The Medium Place

by Erin Huss

There are six cleat prints going toward the window and four going away. Then there are dotted mud marks in the shape of footprints along the narrow cement walkway that separates Penelope's apartment building from the duplex next door.

  There was a softball game last night in Trucker against Fernn Valley. That is too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence.

  Here’s what I know about the Fernn Valley and Trucker softball teams: Nada. I’ve never been to a game.

  But I think it’s a co-ed league. The players range in age from Mr. Batch, who is the mayor and looks like Santa Claus, to Ira and Mike, who are around my age, and then there’s Sheriff Vance. I don’t think Beth is on the team, but she does attend all the games as the sports columnist.

  So I call her. She answers on the first ring. "Zoe Lane, where the hell are you?"

  What a nice greeting. "I can't say right now, but I have a few questions about the softball team."

  "I have a few questions myself. For example, where is Penelope Muffin?"

  "I don't know." An honest answer. I don’t know where she is.

  "Second question—did you poison our donuts?"

  "What? No, why would I do that? You ate one, and you're fine."

  "You're right. I’m fine … But that's between you and me. Tell me what happened, Zoe. Because they found Penelope's car parked at the train station, your car by the Paradise Falls hiking trail. Penelope isn’t answering her phone or texts. Neither are you. No one has seen you since this morning. No one has seen her since last night.”

  The train station?

  This is new.

  Here’s what I know about the Fernn Valley train station: it’s basically a platform with a park bench (that has my parents faces on it—you know, real estate ads). There’s a kiosk to buy tickets, and the train comes twice a day: 6:05 a.m. and 7:22 p.m.

  I can’t imagine Penelope would take a train anywhere, especially when she has a date with Tag this evening. The train only travels south in the morning and north in the evening. I’m not sure why she would go south; if anything, she’d go north, toward Portland where the art show is being held on Sunday, but that train hasn’t even left yet.

  “Do they know if she bought a ticket?” I ask.

  “I heard they were able to confirm a ticket was purchased this morning, but they don’t think it was Penelope.”

  “Who do they think bought it?”

  “You.”

  Didn’t see that one coming.

  “I heard you killed her with a poisonous donut, deposited her body near Paradise Falls, parked her car at the train station to make it look like she left, lost your mind, tried to confess to the murder, then ran away and were attacked by a lion.”

  I don’t even know how to respond to this. So I don’t. I can tell by Beth’s voice that she’s not entirely convinced this story is true.

  Also, I’m really good at starting rumors.

  “There are two search parties meeting today at five. One at the Paradise Falls trailhead and another at the Muffins’ house,” Beth says. “Brian asked if I was up for covering the story.”

  My heart hiccups at the mention of Brian’s name. “Did he say why he wasn’t covering it?”

  “Just that he was having car trouble. Which is lazy, in my opinion. I am, after all, home sick, and he could easily walk to the trailhead. It’s not far.”

  My shoulders sag with relief. Brian didn’t tell anyone that I’m his car trouble. He believes me. Even when everyone else thinks I poisoned donuts and bought train tickets and was attacked by lions, Brian has my back. Which buys me a little time.

  “Beth, I didn’t touch Penelope Muffin.”

  “I heard you say Penelope this morning when you were on the phone.”

  Crap! I did say Penelope out loud. Shoot.

  “But I don’t see you as the premeditative-murderous type,” Beth adds.

  “Because I’m not.”

  “You’re more the snap-and-blow-up-the-building type.”

  Gee, thanks. If I could have a day do-over, I would have called in an anonymous tip to the police then would have looked for Penelope on my own.

  “There is another lead besides you,” Beth says. “A crazed woman who is running around Trucker, telling people Penelope has been kidnapped.”

  Oh good, a real lead! “Was this woman’s name Jack by chance?”

  “No, it was Shly.”

  Crap.

  “Penelope’s friend says Shly broke into his work, messed with the electrical wiring, caused a scene, and told him Penelope had been kidnapped by the mob. The police are looking for her now.”

