by Erin Huss
Also, Drew is in my ear. “Huh-huh-huh-hey.”
Gah! I can’t concentrate on anything else. “Beth, since you’re here. What do you know about Margo Stolper?”
“The real estate agent that was murdered?”
“Yes.”
“I know she was a real estate agent, and that she was murdered.”
“Thanks.”
“I think the anniversary of her death is coming up.”
Hold on … I check Google to verify and Margo died exactly sixteen years ago today. It can’t be a coincidence that Drew showed up on the anniversary of her murder.
“Why the sudden interest in Margo?” Beth asks.
“Errr … just that, um … I was thinking … we … should …”—the little lightbulb in my head turns on—“… do an article on her! Like a tribute.” What a brilliant idea. This way I can help whoever writes it and say that my investigation is for work. No one’s feathers should be ruffled if I’m just doing my job.
Beth turns around to address the room again. “Zoe thinks we should print a tribute to Margo Stolper.”
I smack my forehead. Why does she keep doing this? There’s no need to involve everyone. Geez.
“That would be nice,” says someone.
“Margo was sweet. She sold me my house,” says Leon from accounting.
“Mine too!” says someone else.
“What’s going on?” Brian Windsor, editor-in-chief, asks from the doorway to his office.
We all swivel our attention his way.
“Zoe thinks we should do an article on Margo Stolper,” Beth says. “Today marks the anniversary of her death.”
Brian crosses the room, and I fidget with the collar of my shirt.
Here’s what I know about Brian: He's a little older than I am, has black-rimmed glasses, gray eyes, dark hair, freckles across his nose, he smiles without showing his teeth, and I want to have his babies.
One complication: He has a girlfriend. Her name is Va-ness-a—and I can’t say her name without breaking it into syllables because I’m jealous.
“That’s not a bad idea. We can run a remembrance on the front page,” Brian says. “You should take it.” He’s looking at me, but he can’t possibly mean me. I only just started doing "Squirrel of the Week," which requires a picture and a single caption. Obituaries are practically written for me by the family, and people don’t die that often around these parts. Even if it feels that way presently. The point is, I’ve never written an entire article by myself.
However, it would make the investigation easier if I were solo. Well, solo meaning no other living person to deal with. There’s still Drew, who is laughing at the fans. I have a sinking suspicion he is not going to be all that helpful.
“Yes,” I say. “I can take it!"
“I’d like to help,” Mike says.
“Of course.” Brian adjusts his glasses. “You and Zoe can work on it together. Let’s do a celebration of her life and not concentrate on the circumstances surrounding her death.”
Wha … no! This is terrible. First, I don’t want Mike involved. I can’t talk with Drew openly with him around. Second, I want to dig deeper into her murder, not write a fluff piece. I mean, yes, that would be nice for Margo’s memory. But there’s a killer at large, and that’s what I need to focus my energy on.
“You okay?” Brian touches my shoulder, and I stiffen. Man, he smells good.
“Yes, I-I was just thinking … um … perhaps.” I lower my voice, not wanting Mike to hear. “It would be easier if I sort of did the article alone? I’m sure Mike won’t be much of a help.”
“Zoe.” Drew is at my ear. “The Handhoff kid is right behind you.”
Gah! I need to do a full perimeter check before I open my mouth. I clear my throat and spin my chair around. “Hi, Mike.”
“Give it here.” Mike holds up his palm. “Lane and Handhoff! Dude, we’ve got this.”
I give him a high five with forced enthusiasm.
“Good,” Brian says. “Deadline is Friday.”
“Wait. Wait. Wait.” I grab hold of Brian’s sleeve before he can walk away. “Today is Wednesday.”
“Between the two of you, I’m sure you can handle it.”
“Right, yes, but I’ve never written an article, and Mike …” I turn around. “What exactly do you do?”
“IT.”
Oh, makes sense. “Right. So he does tech stuff, and I take pictures of squirrels. Why don’t we aim for next week’s deadline?” I need more time to investigate.
