by Erin Huss
To tell you that you’re in far more trouble than you know.
“Gee, thanks. What kind of trouble?”
You shouldn’t have told anyone about your gift.
I stop when I get to my car. “Is this about Sheriff Vance?”
Be careful who you trust. And please tell him my death is not his fault. I know he didn’t do it.
“Can you please be a more specific? Who didn’t do what? Why am I in trouble?”
Just be careful.
And … she’s gone.
Well, that was an ominously ambiguous encounter.
Chapter Fifteen
Two weeks later.
“Don’t move.” I army crawl to the next bush and push back a branch ever so carefully. “Don’t move a muscle.” I lift the camera to my eye and zoom into focus. The squirrel is on the ground, burying acorns under the pine needles. He has the most magnificent fluffy tail that looks red under the sunlight and a black undercoat and white belly. He’s gorgeous and the perfect squirrel for next week’s paper.
Ira pled guilty to attempted murder and false imprisonment, which meant someone had to take over his columns.
And that someone is me!
I was given "The Squirrel of the Week" and obituaries (quite fitting, really). I haven’t heard from Sheriff Vance, nor have I had a threat to my personal safety over the last two weeks. I did tell Mrs. Batch that I couldn’t connect her with the dead. She was disappointed because—as I’d told her to do—she had a list of over fifty people she’d like to settle a grievance with. A list that included five former presidents, two members of The Beatles, and the inventor of the corset.
Even if my “friend” spirit hasn’t made contact with me since the hospital, I take her warning seriously. I don’t need trouble. But I do need to work. My parents have not had an inquiry since my mom threatened Sheriff Vance, and they were not invited to the Fernn Valley small business council meeting. My mom and dad are pretending they’re not worried, but I know better.
This is bad, and it’s my fault. All I can do at this point is take pictures of squirrels, craft beautiful tributes to the deceased, and try to think of other ways to earn money. Sure, people around town are still talking about the Penelope incident, my involvement, and what Sheriff Vance blurted out about me seeing dead people. But if I ignore the gossip, it will eventually go away.
Or so I hope.
I snap several pictures of the squirrel before he scurries up the tree. Then I crawl out from my hiding place. I’ve got grass and pine needles stuck to my pants, and I brush them off as I walk back to The Gazette.
The newsroom is quiet. Everyone has recovered from the “food poisoning,” and Brian ran a lovely piece on the bakery, highlighting their proper food handling. Not that it matters. Fernn Valley residents stick together. No one was going to boycott Butter after they heard about Penelope. Food poisoning or not. The bakery has been packed since they reopened last week.
“Did you get a good shot?” Beth swings her chair over to my desk.
“Sure did.” I turn the camera and show her the picture of the squirrel. “I’m going to call him Alfredo.”
“He looks more like an Oscar,” Beth says and turns in her chair. “Don’t you think, Mike?”
Mike is walking back from the bathroom and takes a look. We haven’t talked much since our alleyway encounter, mostly because I’ve been avoiding him.
“I like Alfredo,” Mike says, his dark eyes crinkling into a smile.
“This squirrel looks nothing like Alfredo, but whatever. It’s not my column.” Beth wheels back to her desk.
“So, Zoe.” Mike shoves his hands into the front pockets of his pants, which are tan and tight. Like he left them in the dryer too long. “Have you seen the sixth Sharknado movie?”
Um …“Huh?”
“It came out last year.”
I’m confused.
Beth chimes in. “It’s about a tornado that takes sharks from the ocean and brings them on land to wreak havoc.”
Oh. “And there are six of these movies?”
“Dude, they’re awesome. I think you’d like them.”
“Why do you think I’d like a movie about sharks in a tornado?”
Mike falters. “They’re like a cult classic, and … you seem like the type who would appreciate … cults …”
Beth and I exchange a look from across the desk. “Thanks.” I yank open my bottom drawer and pull out the cable to connect the camera to my computer.
“That came out wrong,” Mike says, scratching the back of his head. “I meant, you seem like the type who would like something farfetched.”
