The Medium Place

by Erin Huss

  I want to tell her that I can’t call Penelope because one, I don’t have her number and two, she’s almost dead! Of course, I can’t come right out and say this. She won’t believe me. What I need is for Mrs. Muffin to realize Penelope is missing. The more people looking, the better chance we have of finding her in time.

  Mrs. Muffin clears her throat to grab my attention then shifts her eyes to the front door.

  Got it. She wants me to leave. Except I don't move. “Errr … um … um … um … Mr. Muffin! What about Mr. Muffin? Where is Mr. Muffin?"

  “He's on the phone with the health department.”

  “Oh! Oh! Oh! Wh-what if I go check on Penelope? Is there a spare key? Can I get your address? I’ll let you know what I find.”

  Mrs. Muffin freezes in place with a cherry pie in her hands. “Are you unwell, dear?”

  "No, um … I'm perfectly well …" But this is not going well. "I should probably go."

  "I think that would be best."

  Right.

  Okay.

  Crud.

  So at least I know Penelope is in town. I step outside and pull my hair up into a bun. All this running around has left me a sweaty mess. I unlock my car when out of nowhere Penelope appears.

  "Hi!"

  I scream and fall over a fire hydrant. Passersby pause to roll their eyes. Being the town's crazy has its benefits. I guess.

  "Wh-wh-wh—" I dig my phone out of my briefcase and slap it to my ear. "Where have you been?"

  "I don’t know." She goes in and out of focus as she talks. "One minute I was in your car then suddenly it was brown."

  "Brown?'

  "Brown."

  “Brown?”

  “Yes, brown. As in the color of crap! Which is fitting because this entire situation is one big pile of—”

  "What kind of brown?"

  She gives me an exasperated look. “Did you flunk kindergarten?”

  "Look." I duck into a little alleyway and gesture for Penelope to follow. "As it turns out, I don’t think you’re dead, but I do think you’ve been hurt and are close to death.”

  She gives me a blank stare, and I’m not sure she heard me right, until she says, “I told you I wasn’t dead! Do you remember? Cause I told you, and you said I was. Remember? Remember? Remember!”

  “Yes, I remember. That was less than an hour ago. I’m so sorry. Typically when a spirit appears, it’s because the body is dead.”

  Penelope tilts her head away and fidgets with the bottom of her shirt, twirling it around her finger. The blood on her abdomen is gone. It’s like it was never there. I’m not sure what this means, but the cut is still under her eye, and the mud is still on her forehead. Her hair looks like she stuck her finger in a light socket, and there are enough twigs in there to construct a bird's nest. She must have been drug through the forest, or maybe she fell some place rural?

  Yeah, that’s an option!

  She was going for a walk and slipped, fell down an embankment and landed on a rock. It was all an accident!

  Oh, please, please, please let this be accidental.

  I don’t know if my nervous system can handle solving another murder … or, um …attempted murder. Really, anything with murder in it. But even as I’m silently pleading, I know deep in my gut—this was no accident.

  There’s silence, and Penelope jerks her chin up. “I told you I wasn’t dead,” she says at last.

  I guess we’re still stuck on that. “Yes, I made a mistake.”

  “You should be more careful about throwing around the d-word.” She juts her jaw but avoids eye contact. She’s putting on a defiant front, but I can feel her true emotions—she’s terrified.

  “I am so sorry, Penelope.”

  “Yeah, well, you can make it up to me by making sure I don’t die.”

  Her words stab at my heart. “Oh, Penelope. You’re obviously in critical condition. I can’t promise that you won’t die.”

  “Fine, then promise you’ll find me before I die. Give the medical professionals a chance to revive me.”

  I hesitate. Of course I want to find her as soon as possible, but I can’t promise it will be in time. I’m not even sure where to start looking.

  “Zoe, promise me!” Penelope stomps her foot.

  Oh, geez.

  “Promise you’ll find me before I die!”

  Ummm …

  “Promise me, Zoe!” She’s in my ear, screaming like a toddler who hasn’t gotten her way. “Promise! Promise! Promise! Promise! Promise!”

