by Erin Huss
I can hear a shuffling of papers followed by the click of a pen. “Who died, and do we have any suspects?”
I laugh. I can’t help myself. Brian loves a mystery, and he has a knack for investigative journalism. He’s helped with the murder cases of the last five spirits who have visited me.
There was a time when I thought Brian could be my forever. He is a handsome guy with brown hair parted on the side, dark-rimmed glasses, and freckles over his nose. I had been crushing on his editorial picture printed in The Gazette for years prior to me coming to work for him. But, alas, I am with Mike, and Brian is with … no one, actually.
Anyway.
“We’re looking for my cat, Jabba,” I say. “I’m not sure if you remember, but he’s the reincarnated spirit of—”
“Jose Luis Francisco,” Brian finishes for me. “I think I can be counted on to remember the story of a man’s spirit who occupies a cat. He died on death row for killing his nephew, right?”
“Correct.”
“That will be a fascinating article. Make sure you take a lot of notes. Any clue who the real perp is?”
“Not exactly. Jose was in a gang called Satan’s Sons when he was younger, and I think we’ll start there.”
“You’re going to start by confronting gang members?” he asks in disbelief, and I start to question my game plan.
“We’re not exactly sure what we’re going to do. I’ll keep you posted.”
“I’ll see what I can find on my end.”
“Sounds good.” We hang up, and I drop to my knees and reach under my bed for the whiteboard. I’ve used this whiteboard in almost every case that I’ve solved. Writing down all the evidence and suspects helps me organize my thoughts. I’m no Detective Firmbod, but I’ve gotten pretty good at solving murders—if I do say so myself.
Over the last month, I’ve been researching Jose’s death. Typically, when a spirit appears to me, they want to know how they died and who killed them. That’s not the case with Jose. He died via lethal injection in 2000, exactly ten years after he received the death penalty for killing his nephew. Almost twenty years later, members of Jose’s family pushed for evidence to be retested, given the advancements in DNA detection. Based on the findings of the new test, it was concluded that he couldn’t have been the killer. National news stations picked up the story, and even though people were outraged that an innocent man died, nothing happened. An arrest has never been made, and the murder of his nephew has gone unsolved. I suspect that’s why Jose has not transitioned.
“Jabba,” I say with a sigh, holding the whiteboard at arm's length. “Where are you?”
My mind zigzags back to what Mrs. Batch said about the coyotes, and I feel a flash of panic. I put the whiteboard back under my bed and hurry out to the backyard. Much to my relief, there are no animal prints or signs of a cat massacre on the premise.
I go to the kitchen, grab six cans of tuna, pop the lids off, and place them throughout the house. Jabba has never been able to resist tuna, and if he is hiding, hopefully the fishy smell will entice him to come out.
It’s a long shot, but I’m desperate.
For the sake of my mother’s pregnancy nose, I crack the windows in the living room and kitchen. Tuna is pungent. Wowza.
In my bedroom I crawl across my bed to the window and flip the lock. It hasn’t been opened for quite some time, and it takes a great deal of effort to pull the old aluminum frame across the old aluminum tracks.
I feel my cheeks go red as I tug with all my might. “Come on,” I grunt.
With one more heave, the window crashes open, and in an instant, I’m thrown against the wall by a blast of air so cold it knocks the wind out of me. There’s a twisting pain in my shoulder, and my breath huffs out in a cloud while a shiver runs down the length of my spine.
There’s a bright light, and the faint outline of a figure climbs in through the window and walks into my room, fading in and out of focus. I squint my eyes in an effort to see who my visitor is, hoping that it’s Jose.
Slowly, the light fades, and the figure takes form.
Uh …
Granted, I don’t remember exactly what Jose looks like since the last time I saw him in human form was when I was a three-year-old, but I assumed that I would recognize him should he appear. This spirit standing before me does not look familiar or feel familiar at all.
Also, it’s a woman.
So there’s that.
Two
“I-I-I don’t know where I am,” the spirit says, looking around my room. She has a hushed voice and is barely over five feet and maybe a hundred pounds. Her dark hair is parted down the middle and pulled back in a low ponytail, and she’s wearing a blue dress cinched at the waist and matching pumps. She doesn’t look a day over twenty, though I suspect she was older when she died.
