by Erin Huss
Okay, I have no idea who Jack is, but first, "Is Tag the boyfriend?"
"Yeah, she's meeting him tonight for the first time." He chuckles. "I'm almost positive that Tag is going to end up being a pervy old man with fish breath. Have you seen his Instagram account?"
"No, do you have it handy?"
"Yes. You're going to die when you see this."
Interesting choice of words.
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone. "I swear it's a fake account, but you tell me what you think." He shows me the screen. The profile picture is a black and white photo of an eyeball. That's it. Just an eyeball. He has twenty-eight followers and is following seventy people. Under his name, Tagalicious, it says, I am who I am. I am not who I am not. We are all puppets for the who is.
"What does that mean? We're all puppets for the who is? The who is what?"
"Hell if I know. This dude is a poet, but check it out. He's following more people than are following him. There's no picture of him, and all his posts are poems that suck. Look at this one." He taps an image of a brown leaf with the words: Life is the thing that pulls you away from the depths of your plunging purple sight.
Um, huh?
"Makes no sense, right?"
"Not really." To be fair, my knowledge of poetry starts and stops with Dr. Seuss. "You think this is a fake account? That this person Penelope is meeting tonight could be someone else?"
"That’s my bet, but she won't listen to me. I told her to meet him at a crowded place. I’ll probably swing by just in case.” Like Penelope, Quinn pretends not to care, but he does. A little too much, and I’m not quite sure what to make of his feelings. I need to dig deeper without raising too many questions.
“Have you and Penelope ever dated?” I ask.
“Nah, we’re friends.” Quinn twist his mouth to the side and then shakes his head, looking around. “What are you doing here again? And how do you know Penelope?"
"Who is Jack?" I ask, hoping to change the subject.
"Jack's her roommate."
"What funeral did they go to?" I don't remember reading of any deaths recently, and I pay close attention to the obituaries.
Quinn shrugs. “For reals, though. I have never heard of you before. How do you know Penelope?”
That’s a good question. “From … college. We had a class together at college.”
This answer appears to appease him. For now.
“What time was Penelope here?” I ask.
Quinn rocks back in his chair. "I don't know, shortly after I got into work. Around nine?"
She was here at 9:00 a.m., and she appeared to me around 10:30 a.m. Which means she was hurt sometime in that hour and a half. I can work with this. "And she said she was going to pay you back tomorrow? Did you talk about anything else?"
"Today."
"She talked about today?”
"No, she said she was going to pay me back today."
"But you said that she said tomorrow."
"I said she said tomorrow, but you said I said tomorrow when it's actually today."
Quinn and I need to work on our communication skills.
“Um … Huh?"
"Penelope said she'd pay me back tomorrow,” Quinn explains. “Today is tomorrow."
Okay, I think I understand. “Are you saying Penelope was here yesterday morning?"
"Yes."
Crap. I drop my head into my hands. Penelope had her days mixed up. Which means she could have died anytime between 4:00 a.m. and 10:30 a.m., without ever stepping foot in Trucker. What a complete and utter waste of time.
Quinn pokes my shoulder. “You okay?”
"No. I thought she was here this morning. Have you spoken to her today?”
“No.”
“Have you spoken to Jack?”
“Not since the two got in a fight last night.”
I look up at Quinn. "How heated was this fight?"
"Bad enough for Penelope to move out.” He blinks a few times. “Seriously, though. What are you doing here? How'd you know where I worked? Why are you looking for Penelope? How'd you get in here?"
That's a whole lot of questions that I don't want to answer.
"Does Penelope know you're looking for her?" He stands up. "How’d you get in here?"
This is my cue to leave. "Thank you for your help. I better go." I backtrack toward the door. “Have a good day.”
Outside, Penelope is crouched down on the sidewalk holding her head.
My Bluetooth is in my car, and I'm 99.8% positive Quinn is watching me from the window. "Get in," I mutter under my breath and hurry to the … Gah! I forgot about the scratch. This entire day is giving me heart palpitations.
