by Erin Huss
He shrugs. “I figured you knew. Everyone does.”
“Well, apparently not everyone.” And now I feel really stupid.
Drew raises his hand. “I knew that.”
I give Drew a look.
“What?” he says defensively. “I figured you knew. Everyone does.”
“What are you looking at?” Mike asks.
“Um … nothing. Let’s go.” I storm towards the back entrance, and Drew appears at my side. “I want you to memorize the code he uses to unlock the door,” I mutter under my breath. “Got it?
“Yeah, I don’t think I can be counted on to remember anything important.”
Oh, for heaven's sake. “Then say it out loud, and I’ll remember it.”
“Got it.”
Mike uses the keypad located at the door, and Drew spits out the numbers Four-Six-One-One-One-Five-One, and I repeat them in my head, saying them to the tune of "Mary Had a Little Lamb." We walk down a long hall of storage units until Mike stops at A-134. There’s a combination lock, and Drew reads out the combo.
“This is mostly my mom's stuff,” he says as he rolls open the door. “Margo’s boxes are in the back.”
The unit is packed with pine furniture, a blue corduroy recliner, and boxes. Behind a dresser, there’s about five feet of nothing. “Why is everything at the front of the unit, not the back?” I ask.
“Convenience.”
I wouldn’t call it convenient. I would call it a waste of storage space, and bad packing. But this isn’t my storage unit, so I keep my comments to myself. I step over a Thighmaster lying on the ground. “Why do you have your mom's and Margo’s stuff in a storage unit?”
“Because I don’t want to throw it away, and my place is too small.” He grabs a box marked Books and blows a layer of dust off the top. “There’s a bunch of pictures in here.”
Mike removes the lid and pulls out a three-inch stack of photos and hands them to me. On the top of the pile is Margo at the beach with a big floppy hat on and a light blue sarong tied around her waist. She’s holding a drink up as if saying “cheers” to the person behind the camera. Seeing her so alive brings on a wave of emotions: anger that she was killed so young, frustration someone got away with murder, and sadness … mostly sadness.
“How did your mom and Margo meet?” I ask as I flip through the stack.
“They were roommates in college. She’d visit a lot and help take care of me, to give my mom a break.”
“What about your dad?”
“He wasn’t fit for fatherhood.”
“Then who raised you after your mom died?”
He gestures to the pictures in my hand, and my heart sinks.
“Margo?” I ask, and he nods his head. How awful. First his mom died, then a few years later, so did Margo. “Then who raised you after Margo died?”
“Mostly my dad.” He smiles as if to say it’s no big deal, but I can tell by his face there’s far more to the story.
“Zoe,” Drew says. “Zoe!”
I slide my eyes over to the entrance, where Drew is standing.
“Watch this.” He brings his fingers to his temples and stares intently at a nightstand until it moves about half an inch.
Okay, he’s officially freaking me out.
“Cool, right?”
That’s one word for it. I give a slight nod of my head and return my focus to the pictures.
“Is this your mom?” I ask Mike, showing him a Polaroid of Margo and another woman with dark brown hair, the same color as Mike’s. The two women have an arm slung around each other’s shoulders and are sporting San Francisco State sweatshirts.
“Yes, and what were you looking at?”
“Um … the pictures.”
He shakes his head. “Du—I mean, Zoe. Did you just move that table with your mind?”
“What? No! That’s ridiculous. It must have been the wind.”
Mike licks his finger and holds it up. “Not even a breeze.”
Dang it, this guy is way too perceptive. I need to be more careful. “So…” I pause to clear my throat. “Do you remember much of your time living with Margo?”
Mike raises his brows and studies me under intense scrutiny until he finally gives in. “I was nine when she died.”
So that would be a yes. “What was she like?”
“She was kind. Had a good sense of humor, and she loved movies.”
“What kind of movies?”
“Mostly Disney stuff. We’d have movie nights on Fridays. She’d make popcorn, and we’d sit on the floor in the living room.”
