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

  To summarize, Brian’s personal property is not safe when I’m around.

  “Can we find my hat now?” Drew is in my ear. “You said we’d talk to my sister. She might have it. Find my hat. Find my hat. Find my hat!”

  There’s a character on Sesame Street named Don Music, a tortured musician who bangs his head against the piano out of frustration. As a child I never understood why he would do this. Now I get it. If I hear Drew mention his hat one more time, I may bang my head against the closest available hard surface.

  “Remember when you pinky-promised you’d find my hat?”

  I use the heel of my hand to thunk my forehead repeatedly until Mike says, “Dude, what are you doing?”

  “Nothing. I’m going to work.”

  I storm towards the entrance and pull on the door a few times until I remember you have to push. The workroom is sparse, and I slam my purse into the bottom draw of my desk and turn on my computer.

  “Rough night?” Beth takes off her sweater and hangs it on the backside of her chair.

  “Something like that,” I say. “I’ll go start the coffee.” Not that I drink coffee, but it’s my job to make it in the morning. I’m not even sure why I bother. Most people bring in their own.

  “I’m sensing you’re mad at me,” Drew says.

  “Well done, Columbo.” I jam a filter into the coffee maker and start scooping.

  “Just so you know, I’m not good at speaking chick. You’re gonna need to spell it out for me.”

  I drop my shoulders and stare at Drew, his big brown eyes and face plagued with confusion. He’s equal parts frustrating and endearing.

  I press brew and check to be sure no one is around. “I will find your hat, but I need to do my job,” I say just above a whisper. “Let me do a few things here. Then we can go talk to your sister. Okay?”

  Drew holds up his pinky. “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  I get to work and fine-tune my "Squirrel of the Week" article, order more ink cartridges, refill the toilet paper dispenser, unjam the copier, dump out the pot of coffee no one touched, unjam the copier, clean the carafe, and unjam the copier once more. By the time I finish with my daily tasks, it’s nearly noon. Drew is busy with the fans, allowing me to take a break.

  I roll my chair over to Chris’s desk. He’s watching highlights from a basketball game on his computer, and I clear my throat to get his attention.

  “Uh … hi, Zoe.”

  Here’s what I know about Chris: He works in accounting along side Leon, owns a sweater vest in every color, has an apricot tree, watches basketball at his lunch break, and he and I have never had a conversation since I started at The Gazette. Which is probably why he’s staring at me like I might pull a knife on him.

  “I have an accounting question.” I check over my shoulder to make sure Mike is not within earshot. “Let’s say I had someone’s bank statement from oh … hypothetically speaking … sixteen years ago. And it showed large sums of money being deposited into the account, and a few days later the funds were transferred to a different account. If I had the last four digits of the account number the money was transferred to, could I figure out who the account belonged to?”

  “I highly doubt the bank would give you the information if it’s not your account.”

  Well, shoot. I can’t say that I’m surprised though.

  I thank Chris for his expertise on the matter and wheel my chair back to my desk.

  Drew is still staring at the fans, laughing. I really do need to speak to his sister. Billy could provide more insight into Margo’s death and Drew’s hat. The problem is, I can’t leave work for no reason. I’ve already finished my article for the week, and there aren’t any obituaries …

  The little light bulb in my head turns on.

  I love when that happens.

  Brian is in his office, staring out the window, leaning back in his chair, biting at the end of a pen. I knock on the door to get his attention, and he spins around.

  There’s something off about Brian today. His hair is a little less combed. His shirt is a little less pressed. His office is a little less Lysolled. His mood is somber.

  Maybe he’s mourning the loss of his laptop.

  “What’s going on, Zoe?”

  “I need to go up to Trucker and meet with a family for an obituary.”

  “And you can’t do this over the phone?”

  “No, because it’s sensitive.”

  Brian regards me for several seconds. “Why would someone in Trucker want to run an obituary in the Fernn Valley Gazette?”

  Valid question. One I have an answer to. “Because the deceased used to live here. You okay if I take off?”