Beth leans forward. “Are you trying to compliment her?”
Mike takes a step back. “I’m just going to my … my …” He cocks a thumb over his shoulder. “Desk.”
Geez. And people think I’m weird.
Beth wheels her chair back over. “Give the guy a break. He’s trying to ask you out.”
I drop the camera and it lands in my lap. Thank goodness, because it belongs to The Gazette and looks quite expensive. “No, he’s not.”
“Yes, he is. It’s obvious.”
“Is it?” I scrunch up my face. “He was friends with Ira.”
“You can’t hold that against him. He’s not a bad guy.”
“He just accused me of liking cults.”
“That’s because he’s nervous. Trust me, I can read people’s emotions much better than you can.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“He likes you, and he’s available.” She jerks her head toward Brian’s office.
Oh.
“Don’t think I don’t notice how you pine over the chief,” she adds. “Mike is your age, and he’s cute.”
We both look over at Mike, who is back at his desk doing … whatever it is that he does here. I wasn’t paying attention to his emotions, but I can’t believe he’d want to ask me out after he’s heard the rumors. After everything that happened with Ira and Penelope. And he ate the last of the glazed donuts. Not sure why I’m having a hard time letting that one go.
He is attractive. Not that it matters. I won't be going anywhere with Mike, or anyone for that matter. I need to concentrate on work and lying low. The spirit’s warning hangs over my every move, and even though Mike appears trustworthy—so did Sheriff Vance, at first.
“Have you heard any word on Penelope Muffin?” Beth asks.
“Yes.” I plug in the camera. “She’s at home and doing well.” Penelope and I have chatted on Instagram Direct Messenger. Dare I say we’ve even become friends? Which is a bummer because Penelope plans to move to Portland with Quinn once she’s made a full recovery. Her art show went well, and she’s been invited back to show more of her pieces. Portland celebrates artists, she wrote me. It’s the weird capitol of the world. You should totally move there.
Tempting.
“Zoe?” Brian says from the doorway of his office. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
I’m busy uploading my photos, but I do as he asks. After all, he is my boss. I step into his office, and he closes the door. Everything is perfectly in its place. I can tell the desk has been freshly polished. I don’t know why I find his obsessive need to be neat and orderly so wildly attractive.
“What’s up?” I ask.
Brian gazes at my face. Then suddenly he bends forward and kisses me. His mouth is opening mine, and our tongues dance. He’s tugging at my shirt and reaching for my bra. I fumble for his shirt buttons. His mouth travels down my neck. I gasp …
Okay, none of that happened.
But, wow, I should read some Jane Austin novels to get my mind out of the gutter. I was up past midnight devouring the latest KR Tuss book, Baby Daddies from Down Under.
In reality, Brian is a solid two feet away and giving me the most curious look. Probably because I’m drooling. I wipe my chin. “What’s going on?”
“The insurance company needs more information.” He pulls ou
t a chair for me, then takes a seat behind his desk.
Right. The car.
I sit down. The chair is straight-backed with no arms. Not constructed for comfort or style, this chair is practical and to the point.
“What do you need?” I ask.
“They want to make sure you don’t have any injuries or medical expenses.” He grabs a piece of paper and clicks a pen. “Just fill this out, and I can fax it over.”
I mark no injuries and slide the form across the desk. “I’m sorry again about this whole mess.”
“No need to keep apologizing, Zoe. I told you that.” He sticks the paper into a scanner and hesitates. “There are several interesting rumors going around about you, though.”
Yes, there are. They range from I’m supposedly a witch to I’m supposedly psychic. Some say I was working with Ira, others say I’m possessed. There’s a story going around about how Penelope, Ira, and I were in a relationship—not sure how or why polygamy entered the picture. But people will make up facts when they can’t comprehend the truth. “Well, you know how people are around here,” I say to Brian. “They love to fabricate.”
Brian regards me with just an odd expression. I want to laugh. He has no idea what to believe.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“That’s it.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
“All right.”
“All right.”
