The Medium Place

by Erin Huss

  "Do you know what she was doing on Instagram?"

  "I guess someone wants to buy three of her pieces, and she was figuring out the logistics."

  "That's kind of a big deal."

  Jack shoots me a look, and I cower.

  “But that was insensitive to post a picture, yes,” I quickly add before I’m waxed to death. “Absolutely."

  “Damn straight, it was insensitive. But that’s Penelope.” She slathers the area between my eyebrows with warm wax. “All she thinks about is me, me, me. She can get under my skin. Do you know Quinn?”

  “Yes.” I wipe my eyes. “We’ve met before. Why?”

  “He bends over backwards for that girl, and she barely notices, barely says thank you, and never pays him back.” She rips my hair and skin off with one swoop.

  “Is he the jealous type?” I fan my burning face with my hand. “Like the raging jealous type willing to do whatever to get the girl? Also, is he on the softball team?”

  “Quinn? No, he’s a good guy, and he doesn’t play softball.” Jack continues to lather, rub, and rip. “He’s had a thing for Penelope. I know it. He knows it. Everyone we know knows it. But Penelope is either totally oblivious or a she’s pretending to be.”

  Aha!

  I knew he had feelings for her. She is totally oblivious. He’s going to be devastated when he learns what happened. Assuming he wasn’t involved. Perhaps he and Jack were in on it together. “What do you know about Tag?” I ask.

  “Besides the fact that she met him on Instagram? Nothing.”

  That’s helpful. "So about her stepmother. Kind of a rocky relationship, right?"

  "I stay out of it."

  I sigh. Then I yelp when she rips more of my face off. This must be how they get terrorists to speak. I say a silent prayer of thanks Jack didn’t have time for a Brazilian. I wipe my eyes, nose, and mouth. Every hole in my face is leaking fluid. "So um … what about Penelope's art in her closet? Did you get rid of it?" I try to sound casual. But I’m aching to get out of here.

  "I will not under any circumstance go into Penelope’s room. It’s disgusting. If she wants her stuff, she has to come get it."Jack applies another layer of something soothing on my brows. She’s almost finished, and I haven’t been able to segue into the cigarettes and cleat prints outside her apartment window.

  I push a breath out through gritted teeth, close my eyes, and concentrate on Jack’s feelings. She’s slightly annoyed by my intrusive behavior. She’s also mad, hungry, and there's a sliver of concern. Like a nagging persistence picking at her, telling her there's something wrong, but she tries to ignore it because she’s still upset with Penelope. An image of a white truck pops into her head. A white, Chevy, two-door truck with no front license plate and a dent near the bumper.

  This, I can work with.

  "I went by your apartment earlier, to see if Penelope was there, and I saw a white truck."

  Jack's hands drop to her side. "You saw a white truck?"

  I nod. “Chevy, two-door, no front license plate. Do you know who it belongs to?”

  "No, but I've seen that same truck going up and down our street several times a day over the last week. I told Penelope, but she didn't seem concerned. Did you notice anything else when you were there?"

  So glad she asked, I tell her about the window, cigarettes, curb, and cleat prints. Her face pales, and her heartbeat quickens. Panic encircles her thoughts, and I’m confident Jack did not kill Penelope. Which crosses one suspect from my list.

  "I smelled cigarette smoke outside my window last night,” she says, almost in awe. “But when I looked, no one was there.”

  “Was that before or after Penelope left?”

  “It was shortly after.”

  This fits in with my theory. The perp looked through the window, didn’t see Penelope, and went to Fernn Valley. This makes me think it was a player on the Fernn Valley softball team as opposed to the Trucker. Why? An educated guess. Penelope didn’t say she was close to anyone on the Trucker team, and how would they know where her dad lives?

  “Did you call the police?" Jack asks.

  "No. I wasn't sure what was going on. But you probably should call them considering no one is able to find Penelope."

  Jack rips off her gloves. “Do you think she's in trouble?"

  I sit up. “Yes, and I think you should call the police and have them meet you at your apartment right now. Be sure to tell them about the white truck."

