The Medium Place

by Erin Huss

  Mr. Muffin appears taken aback. "How do you know that?"

  A good question. "Penelope told me … late … last night."

  "Did she tell you the only reason they got in a fight was because Penelope was banging on our front door at eleven o’clock? Did she tell you she's moving back home and quitting school?"

  “Um … no."

  "Did she tell you she used the money I sent her for books on art supplies?"

  "No to that as well." I glance at Penelope, who is back sitting on the couch.

  "I don't see how any of this is relevant," she says. "He has never taken my art seriously. He thinks it's a hobby not a profession. School is a total waste of money and time."

  "I know what happened." Sheriff Vance crosses his arms over his belly. "Penelope was upset with Mrs. Muffin. She went on a drive to blow off steam. We all know Penelope has a flare for the dramatics."

  "No, I do not," Penelope huffs.

  The front door opens, and the three of us (well, four counting Penelope) turn our heads. In comes Mrs. Muffin, wearing the same pink apron and a scowl. Her cheeks red and her forehead glistening. "What is happening?" She crosses the room in three large strides. "I walked all the way here from the bakery when I heard the police were out front. Vance, what are you doing here? Is it Penelope?"

  "Yes!" I yell before anyone else can say otherwise. "Penelope has been murdered!"

  Everyone gasps.

  Including Penelope.

  I should have probably kept that statement in my head.

  “Or … or … she’s fallen … somewhere … near a creek …” I’m frantically backtracking. I would like a time machine so I can travel to one minute ago and staple my lips shut.

  “I’m not dead!” Penelope shrieks. “Take that back!”

  Sheriff Vance leans in close, too close. I catch a hint of tobacco on his breath. "First she was kidnapped, then she was murdered, and now she’s hurt by a creek?"

  I feel myself shrinking. “Well … I’m a bit shaky on the specifics." Even I can hear how stupid this all sounds.

  Mrs. Muffin actually rolls her eyes at me. "That child has to make a big ta-do about everything. She's mad because I told her she needs to pay rent if she's going to live here. Which is only fair considering she quit school. Now she's trying to get us all worried about her. She put you up to it, right?" she asks me.

  I feel like clawing at my face this is so frustrating. I look to Penelope for help and use my eyes to gesture her over. She catches the hint and appears beside her father.

  "What do you want me to do?"

  “T-t-a …" Awk. I can't talk to her here. "Can I use the restroom?" I march down the hall without waiting for a response. I find the bathroom easy enough and close the door behind me. The toilet has one of those fuzzy covers on the lid, which is not relevant, except I find them quite unsanitary.

  "I'm getting worried." Penelope flickers, and the lights in the bathroom turn off and on. "This is not going well and is a total waste of time. They do not believe you! Why do you have to be so crazy? Can’t you just tell them the truth?"

  “That I see your spirit? Sure, that’ll go over well.”

  “And why did you say I’ve been murdered?” she says, not bothering to listen. “I’m not going to repeat this again, I am not dead. Get it straight, Lane!” She rises to her toes and stares down at me like I’m a moldy leftover found shoved in the back of the fridge—and I snap.

  “You know what?” I rise to my toes. “I am not your servant. I do not have to help you. This is all new to me too, and if you want a medium with more experience, then by all means, go find—” I’m interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “You okay in there?” It’s Sheriff Vance.

  “Y-yes. All good in here.” I sound a bit too cheery for someone taking so long in the bathroom. I clear my throat. “I’ll be out soon,” I say in a baritone voice. Gah! I need to take acting classes.

  Penelope walks through the wall. “He’s gone,” she says once she returns. “But they’re talking about you. They think you’re, like, obsessed with me and want to hurt me. My dad said there’s a strange car parked out front. I think he’s talking about yours. Then he tried calling me twice but I’m not answering. Which isn’t that big of a deal, because I never answer my phone.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s what texting is for. Talking on the phone is just awkward.”

  I don’t even know what to say to that. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. You go up to your dad's ear and tell him you need help. Yell it as loud as you can."

  "Does that work?"

  "Sometimes. I'm counting on the parent-child bond to transcend the barriers of death."

