by Erin Huss
A Medium Education
A Lost Souls Lane Mystery
Erin Huss
Copyright © 2020 by Erin Huss
Cover by Sue Traynor
Author picture by Ashley Stock
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
A Note From Erin Huss
About the Author
Also by Erin Huss
Series Information
If you’ve never read A Lost Souls Lane Mystery, you can start with MAKING A MEDIUM (only 99 cents), the first book in the series. If you prefer to start with A MEDIUM EDUCATION (book #6), you won’t be lost. Each book can be read as a stand‐alone, but there will be spoilers should you read them out of order. I strongly recommend starting with book one.
Happy reading!
You can get the first book at erinhuss.com
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Acknowledgements
Thank you to my editor, Wendi Baker, so fun to work with you; Sue Traynor for the cover; Paula Bothwell for the editing (you’re amazing); Debby Holt for the line edits; my kids for being amazing little humans; Jed Huss for being the supportive husband that you are.
A huge thank you to my blurb ninja, Kathryn R. Biel.
Dedicated to my cat, Feisty.
Yes, I just dedicated an entire book to my cat. If you knew Feisty, you’d dedicate a book to him, too.
One
“Not him. Not him. Not him. Not him,” I frantically repeat as I move from cage to cage. “Not him. Not him. Not—” I stop. A fluffy black cat is curled up with his head tucked under his paw. I tap on the glass, and when the feline looks up, I’m met with a pair of dark eyes.
Dang it!
“Is that your cat?” Mrs. Batch, the mayor’s wife who volunteers as a care attendant at the animal shelter, asks.
“No. Jabba has golden eyes.”
“Have you asked your neighbors if they’ve seen him?”
“I’ve spent all morning searching around my house, the backyard, and the neighborhood. He’s nowhere to be found!”
“Give it time, dear.” Mrs. Batch places a comforting hand on my shoulder. She’s always reminded me of the See’s Candy lady with her white hair, circular glasses, and shawl draped over her shoulders. Too bad she doesn’t have any candy on her now. A pound of chocolate should help combat the panic currently buzzing around in my head.
“Can you call me if anyone brings in a male cat with golden-colored eyes?” I ask.
“Of course, dearie. I’m sure he’s just hiding.” She takes a long pause before adding, “or he’s been eaten by a coyote. Only time will tell.”
A coyote? I hadn’t even thought of a coyote! Are there coyotes in Fernn Valley? What am I thinking? Of course there are coyotes in Fernn Valley! How could a coyote get to my cat? Jabba doesn’t leave the house, and our backyard is fenced in. Can coyotes jump a fence?
A quick Google search says they can easily clear a six-foot high fence.
Okay, now my panic is beyond chocolate.
I check the cages one more time before I step out into the hall and call Mike, my boyfriend, who is currently putting up the quickly scrawled posters I made this morning around town offering a two-hundred-dollar reward for anyone who finds Jabba.
Not that I have two hundred dollars to spare, but this is important. I’ll sell my doll collection if I have to. That has to be worth more than two hundred bucks. I wasn’t planning on bringing them with me when I moved out of my parents’ house anyway—assuming I ever do move out of my parents’ house.
The residents of Fernn Valley are good people. I doubt anyone would accept the reward should they find Jabba anyway.
Mike answers and immediately asks, “Did you find him?”
“No, he’s not here.” I press the phone to my ear and plug the other in an effort to better hear over the dogs barking down the hall. “I can’t believe this is happening. Where is he?”
“Let’s not panic,” Mike says, but I can hear the alarm in his voice, which causes my heart to thud.
“How can I not panic? That cat has not left my house since the day he showed up on my doorstep fifteen years ago.” I march down the hall toward the exit, still plugging one ear. There are a surprising amount of abandoned animals in Fernn Valley. If I weren’t in such a whirl of emotions, I’d adopt them all.
Well, not all, but a few.
Okay, maybe one. I’m still broke.
“Are you positive that he’s not hiding somewhere in your house?” Mike asks.
“I’ve looked everywhere, and his food bowls are still full. He never misses a meal.” I push open the exit door with my hip and step out into the balmy air. “I don’t think he would leave the house willingly. He can barely walk five feet without taking a nap, and he’s not very motivated to do anything.”
“Do you think someone stole him?”
“Who would steal a cat? Mrs. Batch suggested that a coyote could have eaten him.” Ugh. Just the thought of a coyote massacre makes me nauseated.
“Would it be the worst thing in the world if Jabba were dead?”