  "Okay. Here's your ticket.” She hands me a slip of paper. "Thanks." She pushes back the curtain and walks away. My face is hot and sticky, but I feel a sense of relief. Jack is calling the police. She saw the white truck, she smelled the cigarettes, and she knew Penelope left her art. That seems like enough evidence to launch an investigation.

  I go to the receptionist desk and pay my service.

  "Here's your change, dear." She drops two dollars into my hand. "There's a big sale in the shop if you're interested." She points to the beauty supply store attached to the school.

  “Thank you.” I stand there for a moment, staring down at the money in my hand, not exactly sure what to do next.

  So I sit.

  I should go home and face Sheriff Vance, let the police take it over now. Heaven knows they’ll do a better job than I have. After all, I’m not a detective. I’m a medium—and after today, I’m not sure I should even call myself that anymore. Not after the way I snapped at Penelope.

  I’m deep into a self-loathing misery when in my periphery I see Jack running toward the exit with a backpack slung over her shoulder.

  “Jack, wait up,” says a guy with a dark man-bun, wearing a white smock and bright red shoes.

  “I don’t have time, Wes,” Jack says and pushes the door open. I watch her walk across the parking lot and out of sight.

  “Dammit, Penelope,” Wes says under his breath.

  Did he just say Penelope?

  “Excuse me.” I follow Wes into the beauty supply store.

  Wes takes a seat behind a glass case displaying a variety of tweezers. “Can I help you?” he asks.

  “Do you know Penelope Muffin?”

  “Not personally, but we’ve chatted on DM.” Wes twirls an escaped tendril of dark hair between his fingers, looking bored. “She was supposed to do a story yesterday about my new skincare line, but she never did.”

  “Her story?” I’m confused.

  “Her Insta-story. I gave her a ton of product. Including the mud mask.” He points over my shoulder. I turn around.

  Jars of Magic Dead Sea Mask are stacked in a pyramid on a small round table with a pink tablecloth. A picture of a model with the mud smeared all over her face is displayed on an easel, and there’s a cut out advertising the cost—only $59.99.

  Geez. No wonder Wes is mad. Sixty bucks for … MUD! I gasp so loud the ladies under the hairdryers peek over to see what the commotion is all about.

  Mud!

  I grab a jar—probably should have taken one from the top of the pyramid, not the bottom, but whatever. Wes bends down to clean up the mess while I twist open the mask. Yes, Penelope was a bit translucent, but the mud in the jar looks awfully close to what was on her forehead!

  “She was supposed to try this mask yesterday?” I ask Wes.

  “Yes.” He stacks the jars on the table. “It’s fantastic, made in Israel, and has natural therapeutic ingredients.” He nods to my face. “It’ll help with your inflammation.”

  “And Penelope was supposed to do a story on this yesterday?”

  “Yes, and she didn’t. She even DM’d me last night saying she was going to post it right then, and she never did.”

  “What time did she DM you?”

  “Get this”—he stacks the last jar—“midnight. Next time I’ll use an influencer program and not rely on a friend of a friend.”

  I don’t know what he’s talking about, but if Penelope sent him a message at midnight saying she was posting a story about the mask then she didn’t e
nd up doing so, my timeframe of being hurt between four and six could be wrong. She could have been hurt much sooner.

  “What does this look like when it’s dry?” I ask.

  “It turns hard and a greenish color.”

  The clay-like mud on Penelope’s face was certainly not greenish, which meant it was freshly applied. “How long do you leave it on your face?”

  “You’re going to want to leave it on for about twenty minutes. A little bit goes a long way. Scoop about a quarter size of mask onto your fingertips then apply it to your forehead, rub it down to the sides of your face, over your nose, and around your chin.”

  “Start on my forehead,” I confirm.

  “Yes, your forehead.”

  “Scoop up a quarter size and plop it on my forehead.”

  “Yes.”

  “On my forehead.”

  Wes gives me the most pitiful look, like I’m a lost puppy. “Honey, do you want me to write this down for you?”