“Can I ask why you weren’t mentioned in her obituary?”
Mike scratches the back of his head. “Someone at The Gazette wrote it, and I think my dad didn’t want me mentioned. Complicated family stuff. Not worth getting into.”
Oh, but it is.
Mike’s dad just jumped to the top of my suspect list, and I haven’t even met him. I mean, the man swallowed a goldfish for a dollar. Clearly he doesn’t make good decisions. Now I need to unwind Mike’s complicated family stuff so I can know for sure if Mike’s dad had motive to kill.
“What kind of car did your dad drive?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“I don’t remember.”
“It wasn’t a Mercedes, was it?”
Mike narrows his eyes. “Why would you ask me that?”
“To start conversation,” I say with a smile.
“No, tell me why.” He takes a step closer and I back into a box.
“I was just … um … throwing out options.”
“I’m not buying that for a second,” Mike says and I squirm. “You can’t believe everything you hear, Lane.”
True. But there’s obviously more to the Mercedes Man story, since Mike wont answer the question. I’ll need to talk to Billy, Drew’s sister, to get more info.
“When are we going to look for my hat?” Drew is sitting in the recliner with his legs crossed.
Mike snaps his fingers and points at me. “You just did it again!”
“Did what?”
“You looked over there.”
“So? What are you? The eye police?”
“The eye police.” Drew snorts. “Huh-huh-huh-hey. That’s a good one.”
It really wasn’t, but I appreciate the laugh regardless.
“You’re doing it again,” Mike says. “With the eyes. Looking over there.”
Gah! I can’t do this anymore. I have a murder to solve, a spirit to vindicate, and no room for nosey people.
I start to leave, and Mike grabs my elbow. “I’m not trying to make you mad. It’s just … I’m cool.”
“Shouldn’t you let other people tell you you’re cool?
“I meant I’m cool with whatever powers you have.”
My heart hiccups. “I-I-I don’t have powers. That’s ridiculous.”
“Come on, Lane. I’ve heard the rumors.”
I give him a look. “I thought you’re not supposed to believe everything you hear.”
“Touché.”
“Anyway. That’s enough nonsense talk. Let’s concentrate. About Margo. Did she move here after your mom died?”
“Mmmhmm, we lived in a townhouse across from the library.”
Aha! The library! Margo lived across from the library and requested a book … which means … nothing. You can live anywhere and go to the library. Moving on. “What other friends did Margo have? Was she close to anyone we could talk to?”
“She had clients, but I don’t know if she hung out with anyone.”
“What about dating? Was she ever married?”
“Never married, and I don’t think she dated anyone when she was here. If she did, I didn’t know about it.”
Well, he’s of no help.
I flip through the stack of pictures and find one of Margo standing in front of Butter Bakery. “Let’s use this one and see what else you have in this box.” I dig around. There are two journals, both secured with a flimsy lock. “C
an I open this?”
“No.” Mike yanks the books from my hands (well, more like pries). “These were her private thoughts. I’ve never even read them.”
“I’m bored,” Drew blurts out. He stands and walks through the wall.
“You’re looking over there again,” Mike says.
Geez. This is precisely why I wanted to do this alone. “We could find useful information in the journals.”
“Like what? We’re doing a dedication to her life, not publishing her private thoughts.”
“We don’t have to publish the journal, but we can have a better idea of who she was.”
“No, it’s not right. She wouldn’t be okay with people she doesn’t know reading her diary.”
I want to say that I do know Margo, her spirit visited me, but I can’t. Even if Mike is “cool” with whatever powers I supposedly have. Margo warned me to be careful who I trusted, and I plan to heed to her advice.
I’m about to make another argument for opening the journals when Mike puts his hand on my head and shoves me to the floor. When I open my mouth to ask what the hell he thinks he’s doing, he shushes me and shoots me a look of warning.
Then I feel it.
An unsettling, dark spirit.
