A Medium Education (A Lost Souls Lane Mystery Book 6) Page 4

  But I appreciate the sentiment and kiss Mike back with the same promise.

  Four

  “This is not real. I need to wake up.” Connie’s eyes are squeezed shut, and her knees are pulled tightly to her chest, which is no easy feat given how restrictive my back seat is.

  About twenty minutes into our drive to Trucker, Connie’s confidence evaporated, and she’s been willing herself awake ever since. Even though I have told her a hundred times—give or take—that this is real and she is a spirit.

  “Dude, there is nothing on the Trucker PD app.” Mike has been glued to his phone since we left. “It lists all fire, medical, and police cars dispatched in the entire county of Trucker, and there’s nothing about a murder.”

  I check the time. It’s almost noon. Connie’s staff should be there by now, and they should notice that she is not. “Can you call Russell again?”

  Mike’s already called fifteen times over the last forty minutes and sent a handful of text messages with no replies, but he obliges anyway. “He still has a full voicemail box.”

  Shoot.

  “Did you find anything else on Arturo or Don?” I ask.

  “I’m pretty sure I found both of their profiles on Facebook. Here is Arturo.” He flashes me the screen, and I do a quick glance, not wanting to crash since I am at the helm of the car. Arturo is a stern-looking fellow with dark blond hair cut short and a square jaw with a thin mouth. “Don has Yoda as his profile, so I have no idea what he looks like. We need to get his file from Connie’s office.”

  “Do you remember where Don lives?” I ask Connie.

  She doesn’t hear me.

  So I try again. “Connie?”

  “What?”

  “Do you remember where Don lives?”

  “Somewhere in Trucker,” she answers, which isn’t entirely helpful, but at least it’s a start since we are now officially in Trucker County.

  I take the East Road exit and drive past the courthouse and two shopping centers until I reach the medical plaza that consists of three large brick-faced buildings with dark windows and the hospital.

  I pull into the only empty parking spot I can find and cut the engine. The door has barely lifted when I fall out onto the hot asphalt (there is no way to gracefully enter or exit this car).

  “Her office is in there.” Mike points to the third building up a slight hill. “I have a vague memory of coming here as a kid. Who would have thought I’d encounter Dr. Batch’s spirit fifteen years later?”

  Small world.

  We trudge up the hill as fast as I can go—which isn’t very fast at all. Connie silently trails behind. Poor thing. She’s beyond confused, and every time she has even the slightest inkling that this could be real, that she could be dead, that her family could be in danger, she talks herself out of it.

  As we approach the entrance to the medical building, an automatic door slides open. I follow Mike down a linoleum-floored hall smelling of disinfectant and latex. The place is quiet, apart from a UPS driver pulling a dolly piled with boxes into an office.

  “I’m on the third floor,” Connie says. “Suite three fifteen.”

  Up the elevator we go. There’s a ding, and a little jolt, the doors open, and we’re out and power-walking down the hall. The fact that there are no police, no crime tape, no anything associated with a murder scene tells me that no one knows Connie has been killed.

  Suite 315 is near the emergency exit. Connie Batch, MD is engraved on a large gold plaque on the door with Gastroenterologist in swirly script beneath.

  Mike and I take a deep breath in unison, and on the count of three we open the door, and … it looks like a doctor’s office. No dead body. No blood. No spirits. Nada. The waiting area is white, the furnishings are white, even the painting hung above the couch is an abstract watercolor painted in shades of white, creams, and light grays. It is simple yet not, kind of like Connie.

  There is a small, U-shaped reception desk and an office area with two computers, a copier, and a full wall shelving unit stuffed with manila file folders. Beyond the reception area is Connie’s office. I can see the plaque on the door, Dr. Connie Batch.

  Sitting at the reception desk is a woman wearing blue scrubs, her hair long—like down to her butt long—and straight. “That’s Rose,” Connie says in her hushed, barely audible tone. “She is my office manager.”

  “Hello,” Rose greets us without looking up. “Please sign in.” She taps the clipboard on the counter.