  “Sure. But who died?”

  “Um … Andrew Foster. It’s only fair he gets an obituary.”

  “No.”

  “But he grew up in Fernn Valley.”

  “He murdered a young woman.”

  “Allegedly.”

  “There’s no allegedly when he was convicted. And it wouldn’t be right to run his obituary in the same issue we run Margo’s memorial.”

  “He still lived here, though,” I say again, because this is my only point.

  Drew walks through the wall, his eyelids heavy. “You talking about me in here?”

  I nod my head, keeping my eyes on Brian. “Andrew Foster was born and raised in Fernn Valley, it’s on fair he gets an obituary in the paper.”

  “I don’t want an obituary,” Drew says.

  “Andrew Foster dropped out of high school at fifteen,” Brian says. “Had no respect for the law. He was involved in drugs, petty thefts, and who knows what else. As far as I’m concerned, his was a wasted existence.”

  Ouch.

  Drew doesn’t appear phased, but I hate he heard that.

  “It wasn’t wasted,” I say. “I heard that Drew was … um … protective. Yeah, he was fiercely protective. That’s a nice quality in a person.”

  “I’m not running an obituary for Andrew Foster.”

  “Don’t we at least owe it to the family to hear what they have to say about Andrew?”

  Brian rubs his temples. He’s tired. Maybe he was up all night fighting with Va-ness-a. Or he was up all night … nope, not going there. He looks miserable, and I’d like to believe it’s because the two were arguing over his burning desire for me.

  A girl can daydream, right?

  “How about this,” I say. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Take care of what?”

  “Everything. I'll take care of everything.” I back up towards the door. “Don’t worry because I’m taking care of it.”

  “I’m not going to run the obituary,” Brian hollers after me, but he doesn’t say to stay, so I take that as permission to leave.

  I go to my desk and collect my things, shoveling them into my bag quickly before anyone can ask where I’m going.

  “Where are you going?” Beth asks.

  Shoot.

  “Um … I have an appointment.” I swing my bag over my shoulder and shut down my computer.

  “For what?”

  I don’t want my visit to Billy Foster getting back to Mike. “Doctors appointment in …Trucker,” I say, and cross my fingers behind my back.

  “I thought we were going to talk to Billy!” Drew bellows directly into my ear, and I wince.

  “Oh no, Zoe.” Beth comes around the desk to my aid. “Are you in a lot of pain?”

  I shoo Drew away. “Um … sure.”

  “Is it your wrist?”

  I stare down at my hands, unsure of why she’d think I hurt my wrist, but whatever. It’s a good cover. “I’m. Going. To. The. Doctor’s. For. My. Wrist. Bye.”

  I hurry out to the parking lot and … ugh. I forgot about the scratches on my doors.

  “Zoe Lane!” Drew marches up behind me. “You said we were going to Billy’s today!”

  I shove my Bluetooth into my ear. “We are. There is no appointment. That was a cover
.”

  “Oh … good.” He walks through the car door, takes a seat, and is quiet the entire ride to Trucker, solemnly staring out the window.

  “Are you upset about what Brian said?” I ask.

  “No. He was a right. From about the time I was twelve years old, I did nothing good. Then I went to prison. Then I got out. Then I walked the streets for a year until I died. Doesn’t sound like a good existence to me.”

  “You walked the streets? Why?”

  “Nowhere to go.”

  “What about your sister’s house?”

  “Technically, I lived there. For probation purposes. But she didn’t need me around, dragging her down.”

  “Why would you drag her down?”

  He doesn’t answer my question, instead, he gives me directions, guiding me through Trucker until we reach Billy’s house. She lives in a single-story home with a wrap-around porch, no grass, and a driveway filled with pickup trucks. As I approach the house, I catch a whiff of hay and peek around to the backyard and find a corral with a beautiful brown horse kicking up dirt with his rear hooves.