  "So go into his ear and yell really loud," Penelope confirms.

  "Exactly. You ready—"

  She's already gone.

  Guess that's a yes.

  I flush the toilet to give the illusion I've actually used the restroom and open the door. Directly across the hallway is a room painted blue with a canopy bed and heart stickers on the wall. I check first to be sure no one can see me then step inside, assuming it's Penelope's room. The spirit I felt before is stronger in here. Everything looks normal. The bed is made. I move the pillows to see if there's mud or blood anywhere. She has clean pink sheets with little butterflies. I check in the nightstand and closet, searching for a suitcase or purse, but I don't find either. Penelope said she was moving in. Where’s her stuff? She must have left this morning.

  I close my eyes, hoping to connect with the spirit, but as soon as my lids shut, I hear Penelope screaming my name.

  I dash out to the living room. Penelope stomps her foot. "He's not listening to me. Watch." She puts her mouth to her father's ear and screams, "Find me! Find me! Find me!"

  Mr. Muffin's eyes gloss over, as if he's in a trance.

  “… after the day we've had," Mrs. Muffin is saying. "First the food poisoning outbreak, and now we have to deal with this nonsense."

  "Find me! Find me! Find me!" Penelope is still chanting.

  Mr. Muffin's breathing quickens.

  I think it's working!

  "We need to find her,” he says at last.

  I throw my arms up in silent victory.

  Everyone’s eyes swivel toward me. Oops. I slowly lower my arms and clear my throat. “Um … yes, I agree with you, Mr. Muffin. Let's gather volunteers from town. We can cover more ground in a shorter amount of time—"

  "Didn't she say she was meeting a friend today?" Mrs. Muffin interrupts.

  Mr. Muffin shakes his head, as if waking from a daydream. "You're right. She said she was meeting a friend in Trucker."

  Sheriff Vance nods. "That's probably where she is then."

  I look to Penelope for confirmation. "That's tonight. Not today," she says.

  "She's not meeting her friend until tonight," I say.

  "Don't you have to wait twenty-four hours before filing a missing person report?" Mrs. Muffin asks Sheriff Vance.

  "If you have serious concerns about the person's safety, then you can open one now." He loops his thumbs into his front pockets. "Do you have serious concerns about your daughter's safety?"

  Penelope is now in Mrs. Muffin's ear. "Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!"

  Unlike her husband, Mrs. Muffin is not responding to Penelope’s cries. Her eyes gloss over, but only for a moment. Perhaps because they're not blood-related. Perhaps it's because Mrs. Muffin had something to do with Penelope's current predicament. Either way, she says, "No, not at all. This is just one of Penelope's stunts in order to get attention."

  If someone showed up at my house and told me my daughter had been kidnapped or murdered, I'd at least look into it. This is ridiculous. "You have to believe me!"

  "No offense, dear." Mrs. Muffin pats my arm. "But you're not exactly a reliable source."

  How can I not take offense to that?

  I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks. “Just you wait. Penelope won’t sho
w up tonight, or tomorrow, or the next day. She’s going to die, and you will all know that I'm not Looney Laney!"

  Sheriff Vance glares down at me. "Is that a threat?"

  Oh, dear. "No! Not at all. It’s … it’s …"

  "It sure sounded like a threat," Mr. Muffin says, red in the face. "Are you threatening my daughter?”

  “What? No! No, I would never threaten anyone.”

  “But you just did.”

  “Wh-wh-what, no … I said that I think she’s in trouble, and we should look for her.”

  “I know my daughter isn’t friends with you.” Mr. Muffin is awfully scary when he’s mad. “If you hurt Penelope, I'll make sure you hang."

  Well, this escalated quickly.

  Mrs. Muffin removes her earrings and hands them to her husband. "Why the sudden interest in my daughter?"

  "Not her daughter," Penelope pipes in.

  "W-w-we were supposed to meet …" my voice trails off. Obviously I need a new cover story.

  “Why don't you come with me?” Sheriff Vance places a firm hand on my back. “You keep trying to get a hold of Penelope,” the sheriff says to Mr. Muffin. "We'll get this sorted out."