It’s not Mike’s, and it’s not Drew’s, and it’s not a dead spirit, but there’s someone else here. I hug my knees to my chest and swallow a few times. The vein running down Mike’s neck is pulsing, and his hand is still on my head.
“What are you doing here?” says a grumbly man’s voice.
“I had to grab a few of my mom’s things.”
The dark spirit lets out a wet, hacking cough then hocks a loogie. “When you gonna clear this place out?”
“Not until next year.” Mike’s voice is void of emotion, but the vein on his neck pulses faster.
“I need it. There’s demand for ten by tens.”
Mike casually drops Margo’s box to the ground and uses his foot to slide it closer to the wall. I’m not exactly sure why I’m hiding, or why Mike’s vein is pumping, or who this man is he’s talking to.
That is, until Drew returns. “Look who is here, Zoe! It’s Stephen Handhoff! Damn, this fool didn’t age well. Looks like he never eats! Zoe, check this out. This is the guy that swallowed the goldfish … Zoe? Where is Zoe?”
I’m sending him mental messages that I’m hiding.
He’s not getting them.
Obviously my mental messenger doesn’t work.
“Zoe! What happened to Zoe? Did you touch her?” I imagine he’s confronting Handhoff … wait. Handhoff! This dark-spirited man is Mike’s father!
“What are you getting?” I can hear Handhoff slide a piece of furniture out the way. “Let me see.”
“Its only pictures. But, dude, I notice the lock was busted on unit A one-sixty-nine. Did you see that?”
“Nah.”
“For reals.” Mike keeps his hand on the top of my head. “I’ll show you. Come on.”
Mike steps over me, pretending I’m not there, and I can hear him talking to his dad in the distance. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Stay? Run?
“Zoe!” Drew is slightly hysterical, and I peek around the dresser I’m hiding behind.
“I’m here,” I loudly whisper.
Drew’s shoulder sag with relief, and he drops to his knees. “I thought they killed you.”
“Why would you assume that?”
“Cause Handhoff is crazy.”
“I caught that. He’s so much older than you were, how did you even know him?”
“He was my dealer for years.”
“For drugs?”
“No, for goldfish.”
I roll my eyes. “Can you go see what they’re doing right now? Mike doesn’t seem like he gets along with his dad, and I don’t want to leave him.”
“I hear ya. Handhoff was hilarious. Not a good father figure, though. He liked to light things on fire.”
“Like what?”
“You know the bowling alley?”
“No.”
“That’s because Handhoff burned it down.”
Oh, geez. So he’s a dark-spirited pyromaniac. Great. Just … great.
“Go see what they’re doing while I look through these boxes real quick. I want to see if there’s anything in here that could give us a clue as to—” Yeah, okay, Drew is already gone.
I take the lid off, making sure to be quiet in case Mike or his pyro-dad show up. Inside are the journals. They have red plaid coverings and are secured by a lock I could easily pick with a bobby pin. I wrestle with my conscience. Take them and see if there’s information to help clear Drew? Or respect Mike’s wishes?
On one hand, I don’t want to upset Mike.
On the other hand, I’m sure he’ll get over it.
I shove the journals into my purse. Also in the box are a few knickknacks, a small Eiffel Tower, a keychain from Hawaii, and a San Francisco Giants pennant. Under a baby blanket is a well-worn, thick book titled Medium Mind: A Step-by-Step Guide to Connecting with the Dead. The pages are crinkled, and paragraphs are highlighted. There are notes written in the margins, and a slip of paper falls out and lands on the floor.
I check over my shoulder to be sure Mike is still gone and pick up the paper. It’s a flight confirmation for a trip Margo booked the day she died. Two tickets, one-way, from Trucker Airport (about forty-five minutes north) to San Diego.
Passengers: Margo Stopler and one minor, Michael Handhoff.
The flight was set to depart at 7:01 PM.