“I aced English Lit in college,” Mike chimes in.
Ugh, he’s not helping. “The thing is …” I say, not exactly sure what the thing is. I’m grappling here. “I’m a slow typer.”
“I can type ninety-five words per minute.”
I’m sending mental messages to Mike telling him to shut up. But he’s not getting them.
“You can dictate, and I can type,” he says.
I blow out a breath. “Um …” Nothing. I’ve got nothing. Crap. Looks like this is happening. “I just … um … need to use the restroom.” I look at Drew and jerk my head.
“Nah. I’m good,” he says.
I jerk my head harder.
Brian and Mike share a look.
“Dude, what are you doing?” Mike finally asks.
I feel my cheeks go red. “Um … nothing.”
Whatever. I give up. Drew obviously is not catching the hint, and he’s back to staring at the fans. “Huh-huh-huh-hey.”
“I’ll let you two get to work.” Brian pats our shoulders, forcing us closer.
Ugh.
Not ugh because I’m now touching Mike. He’s not a bad guy. Sure, his pants are tight, he only wears white shirts, and he uses dude as a verb, noun, and adjective, but he’s pleasant and well groomed. I’m thinking ugh for multiple reasons.
One of which is Beth, who is waggling her eyebrows at me. She has this ridiculous theory that Mike likes me.
“If you need anything, let me know,” Brian says before he walks back to his office.
What I need is to do this alone. And for Beth to stop making that weird face. Mike does not have feelings for me. I would know. I feel feelings, and all I feel radiating off him is … nothing much, actually. I catch a hint of excitement, but that’s about it.
“Should we go into the conference room?” Mike asks.
“We have a conference room?”
The answer is, sort of. It’s more of a big storage closet stacked with cobweb-covered boxes, and in front of the clutter is a card table with a two folding chairs.
“This way we can work without interruption.” Mike takes a seat and opens his laptop. I don’t have a laptop, but I do have a spiral notepad and a pen because I’m fancy like that. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.” I flip open my notebook just as Drew walks through the wall.
“Good. There’s a fan in here.” Drew looks around the room for the switch, and I realize Mike is talking to me.
I plaster a smile on my face. “I’m sorry, what?”
“What’s up with you and the boss?”
“Nothing. Wh—" I fall out of my chair when Drew jumps out from behind a stack of boxes.
“I found the switch,” he says.
“You okay?” Mike extends a hand.
“Yeah … I’m fine.” I brush off his help. “I just … um … have trouble with gravity.” I chuckle what I hope is an endearing I’m perfectly fine type of chuckle, because in reality I think I bruised my tailbone. Ouch!
“Turn on the fan,” Drew says. “The switch is behind those boxes.”
The boxes he’s referring to are actually a six-foot high tower of storage bins labeled Archives 1977-1983. There’s no way I can move those, and I’m not asking Mike to either.
“You know he has a girlfriend,” Mike says.
Um … huh? “Who does?”
“Brian. He’s with Vanessa, and I heard she’s moving here.”
My heart plunges into my
gut. She’s moving here? Why? I mean, I guess living in the same city as your boyfriend is a good reason, but why, why, why?
I must look as miserable as I feel, because Mike places a comforting hand on top of mine—and he doesn’t even flinch like most people do. When I’m around the dead, my skin becomes ice-cold to the touch. Mike either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, and I can’t tell what he’s really feeling because I’m either broken or he is …
Never mind. I catch a hint of enthusiasm.
Not sure what there’s to be enthusiastic about.
“You okay?” Mike asks.
“No, she’s not!” Drew clenches his fists. “You upset her. Tell me who this Brian guy is, and I’ll take care of him.”
“Whaaa …” I say, for lack of a better idea. “No.”
Mike’s brow is wrinkled, and I don’t blame him. I’m acting like a lunatic.
“Sorry.” I clear my throat to buy time and quickly shoot a look of warning to Drew.
