by Erin Huss
I give the mouse a shake, and the computer comes alive. Someone has checked my internet browser history and my email. They didn't even bother closing either program when they were finished. I'm not sure what they were expecting to find. All (well, most) of my searches are for my job—which consists of finding information so other people can write the article. There are also the frequent visits to my favorite author's websites, but that's only during lunchtime. So it doesn't count.
"Someone was on my computer,” I say.
"It's probably Sheriff Wacko-doodle. Don’t you need a warrant for that?"
"Do you give everyone a nickname?"
"Pretty much."
"Good to know." I Google Do the police need a warrant to check your computer history?
According to the internet, the police can obtain a subpoena. I never saw a subpoena, but then again, the computer doesn't technically belong to me. It belongs to The Gazette.
I need to check with Brian.
He's in his office, sitting behind his desk with headphones on, typing on the computer. Everything is neat and Lysolled, as it usually is. I wave to get his attention.
"Zoe?" He removes the headphones. "Are you feeling better?"
"Feeling better?"
"You have food poisoning," Penelope reminds me.
Oh, right.
“No … yes … sort of."
Brian stands and walks around to the other side of the desk. "I’ve been trying to get a hold of you.”
“Sorry, I’ve been … busy.”
He folds his arms, showcasing his biceps. Typically, this would be a turn-on. But I don't have time, and he has Va-ness-a.
For the record: still a little bitter about that.
Fine—a lot bitter.
"I heard you’ve been going around town telling everyone that Penelope Muffin has been murdered. I also heard she's been in contact with several people."
"Like who?" Penelope and I ask in unison.
"Her dad and Sheriff Vance.”
My heart leaps into my throat at the mention of the sheriff's name. “Have you talked to Sheriff Vance?”
"He called the tip hotline and told me the story. So did a few other people."
Oh, geesh. You can’t do anything in a small town without it being reported. "Did you go on my computer?"
Brian pushes his brows together. "No. I didn’t."
Then who did? I wrack my brain for a possibility. Brian had headphones on. Someone could have snuck in to check my computer, and he wouldn’t have heard them. Of course, there’s nothing on there, so it doesn’t actually matter. It is really rude to look at someone’s personal emails, though. I mean, I only have like ten, and most are The Dress Barn promos, but still.
"This is getting freaky," Penelope says.
Agreed.
"Was Mr. Muffin here?" I ask.
Brian shakes his head. "Everyone left shortly after you did. Is there something on your computer that I should know about?”
"No." I stop to think, just to be sure. "Yeah, no."
"Why do you think Penelope Muffin is dead?"
“Um … I said she had been hurt or kidnapped. I’m not sure she’s dead."
He studies me with a musing tilt of his head. "Tell me what you know about Penelope, and I’ll help you."
I heave a sigh of relief. This is why I came. I knew Brian couldn’t pass up the chance at a good story. "I know someone has Penelope's phone. I know she got in a fight with Mrs. Muffin last night. I know she moved home and dropped out of school. I know she's an artist. I know she was meeting a friend named Tag tonight. She might be around a creek. I know she disappeared sometime between four and ten thirty this morning."
"How do you know this?"
“Um … Penelope and I are friends."
"And she told you that she was missing?"
I pause, unsure of how to answer this question. So I redirect. "Is everyone out with food poisoning?"
"Yes. Every. Single. Person. Even those who didn't eat a donut. Like yourself. Whose donut is still sitting on the desk."
"Wow, that's a really bad case of food poisoning."
"Yes, it is." Brian takes a step forward. He has a delicious fall leaves and orange zest aroma. My stomach butterflies. The fact that I find this interaction, us talking about food poisoning, sensual, tells me two things:
One: I need to get a life.
Two: I am losing focus!
Get a grip, Zoe. "Anyway, I need to get to Trucker to follow up on some leads. You ready?”
I can tell by his expression this is not what he expected to hear. “I’m sorry. I can’t leave. I’m the only one here."
"Please."