I slide into the car and shove the key into the ignition.
Penelope appears in the passenger seat.
I put the Bluetooth in my ear. "What happened back there?"
"It was weird. I felt myself starting to fade then suddenly everything was brown again. When I opened my eyes, I was outside."
"Yeah, well, you didn't come here this morning. You came here yesterday morning. Which means you probably died in Fernn Valley."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm not sure about anything. Do you remember a funeral?"
“Vaguely …"
"Quinn said you and Jack got in a huge fight. Is it possible that Jack did this to you?”
"I don't know. Probably not. Maybe? It's possible. Sure."
"Well that's about as good as a lead as any. Where do I find Jack?"
"Maybe at our apartment."
"Tell me where to go." I back out of the parking spot, carefully, not wanting to inflict any further damage on Brian's car.
"I live on H Street." Penelope goes to grab the seat belt. “Ah! I want to use my flipping hands again! Can’t ghosts move stuff?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“The dead guy in Ghost did. He could concentrate really hard and move stuff.”
“Sorry, I haven’t seen the movie.”
Penelope gawks at me. “You haven’t seen Ghost? That’s like your life. Oh! Oh! Oh!” She gasps so loudly that I nearly drive off the road.
“What’s wrong now?”
Penelope turns in the seat, her eyes wide and sparkling. “In the movie, the ghost goes into the medium's body so he can be with Demi Moore one last time.”
“Please erase any idea of you going into my body.” I have to draw the line somewhere, and possession seems like a good place to draw it. “Forget about movies. We have bigger issues.” I drive south toward the main road. "Quinn showed me Tag's Instagram account. He thinks it's fake."
Penelope grunts. "Quinn's so weird about my relationship with Tag, and I don’t even know why. He met his last girlfriend on a dating app. What’s the difference?”
“Because he has feelings for you.”
“Not Queenie Weenie. We’ve been friends forever.”
"Is it possible that he killed you because you nicknamed him Queenie Weenie?”
“He likes Queen. It’s just a nickname.”
“For the record, I don’t like my nickname.”
“Noted.”
I turn onto H Street. “Do you even know what Tag looks like?"
"Yes. I know what Tag looks like," she says in a mocking voice. “He sent me a picture on DM."
Good, and, "What is DM?"
"I can't decide if your naiveness is cute or annoying." She tilts her head. “Probably annoying.”
"Thanks."
"You're welcome.” She points out the window. “It’s the apartment building at the end of the street."
We roll to a stop in front of a small two-story complex with black railings, manicured bushes, and red doors. I park behind a Prius and peer out the windshield. It's a cute place.
"What is that sound?" Penelope asks.
I pause and listen. "It's my phone vibrating at the bottom of my briefcase. Hold on." I dig my cell out and check to see who is calling. It's my da
d. Considering he's faking food poisoning for me, I think I should answer.
"This will only take a second," I tell Penelope and flip open my phone. "Hi, Dad. This isn't a good time. Can I call you back?"
"Zoe.” His voice echoes, like he’s in a long hall, or the bathroom. Probably the bathroom. “Sheriff Vance is here looking for you.”
Oh, no. "What does he want?"
"He said you threatened to harm Penelope Muffin, and now no one can find you or her.”
I cover the receiver and relay this information to Penelope.
“So whoever has my phone isn’t answering anymore?” Penelope asks.
Good question. I ask my dad. “Has anyone tried texting Penelope?”
“Sheriff Vance said she was responding to text messages up until an hour ago, and now her phone goes straight to voicemail. He isn’t the only one looking for you either, Zoe. I’ve had several people call to ask where you are, and I don’t know what to say.”
Great. “Who called looking for me?”
“Brian, Sheriff Vance, Mr. Muffin, Mrs. Muffin, Mike—”
“Mike! Why was Mike looking for me?” The other people, sure, they’re involved. But what does Mike have to do with anything?