  I immediately pick up on the stress Rose is feeling. It’s because … because … Dr. Batch is not in yet, and they have several patients coming in later. Connie had a parent-teacher conference at the school this morning for Elijah, and she assumes the meeting must have run long.

  Connie never mentioned she was at Elijah’s school. She specifically said she was in her office eating a donut.

  Rose is completely clueless as to what is really going on, and that is a big problem.

  I can’t be the one who notifies the authorities of Connie’s murder when the only evidence I have is Connie’s spirit. If this happened in Fernn Valley, Sheriff E might entertain the idea because he’s always been supportive of my gifts. But Trucker is far more populous, and I haven’t had many dealings with the law enforcement here—aside from that one high-speed chase (long story). They’d think I was a complete and total nutball. Which, I have learned, does not bode in my favor. It’s not because I care what other people think of me. I gave up on that a long time ago. It’s because they will not listen to a woman who claims to see ghosts.

  “I, uh, talked to Dr. Batch this morning, and she said she was here. Have you looked in her office?” I ask Rose, trying to sound as casual and nonchalant as possible given the situation.

  A confused look is coming over Rose’s face, and she glances over her shoulder at Connie’s office. “She said she was in? Really?”

  “Yes. She was here this morning, and she ate a donut,” Mike says.

  “That’s right!” I add with a little too much enthusiasm. “She was here at nine fifteen.”

  “She does eat donuts on Tuesdays.” Rose clears her throat and rubs her face. “I haven’t even checked her office yet.”

  “You should check,” I encourage. “Right now.”

  With a deep V-shaped frown wedged between her eyebrows, Rose walks over to Connie’s office and opens the door.

  I can see from here that the computer and light are on. There is a coffee mug next to the keyboard and a cardigan draped over the back of the chair. I am guessing there is no dead body or sign of a struggle since Rose closes the door and meanders back to her seat.

  “She’s not here. I’m sure she’ll be in shortly.”

  I look to Mike for guidance. “I need to go to the bathroom,” he blurts out. “Real bad.”

  Oh, good idea. I can distract Rose while Mike pretends to use the restroom, but really he’ll sneak into Connie’s office.

  Rose starts rummaging through the drawers. “The bathroom is down the hall. The key should be right here.”

  Shoot.

  Rose swipes her cell phone off the desk and checks to see if Connie has texted her back. I can see that in her thoughts. She’s not worried. She’s annoyed. At some point, Rose is going to figure out that there’s something wrong.

  That some point is right now.

  “We know that Dr. Batch was here,” I say. “Her cardigan is draped over her chair, and there is a coffee cup. I’m worried. Aren’t you?”

  “No.” Rose wiggles the mouse and wakes up the computer on her desk. “Can I get your name?”

  Uh …

  “It’s for me, actually,” Mike says. “It’s about my stomach aches. I’m a patient. Mike Handhoff. I talked to Connie … I mean Dr. Batch, this morning, and she told me to come in.”

  “Why is there no music?” Connie is suddenly in my face, and I nearly scream out in surprise. You’d think I’d be used to spirits appearing out of nowhere by now, but I’m not. “I p
ut on smooth jazz to help calm my patients’ nerves. I’ve asked Rose so many times to please, please leave the music on, but she never does. You know what?” She rolls her shoulders and fixes her gaze on Rose. “Turn on the music.”

  Rose, of course, doesn’t answer. She’s too busy composing a text to Connie, expressing her irritation over the fact that Connie is bringing in patients without checking the schedule first.

  “Rose,” Connie says with a little more strength. “Turn on the music.”

  Rose does not answer.

  “Please turn on the music.”

  Nothing.

  There’s a flash of determination across Connie’s face, and she sets her mouth to a line. “I am the boss. This is my practice. I make the rules, and I want smooth jazz. Turn it on, or find a new place to work!”

  Ouch. When Connie yells the sound could break glass.