"I can’t."
“Please.”
“I can’t.”
“Then … um, how about you lend me your car?” It’s a long shot but worth a try because this is taking too long, and Penelope is growing impatient. She’s counting again.
"Okay,” Brian says, and I nearly fall over.
"Really?"
"If you tell me what's really going on. There have been two murders in Fernn Valley. One in the late thirties, and one in two thousand and three. And you’re saying Penelope Muffin is possibly the third, yet she’s responded to text messages from both her father and Sheriff Vance. Your story doesn’t make any sense, and any logical person would think you’re nuts."
Well, that’s fun to hear.
“But I can’t help myself. You seem to know things. I’m not sure how, or why, or where you get your information. Just tell me what is really going on, and I’ll happily lend you my car.”
My eyes shift from Penelope to Brian and back again. I need to get out of here, and I can’t drive around unnoticed in my car, and I can't borrow my parents'. There's a giant picture of my dad giving my mom a piggyback ride with We're in your Lane in big neon font on both sides of the van—not exactly inconspicuous.
"Please," I try one more time, even pouting my bottom lip.
"Tell me the whole story."
Ugh. Fine! Here it goes. This is the moment where I tell the man of my dreams that I see dead people. Not only do I see them, but I also converse with them, and I have the ability to feel other people's feelings. "When I was young—"
"Give her the car!" Penelope is in Brian's ear. "Give her the car! Give! Give! Give! Give!" Penelope's yelling increases to an unbearable level, and I can't help but cringe.
Brian's eyes glaze over while Penelope continues to chant, "Give her the car!"
Brian shakes his head desperately, as if trying to get water out of his ear. "Okay! Okay! Okay!"
Penelope smiles triumphantly. "I'm really good."
Brian reaches into his pocket and holds out his keys, still looking dazed. I snatch them up before he realizes what he's done.
“Thank you. I'll be careful … um … I'll see you later.”
I rush out of the office through the lobby and peek outside. Sheriff Vance must still be dealing with Mrs. Batch’s fire hydrant run-in, because he’s not here. Unfortunately, there’s a row of men sitting on the bench in front of the dry cleaners. Mr. Clark, Mr. Sanders, and Mr. Ishmael. I can’t risk being seen driving off in Brian’s car by anyone, especially these three. They spend a good majority of their time watching the street. Why? I don’t know. Lack of better things to do, I suppose.
"Is there a back door?" Penelope asks.
"No, but there’s a window in the bathroom. Come on." I cut across the workroom, steeling a glance into Brian's office. He's staring down at his hand as if he’s never seen it before. Poor Guy. I feel guilty for tricking him into lending me his car.
Not guilty enough to do anything about it, but I will have to write him a thank you note once this is all over. That is, assuming I’m not in jail.
I go into the bathroom and lock the door behind me. Above the toilet is a window.
Good news: it faces the back of the building.
Bad news: it's about a half an inch wider than my hips.
/> "That's a small window," Penelope says.
"Yeah, I know." I climb up the toilet and rise to my tiptoes. I'm not exactly tall, nor am I particularly athletic—two attributes that would come in real handy about now. The lower half of my body goes cold, and I look down. Penelope is attempting to give me a boost. My fingers grab hold of the bottom ledge of the window. It would be quite helpful if my feet had suction ability, or I had a ladder. Either one, because the wall is slippery. Using all my might, I leap up, and my knee goes right through the drywall, making a large hole. Oops. Also … ouch!
"That's not good," Penelope says.
"No, it's … well, actually." I stick my foot in the hole and use it as a boost up. Perfect! I push open the window. It's a tight squeeze—had I eaten that donut this morning I might not fit. But I manage to get out. Well, I fall out. Face first.
Smooth.
I crawl to the nearest tree and take cover. If I can get to Brian's car without being seen, then I can drive out the back exit, through a neighborhood, and onto the highway toward Trucker.
I dash across the parking lot and get in Brian's car, staying low. Brian's sedan is black, four-door, and much like his office—immaculate.