  “Fine!” I blurt out in desperation. “Fine … I promise.” This feels like a terrible idea to make such a promise, but it’s too late now. Her relief is palpable. She genuinely believes if I make a promise, then I must keep it, like some kind of medium Hippocratic oath.

  I feel a bit nauseated. “If I’m going to help you, then we’re going to need to set some boundaries. First, you have to be completely honest with me.”

  “I am being honest with you. It was brown.”

  “I’m not talking about that. You told me you dedicated your life to religion, but I heard you’re the one who dubbed this place Sperm Valley.”

  Penelope waves a dismissive hand. “I was fifteen. It wasn’t that big of a deal. And I’ve gone to church like five times, and I pray … sometimes … Okay, so I’m no nun, but religion is personal, and dedication is a subjective term.”

  Oh, man. Penelope is going to be a royal pain to work with. I can already tell. She reminds me of the stereotypical mean girl casted in every romantic comedy ever made—minus the whole almost-dead thing.

  I take a breath and regain my composure. “Please think really hard and tell me the last thing you remember.”

  She looks off into the distance. "I drove to my dad’s house last night … my memory is fuzzy. Why is my memory fuzzy?"

  "I’m not sure. Maybe whatever transpired was traumatic and you’ve blocked it out.”

  Penelope crosses her arms. “Well, there’s a comforting thought. Thanks.”

  “Sorry, I’m only trying to figure this out.” I step back and run my eyes over her again, hoping a clue will jump out at me. For the first time, I notice her feet are bare and her toenails are pink. She’s unlikely to have gone hiking or for a run without shoes. But she is in workout clothes. “Do you remember doing yoga this morning? Or getting ready to go on a run?”

  “Yeah … that doesn't sound like something I would do. I don't like to sweat."

  "Then why are you in workout clothes?"

  "For style."

  That makes no sense, but it's not like I'm exactly in the know when it comes to fashion. "Okay, the last thing you remember is going to your parents' house here in Fernn Valley, correct?"

  "Correct."

  "So as far as you're concerned, you're still there?"

  "Maybe."

  "That's a start. Let's go."

  Chapter Three

  On the way to Muffins’ house, I call Trucker Hospital. The nurse is unable to verify if they have a patient by the name of Penelope Muffin. But she did say they haven’t had any serious injuries come through since Monday. And I’d venture to say Penelope’s injuries are pretty serious. It would make it a whole lot easier to keep my promise if she were lying in a hospital bed. But alas, she’s not.

  Moving on.

  The Muffins’ house looks like a fairy hotel. A whimsical high-pitched roof, yellow siding, a walkway lined with colorful flowers, and bright green grass. Much like most of the houses in this neighborhood.

  I park across the street. "Where’s your car?"

  Penelope peers out the window. "It's not here."

  "Then chances are you're not here either, right?"

  She shrugs. "Sometimes my dad takes my car to work when I'm in town. That way he doesn't have to drive with my stepmother." She sticks out her tongue, like she's just swallowed a fly.

  "Do you think your stepmother did this to you?"

  “Pfft. Probably. She once slapped me. I told my dad,
and he didn't believe me, but she did. She just slapped me across the face."

  There's a big difference between slapping someone and attempting to kill them, but it's certainly worth looking into.

  "The mud on your forehead looks thick," I say, examining her closer. It would be easier if she weren't so translucent. "Can you touch it and tell me what it feels like?"

  She dips her finger into the mud and examines it. "It feels like … mud."

  "What I meant was, does it feel like wet dirt?"

  "Isn't that what mud is?"

  "Yes, but it looks thick and grayish. Not like something you'd find in your backyard."

  "Ooohhhh, I see what you mean." She rubs the mud between her thumb and forefinger. "This reminds me of clay."

  "Like the natural clay you find near a creek?"

  "Sure."

  "With the twigs in your hair and the cut on your face, it looks as if you fell or were dragged through the forest. Maybe you were left near a creek." Only problem is there are several little creeks in Fernn Valley, at least half a dozen more in Trucker, and who knows how many are in the surrounding areas. There's no way I can cover all that by myself. "Let's get inside and see if there's any sign of a struggle. Then we can call the police."