  The back door is open, and at least ten corgis are gathered behind the screen, barking at me. A woman with a long blonde ponytail settles the dogs down. “I already have religion, thanks,” she says to me.

  I take the steps up to the porch. “I’m not here about religion. I’m here about Drew.”

  The woman moves the dogs out of the way and pushes open the screen door. “What about him?”

  “I work for The Gazette, and we heard he died recently. I thought you’d want to print an obituary.”

  “No one wants to read about Drew. But thanks anyway.” She closes the screen, and the dogs continue to bark.

  “I write the obituaries, and I think they might.”

  The woman pauses. I assume this is Billy.

  My assumption is verified when Drew says. “That’s Billy.”

  “Do you really think so?” Billy asks.

  “It’s possible.”

  Billy steps out onto the porch. She’s wearing loose-fitting jeans and a T-shirt that says San Antonio Rodeo 2003. Her skin has the texture of a woman who has spent her entire life in the sun, and her voice has the low grumble of a woman who has spent her entire life smoking a pack a day. She’s missing one of her incisors, but she has a warm smile and a lovely spirit.

  “Have a seat.” She gestures to one of two rocking chairs. The chairs are wooden and splintery. “Seems like people in Fernn Valley would be upset if you printed anything about Drew.”

  “I don’t think people knew him very well,” I say.

  Drew sits on the floor between us and hugs his knees.

  “He was misunderstood,” says Billy. “Sure, he gave my parents a lot of grief, and he liked to do things his way. But he was a good brother. Very protective. He’d do anything for me. But in the end, I couldn’t help him.”

  “I’m sure you did everything you could.”

  Drew nods in agreement. Being around his sister brings out emotions I’ve never felt from him before: shame, remorse, and love. He has a lot of love for Billy.

  “Just so you know, I’m also writing an article on Margo Stolper,” I say. “But I want to have Drew’s side of things, because the crime doesn’t make a lot of sense to me.”

  Billy’s eyeballs practically explode out of her head. “I’ve said that from day one! I was with Drew when Sheriff Vance pounded on our front door. He told Drew he was taking him down to the station for questioning. And I could tell by Drew’s face that he had no idea what was going on. My mom kept calling the station. She wanted him to have a lawyer, but they told us he’d refused the right to an attorney. It wasn’t until the next day that we found out he’d been charged for Margo’s murder.”

  “Did you ever talk to Drew before he was charged?”

  “No. They kept him in a small room until they were able to convince him he did it. They told him his joint was found outside her door. But they didn’t find his fingerprints on anything else. If he’s stupid enough to leave a joint outside, he’s stupid enough to not wear gloves if he broke in. My brother did a lot of knucklehead things. But he wasn’t a killer.”

  “How long did they question him for?”

  “They kept him there until he signed the confession. At least ten hours. We tried to get him to go to a trial, but he wouldn’t do it.”

  “Because they were going to sell golden sweets,” Drew says.

  I’m confused. “What’s a golden sweets?” I ask Billy.

  Her mouth pops open. “How’d you know about her?”

  I respond with a shrug.

  “Golden Sweets was our thoroughbred filly,” she says. “We put her up for sale so we could hire a lawyer to fight Drew’s conviction. But he wouldn’t let us. I’m telling you, they broke him. The brother I knew was gone.”

  “How’d he get out of prison so soon?” I ask. “Doesn’t murder carry a heavier sentence?”

  “Spent every cent I had, fighting, and fighting, and fighting. Before my parents died, I promised them I’d get Drew out. Finally, I got his case in front of a federal judge who ruled Drew’s confession was coerced and agreed to a new trial. Drew was out on probation, but he died before he could have his day in court.” She shakes her head. “He just gave up on life.”

  “It sounded like he was sick, though.”

  “He could have gotten treatment, but he refused. I know he was depressed, and he spent all his time sitting on the Trucker County Courthouse steps, talking to himself, wearing that damn hat of his.”

  Goose bumps trickle down my arms. “I gave money to a man who sat on the Trucker County Courthouse steps wearing a Davy Crockett hat.” What a strange coincidence.