“Meathead Mike?” Penelope asks. “Is that who you’re talking about?”
I put the phone on speaker. “Did Mike … what’s that noise? Are you in the shower?”
“No, I’m running the water so no one hears me. Specifically your mother.”
Oh, gosh. I feel terrible for putting my dad in this position. Life is stressful enough without daughters who converse with the recently murdered or … almost murdered. “Did Mike say why he was looking for me?”
“He asked if I’d spoken to you recently. Then he asked for your cell phone number.”
“Did you give to him?”
“No, I said I forgot it. I’m not sure he believed me. I should have come up with a better excuse, since I was on my cell phone when he called.”
Oh, Dad. At least I know who I got the terrible liar gene from.
“Then he called me back ten minutes ago,” Dad continues. “And he asked if you checked your email regularly.”
“My email?” I massage the back of my neck, feeling a tension headache coming on.
“Last time I saw Mike, he was sick with fake food poisoning. Why would he want to know if I check my email …?” The little lightbulb in my head turns on. Email! Could Mike have looked through my computer? I cover the receiver and turn to Penelope. “How well do you know Meathead Mike?”
“I knew him better when he was in high school and worked at the bakery.”
“He worked at the bakery?” My mind is spinning this information around. It was odd that Mike talked to me this morning when he’s never showed any interest before. But then again, he had no idea that Penelope’s spirit was with me. Unless … “Did I say your name out loud when we were at The Gazette?”
“I was kind of preoccupied with trying not to die.”
Huh. I can’t remember if I did either. It’s possible. But then again, even if I did, what would it matter? No one is going to assume I’m seeing the almost-dead spirit of Penelope Muffin.
“Are you still there?” Dad asks.
I remove my hand. “Sorry, Dad. I’m here. If anyone asks where I’ve gone, just tell them … um … tell them …” Oh, I’ve got it! “Tell them I’ve gone for a hike!”
“Have you?”
“No, but Penelope’s spirit is with me right now, and it’s possible she’s in the surrounding wilderness. It’s a good place to start looking."
There's silence on the other end.
"Dad?"
He exhales into the receiver. "Penelope Muffin is dead? She's only a few years younger than you. That's awful. How’d she die?"
"She’s not entirely dead, but she looks as if she's been in a fight. There's thick, gray mud on her forehead. It almost looks like clay from around a creek. Any idea where that would be?"
"There are several creeks around here. The biggest is Paradise Falls, but it’s pretty dry right now."
"But not completely dried, right?"
"No, it’s not,” he says. “When will you be here? Your mother is hysterical.”
I can hear her in the background, telling my dad to get out of the shower. I hate that my parents have to deal with Sheriff Vance. But it'll be more stress on them if I'm behind bars for a murder I didn't commit.
"I'm so sorry, Dad. But I can't go home right now. I promise to keep you in the loop, though."
“Okay, I'll try to pacify everyone the best that I can.”
“Thank you. I’m so sorry.” We hang up, and I take a moment to digest what a mess this is. If everyone is looking for me, then I can’t go home until I know what happened to Penelope. Which proves problematic because if she didn’t go to Trucker this morning, then chances are Penelope Muffin is still in Fernn Valley.
Chapter Seven
Penelope lives in Apartment 3 on the bottom floor, tucked in a corner beneath the stairwell. The door is locked, and no one is responding to my obsessive pounding.
So I pound some more.
Still nothing.
I press my phone to my ear and turn to Penelope. "Jack's not home. Do you think he went to Fernn Valley early this morning to kill you? Is he jealous of Tag?"
"Jack is a woman. Honestly, names don’t have genders."
Oh, for heaven's sake! "I don't care if Jack is a man or a woman. Concentrate. What did you fight about?"