I shake the book, and an envelope falls out from Fernn Valley Union Bank. Inside is the statement for the month prior to Margo’s death. On the third, sixty thousand dollars was transferred into her checking account. Two days later, the funds were transferred to an account ending in 4563. Another deposit was made for one hundred thousand dollars, and two days later all but twenty thousand dollars were transferred to the 4563 account. One week before Margo’s murder, she withdrew the remaining twenty thousand dollars leaving her with a zero balance.
Which means Margo had two one-way tickets to San Diego, the furthest she could possibly go without actually leaving the state, and twenty thousand dollars in cash. This doesn’t sound like a vacation to SeaWorld—it sounds like she was about to flee with Mike in tow.
Chapter Four
I put the papers back into the book, grab the journals, and shove everything into my bag … then shove it all again, and again, and again, until it fits. I make a mental note to buy a bigger purse.
Drew returns. “Mike and Handhoff are arguing.”
“About what?”
“Handhoff asked Mike when he was going to get all his crap out of this storage unit. Mike said he was paying for it, so it shouldn’t matter. Handhoff said Mike needs to use a lock provided by the storage facility. Mike says he likes having his own lock. Then Handhoff said he needs the unit. But I counted six empty ones when I was wandering around.”
“So he’s lying.”
“Well done, Columbo.”
“Who’s Columbo?”
“Not sure. My dad used to say that. What now?”
I don’t know. There’s far more to this Handhoff, Mike, Margo story. And there’s a reason Mike hid me from his dad. Just as there’s likely a reason why all the boxes containing Margo’s personal belongings are in the back of the storage unit, none with her name on them. I just don’t know what any of those reasons are, but I intend to find out. Hopefully the journals and medium book will provide some answers.
But first, I need to get out of here alive. I grab my phone. Maybe I could text Mike and ask him if I should wait. Except I have no reception. Crud.
“Where exactly are they?” I ask Drew.
“They’re standing outside.”
“So I won’t be able to sneak out without them seeing me?”
“Nope.”
Shoot. There goes Plan A. Also Plans B-Z since there’s only one way out.
“Don’t wo
rry. I’ll take care of it.” Drew runs off before I can stop him.
I crawl towards the entrance and hide behind a recliner. From my spot I can see Mike and Handhoff standing by a vending machine. Drew walks up to the two with his hips swaying like a cowboy about to challenge them to a duel. He presses his fingertips to his temples. Oh, good! He’ll shake the vending machine enough to cause a distraction so I can slip away. Brilliant!
At least, I think that’s his plan, until Drew looks up. The light fixture above Mike starts to tremble. But the two men don’t notice.
Okay, this is the opposite of brilliant. This is the worst idea known to man or spirit.
The light rattles a little but not enough to draw Mike’s attention.
Ugh!
The metal starts to bend.
Oh, come on!
I scramble to my feet and run into Mike just as the light crashes to the ground. We fall down, and Mike looks up at me, confusion dancing across his eyes.
“W-w-what happened?” he asks.
“Um … earthquake.” The journals and medium book have spilled out of my bag, and I roll off Mike and shovel everything back in before he notices.
“Sun of a gun,” comes Handhoff’s grumbly voice.
I hold my bag tight to my chest and stand up slowly.
Handhoff has slicked black hair pulled into a small ponytail, sunken cheeks, and can’t weigh much more than me.
Drew is making a W with his arms. “The point was to get you out of here, not to jump the Handhoff kid.”
Oh, geez.
Handhoff jerks his chin in my direction. “Aren’t you the Lane girl? I’ve heard about you.”
Great.
Mike takes a step forward, positioning himself between his dad and me. “She’s just a coworker. We came to pick up some of Mom’s stuff.”
I take note of the fact that Mike has lied to his dad twice now about our reason for being at the storage unit. It makes me wonder if Handhoff even knows Margo’s belongings are here. And why Mike is keeping that a secret.
“That your BMW in the parking lot, Lane?” Handhoff asks.
“She’s borrowing it,” Mike says.
“How much something like that cost?”
My eyes bounce between the two men while they talk about me like I’m not here.
