’s nothing more, and even if there were more, it wouldn’t be a small bedroom in Fernn Valley. This is in my head. And why wouldn’t I know how I died if I were dead?”

  Good question. “By erasing the memory of your traumatic death, you have a chance to first come to terms with the fact that you’re dead. I believe it’s the journey of discovery that helps you make peace with the situation.”

  Connie is shaking her head. “That’s not how any of this works. I am asleep.”

  Sigh.

  This is going to be harder than I thought. “Let’s call Russell and Elijah right now to make sure they’re okay.”

  Connie starts to protest.

  “I know you don’t understand all this,” I interrupt. “And you think it’s in your head. Play along for a minute, please. We want to keep your family safe.”

  Connie surrenders, and I get the feeling she does that a lot. “Elijah isn’t allowed to have his phone at school, but Russell always has his cell on him.”

  “What does he do for a living?” I ask.

  “Nothing right now. He used to work for the accounting department at the hospital, but he got laid off last year.” Her voice trails off, and I see an image of Russell. He’s medium height. Medium weight. His face is long, his eyes are blue, and his hair blond and short and graying along the sides. In this memory, Russell is pacing the length of what must be their bedroom. He’s visibly distressed. Connie doesn’t know why he’s upset. When she asks, he tells her it’s nothing and not to worry. In her memory, Russell isn’t scary or mean or murderous, but he does come off as desperate.

  Not that I think Russell is the reason Connie is sitting front of me right now, but I have learned that desperate people do desperate and murderous things.

  Still, we need to find Russell and make sure he’s okay.

  Mike asks Connie for Russell’s number then makes the call. “It goes to a full voicemail,” he says.

  “Why would it be full?” Connie asks. “Call Elijah’s school and make sure he’s there.”

  Mike looks up Trucker Middle School on the internet and makes the call.

  “The problem is they’re not going to give you any information,” Connie says. “You’re not on his emergency contact list.”

  “Give me the phone,” I say to Mike, and he places his cell into my palm. I put the call on speaker so Connie and Mike can hear.

  “Trucker Middle School, this is Becca,” answers a woman with a slight Southern drawl.

  “Hello,” I say, changing my voice to reflect Connie’s softer tone. I sound less sweet and more like Jessica Rabbit doing a Marilyn Monroe impersonation. “My name is Connie Batch, and I am calling to make sure my son Elijah Batch is in class today.”

  “Connie Batch?” Becca asks. “You sound different.”

  “Yes,” I say. “I am Connie Batch. My son is Elijah. I. Have. A. Cold.” Gah! I really suck at acting.

  “Oh,” says Becca. “Elijah is in English right now. We just received the attendance.”

  My eyes slide to Connie, who heaves a sigh of relief. “Give him a message from me … uh … I don’t know what to tell him. Be careful?”

  That feels rather ominous. “Can you please tell him not to go home with anyone but his father or me today,” I say instead.

  “O-okay,” says Becca. “I can do that. Anything else?”

  “No,” I say. “Thank you!” I hang up and hand the phone back to Mike. “At least we know Elijah is okay.”

  Connie taps her forehead as if to say duh. “Of course he’s okay. My goodness gracious, this all feels so real. I keep forgetting I’m asleep.”

  I try again. “Connie, you are dead. This is real. You have died.” I’m more blunt than I’d normally be under the circumstances, but it’s important that Connie understand how very much un-alive she is. “We need to go to your office and look for clues as to who killed you and make sure that person doesn’t hurt Russell or Elijah. We also need to find more information on Arturo the painter and find Don Archer’s medical file and look at your computer since the last thing you remember is receiving a concerning email. Okay?”

  “I think I’ll stay here and wait this out. I’m sure I’ll wake up soon.” Connie slides onto my bed and crosses her ankles.

  Great.

  I eye my backpack on the floor. “What time is our flight?” I ask Mike.

  “Yeah, I crunched some numbers and checked with different airlines and determined it would be significantly cheaper if we drove.”

  Darn. I was looking forward to flying. I’ve never been on a plane.

  Still, I can’t forget about Jose/Jabba. It’s an odd coincidence that he would disappear only after I started looking into his past. He’s been around for fifteen years. Why now? Doesn’t he want to transition? Did he already transition without my help? How long do I leave this tuna out before it goes bad?

  I should have just concentrated all my attention on Jose when I had the chance instead of looking up nursery decor for my sibling and daydreaming about moving out.

  “Uh, Zoe,” Mike says in a strangled voice. “I need to speak to you privately.”

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell Connie, who is sitting on my bed with her eyes closed, willing herself awake, and follow Mike out to the hall.

  “I just had a glimpse of the future,” Mike says, because, yes, on top of seeing and speaking to the spirits of dead animals, Mike has the ability to see the future. I can only imagine what paranormal gifts our children will have—assuming we have children someday.

  “Is it bad?” I ask.

  Mike places his hand on the nape of my neck and lowers his head until our foreheads touch. When I close my eyes, I can see what he sees.