My mouth automatically says, “Of course it would!” Then my brain processes Mike’s implication. See, Jabba is no ordinary cat. He’s the reincarnated spirit of Jose Luis Francisco, a man who was convicted and killed on death row years ago for a murder he didn’t commit. I know this because I’m a medium.
Jose’s spirit first appeared to me when I was three years old, back when we were living in Los Angeles. After I accidentally burned our house down while making Jose bacon, I was diagnosed as a schizophrenic, put on medication, and it was then that I could no longer see spirits.
At the age of seven, my parents took me off all meds, and we moved to Fernn Valley, a small, quiet, slow-moving town in Northern California. I have no memories of my time before Fernn Valley, and my parents worked hard to keep me isolated and subdued, scared I’d have another “episode” (aka, say that I see dead people). I don’t blame them. It has to be alarming when your toddler says her imaginary friend is re
ally a ghost and a former death row inmate, and then she burns your house down.
It wasn’t until last year, when the spirit of a dead millionaire appeared to me demanding that I help him find his killer, that I realized I was an actual medium. Up until that point, I’d forgotten all about Jose.
I’ve since slipped out from under my parents’ overbearing hold and began to live and embrace my paranormal gifts. I have solved several murders and helped five spirits peacefully transition to the next phase of existence. It’s what I do.
Recently, I learned that my cat Jabba was really Jose and that he is here because I have to help him finish all earthly business and find peace so he can transition as well. Except he is no longer here, which poses a problem.
It’s my fault. I’ve been preoccupied. My mother is pregnant. Even though I am twenty-three years old, this is my first sibling, and the thought of my future brother or sister has kept me busy on Pinterest. Then my boss at The Gazette let me write the article on the new owners of the dry cleaners and the new pharmacist—in a town of fewer than 800 people, that’s big news. Then Mike is in the midst of remodeling his first home, and I have been helping with the design, and well, I haven’t been exactly attentive to Jabba’s needs.
In my defense, he hasn’t said anything.
In his defense, he can’t talk.
But if Jabba were dead, then it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world because, technically, his spirit was already deceased. I can speak to the dead, and Mike can speak to dead animals because, yes, he’s also a medium. We are perfectly paired oddities.
“Can you meet me at my house?” I ask Mike and unlock my copper-colored BMW i8, a present from the first spirit I helped. The door lifts Back to the Future-style, and I slide into the drivers seat.
“I’ll be right there,” says Mike. “I’m putting up my last poster now. See you in a bit.”
We hang up, and I start my car, shove it into sports mode, and fifteen minutes later I am at my house.
Parked in the driveway of our modest, mini ranch-style home is my parents van. On the sliding doors are pictures of my parents in matching denim with my dad sporting a Tom Selleck mustache and my mom sporting a perm. He's giving her a piggyback ride, and they’re both giving the camera a thumbs-up. We're in your Lane (a play on our last name) is printed in blocky neon-green lettering along the bottom. It’s the same picture and slogan they've had since they got their real estate license.
Mike’s Jeep is parked at the curb, and he gets out when he sees me pull into the driveway. He has dark, coifed hair and the most magnificent brown eyes. He’s tall and easy-going and patient and fun, and he wears tight pants, but that’s the style nowadays.
Actually, he’s been training hard for a Goalmouth Race, so all his apparel is a little tighter these days.
What is a Goalmouth Race?
It’s essentially a 24-hour relay triathlon that you do with your friends. Because, apparently, some people find torturous activities on zero sleep to be fun.
I give Mike a quick kiss hello without the usual gusto—not because I don’t love him, find him wildly attractive, and I am not pleased to see him—but because I’m stressed to the max.
“Has anyone around town seen Jabba?” I ask right away.
Mike doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. I can tell by his face that he doesn’t have any more information than he did an hour ago when he left to go hang posters and I went to the animal shelter.
My stomach clenches, and I swallow hard. “Okay, let’s think about this logically. Jabba appeared when I first moved to Fernn Valley. We know that spirits are stuck on earth until they resolve all earthly business and find peace, and we know that his spirit took up residence in a cat. Do you think he’s in Los Angeles?”
Mike blinks. “Huh?”
“Every spirit that has appeared to me was killed locally. Perhaps spirits return to the general area of their murder. Maybe Jose’s spirit has left Jabba’s body and he’s now in LA. We should go there. Tonight!”
“Los Angeles has over four million people, Zoe. It could be hard to find him.”
“How many of those four million are currently dead? It shouldn’t be that hard. You book our flights, and I’ll call Brian to let him know that we won’t be in tomorrow.”