  Oh, geez. That’s not even close to what happened, but I’m not telling Beth that. The less I say the better.

  Except I do need to ask, “What time did the softball game end last night?”

  “About ten thirty.”

  “Who from Fernn Valley played in the game?"

  "The whole team was there except for Mrs. Muffin. She hurt her leg. A big hit to our team—she's our star pitcher."

  Two thoughts pop into my mind:

  One: I had no idea Mrs. Muffin was on the softball team?

  Two: Mrs. Muffin walked all the way from Butter Bakery to her home. How'd she do that on a hurt leg?

  "Did she go to the game?" I ask.

  "She came a little late, but she was there to cheer the team on. Why are you asking about Mrs. Muffin?” Beth’s voice suddenly sounds further away. I think I’m on speaker, which means someone else is either listening to our conversation or she’s recording it. Not that I blame her, she’s talking to a suspected donut poisoner.

  I snap my phone shut and power it down. I’m in more trouble than I thought. But even if I end up before a jury, at least I’d still be alive. I can’t say the same for Penelope. I need to focus all my energy on keeping my promise.

  Finding her will actually solve both of our problems.

  Okay … I massage my temples, willing my brain to make sense of all this new information. Mrs. Muffin went late to the game. It's not clear if she was wearing cleats. Since she wasn't playing, chances are she wasn't. But I can't ignore the fact that she couldn't play in the biggest game in Fernn Valley history (as the headline will read in this week’s paper) but managed to walk home today. I mean, doesn’t the pitcher sort of just stand there and lob the ball in?

  I look around to see if there's anything else out of the ordinary and find two smashed cigarette butts in the dirt directly below the window. They don't appear that old, and Mrs. Muffin doesn't strike me as a smoker. She also doesn't strike me as an all-star pitcher, so I think it's fair to say I don't know much about Mrs. Muffin.

  What I do know is that I can’t touch this window, there’s too much evidence here. I move to the second window and pull the sleeves of my shirt over my hands, not wanting to add my fingerprints to the mix. It has an old aluminum frame and is easy to pry open. I climb into a bedroom with tan carpet, a full-sized bed with a pink comforter, and neatly arranged pillows. There's a corkboard hung near the door with pictures of people I don't recognize and a badge that stays Student for Trucker Beauty Academy. I'm stabbed with panic, thinking I just broke into the wrong apartment. Until I notice the picture of Penelope. She's standing beside a girl with pink hair. They're pointing to the big roller coaster behind them.

  Penelope appears in the doorway. "My stuff is gone!"

  I do a sweep of the room. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. There’s a hamper near the closet filled with clothes.

  "This is Jack's room!”

  Oh.

  “Mine is this way." She moves down the short hall and walks through a wall.

  I use the door, and … Oh, my, gosh. "This is your room?"

  "Yes! All my stuff is gone. If it's not at my dad's house, then where is it?"

  I step over the pile of crusty dishes. Her bed is stripped, the floor is covered in socks, dishes, cups, magazines, scraps of paper, and something green and furry that I don't care to identify. Also, it smells like
feet.

  Penelope walks through the closet door and howls in anguish. My hand flies to my mouth. She found herself. This is it. We've found Penelope. Oh gosh, I’m not sure I can look.

  But I have to.

  No, I don’t want to.

  But I have to.

  I really don’t want to.

  Ah!

  Fine. With my sleeve still over my hand, I slide the mirrored door, and … nothing. It's empty. Well, except for Penelope who looks panic-stricken.

  "What is supposed to be in here?"

  "My art pieces for the show! I didn't take them with me because I left in such a hurry. I was going to come back today to grab them. Someone seriously took all my stuff! That’s … that's criminal! Call the police! My show is on Sunday!”

  It doesn't seem like the right moment to remind her that they’ll probably be no show being that she’ll either be dead or, best case, she’ll be recovering from a near-death injury.

  "Do you think you came here this morning to grab your artwork, ran into Jack, she killed you, and then took your car?" I ask.

  Penelope flickers. "How many times do I need to tell you this? I. Don’t. Remember!"