  I shake my head. “Um … no. Thank you for your time.” I place the jar back on the table

  and head back to the waiting area.

  I take a seat and go over the timing in my head, creating a new scenario with the information I have. The killer finishes the softball game around ten thirty. If the killer is on the Fernn Valley team (as I suspect he or she is), then he or she went out to celebrate. Mike did say they partied hard. Then the killer, who is slightly inebriated (or not, I’m speculating), drives to Penelope’s house, up and over the curb, taking out the sign, looks through the window, doesn’t see Penelope, then drove to Fernn Valley to find her.

  Mr. Muffin said Penelope was asleep when he left for work, but he hadn’t checked on her, and her car was out front. If her car were gone, I’m sure Mr. Muffin would have been concerned.

  I grab the piece of paper with the suspects written on it.

  Mrs. Muffin had a serious enough injury to not play in an important game, but she was able to walk all the way from the bakery to her house. She and Penelope didn’t have a good relationship to begin with, then Penelope shows up in the middle of the night and announces she’s moving home. Mrs. Muffin could have had enough and killed her stepdaughter, tried to make it look like Penelope ran away, and the stress caused her to start smoking again. She wasn’t even the slightest concerned when I stormed into the bakery talking lions and bears and posing the possibility of Penelope being hurt. Except the timing doesn’t exactly work, and I’m not sure where she’d get a white ruck.

  Then I have Jack—she was mad at Penelope, but I don’t think she hurt her.

  Jack is out.

  Quinn … I’m on the fence. We’ll keep him on the list.

  The entire Trucker and Fernn Valley softball teams? I cross out Trucker.

  Ira—he smoked in high school, and that’s about all I have on him.

  Then there’s Sheriff Vance and the Fernn Valley softball team, specifically Mike, and of course we still have Tag. Something about Tag doesn’t sit right with me.

  I grab Penelope’s iPad. Luckily the school has Wi-Fi, and I’m able to check Instagram again. I scroll through her Direct Messages reading each one, which takes a solid five minutes. Word of her disappearance has spread through Fernn Valley and Trucker, and her inbox is filled with messages of concern from friends.

  Are you okay?

  Where are you?

  I'm worried!

  I keep scrolling, looking for Tag’s message, but it’s gone. I search for Tagalicious. Several accounts show up, but none of them have the eyeball.

  Tag’s profile isn’t there anymore. Can you delete an Instagram profile that easily? I ask the receptionist. She looks at me like I’m an idiot and says, “Yeah.” Good enough for me. So Tag’s profile is gone. He wouldn’t delete it unless he had something to hide.

  Something like … gee … I don’t know … Penelope!

  I go back to Penelope’s profile and scroll through her posts. The pictures of Tag’s poems are still there. I study each one. There’s the bike poem. One poem is about leaves, and there's a picture of a leaf. One is about how our hearts are canoes on the rocky sea of diversity—and there's a picture of a canoe. One poem is titled, I Am a Tree and, of course, there's a picture of a tree:

  You stand in my shadow.

  You drink in my air.

  You consume my thoughts.

  But you don’t know I’m there.

  I hide behind the iris, hoping one day to break free.

  If you stepped out of my shadow, would you hate me?

  Huh? Is an iris a type of tree? I ask the receptionist.

  “How the hell would I know?”

  Alrighty then. I ask Google. Google says no, it’s part of the eyeball. As in Tag’s profile picture.

  Tag hides behind the eyeball!

  I bring the iPad closer. The picture of the tree is in black and white. The tree is large, off-centered, bare of leaves, with twisty branches that almost form a heart, there’s a backyard fence, and the sun is setting behind the mountains. I've never seen the heart tree before, but I do know those mountains in the distance.

  That's Fernn Valley.

  I’ve spent a lot of time looking out my own window, staring at those mountains. If Tag was from Washington, then why would he have a picture of a tree in Fernn Valley?

  The answer: Tag is from Fernn Valley!

  The next question is: who is the real Tag?