Brian is the editor-in-chief at The Gazette, where we work. I’m over obituaries and the Squirrel of the Week column, and Mike does IT. Brian knows that Mike and I are mediums. Heck, the whole town knows. Whether they choose to believe that we are actual mediums is a different story. Paranormal gifts are hard to grasp for most people.
And those most people are my mother.
I leave Mike outside to book our tickets via a travel app that he downloaded. As soon as I open the front door, my mother appears. “Did you find the cat?” she asks. Her permed hair is pulled up in a claw clip, and she’s wearing a neon jumper. She has yards and yards and yards of purple velvet fabric draped around her.
“What are you doing with all that velvet?”
“They’re curtains. Aren’t they elegant? One of our clients was going to throw them away, and I thought they’d look lovely in here.”
It looks like someone skinned Barney, but it’s her living room, not mine.
“Any luck at the shelter?” she asks.
“No, he’s not there.”
“I bet he is hiding. He’s always been a peculiar little thing.”
She has no idea.
I hurry to my room, and Mom follows.
“Where is my suitcase?” I open my closet and begin rummaging. The last time I used my suitcase was in … um … well, never, actually. Which explains why I can’t find it. I don’t have one. Guess I’ll have to make do. I pull down a backpack and toss it on my bed.
“What are you doing?” Mom asks.
I unzip the backpack and start shoving my clothes in. “Mike and I are taking a trip.”
“But I thought you wanted to find Jabba?”
“I do.”
“Where are you going?”
“Los Angeles.”
There’s a flash of distress across her face.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, only half paying attention as I pack.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Mom clears her throat. “Why on earth are you in such a rush?”
I stride to the restroom across the hall, and she follows. “It’s a last minute … uh … work assignment.” My mother doesn’t know that I can see and speak to the dead. At least, she won’t admit it. I can only hope my unborn sibling doesn’t inherit the paranormal gene. My parents deserve at least one normal kid.
“What kind of work thing?” she asks.
“I’m twenty-three, Mom. I don’t need to discuss every little thing that I do with you.” I know that I sound snappy, but that’s only because I’m feeling snappy. I grab my toothbrush, floss, mouthwash, a new razor, and check my reflection in the mirror. I look pretty good for a woman on the verge of a panic attack—if I do say so myself. My dark blonde hair is swept up in a high ponytail, I have on a jeans and a loose fitting white tee, and my new purple eye shadow looks great with my brown eyes. I wonder if I’ll blend in when we land in LA or will I stand out like the small-town girl that I am?
I grab my makeup bag and go to my room.
Mom follows. “You can’t be expected to drop everything and leave,” she says. “What about the baby?”
“You’re due in six months. I’m not going to be gone that long.”
Mom rubs her barely protruding belly while I continue to pack. She’s concerned that I’m going to Los Angeles because there are secrets there … something to do with a woman … a woman … purple … purple … and a … shoot! My mother’s thoughts are guarded. Because yes, on top of seeing and speaking to the dead, I can see other’s thoughts and feel their feelings. A fact that I’m beginning to think my mother has caught onto, even if she won't admit it out loud, because she’s gotten awfully good at hiding her feelings around me.
&nb
sp; “Who is in Los Angeles that you don’t want me to see?” I ask.
“Oh.” Mom tilts her head as if straining to hear a far-off sound. “I think that’s my phone. Have a good trip. Bye.” She darts down the hall and closes her bedroom door.
Ugh. My mother! I love her, and she means well, but she drives me bonkers. I’ll have to ask my dad what secrets are in Los Angeles. Unlike my mom, my dad fully accepts and supports my paranormal gifts. He’s currently at a realtor conference in San Francisco until Sunday, which means my mother’s secret will have to wait.
I continue to shove clothes into my backpack, not entirely sure what to pack. In the novel Rock Hard Baby Daddies of Hollywood, the main character described LA as having year-round bikini weather. Was that true? Guess I am about to find out.
Except, I don’t have a bikini, so I pack a one piece.
I zip up my backpack, swing it over my shoulders, and nearly fall backwards. I may have overpacked. Oh, well. In Hot Cops of Los Angeles, Detective Firmbod stated, “You can never be too prepared when coming to LA. Anything is possible.” Was that true? Guess I am about to find out.
I pull out my phone from my back pocket and call Brian. He doesn’t answer his cell, so I call his direct line at the office.
“Who died?” he answers without preamble.
“Well, hello to you, too.”
“Sorry. Hello, Zoe. Who died?”
“No one.” I unhook my backpack from my aching shoulders and drop it on the floor with a thud. “Mike and I need to go to Los Angeles.”