"He seriously has a DustBuster and Clorox wipes on the backseat," Penelope says.
"So?"
"He's Boring Brian."
I jam the keys into the ignition and start the car. "Being clean does not make you boring." I shift the car into drive. “New boundary, no talking about Brian."
"Suit yourself."
I grip the wheel tightly with both hands as I cruise out of the parking lot, checking to be sure no one is watching. Coast is clear, and I exhale for what feels like the first time all day. “We need to talk to Quinn. Tell me where he works in case you disappear again."
"It's kind of tricky to find. I'll try to stay here." She clenches her fists.
"What are you doing?"
"Trying to stay." She flickers. "It's getting harder."
I slam on the gas, and we go two MPH faster. I already miss my car.
Chapter Six
Forty-five slow minutes later and we're in Trucker. Penelope directs me through town, past an elementary school with kids at recess, and past a strip mall with a McDonald's and two Starbucks. We make a left at the light, and I'm in a part of Trucker that I've never seen before. There are mostly automotive shops, single-story buildings with aluminum siding, and office suites. Everything is gray.
"What exactly does Quinn do?" I ask.
"He works at a desk doing stuff."
That's helpful.
"How do you know him?"
"It's Quinn Clark," she says, as if it’s obvious.
It’s not, so I keep driving.
"He grew up in Fernn Valley," she adds.
Again, no idea.
"Seriously?" She turns to in her seat to face me. "Everyone in Fernn Valley knows everyone. But no one knows you. Don't you want to have friends your age?"
"Of course I do." More than anything, actually. "It's hard to build relationships when dead people are popping up demanding your attention."
"But if everyone knew what you could do, you'd be the most popular person in town. You could open a place on Main Street, The Fernn Valley Medium."
I can’t help but laugh. Of course I want to help more people connect with loved ones. But it’s just not realistic. Maybe in a big city someone like me could be honest about seeing the dead. But not in Fernn Valley. Five years ago, a man from Trucker applied for a permit to build a bar on Main Street. Based on the reaction from the public, you’d think the devil himself was trying to move in. People picketed, signed petitions, and held a rally, calling the place sacrilegious (never mind it was a family bar and grill). If they think chicken wings and beer are sacrilegious, imagine the reaction if I were to set up The Fernn Valley Medium? I’d be burned at the stake—metaphorically speaking … I hope.
“Nope, not going to happen,” I say.
“Whatever. Do as you please. It’s not like I care.” Penelope crosses her arms. "Anyway, Quinn and I grew up together. We both moved to Trucker at the same time. He collects records and goes to estate sales all the time. Which is how he found the copy of Gone with the Wind."
"Any relation to Mrs. Clark?"
"She’s his grandma."
I stifle a smirk, wondering if she knows that Quinn's grandmother's other identity is KR Tuss and she pens the Sizzling Baby Daddy series, along with several other hot romance novels. "I do know Mrs. Clark quite well, actually. By the way, where am I going? Does he work in any of these buildings?"
Penelope looks out the window. “I'm trying to remember. This morning was the first time I was here. I think we're close.”
"You remember being here this morning?"
She pauses. “Yeah! I do.”
This is great. Being in the area must have sparked her memory. If we know where she’s been today, then we can have a better idea of when and where she was when she was attacked.
"It's right there!" Penelope points frantically out the window. "This is it! This is it! This is it!"
"Okay. Okay. Okay." I park in the only available space. The building's windows are tinted. The landscaping is nonexistent. The sign says HKP, Inc. It's about as generic as you can get. "What does HKP stand for?"
"Dunno. Let's go." Penelope disappears.
I swing open the door and, "Crap! No. No. No. No!" I didn't notice the mailbox, and now there's a foot-long scratch along Brian's car door. I think I may pass out.
Penelope reappears and grimaces. "Maybe he won't notice."