  “Why don’t you just call them and say I need help?”

  “Because I need a reason to believe you’re in trouble. Otherwise they won't believe me.”

  "Oh, I got it, but—" Penelope flickers in and out then disappears.

  "Penelope?"

  Ahhh!

  I get out of my car, which is low to the ground and not exactly easy to exit—gracefully that is. I fall to my hands and knees. "Penelope? Hello?"

  She's gone.

  Great!

  I scramble to my feet and cross the street (looking both ways first). The Muffins’ front door is locked. I lift the welcome mat, move around the pots, check under the rocks in the flowerbed in hopes a hide-a-key will be underneath.

  No such luck.

  I open the side gate and go around to the back of the house, checking for a point of entry, only to find the house locked tight. Fernn Valley is a small, safe community. Aren't people supposed to leave their doors unlocked? Honestly!

  I peek through the windows and don't see anything out of the ordinary. No lamps knocked over. No furniture pushed out of place. Nothing to show signs of a struggle.

  Penelope reappears. "I'm back."

  Ahhh!

  I clutch my chest. "Yes, I can see that."

  "My room is over here." She disappears around the corner, and I wait for my heart to jump back on rhythm before I follow. We pass a vegetable garden and a row of tomato plants in ceramic pots.

  "That's mine." Penelope points to a window. "I think I'm still asleep because the blinds are drawn."

  "I know you're not asleep because you're in front of me. Go in your room and tell me what you see."

  "Okay." She squeezes her eyes shut and fades away.

  I hear a car pull into the driveway and peek over the fence. It's Mr. Muffin. He's in the Butter Bakery delivery van, which means he didn’t take Penelope’s car to work this morning. This is both good and bad. Good because at least I know Penelope left her home at some point. Also, Mr. Muffin can check to see if Penelope is in her room, or if there’s something suspicious, and he can call the police. Bad because he won't be happy to find me in his backyard (and even less happy when he finds out it was me who started the food poisoning rumor).

  Mr. Muffin steps out of the van and adjusts his straw hat, grumbling under his breath. He starts for the door and stops when he sees my BMW parked across the street. He panics and rushes inside.

  "Penelope! Are you here?" I hear him call out. "Penelope!"

  Penelope appears, and I stifle a scream. "Good news!"

  "First off," I whisper once I've caught my breath. "Please give me a little warning before you appear."

  "Will do. The good news is I'm not in there and there's not, like, stuff everywhere. Like I wasn't in a fight or anything."

  This is terrible news. Now the only person who knows she's hurt is me. And I'm the town crazy! She could be anywhere. "You don't remember driving around? Getting out of bed? Going to the store?"

  "No. No, and … no. I remember getting home late last night. I do remember getting in a fight with my stepmother. She was mad because I said I was moving back in. But, seriously, this is my home too."

  Great. The last thing she remembers is getting in a fight with Mrs. Muffin, which makes her the prime suspect. It will be difficult to convince her to help find Penelope if she’s the one who did this to her stepdaughter.

  "Penelope?" I hear Mr. Muffin call out from inside the house. "Penelope!"

  "Think," I whisper. "Concentrate really hard and see if you can appear where your body is."

  "Okay." Penelope closes her eyes and fades away. Fewer than five seconds later she reappears. "It’s brown.”

  Oh, geez. “Are you sure you’re with your body?”

  “No idea. All I saw was brown.”

  “Brown like mud or like a …” I’m drawing a mind blank. What else is brown? “Um …tree, bears … chocolate?”

  “Yes, I’m in a giant pool of chocolate, bleeding to death. Exactly. Bravo.” She claps her hands in slow, exaggerated, silent movements. “You’ve solved the case.”

  Death by chocolate doesn’t sound like a bad way to go, but I don’t appreciate the sarcasm. “Second boundary, you have to be nicer.”

  “I am nice. I’m just feeling a bit moody because of, you know, the whole dying thing.”

  “Fine. About the brown place. Do you hear anything? Smell anything? Are you cold? Hot?”