  “He’d come home with a few bucks every day from people who thought he was homeless. If only he’d not given up, then his name would have been cleared.”

  “If he didn’t kill Margo, who did?” If Billy spent the last sixteen years working on overturning Drew’s conviction, then she has to have theories of her own.

  Billy lights a cigarette and blows out a puff. “I’ve got a few people. The first person is Stephen Handhoff. You ever heard of him?”

  Have I ever.

  “I knew Handhoff and Brenda Johansson in high school,” Billy says. “They had one of those typical high-school overly dramatic relationships where they were dating one week, broken up the next …” Billy takes a drag of her cigarette and flicks the ash onto the ground. “They were exhausting. Brenda went off to school, and Handhoff got in trouble with the law, mostly for burning stuff down. She came back from school on a break, and I don’t know what she was thinking, but she got knocked up. She was going to marry Handhoff, but her best friend from college, Margo, came to town to convince Brenda not to do it. Brenda called off the wedding. Handhoff never forgave her.”

  “Why did Margo want Brenda to call off the wedding?”

  “Would you want your best friend marrying a man who had a history of burning things down?”

  “Probably not.”

  “No one thought the marriage was a good idea. Margo was the only one with enough balls to say so.”

  “Were you friends with either Handhoff or Brenda when this was happening?”

  Billy flicks her cigarette over the patio railing. “Nah, but we lived in Fernn Valley, and people talk. Handhoff started dealing after the kid was born. Brenda had full custody, but still let him visit the boy. After Brenda died, Margo made sure Handhoff had nothing to do with the kid. Which is why he killed her.”

  “Why would Handhoff kill Margo and pin it on Drew, though?”

  “Cause he ain’t gonna pin it on himself. Drew had been arrested a few times for petty theft already. He was the perfect target. All Handhoff had to do was save one of Drew’s joints. Easy,” Billy says. “I’ve tried contacting the Handhoff kid several times. But he won't return my calls. The kid wants to pretend that none of it happened. But it did, and my brother’s life was ruined. The Ha
ndhoff kid could help right the wrong.”

  “How could Mike help?”

  “Because he was the only witness.”

  “Yes, but he was so young, and according to reports, the killer had a mask on.”

  Billy pulls out another cigarette. “Exactly! Even the neighbor who called the police said there was a masked man breaking into Margo’s home, and they saw the masked man running away. But the Handhoff kid gave them a description using a sketch artist. The sketch looked exactly like Drew’s face. How could he have known what the killer looked like if he was wearing a mask? I think Handhoff put ideas into the boy’s head.”

  “What about Sheriff Vance?” I ask. “He seems like he’s hiding something.”

  “I never liked Sheriff Vance. He gave off creepy vibes. I don’t know that he had anything to do with Margo except that he led the investigation and was so arrogant about it, too. He talked to the press, making it sound like he was this almighty detective, when in reality he forced Drew to confess, and he didn’t even run the DNA on the joint.”

  Hold on … “He never ran the DNA?”

  “Not until after I started filing appeals.”

  I’m confused. “How did he know it was Drew’s joint when he brought him in for questioning?”

  “He was bluffing. You can’t run DNA that fast. Not in Fernn Valley. They don’t have the resources. Drew was a thief. Sheriff Vance pegged him the killer without doing any investigation. When my parents and I started questioning the conviction, Sheriff Vance then produced the DNA results. They were dated five days after Drew’s arrest.”

  Interesting, but not a glaring red flag. Like Billy said, Fernn Valley doesn’t have the resources to rush DNA results. It wouldn’t be unreasonable for Sheriff Vance to interrogate the town’s thief, being as the murder started as a break-in.

  Drew raises his hand. “When are we going to get to my hat?”

  “In a minute,” I accidentally say out loud. Oops.

  “What?” Billy asks.

  “In a minute … I’d like to ask you about Drew’s hat. But first, I heard something about a man in a Mercedes. Do you know more about him?”