Drew lifts his chin. “Say the word, and he’s toast.”
I blow out a breath, attempting to regain my composure. “About the story,” I say, my voice is unusually high. “I think it’s best if we—"
“Turn on the fan.” Drew is in my ear. “I want to watch the fan.”
Holy hell!
With a grunt, I peer up. The blades of the fan are covered in about six layers of dust. “That fan can’t be turned on because it’s dirty, and the switch is behind a tower of bins,” I say.
Mike looks up. “Okay. Are you … hot?”
“Come on,” Drew whines.
I try my hardest to ignore him.
“Okay, I see how it is.” Drew rolls up his sleeves. “If you want something done right, you ask a woman. If she won't do it, you got to try yourself until she has no other option than to take over. That’s what my old man used to say.” He puts his fingers on his temples and closes his eyes.
I leave him alone to do … whatever it is he’s trying to do and focus my attention on Mike, who is staring at me with such an odd expression I almost want to laugh.
“What if … um … I’m just thinking out loud here …” I say, fidgeting with my pen, and trying not to look at Drew. “But what if I handle the investigation, and you write the article.”
“What investigation?”
“Well, we don’t want to run the same information that’s been printed in years past. We want to do a more in-depth look into who Margo was, who she hung out with, what she did the days leading up to her death, and talk to those who knew her best.”
“If you want to print more pictures and get more information on Margo, then we could look through her stuff. Everything is at The Self-Storage Place.”
“Fernn Valley has a storage place?”
“It’s near the train station. I know the owner.”
“And he’s just going to let us go through her property?”
“Why not? It’s just been sitting there.”
What a lucky break! Normally I wouldn’t go through someone’s storage unit. But Margo did contact me. I think it’s fair to say she’d be fine with me going through her stuff.
The tall stack of bins crashes to the ground, sending up a plume of dust. Mike and I hunch over in coughing fits. I peek up at Drew who is standing with his hands on his hips, flashing a triumphant smile. “I moved the bins,” he says. “You can turn on the fan now.”
I’ll be damned. I’ve never seen a spirit do that before.
“How …” Mike pauses to cough. “Did …” More coughing. “… that happen?”
“Seems the boxes have trouble with …” Cough. “… gravity as well. Let’s go.”
Chapter Three
I want to take separate cars to the storage place, but once we walk out to the parking lot and Mike’s eyes land on my BMW i8— “Dude, you’re totally driving.”
So now I have Mike in the front seat, Drew in the back seat, and I’m sitting in the driver's seat, pretending like this is all totally normal.
Mike pets the dashboard, using only the tips of his fingers. “It’s so beautiful.” He looks as if he’s about to cry.
“Would you like me to leave you two alone?”
“Dude, have you pushed her hard? To see what she can do?”
“Huh?”
“What’s her zero to sixty speed?” he asks.
“I don’t know … four seconds?”
“Dude, four seconds!” He mimics a head explosion. “What’s her top speed?”
“I don’t know.”
“How fast can she do the quarter?”
“Huh?”
Drew takes it upon himself to translate. “He wants to know how fast the car can do a quarter mile, like on a drag strip.”
Oh, what an odd question. “It’s fast, that’s about all I know. I mostly keep it in electric mode. It’s cheaper.” And a royal pain in the butt. Running the extension cord from the garage to the driveway isn’t easy. I’m almost positive the original owner, Willie MacIntosh, the first spirit who I helped, would have never given me the car if he'd known I wouldn’t park it in the garage. There’re too many boxes in there, and it doesn’t fit. “To be honest, I love the car. But I’m worried I won’t be able to maintain it.”
“Then why not sell it?”
“It was a gift from the first spirit … um …” I cannot believe I just said that out loud. “Person!” I quickly add, hoping to cover the blunder. “It was a gift from a person. A super alive individual.”
“Good cover up,” Drew says. “And I hope you caught the sarcasm in my voice.”
Sure did.