Penelope looks off into the distance and shakes her head. "It had something to do with the funeral … ugh. My memory is so fuzzy; it’s like I drank too much.” She squeezes her eyebrows together. "I remember clearing my schedule for the day so I could go with Jack to her uncle’s funeral, even though he was a horrible man and didn't deserve any kind of ceremony whatsoever. Then she got mad at me, but I can’t remember why. I just remember her kicking me out. Then I packed my stuff and got in my car, went to my dad’s house, got in a fight with Michelle, and …”
“And what?”
When Penelope lifts her eyes, there’s a flash of defeat. “I don’t remember anything else.”
I let out a sigh. This would sure be a whole lot easier if she could remembered something. But she can’t, and it’s not her fault. Still, it’s rather frustrating. "Why was Jack’s uncle a horrible man?"
“He's Andrew Foster, the murderer.”
"Murderer? Do you think he could have …" I stop myself before I ask the stupid question. Of course Jack's uncle didn't hurt Penelope. He's dead! Ah. I need to eat something. My brain is running on fumes, and my nerves are singed. "Who did he kill?"
Penelope gapes at me. "Margo Stopler. You seriously don’t know this story?”
No, I don’t. My skin prickles in goose bumps at the mention of Margo’s name. My parents moved to Fernn Valley shortly after she died and took over as the town’s real estate agents. It seems odd neither of them mentioned she was murdered. But then again, they kept a lot of stuff from me, so I guess it's not that odd after all.
“It happened in two thousand and three,” Penelope says. “Andrew Foster broke into Margo’s home, smacked her on the head, took a bunch of stuff, and left. They caught him a few days later, and he went to jail for a while but got out about a year ago because of some weird technicality. I dunno. Anyway, he died, and I can’t remember why Jack was mad at me.”
The story of Andrew and Margo feels important, and I’m not sure why. But I first need to find Penelope. “If you packed all your stuff and went to Fernn Valley, then why was your room at your dad's house empty?"
Penelope gives me a blank stare. "My room isn't empty! I brought everything with me …well, not everything, but all my clothes."
"I went to your room, and there wasn’t a suitcase or any sign that someone had moved in. You went in there. Didn’t you notice?"
“Obviously not. That doesn’t make sense … I brought my suitcase with me …”
/> “You must have taken everything this morning. Could you have gone to live with a friend or family member?”
“There’s no where else to go.” Penelope’s lips flutter, and she gives a shuddering sigh. She looks as if she’s about to cry. “I can’t think of why I would take all my stuff. It really doesn’t make any sense …”
There’s a wrenching in my stomach, and I want to give her a hug. Penelope’s tough guy exterior is cracking, and the vulnerability is a new and unwelcome feeling for her. Maybe if she allowed herself to feel, then she’ll remember what happened.
“Penelope?” I step forward, arms extended.
She lifts her hand. “Not now.”
“But—”
“Shhhh.”
“Okay.” I take a step back and wait for her to work through her pain. Except she’s taking a really long time, and we are kind of in a hurry. I shove my hands into my pockets and rock from my toes to my heels, biting at my lip.
Finally, Penelope rolls her shoulders and lifts her chin. “Are we going to stand here, or are we actually going to do something productive?”
I take a deep breath through my nose. “Do something,” I say on the exhale. “Go inside and see if your stuff is here.”
“Fine.” And poof, she’s gone.
I pace the walkway, waiting, checking my watch, and counting the seconds ticking by. My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I'm sure it's my dad, or my mom, or Sheriff Vance, or Brian wanting to know where his car is. No doubt he's upset that I have involved his vehicle in a potential murder case.
I put my ear up to the door. I can’t hear anything, so I continue to pace circles until I’m dizzy. She sure is taking a long time.
Ah, crap!
What if she isn't in the apartment? What if I’m waiting for nothing? What if she disappeared, and she's in the brown place?
Shoot.
I hurry around to the back of the building, counting windows as I go. I’m fairly confident that I’m standing in front of the two windows belonging to Apartment 3. I decide to start with the first and step up on what looks like an electrical box, when something catches my eye. A footprint.
Not just any footprint either.
A cleat print.