I leave, feeling totally and completely lost. I’m not sure why I’m holding on to these feelings for Brian. Sure, he may have been torn between Va-ness-a and me, but it’s been two weeks, and she’s still here! I thought she’d come for a visit, but she’s driven him to work every day since I totaled his car. And I doubt he’s only using her for a ride.
What a complete and total waste of my time, pining over a man who is clearly not interested. I slump into my chair and cross my arms. Yes, I’m pouting like an idiot, but only because I feel like one.
Beth looks up and frowns. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I say, just as my phone rings. My direct line rarely rings. I stare down at the blinking red light.
“Are you going to answer that?” Beth asks.
I suppose I should. I place the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Zoe, honey, it’s Rosa.” She sounds out of breath.
“Are you okay?”
“I’ve made a discovery, and I think you should come over to the library right now.”
Oh, no. “You found a dead body, didn’t you?” I blurt out loud and the room falls silent. Everyone is staring at me. Oops. I give a nervous chuckle and swipe a strand of hair behind my ear. “Um … just kidding,” I say in an abnormally high-pitched voice. “Carry … on …”
Oh, geez.
I spin my chair around, plug one ear, and lean forward. “You still there, Rosa?”
“Heavens, Zoe. What would make you think I found a dead body?”
“Um … nothing. Sorry. What happened?”
“I found out who ordered book, and you’re going to want to see this for yourself.”
“Really?” I perk up. “Okay, I-I’ll be right there!”
I hang up, tell Beth that I need to run an errand for work, and go straight to the library. It’s a ten-minute walk through town. I find Rosa sitting behind her desk, biting at her nails, staring at the computer screen intently, as if her life depended on it.
“What did you find out?” I put my purse on the counter and walk around to look at her screen.
She’s pulled up an article about Andrew Foster, Jack’s uncle, the one who murdered Margo.
“You’ve heard about this, right?” Rosa points to Jack’s picture. He’s young, late teens, early twenties, with blond hair parted down the middle, and red-rimmed eyes.
“I have.”
“It was simply terrible. Margo was beautiful and way too young to die. Andrew Foster was only nineteen at the time. He broke into her home, and she walked in on him during the robbery. He killed her. Blunt force trauma to the back of the head. They convicted him using DNA evidence they found on a joint outside her door. But he got out of prison about a year ago based on a technicality.”
“What technicality?” I ask.
“I’m not sure, but he only served fifteen years.”
That doesn’t seem long enough for murder. “He died recently.”
Rosa peers up at me over her glasses. “I hadn’t heard. After Margo’s death, the Foster family moved to Trucker. No one wanted them here.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
Rosa twists in her chair, grabs a file folder off her desk, and flips it open. “I was knee-deep in old boxes, looking for information on who might have requested Reaching the Other Side. Then it dawned on me, I should just ask the former librarian.” She taps her forehead as if to say duh. “She moved up to Trucker to live her with her daughter. She returned my call this morning, and she remembered exactly what happened. You’re not going to believe this. Margo Stopler is the one who requested the book.”
“Margo?” I squeak.
Rosa nods. “LuAnne, the former librarian, said Margo was quite secretive about the book too. She gave LuAnne the ISBN number and asked if she could order it. Then she made LuAnne promise that she’d keep the book in stock no matter what. Then two weeks later, she was gone.”
Well, geez. She just took the wind out of my sails. Guess there are no pedicures, lunch dates, and shopping trips to hip boutiques in my future with my medium buddy—because she’s dead! I thought this is why the spirit wanted me to find out about the book, so I wouldn’t be alone. Why else would she …
I feel a stab of mortification. What if the spirit was Margo? What if she didn’t want me to have a friend, but she wanted me to learn from her mistake. You shouldn’t have told anyone about your gift …
“Zoe?” Rosa waves a hand in front of my face. “Dear, are you okay?”
No! Margo requested a book about spirits and two weeks later she died. “Um … Um … I-I-I have to go. I must go.” I give Rosa a side hug. “Thank you for the information. I appreciate it.”