  Based on everything I’ve discovered, my best guess would be “Tag” is on the Fernn Valley softball team. Which means he celebrated “so hard” last night.

  Of course, this is just a theory. Before I go accusing anyone of murder, I want to be sure.

  I check Instagram one more time. Penelope’s profile picture is red-rimmed, and I tap on it. A photo of a casket shows up. This must be the picture Jack was mad about—the one Penelope took at the funeral. The picture disappears, and it's now a picture of Penelope. She's holding up the Dead Sea Mask. Before I can even blink, the picture changes to an ad for kitty litter.

  Ah!

  I exit out and start again.

  The casket, then the picture of Penelope holding the mask. She’s at her dad’s house. I recognize the blue walls and the bed in the background. The blankets are jumbled, and her suitcase is open and overflowing.

  My mind goes back to earlier today, when I was at the Muffins’ house. Penelope's bed was made. Not only was it made, but it was made nicely. For someone who lives with unidentified furry blobs in their bedroom, I find it hard to believe she'd make the bed before she left.

  I mentally slap myself on the forehead for not making the connection sooner. Then I actually slap my forehead, because, well, it now seems so obvious. Penelope is a slob! She’d never leave the room that clean.

  I go through the pictures again, and again, and again, and again. Hoping something will stick out to me. I check the background for clues. Her bed is unmade and … I move the iPad closer. Sticking out from under the same pink sheets with butterflies on them, the ones I saw this morning at the Muffins’ house, there’s also a blanket. It's fuzzy and brown.

  My mind jumps to Penelope's brown place. She specifically said it was brown and fuzzy. At the time, I thought her vision was fuzzy, but it is possible that it was quite literally brown and fuzzy.

  Oh, gosh. I know because of the mask on her forehead she was likely attacked in her room, right as she applied it—which vetoes my creek theory. Perhaps her killer didn’t know she wasn’t fully dead, panicked, and wrapped her in the blanket for transport. Then he cleaned up the room.

  I was completely off. Which stinks because the good residents of Fernn Valley are meeting in less than an hour to search Paradise Falls when they really need to find the heart-shaped tree. Maybe Penelope won't be at the tree, but if we find “Tag” then we’ll find her.

  And I’ve a hunch who Tag really is.

  Chapter Nine

  I peel out of the parking lot, leaving a cloud of burnt rubber behind me. "Come on, come
on, come on, come on," I chant as I get on the highway. "Come to me, Penelope. Come to me."

  Driving as fast as Brian’s car will go (which isn’t very fast at all, or maybe it seems slow compared to mine), I near the Fernn Valley County border. "Come to me, Penelope. Come here, please."

  The silence stretches on, and I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white.

  "Come on, Penelope." I know it’s a long shot, but if I can summon Penelope, I can ask her about the truck and the tree. “Come on, Penelope. Please.”

  “I'm here,” she says. I can barely see the outline of her spirit sitting in the front seat.

  I’m so relieved I could cry. “Where have you been?”

  "The brown place.” She sounds like she’s speaking through a paper towel roll.

  “When you're there, does the brown remind you of the blanket on your bed at your dad’s house? The fuzzy brown one?"

  "It's hard to tell. It’s just brown.”

  I want to yell, we know it's freaking brown! But I don't. Getting hysterical didn’t work out well last time.

  Penelope grows brighter—her features becoming clearer. There’s still mud on her forehead and a cut under her eyes. But her hair is down, and the twigs are gone, and her shirt is clean, and she’s wearing a jacket.

  “Why are you so red?” she asks and leans in closer. “Did you burn yourself?”

  "I went to Jack's school, and she waxed my face off,” I say and wince at the memory. “Why are you wearing a coat?"

  Penelope looks down as if she hadn’t noticed. “Wow. I thought I lost this jacket when I moved to Trucker. It was my favorite. I wore it almost every day. How’d I get it on?”

  “There’s a headband in your hair, too.”

  Penelope touches the top of her head, confusion plaguing her face. “I don’t remember putting on a headband.”

  “You’re also wearing sneakers,” I point out.