"Of course he will notice. The man has a DustBuster on his back seat!" I lick my fingertip and attempt to rub the scratch out. This does absolutely nothing. Not that I really expected it to. But I had to try.
Penelope taps her wrist. “Hello? Some of us are dying here. Maybe you can rub spit on his car another day. M’kay?”
She’s right. She’s a wee bit patronizing, but she’s right. This is a matter of life or death, and in the grand scheme of life—what’s a scratch? Let’s hope that’s Brian’s attitude when I tell him.
The front door to HKP, Inc. is secured, and I press the call button on the intercom. It takes three more pushes before a friendly male voice answers. "Hello?"
"H-hi, I'm looking for Quinn," I say.
"Who is this?"
"My name is—”
“Shhhhhh,” Penelope scolds. “Don’t tell him your real name. He thinks you’re crazy.”
“Won’t he recognize me then?” I hiss under my breath.
She shrugs. “Probably not. He rarely goes to Fernn Valley anymore.”
Fine. I lean in closer to the intercom. “My name is … is … Shhhllyy.”
Penelope smacks her forehead.
“Shly?”
“Yes, and I need to speak to Quinn urgently, please."
"That is Quinn!" Penelope stomps her foot.
Oh.
There's a long stretch of silence.
"Awk! It’s like I have to do everything myself!" Penelope disappears, and one minute later a guy with broad shoulders, a dimpled chin, and curly brown hair opens the door. Penelope is in his ear screaming so loud it's hard not to react.
"Come in, come in, come in," Quinn says in a trance like state. "Come in, come in, come in."
I step inside and follow Quinn into an office space separated into cubicles. Quinn's desk has a framed picture of the band Queen near the keyboard. He slouches into a black chair, his eyes glossed over.
There are already several of his co-workers poking their heads out of their cubicles to see what's going on. I bend down and speak at a whisper. "I'm looking for Penelope. When was the last time you saw her?"
"Come in, come in, come in, come in," Quinn chants. "Come in, come in, come in, come in."
I snap my fingers in front of his face. "I'm already in."
Quinn peers up at me. "Wh-wh-what do you want?"
I drop to one knee. I can feel
the scratchy carpet through the fabric of my jeans. "I'm looking for Penelope. She's in trouble."
Quinn narrows his eyes. "Financial trouble? Does she owe you money too?"
"Too?" I look at Penelope, and she waves her hand, as if he's being ridiculous.
"I owe him a little money, and he seriously brings it up all the time …" She flickers as if she's shorting out and cradles her head between her hands. The lights around the room go on and off, creating a strobe effect.
"Dude, what the hell is happening around here?" comes a voice from a neighboring cubical.
"What in the world?" comes another voice.
Quinn's eyes are darting around the room.
The lights go on and off … on, off, on, off, on, off, on several times until poof, Penelope is gone.
Okay, I'm officially spooked.
"Dude," says a guy in the corner.
"Dude," agrees a girl in a neighboring cubical.
Dude is right. "Quinn." I shake him by the shoulders, and he looks at me as if I appeared out of nowhere. "Was Penelope here to get a book?"
Quinn gulps a few times. “Y-yes … yes," he says with a little more conviction. "Yes, she was here. I found a vintage copy of Gone with the Wind at an estate sale, and I thought she could do something with it." He clears his throat and looks around. "How'd you get in here?"
"You let me in. Now, was she wearing exercise clothes when she was here?"
Quinn is clearly still in a fog, and I snap my fingers a few more times.
"Y-yes," he says. "Why are you looking for her?"
"I think she's in trouble, and you might have been the last person to see her. Did she say anything when she was here?"
"S-s-she said that she’d pay me back." He sits up straighter. "Yeah, she said she'd pay me back tomorrow."
"Does she owe a lot of people money? Any loan sharks or someone with mafia ties?"
“Seriously, who are you?"
"Shly. So Penelope came here to get the book. Did she say where she was going afterward?"
"Just the funeral with Jack and then getting some stuff to prepare for her date tonight with the Instagram boyfriend.”