  “Go ahead and take a seat.” Rose reaches under the desk and presses a button. A saxophone melody pumps out of the overhead speakers. “If Dr. Batch told you to come in, then I’m sure she’ll be here soon.” Rose pulls open a drawer and then another and then another. “I cannot seem to find the restroom key, though. You can use our bathroom. It’s right through there.” She points to the door next to her desk. “Go down the hall, turn left, and … never mind. It’s confusing. I’ll show you.”

  Aha! Perfect.

  Mike winks at me then goes around to meet Rose at the door. As soon as Rose’s back is turned, I jump over the counter.

  Okay, so it was less of a jump and more so a flop, but whatever. I’m on the other side of the counter, and that’s all that matters.

  I scramble to my feet and hurry into Connie’s office and close the door behind me. Nothing appears amiss. It’s a small room with cream wallpaper, a dark mahogany desk, and an empty coatrack. The chair behind the desk is turned toward the door, and the screensaver—an analog clock—drifts across the computer screen.

  I grab the stack of manila file folders off the corner of the desk and flip through them. Bingo! Don Archer’s file is about three inches thick and stapled to the inside cover is his patient information along with his phone number and address. He’s my age, a lot younger than I imagined he would be. There’s also a grainy black and white photo of Don. He is handsome, which is an odd thing to notice given the circumstance, but there it is. He has lush dark hair, light eyes, and a big smile with straight, white teeth.

  I shove the file into the back of my pants. Not totally comfortable or inconspicuous, but it’s my only option right now.

  Connie walks through the door and gasps. “Did you see that?” she cheers, almost laughing. “Watch. I’ll do it again.” She walks through the door and returns one second later. “How fun is that? I wonder if I can fly?” She squats down and leaps up into the air with all her might and lands almost immediately. “Darn. I love dreams where I can fly.”

  “Connie,” I say, exasperated. “You are not dreaming. This is real. I found Don’s file. Now I need to get onto your computer.” I wiggle the mouse. “What’s your password?”

  “It’s one, five, seven, three, uppercase B, two, lowercase C, exclamation mark …” This goes on for a while.

  My password for everything is Jabba97. Maybe I should consider changing it.

  I’m granted access, and I hover the mouse above the email icon, when I suddenly remember. “Rose thinks you’re at a parent-teacher conference this morning. Does that ring a bell?”

  Connie’s eyes go distant. “That’s right. Elijah’s principal called a meeting this morning at eight o’clock. I went. Russell couldn’t go because he had a migraine. Oh goodness me, that’s why he isn’t answering his phone. He turned it off because of his head. He’s been getting horrible headaches lately. How did I forget about the meeting, though? He’s my son, and he’s having a hard time.” She dramatically drops to the floor. “That’s why I’m having this dream. It has to be stress-induced. Apparently Elijah has been bullying another boy at school, which is simply horrible and not acceptable behavior. The principal said Elijah shoves this kid into the lockers during gym class and makes fun of him. This is not like Elijah at all. He’s not the violent type, and he has a great group of friends. Even the principal had a hard time believing Elijah would do such a thing. I haven’t had an opportunity to talk to Elijah yet, or at least, I don’t think I did …”

  “What is the boy’s name that he’s bullying?” I ask, not that I think this sixth grader killed Connie, but it doesn’t hurt to look into all possibilities.

  “I’ll have to ask Elijah,” she says from the floor. “The principal isn’t allowed to give me the child’s name. It took me by complete surprise. Never in a million years would I have ever thought my boy could be so mean.”

  I check the time. It’s almost 12:30, and Elijah gets out at 3:30. We’ll have to make sure we’re there at pickup to talk to Elijah. At least there is an explanation as to why Russell is not answering his phone. We’ll still need to check on him as well.

  But first we have to hurry and read Connie’s emails before Rose notices that I’m in here. I click on the envelope icon, and there are ten new messages in her inbox. I scroll past those as most are spam and find the emails from this morning. There are quite a few. Most are from other physicians discussing mutual patients.

  “This is giving me anxiety,” says Connie. “You realize what a huge HIPAA violation this is, right?” Connie rises to her feet and peers over my shoulder. Her close proximity causes goose bumps to erupt down my arms “There.” She points to an email from someone named Charleyhorse99. “That feels familiar.”