  He’s at a modest single-story home with a two-car garage and a boat draped in a white cover in the driveway. I get the sense of imminent danger. As if this house is where we meet the killer. The sun is setting, making the sky appear as if it were on fire with bright orange hues. Mike has on the same clothes he does right now, and he’s standing beside three spirits. He can’t see the spirits, and therefore I can’t see the spirits since I’m in his head. He does have a sense of who these spirits are. One spirit is Connie, while the second spirit is a male we haven’t met before. He’s younger than Russell but older than Elijah, which is good. The third, however, is very familiar.

  It’s me.

  I’m dead, and I’m there with Connie and the other spirit, and we’re standing in the driveway of a modest home at sunset.

  The problem with Mike’s visions is that the future is fluid—every decision we make changes the course of what will transpire. When his glimpses of the future are crystal clear, there is nothing we can do to change the outcome.

  This vision is foggy—but not that foggy.

  Crap.

  Three

  Prioritize. What I need to do is pr
ioritize. Prioritize and not freak out.

  Do. No. Freak. Out.

  What I have is a spirit who is occupying a cat (and both are currently missing), a spirit who does not believe she is a dead, an eleven-year-old and his father who are likely in danger, a killer on the loose and two possible suspects, my mother who is keeping secrets, and my probable demise.

  That’s a long to-do list.

  Where do I begin?

  Connie’s killer, I decide.

  If I find Connie’s killer, then I’ll be able to help Connie, Elijah, and Russell and hopefully stop my impending death because even though I’m not necessarily scared to die (I’ve been around enough spirits to know the ins and outs), I don’t want to. I still have a few things I’d like to accomplish in this life, like move out of my parents’ house, pack a real suitcase, go on a real plane, get married, have babies, and try caviar. Not that fish eggs sounds particularly scrumptious, but in Sexy Sous Chefs of NYC, Chef Hardabs made the delicacy sound so seductive that I’d like to at least try caviar once before I die.

  If I’m ever going to try caviar, then I must prioritize.

  I swing open the door to my room, leaving a pained-looking Mike in my wake.

  Connie is sitting on my bed in the exact position as she was two minutes ago when we left.

  “Okay, I’ve got a plan.” I clap my hands. “We need to find your killer and get ahold of Russell. Let’s go to Trucker.”

  “I don’t want to. This is all a lucid dream, and I’d like to wait it out. Nothing I do in this alternate universe will matter once I’m awake.”

  This is maddening. I have never had so much trouble convincing a spirit they’re dead.

  Okay, I guess that is not entirely true. I once had a spirit who was adamant that she wasn’t dead while I was adamant that she was. Turned out she was right, and I was wrong. In my defense, the spirit was neither entirely alive nor entirely dead. She was hanging out somewhere in the middle of life and death. But that spirit was almost see-through, and she was not restored to her prime. Connie is iridescent, not see-through, and she looks younger and healthier than she does in her profile picture on her website. I’m 99.9% confident that Connie is dead.

  How do I convince her this isn’t in her head? Think, Zoe. Think …

  “You’re right,” Mike says from the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest and anguish written all over his face.

  For a moment I forget why he appears so broken. Then I remember my imminent death. Right. Got it.

  “This is all a dream.” Mike steps inside. “It’s a really bad and really vivid dream and an opportunity for you to face your fears and wake up a stronger person, and a more confident physician, mother, and wife.”

  I elbow Mike in the side.

  He winces but continues. “Think about what a life-altering position you’re in. You can better yourself from the inside out, confront this killer who hurt you in your dream, and know that you can’t suffer any physical harm.”

  Connie nods her head along with slow determination. “I think you’re right. This is a mental quest. I save my family from a bad guy”—she hooks her fingers into air quotes—“but really the bad guy represents my debilitating anxieties and inability to speak up, and by saving my family from this bad guy”—again with the air quotes—“I’m saving my family in real life from my own downfalls. I’ve always wanted to be one of those women who takes charge of a situation, who can look danger in the face, and who can speak her mind. I have so much to say, and yet I can never find the courage to speak my truth. I’m too scared to hurt, offend, or anger people. For example”—she stands up on my bed and puffs her chest, as if about to make a public decree—“I, Connie Batch, do not like pie. There. I have said it. Russell loves pie, so I make pie and eat pie and pretend it’s a dessert when in reality it’s fruit covered in dough, and fruit has no place in dessert, and all I want is to make brownies, but he hates chocolate, and I love chocolate, and he’s doesn’t like deep-fried dough, and I love deep-fried dough, which is why I eat donuts at work because for some reason I believe that if he knew that I ate donuts, he would be disappointed in me, but really why would he be disappointed that I eat deep-fried dough because it’s just a donut?” She slaps a hand over her mouth and laughs. “Goodness gracious, that was a terribly long sentence, and I didn’t even run out of breath.”