My eyes slide to Mike. He isn’t giving off any kind of suspicious emotion. I know he’s happy because he has the goofiest grin on his face while he’s playing with the seat controls.
“Dude, you should take her to the track and see how fast she can go,” Mike says.
“Fernn Valley has a racetrack?”
“It’s not open anymore, but people still use it. Dude! We could see what her lap time is.”
“No, thanks. I think I’ll keep it in electric mode.”
“Dude, it would be wicked fun,” he says.
“No, thanks.”
“Dude, you gotta live a little, Lane.” He flashes a smile.
“You say dude a lot. “
“You say no a lot.”
“No … I don’t …”
“How about I say dude less, and you say yes more.”
“That doesn’t sound like a good compromise.”
He nudges me with his elbow. “Have it your way, dude. Because, dude, I’m from California, and dude is, like, dude is everything. The car’s a dude. My shoes are a dude. Dude, there’s a stop sign. Dude—”
“Fine! I’ll say yes to more stuff, and you say dude to less.” If I have to spend the next two days listening to his dude, and Drew’s laugh, I may lose my mind.
“Cool, when we are going to the track with this baby?”
“Never.”
“You promised!”
“I promised to say yes more, and that was not a yes or no question.” So there.
“Ooohhh, I see how you play, Lane. I see …”
I can’t help a little smile. Mike has a breezy way to him. It’s nice being around someone who isn’t restless, and demanding, and dead.
“Burning loins of desire,” Mike says.
“Excuse me?” I look over and … oh, no! He’s reading the back cover of My Hot Next-Door Neighbor.
I keep my eyes on the road and reach over to snatch the book from his hands, but he pulls away.
“Not so fast,” he says. “This sounds interesting.”
“Where did you find that?”
“Under the seat.”
“You have any other porn in here?” Drew starts looking around.
“It’s not porn!” I can feel my cheeks go red. “It’s … it’s … literature!”
Mike flips open to where I had bookmarked. “He rips his shirt off like a raveno
us gorilla ready to pounce … Do gorillas pounce?”
“It doesn’t matter.” I snatch the book from his grasp, almost swerving off the road.
“Whoa, try to stay in your lane … Lane.” Mike laughs at his own joke.
So does Drew.
I return my focus to the road, praying Mike doesn’t open the glove box. I may have more literature in there.
When we arrive at The Self-Storage Place, Mike instructs me to park in the back and to go slow over the speed bumps, not wanting me to, “scratch her.”
Her being my car.
I pull in sideways across two spots because, according to Mike, the i8 demands respect. Taking up two spaces is more of a jerk move than a respect move, but there aren’t any other cars here. So I don’t feel bad.
The Self-Storage Place is on the outskirts of town, near the train station, next door to a tow yard filled with stripped vehicles and a German shepherd who is running along the chain link fence, digging at the ground and whimpering with excitement.
“This way.” Mike grabs my hand as soon as I step out of the car and drags me to the back door.
“Don’t we need to tell your friend we’re here?”
“No need.”
“Then how are we going to get into Margo’s storage unit?”
“Crowbar.”
“Nnnn … that’s a negative.” I yank my arm free and march back to my car. “I’m not breaking into anything.”
“I don’t blame you,” Drew says, catching up to me. “Not with a crowbar. A bolt cutter is what you need.”
“Wait, Zoe!” Mike touches my shoulder, and I jerk away.
I’m so stupid to have come all the way out here with him. Margo probably doesn’t even have a storage unit. Why would the owners hang on to her stuff for sixteen years? Who is paying the rent?
“Come on,” Mike says. “I was only having fun with you, Lane.”
I turn around and walk backwards. “How is breaking and entering considered fun?”
“It was a joke.” He places a hand over his heart. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t funny. I have a storage unit here. We’re fine. Trust me.”
I stop and fold my arms. “Yes, you have a storage unit, but how are we supposed to get into Margo’s?”
“I have her stuff. She was my godmother.”
I throw my arms up in the air. “Why didn’t you say that before?”