  The email was sent at exactly 9:12 AM, which is three minutes before Connie remembers hearing someone in the reception area. The subject line reads Urgent.

  Hello Dr. Batch,

  I am writing you this email woman-to-woman. Your husband has been sneaking around behind your back.

  That is all it says. Dang.

  “Do you remember reading this?” I ask.

  Connie flickers in and out as if someone has turned up the voltage.

  “Connie? Are you okay?” I ask.

  She shakes her head slowly at first then faster until her face blurs. “No, that’s not possible. Do you think he’s having an affair?”

  “Honestly? That’s what is sounds like to me.”

  “He’s barely left the house since he was laid off, though.”

  “What about while you’re at work?”

  “Uh-um, I don’t know. I guess it’s possible, but I just … no, no, no. She didn’t say affair, she said sneaking around behind my back. There’s a big difference. Why would this person send an email to my work?”

  “Could she have gotten your email address off your website?”

  “I suppose so, but that is not a nice thing to send to someone’s place of employment.”

  True.

  I lift my phone to snap a picture of the email and address, when I notice the crumbs near the keyboard. Connie did say she was eating a donut when she heard someone enter the reception area, which has me thinking. “Was the front door locked?”

  “No. I leave it open in case we get a delivery or Rose decides to come in early.”

  I can hear voices on the other side of the door. We’re running out of time. “Quick, does anything look amiss in here?” I ask. “Because I think it’s safe to say that you were not killed in this room.”

  To my surprise Connie looks around instead of correcting me with her “I’m not dead, this is a dream” spiel. “No. The office looks like it normally does.”

  “Is anything else coming back to you?” I ask.

  “I remember being at my desk. I heard a sound out in reception, and I opened the door. And then—”

  I catch a memory in her head. There is man that has climbed over the reception desk and is fast approaching her. He is wearing all black, and there appears to be a yellow bandana wrapped around his mouth and nose. The entire memory is blurry because Connie was having a panic
attack. When she panics, she cannot think straight or see straight and her head buzzes and her chest grows tight and she feels lightheaded. She’s looking at the floor when she feels something tight around her arm.

  “I’m here to make things right,” says a muffled yet masculine voice.

  And then the memory ends.

  “What does he mean make things right?” I ask Connie.

  “Were you in my head?”

  “Yes, sorry. I forgot to mention that I read thoughts.”

  “Oh. Gosh. Oh. Gosh.” Connie’s eyes are welling up in tears. I’ve never seen a spirit cry before.

  “Shhh. It’s going to be okay.” I open my arms to give her a hug then realize that’s a pointless venture. “Don’t cry, Connie,” I say instead. “It’ll be okay.”

  The voices on the other side of the door grow louder, and I can hear Mike say something about the 49ers. Crud. He only talks football when he’s run out of things to say.

  I do a quick search of Connie’s desk, hoping to find her cellphone—nope, not here. Shoot. “Let’s go.”

  I creak open the door and stick my head out. Rose is back in the reception area and Mike is behind the desk.

  “They’re called the Forty-Niners after the prospectors who arrived in Northern California during the Gold Rush …” Mike’s eyes venture my way, and then he quickly redirects his attention back to Rose. “Anyway, where was I?”

  “You were telling me all about the Forty-Niners. Please have a seat. I’m sure Dr. Batch will be in soon.”

  Rose starts to turn and Mike yells, “No. Wait! I-I, ummm.” He falls to the floor with a loud thud.

  Rose peeks over the desk. “Michael? You okay?”

  I feel like saying, Obviously he’s not. The man just collapsed! But I push open the door and tiptoe out, keeping my back to the wall instead.

  Rose abruptly spins around. “What were you doing in there?” she demands.

  I look over my shoulder, as if Rose could be talking to someone else. Nope. Just me.

  Mike stands up and throws his hands up in the air as if saying, what are you doing? I created the perfect diversion for you!