  “Connie, you didn’t run out of breath because you’re de—”

  “Whoa!” Connie jumps off my bed. “My gosh that felt good.” She bounces on the balls of her feet. “There’s so much happening in my head right now!”

  “That’s great, and I want you to find your voice—”

  Mike swings his arm around my shoulders and squeezes me tight. “Go with it,” he mutters through a forced smile.

  Go with it? I can’t go with it! Connie must come to terms with her death. That’s how this works!

  “We’ll start at your office and keep calling Russell,” says Mike. “What time does Elijah get out of school?”

  “At three thirty.”

  “That gives us five hours,” says Mike. “Someone probably already found your body and called the cops … uh, in your dream, obviously. They found your body in your dream. We can grab clues when we’re at your office.”

  This is crazy talk!

  “Do you feel like it’s Arturo the painter or Don who killed you?” Mike asks. “I get that you don’t remember who killed you, but spirits have hunches.”

  Hey, that’s my line!

  “I feel like I don’t know anything about anything.” Connie drops to the floor again. “I don’t need to do a mental quest. I don’t need any of this. I should stay here.”

  Well, that de-escalated quickly.

  I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and sit beside Connie. She hugs her legs and rests her forehead against her knees. “I’m not strong,” she says in a hushed and heartbreaking tone.

  “Yes, you are,” I say. “You are strong. You are brave. You are confident. You are a mother and a wife who loves her family, and you have died.”

  Connie gazes up at me. “This all feels so real.”

  “Because it is,” I say, for what feels like the hundredth time. “Let’s go find out what happened to you and make sure your family is safe.”

  She opens her mouth, about to give an excuse as to why she should stay put, and I stop her before she can get the words out. “No doubts. You are stronger than you give yourself credit for, smarter than you think, and loved more than you know.”

  “Are you quoting Winnie the Pooh?” Mike asks.

  Not sure. I saw the quote on one of the nursery signs that I pinned on Pinterest.

  “I know I’m smart,” Connie says. “I’ve always been book smart.”

  Oh, well. “Okay, then. You’re stronger and braver than you give yourself credit for.”

  “Brave and strong have the same connotation.”

  Oh, well. “Okay then. You are brave and … fiercer?”

  “Similar, but I understand what you’re trying to say.” She lowers her legs. “Okay. I can do this. I am brave, and I am smart, and I am fierce.”

  “Right on!” Mike gives two thumbs-ups. “Are you ready?”

  “Absolutely. I mean, sure. Why not?” Connie marches to the door. “I am on a quest, and I can do this.”

  Once Connie is out the door, I stand and give Mike another elbow into the side. “I cannot believe you told her she isn’t dead,” I angry-whisper.

  “I didn’t think we’d get her out of the house unless she believed this was a dream. At some point, she’ll figure it out. I’m thinking that I should go with Connie and you should stay and look for Jabba.”

  I’m shaking my head before he even finishes his sentence. “Connie appeared to me. This is my job, Mike. Connie has a feeling that her family could be in danger, and even though you can hear her, you can’t see her. We have a chance to save not only my life, but also the life of whoever that man was in your vision. If I have to
lose mine to save others, then so be it.” Even though I really, really don’t want to.

  Mike turns to me in astonishment. “Zoe! I am not going to let you die. How can you be so careless?”

  “I’m not careless. I’m being … caremore? Anyway. We can’t ignore Connie. What you saw in the future is based on what we’re doing right now. We can change the outcome. We’ve done it before. We’ll do it now. Absolutely. There is no reason to freak out. Not. At. All.” At least that is what I tell myself to keep from freaking out.

  “What about Jabba?”

  “I don’t know,” I say with a grunt and eye the tuna can in the corner. “We do need to find him, and if we’re helping Connie, then we can’t continue our search.”

  “What about your mom? She can look for Jabba while we’re gone.”

  As if on cue, I can hear the front door open, close, and the van roar to life in the driveway. Well, okay then.

  “She’s hiding something,” I say. “I’m not sure what it is, but I don’t have time to care right now. You put up the posters, and Brian knows Jabba is missing, and I told Mrs. Batch to let me know … oh no, Mrs. Batch! Should we tell her about Connie?”

  Mike frowns. “Let’s go to Trucker first and see what is going on. She might already know.”

  What a crappy day this has turned out to be. I really want to help Jabba or Jose or whatever I’m supposed to call him now, but I can’t ignore the urgency in Connie’s situation either.

  Then there is Mike. He is staring at me incredulously. I can see emotions jumbling through his eyes. Fear. Love. Tenderness. Anger. Disbelief.

  I open my mouth, to say what? I’m not sure. Don’t worry. It’ll all work out in the end. I’m sure we’ll all be fine. Or some other generic decree you’d find on a Facebook meme.

  Before I can get the words out, Mike’s lips are pressed against mine, fiercely, almost like a declaration, like a vow to lay down his own life to protect me from whatever danger lies ahead.

  I have no idea what the future will bring. What I do know is that I love this man, and there is no chance that I’d ever allow him to risk his life to save mine.