  There're a series of ping sounds, and Mr. Muffin checks his phone, heaving a sigh. "Will you look at that? A text from Penelope."

  "What?" I grab the phone from his tight grasp to see for myself.

  Penelope: I'm fine.

  I take it upon myself to respond.

  Me: Who is this?

  Penelope: It's Penelope.

  Mr. Muffin pries his phone out of my hands. "Would you stop that!”

  "Someone has my phone!" Penelope bellows into my eardrum. "Someone stole my—" Poof. She's gone.

  She's gone, and I'm left with three seriously angry people.

  I'm seconds away from a complete and total nervous breakdown. See, along with my gift of seeing the dead comes my ability to feel other's feelings. I haven't quite perfected this ability either. But I am 100% positive that Sheriff Vance believes I’m lying, while Mrs. Muffin wants to drop-kick me out of her house, and Mr. Muffin is restraining himself by silently counting. I don't know what number he's hoping to reach, and I don't want to find out. After all, he could be the reason Penelope is hurt. You never know.

  I side shuffle away from the trio, toward the door. "I better go."

  "And stay away from my daughter!" Mrs. Muffin says.

  I go outside and cut across the grass. That went way worse than I expected, and now Penelope is gone. Is she in the brown place? Is she dead? Did she transition already? I don’t know, but I still need to try my best to find her. A promise is a promise.

  "Where do you think you're going?" Sheriff Vance calls after me.

  I stop. "I-I-I need to go home." I'm staring at the ground, looking at the bright green grass until the tips of Sheriff Vance's boots comes into my line of sight.

  "Zoe Lane." He says my name as if it were a serious medical condition. "I think there's more to your story."

  Of course there is more to my story, but I'm not about to tell him the truth. So I choose to keep my mouth closed and eyes glued to the ground.

  "I don’t understand what your angle is here," he says. "But if I discover something has happened to Penelope, at least I know where to start."

  My heart nose dives into my gut. "I would never hurt Penelope, if that’s what you’re implying."

  “What time and where were you two meeting for breakfast?”

  Oh … um … gee … I seriously, seriously need to become a better liar. Maybe there’s a book on lying for beginners. I make a mental note to ask Rosa. “Um …” I blow out a breath, making an involuntary raspberry sound.

  The problem is there are only two places to eat breakfast in Fernn Valley: Butter and Glady’s Diner. I can’t say Butter because everyone eats breakfast at Butter—including Sheriff Vance. Someone would have seen me. It would take minutes to verify if I was there this morning. Glady’s is less popular but poses the same problem.

  Okay, think … think … think …

  The little lightbulb in my head turns on. Aha!

  “Starbucks in Trucker!” I blurt out. No one knows me there. Plus, I was in Trucker this morning covering a hospital dedication. Penelope went to school there, so it’s a totally plausible story.

  “Which Starbucks?”

  “Are there more than one in Trucker?”

  “There are five.”

  Five? That’s like one Starbucks per every three hundred people. Geez. “Um … I don’t remember which one.”

  “Is that so?” The sheriff nods his head. “And when your friend didn’t show up to breakfast, you assumed she’d been out for a hike, or a run, or she’d been kidnapped, murdered, or is hurt near a creek? That’s oddly specific.”

  Yes, I suppose it is.

  “Why the creek?” he asks.

  “It’s a hunch?”

  “A hunch?” He sounds skeptical.

  “Yeah, a hunch.” I wonder how many times we’re going to say hunch.

  “A hunch …”

  Apparently once more.

  Sheriff Vance tilts his head and looks right through me. "Let me see your phone." He holds out his palm. I'm not sure it's exactly legal for an officer to ask for my cell, but I'm not sure it's exactly illegal either, which makes me do exactly what he asks.

  I hand over the phone. He flips it open and pushes a few buttons. "You said you called Penelope, but I don't see her name or number in here."

  My tongue feels about two sizes too big for my mouth. “I … um … called her from work this morning." Good one, Zoe.

  "But you said you were to meet her in Trucker.”

  Yes, yes I did.