  Penelope twists her mouth. “It’s just brown and really fuzzy.”

  “Like your vision is fuzzy or it feels fuzzy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Well, I’m stumped. I rub my temples. “What kind of car did you have?”

  "A hatchback Honda. It's silver."

  "Do you know the license plate?" I pull my phone out from my back pocket.

  "Who knows their license plate?"

  Guess that's a no.

  "What are you doing?" Penelope asks.

  "I'm calling the police because we don't know where you are. Your car isn't here, and you're somewhere critically hurt. Why don't you go ahead and pray they believe me."

  “Okay.” She clasps her hands and drops to her knees.

  "Fernn Valley Sheriff's Department," says the disembodied voice in my ear.

  "Hi, I believe my friend has been hurt or … kidnapped.”

  It takes five minutes for Sheriff Vance to arrive. Which is about how long it takes for me to sneak out of the backyard and pretend like I, too, have just arrived. Except my car is parked out front, which makes my "Hey, fancy meeting you here" approach null and void.

  "I don't understand," Mr. Muffin says for at least the fifth time since both Sheriff Vance and I arrived on his doorstep. "You were in Butter this morning saying Penelope went on a hike. Now you think she’s been kidnapped."

  The three of us (well, four, counting Penelope) are in the Muffins’ living room. The inside of their house smells like coffee and disinfectant. Penelope's school pictures line the hallway, starting at kindergarten and ending with a glamorous senior photo of her wearing an off-the-shoulder black dress. The furniture is blue, and there's an oak upright piano in the corner with the sheet music for “God Bless America” opened and marked with pencil.

  Also, there's another spirit here.

  I'm still honing in on my skills. They're a bit sporadic at times, but I am certain there is someone else here. It's a good, light spirit. It’s … I suddenly realize both Mr. Muffin and Sheriff Vance are staring at me.

  I should probably pay more attention to the conversation.

  "What was that?" I ask with a smile.

  "He wants to know why you think I’ve been kidnapped," Penelope says.

  Right. Good question. If only I
had a reasonable answer to give aside from, Penelope's spirit is sitting on the couch.

  “See … Penelope and I are friends," I start, unsure of where I’m going with this. “Um …we were supposed to meet for breakfast this morning, and she … didn't show up." I’m improvising here. I should have come up with a solid story before I called the police.

  Mr. Muffin doesn't hide the shock from his face. "You and Penelope are friends? Really? My daughter and you?"

  "Sure, why couldn't we be friends?” I feel a bit affronted.

  "She told me the other night that she's never met you. Then she referred to you as Looney Laney."

  My eyes slide to Penelope. She’s pretending to inspect her cuticles. "It's Looney Lane, not Laney,” I correct. “And, for the record, I'm not looney. But your daughter is in trouble."

  "Did you call her when she didn't show up?" Sheriff Vance asks, peering down at me with tired eyes.

  Here's what I know about Sheriff Vance: he's been the sheriff for almost ever, and he looks like a sheriff with his gray mustache, and gray hair, and he appears to be about eight months pregnant with a donut.

  “Um … I called but she didn't answer." Oh please, please, don’t ask me what her number is. There’s no time for facts. "Look, I'm worried. Can't you track her phone?" I ask Mr. Muffin.

  He stares at me like I've just asked him to construct a space ship out of cardboard and fly to the moon. "How would I do that?"

  "Oh!" Penelope appears beside her father. "There's an app on iPhones where you can find your … crap! He can't do that because I disabled it. I don't want him knowing where I am at all times … except now. Now would be a good time to have the app."

  Ya think?

  "When was the last time you spoke with Penelope?" Sheriff Vance asks Mr. Muffin.

  "Last night. She went to bed just after midnight, and she was asleep when we left this morning."

  "Did you actually see her sleeping, or did you assume she was sleeping?" I ask.

  "Her door was closed, and her car was here."

  "What time did you leave?" I ask.

  "We're out the door no later than four every morning."

  Yikes, that's early. I run my hands through my hair, feeling rattled. This is taking too long. "She got in a fight with Mrs. Muffin last night. Would she know anything?"