I leave without looking back, pushing open the revolving door. My mind is going around in circles, and I’m in no condition to work right now. Not until I figure this out. I stop at Earl Park to think. No one is around. I slouch down on a park bench, pull out my phone, and Google Margo Stopler. Half a dozen articles appear, mostly from The Gazette. All are about her murder, and all are accompanied by Margo’s official real estate photo. She was pretty. Big smile. Dark, curly hair that fell to her shoulders. Her cheeks were pink, and she had a light about her—a familiar light.
Margo was twenty-seven, born in San Francisco, moved to Fernn Valley in 1994. She was charitable and well liked (I’m reading her obituary). She is survived by her father John Stolper Jr. and her sister, Linney Stolper.
I Google Linney Stopler. She too is a real estate agent, but in Washington. Her number is at the bottom of a listing, and I make a rash decision to call her.
As the phone rings in my ear, I realize I should have planned what I would say before I called. But it’s too late now because Linney answers.
“This is Linney.”
Um … “My name is Zoe Lane, and I live in Fernn Valley.”
“Fernn Valley?” There’s a mixture of discomfort and surprise in Linney’s voice.
“I’m calling because …” Problem is, I’m not entirely sure why I’m calling. “See … I have this book from the library … and … um … your sister ordered it when she lived here.”
“That’s nice.” Linney is apprehensive, as she should be. I am not making much sense.
“She ordered it right before she passed away.”
“She didn’t pass away,” Linny cuts me off. “She was murdered!”
“Right. Yes. She was, and I’m sorry.” I clear my throat and pick off the cat hair from my pants. “Um … the book is for … mediums.”
Linney gives a short, distant laugh.
“Sounds like Margo. She was interested in ghosts and paranormal stuff right before she died.”
“Do you know why?”
I can almost hear Linney shrugging. “She really liked those Twilight books.”
Yes, but Twilight is about a vampire, not a medium. There’s a big difference.
“You know what’s funny?” Linney asks. “This morning, when I was lying in bed, I had the strangest feeling that I was going to get a call from someone in Fernn Valley regarding Margo. It was almost like Margo told me so herself. Which is just silly.”
No, it’s not. Not at all. Now I’m almost certain it was Margo who visited me. It was Margo who told me to get away from Sheriff Vance. Margo who told me to be careful who I told about my gifts. Margo who said, he didn’t do it.
I jump to my feet, and it’s possible that a few swear words slip out of my mouth because Linney says, “Excuse me?”
Oops. “I’m sorry … please forgive me. It’s just, did Margo ever mention Sheriff Vance?”
“He’s the one who helped put away the guy that killed her.”
I bite my lip. There’s something here. I’m just not sure what. What I do know for sure is Margo warned me about sharing my abilities with others. She also warned me about Sheriff Vance. I think about the brown-eyed child that haunts his thoughts.
Could the child be connected to Margo?
Why else would she warn me about the sheriff?
I sit down, feeling a bit light-headed. Margo’s last words were, he didn’t do it. Was she referring to Andrew Foster, Jack’s uncle, the man who killed her?
I need to reconnect with Margo.
“Are you there?” Linney is still in my ear.
I blink. “Yes. Thank you for talking to me.” I hang up before Linney can say good-bye. Rude, yes, but if Linney knew what was happening, she’d be okay with it.
I reach into my purse, grab my Bluetooth, and stick it in my ear. I keep my eyes straight ahead, looking out at the pond. It glistens under the mid-morning sun, and a family of ducks paddles across.
One, two, three, four …
Yeah, counting still doesn’t work for me. I clear my throat, swallow a few times, and then close my eyes. I envision the door, and the bright light, and ask for Margo. A rush of cold prickles down my spine, and I open my eyes. My fingertips go numb, and my breath huffs out in a cloud. I feel the presence of a spirit, but it’s not Margo. I know it’s not Margo because I see the spirit. He’s sitting on the bench beside me, rubbing his hands along his thighs. He’s in light-colored jeans, white high tops, and a loose-fitting blue and yellow-striped shirt.