  "How many times do I need to tell you this? Stop. Yelling. At. Me!”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  “Good.” I step over an empty bag of Cheetos. “Now take a look at this." I open her blinds using my sleeve-covered hand. "There’s cleat prints and smashed cigarettes butts in the dirt."

  “What?” Penelope appears outside. "There's also Nike prints!" She hollers loud enough for me to hear her through the thin glass.

  I look to where she’s pointing. She's right. The shoe prints are faint, but they're there, and they're the same size as the cleats. "Come back inside.”

  Penelope walks through the wall. “It is nice not having to use doors anymore.”

  I laugh then clear my throat and put my serious face on. “Does your stepmother smoke?"

  "Not anymore."

  "So she used to.”

  “That’s what ‘not anymore’ means.”

  “Be nice. Also, do you know anyone else on either Trucker of Fernn Valley's team?"

  "I am as nice as a half-dead person can be. And yes, I know everyone on Fernn Valley's team, and a few people on Trucker's team. Not anyone who should be outside my window!"

  "Do you remember taking a train this morning?"

  "Yeah, sure, I took a train because driving a car would be too hard and I felt like dying."

  "So that's a no."

  "It's a hell no!”

  "They found your car at the station, and a ticket was purchased this morning for the early train. With all your stuff gone, it seems like you took off after you got in a fight with your roommate and stepmom."

  "I would never do that. As much as my dad can get on my nerves, I wouldn’t run off without telling him. He already lost my mom."

  So Penelope has a heart. Good to know. I close the blinds. “Everyone back in Fernn Valley thinks I killed you with a donut, parked your car at the train station, went crazy, and was eaten by a lion.”

  “That sounds like a CSI episode.”

  “Yes, but I do think there’s some substance to the story—well, I mean, besides the donut, me going crazy, and the lion part. That’s not accurate. Obviously. But it sounds like someone hurt you, took your stuff from your parents' house, took your art from your apartment, parked your car at the station, and wanted to make it look like you ran away.”

  “Then why would they text my dad if they wanted to make it look like I took off?”

  “I’m not sure. But whoever texted your dad and Sheriff Vance stopped, probably because they don’t need to keep up the charade any longer. Everyone thinks I killed you, or Shly did.” Either way, I’m screwed.

  “Who is Shly?”

  “Me! It’s the name I gave Quinn. He obviously called the police, or your dad.”

  “Oh, that’s right. It’s kind of a stupid fake name, no?”

  “Yes, it is,” I admit. “I need a better alias.”

  An evil smirk spreads across Penelope’s face. “What if you went by Va-ness-a?”

  “No, that’s terrible.”

  She shrugs. “It’s what I would have done.”

  I have no doubt she would have. I want to tell her that it’s time to rethink how she deals with people, considering someone tried to kill her. But that would imply she deserved what happened to her, which unkind and unhelpful and untrue. What we need to do is figure out who on the softball teams could have hurt Penelope. Too bad that narrows it down to roughly thirty people between the two teams.

  “Let’s make a list of suspects.” I pluck a blue pencil off the floor and take a blank sheet of white paper from a stack on her dresser.

  "Don't take that. It's part of my display for Sunday. Take a paper from that pile." Penelope points to a stack of crumpled receipts and flyers in the corner near her bed.

  “But you’re not going—never mind.” I appease her and grab a crinkled brochure for a furniture store and flip it over. "We have you dead sometime between four and ten thirty." I draw a circle and write the time in the middle then cross it out. “Never mind. The early train leaves just after six in the morning. So I think it’s safe to say you were hurt before then. Let’s say between midnight, when your dad said you went to bed, and five.” I write this down.

  “But my dad said he saw my car when he let for work at four.”