  I feel like my best option at this point is to say nothing. Or, “Um …" Because I'm really good at saying um.

  Sheriff Vance hands me back the phone, and our hands touch briefly. He squints down at me. "Your skin is cold."

  "Yes." I get cold when I'm around spirits, and the spirit from Penelope’s house is hovering close by. It’s a female spirit. I can’t see her, but I can feel her. I have no idea who she is, but she’s here to help.

  There’s a stretch of silence, and an image of a brown-eyed child flashes through my mind. I can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl, but tears roll down the child’s flushed cheeks as red and blue lights alternate across his or her face. The child is screaming and pleading for help. A woman dressed in blue wraps an arm around the child’s waist, and the child fights to break free, still screaming, still crying, and still pleading.

  It's a haunting memory, but it's not mine. It's his. I peer up at the sheriff. His steely eyes meet mine. I'm overcome with a mixture of emotions: suspicion, anger, sadness, frustration, pride, rationalization, and there's a hint of fear. Fear of what? I don't know. But there's something not quite right about Sheriff Vance, which is concerning because he's arguably the most powerful man in Fernn Valley.

  I’m overcome with an urgent desire to get away. The unseen spirit wants me to apologize for any inconvenience my overdramatic imagination has caused and promptly leave.

  I do as she says. “I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions.” I try to keep my voice steady. “I guess Penelope is fine, like her text said. I’m sorry for wasting your time.” I can’t make eye contact.

  He doesn’t entirely believe me, and the brown-eyed child still occupies his thoughts.

  “Am I free to go?” I finally ask.

  Sheriff Vance steps aside. "Don't go far, Zoe Lane. Not until we verify Penelope’s location."

  "Okay." I force my legs to move forward. I can feel the sheriff's eyes beating into the back of my head. He could easily have detained me. He could claim I made a threat. Claim I'm a danger to myself, a danger to society … I've read the entire Hot Cops of Atlanta, L.A., and New York series. I'm well versed on how this all works.

  But he chose to let me go, and I have a feeling there's a reason.

  So does the spirit. She’s gravely co
ncerned.

  As am I.

  What happened to Penelope was no accident. Someone did this to her, and that person has her phone. Soon everyone will know she’s gone, and I’ve just made myself the prime suspect in the case. There’s no judge or jury in the county who will take my word over the sheriff's.

  After all, I'm Looney Lane.

  Chapter Four

  I stop at the Food Mart to buy map of Fernn Valley County. With Penelope gone and no one willing to help, all I have to work with are "fuzzy brown" and the clay-like mud on her forehead. None of Penelope's things were in her room, and her bed was made. Mr. Muffin saw Penelope's car around 4:00 a.m. then she appeared at The Gazette around 10:30 a.m. Which means she was hurt sometime in that six-and-a-half-hour window.

  The perp could cover quite a bit of distance in that amount of time.

  Ugh.

  I rest my forehead on the steering wheel. The helpful spirit from before is gone, and so is Penelope. The situation feels helpless. But I can't give up. I can’t go back on my promise. Perhaps I have some sort of medium sonar that will kick in once I start looking. Sounds absurd, but twenty-four hours ago, so did talking to the almost dead.

  As I enter the Food Mart, I'm assaulted with the smell of day-old hot dogs and stale coffee. I scan the store, looking for the maps, when my eyes land on Penelope. She's standing in the corner, looking at the display of magazines. I nearly melt into a puddle of sweet relief.

  I dig the Bluetooth out of my briefcase and shove it in my ear. "Where have you been?"

  A guy buying a pack of gum gives me a sideways glance. I point to my ear and pick up an Us Weekly. Geez. How many times is Jennifer Aniston going to have her heart broken?

  “Just here and there.” Penelope shrugs her shoulders as if she can’t be bothered, but I can tell she’s worried.

  “It’s okay to be upset,” I say.

  “I know.” She tosses her chin. “But I’m not upset.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Well aren’t you perceptive!” she explodes. “Of course I’m upset! Someone stole my freaking phone! They took my phone, and they’re texting my family. Which means whoever took my phone probably did this to me! So, yeah, I’m mad!”