  Shoot. “You’re right, so that would mean you were hurt sometime between four and six.” Which doesn’t seem like enough time to kill, buy a train ticket, collect her stuff, and drive to Trucker. It’s possible this was all premeditated, and our perp bought the ticket before he or she hurt Penelope. Otherwise, how could they have accomplished so much in so little time? Unless they’re a super efficient killer—but then, Penelope isn’t actually dead, so they can’t be that efficient. “As far as suspects go, we have your stepmother." I draw a line from the middle circle and write Mrs. Muffin. "Then we have the Fernn Valley and Trucker softball teams. We also have Jack, Tag, and Quinn. I’m adding Sheriff Vance because there’s something off there, and I smelled nicotine on his breath this morning. What about Ira? You said he smokes.”

  “He did in high school.” She shrugs. “And you take Quinn off that list. He wouldn’t hurt me. We go way back."

  “He could have been upset that you never paid him back, or he was blinded by jealous rage.”

  “It’s not like that between Quinn and me. We’re friends. Tag wouldn’t hurt me either.”

  "We know nothing about Tag. He's the biggest question mark in this case."

  Penelope crosses her arms. "He wouldn't hurt me."

  I withhold a grunt. "We'll leave his name just in case. Our biggest problem is this timeline doesn’t make much sense, and we don’t know if you got in your car. But we do know someone was here, probably last night after the game, looking in your window …" An idea crawls into my head. "What if the person who did this to you looked through your window, saw you weren't here, and drove to Fernn Valley to see if you were at your parents' house?"

  "Damn, girl. If my arms weren't see-through, I'd have goose bumps right now."

  "And, and, and”—my mind is moving faster than my mouth. I pause to regroup—“and the person with the cleats went to your parents' house, killed you this morning, took your stuff and your body somewhere. Then they dropped your car at the train station to make it look like you took off. It's a perfect plan! The train station is old and small, and there's no way they have security cameras." I make a mental note to check anyway. “The plan was to make it seem like you ran off, but then I came into the picture. Now the killer doesn’t need to pretend anything, he or she has me to take the blame.”

  "Bam!" Penelope pretends to drop a microphone. "Only thing is I’m not dead."

  “Okay, we still have a few things to figure out. At least we’re onto something. I only w
ish we could get a hold of Tag.”

  “You’re in luck.” She points over my shoulder, and I turn around.

  I have no idea what she’s referring to. “What? The sock? Popsicle stick? McDonald’s wrapper? Is that half a burrito?”

  “No. The iPad!”

  Ah, yes, I see it sticking out from under the bed. “Not a good place to keep something so expensive.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you can check my Insta DM.”

  “Good idea.” I pick the iPad up off the floor and press the home key. The wallpaper is a picture of a blueberry muffin. "Where is Instagram?"

  She points to the icon, and I tap it.

  I've never been on Instagram before, but it's fairly user-friendly. I am on her profile. While Tag may be following more people than he has following him, Penelope does not. She has over fifty-five thousand followers.

  Fifty-five thousand!

  Below her picture it says West Coast Paper Artist with an email address for inquiries, which reminds me. “Can I check my email on this iPad?”

  Penelope huffs. “We’re kind of busy making sure I don’t die, and you want to stop and look at your emails?”

  “Mike asked my dad if I checked my emails. Mike is on the softball team, and he was acting quite suspicious this morning.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He talked to me. Not just talked either, he was … friendly.”

  Penelope slaps her hands to her checks. “Oh, the horror!”

  “Mock me all you want, but that’s not typical. There has to be a reason he wanted me to check my emails.”

  Penelope concedes and walks me through the process of logging into my email on her iPad. I have four new messages. Two are clothing ads. One is a newsletter from one of my favorite authors (the next book in Dating My Brother’s Best Friend series is available for preorder). And the fourth message is from Mike Handhoff.

  Zoe,

  Are you okay?

  Mike

  “Aha!” I say. “He’s guilty.”

  “He asked if you were okay. How is that an admission of guilt?”

  “Because he and I aren’t friends. He’s barely acknowledged me before today. Why the sudden interest?”

  “Maybe he likes you.”

  I dismiss her crazy notion with a wave of my hand. “Mike doesn’t have feelings for me. Even if he did, there’s Brian to consider.”