I’ve learned that you’re restored to your prime age after death. I’m not sure how prime age is determined, but I suspect it’s when you were your healthiest.
“Hello,” I say, stepping away from the wall, ignoring the pain in my shoulder. “My name is Zoe Lane. I know this is confusing and scary, but it’s going to be okay.”
“How’d I get here?” The spirit’s dark eyes dart frantically around the room, and she backs away while wringing her hands. “What is this place?”
“You’re at my home in Fernn Valley.” I cautiously approach her. “You are safe here. What is your name?”
“C-Connie,” the spirit stammers. “What happened?”
My heart sinks. Telling a spirit they have died is one of the hardest parts about being a medium, second only to having to say good-bye when our time is over. I miss all the spirits I’ve helped. Some more than others.
“You can call me Zoe,” I say, keeping my voice light and steady. “Connie, I’m sorry to tell you this, but you have died.”
There’s a stretch of silence, and I wait, allowing Connie the time needed to process this information.
And she needs a lot of processing time.
She stands there, like an iridescent statue, her eyes wide open and her hands clasped. Her mind is working hard.
I try to stay out of her thoughts. Mostly because it feels intrusive to look at them right now. Also because they’re fast moving and there are a lot of graphs.
I lean against the wall and slide down to my butt while I wait. In the silence I hear the door to my parents’ room creak open. My mom tiptoes down the hall into the kitchen and opens the fridge. I’m sure she’s sneaking around because she doesn’t want me to question her anymore about the woman in Los Angeles. If she knew that I had a spirit in my room, then she’d realize that I don’t have time to deal with her secrets right now.
I hear the front door open and Mike say, “Hello? Zoe? Mrs. Lane?” I imagine my mother has found a hiding spot in the kitchen with whatever it was she pulled out of the fridge (probably peach yogurt, her latest pregnancy craving) because Mike repeats, “Hello?” And I hear footsteps coming down the hall.
“You won't believe how expensive flights are,” Mike says as he enters my room. “One-way to LAX is—whoa.” Mike sucks in a breath. “Who is here, and what is that smell?”
Mike can only feel the presence of human spirits. When he’s around me, he can hear them as well. We think it’s because we’re so deeply connected that we work as conduits to each other’s paranormal gifts.
“I put tuna out hoping it would entice Jabba to show himself, assuming he is in hiding,” I say. “Then Connie showed up. I told her she died, and she’s currently processing the information and has been for”—I check my watch—“fifteen minutes now.”
“Dude,” he says, because he’s a Californian and dude is in reference to anything and everything. “Does Connie know Jose?”
“Not sure.” That’s a good question though.
“I don’t know anyone by the name of Jose,” Connie turns to Mike. “Hello, Michael. How are you feeling?”
“Did she just call me Michael?” h
e asks me.
She sure did. No one calls Mike Michael. They call him Mike or Dude or by his last name, Handhoff.
“How do I know you?” Mike asks.
“I’m a gastroenterologist in Trucker,” says Connie. “Your father brought you to see me you were ten years old. I never forget a name or a face. Are you still having chronic constipation?”
“Uh … no.”
“Good. How is your father doing?”
“Uh, he’s in prison.”
“That is sad yet not surprising news.”
Not surprising one bit.
Mike’s father was a drug dealer and arsonist who wasn’t exactly an attentive father, which is surprising that he would take the forty-five-minute drive to Trucker so Mike could see a gastroenterologist. He must have had really bad constipation.
“Sorry I don’t really remember,” Mike says.
“It was a long time ago, which is why I am impressed that I’m able to so clearly create your twenty-something-year-old self.” Connie rises to her toes and presses her face up to Mike’s, studying his jawline as if it were a piece of art. “It’s remarkable.”
“What is happening?” Mike asks me.
Not sure. “Connie, what do you mean?”
“Michael looks exactly like an older version of his ten-year-old self.” Her voice is so low and gentle that I’m surprised she’s not a yoga instructor. “You look good and healthy.”
“I’ve been training for a Goalmouth,” he says.
I’m confused. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Michael looks exactly like an older, healthy version of his ten-year-old self,” she repeats, as if the statement makes more sense the second time around.
It doesn’t.
“Why wouldn’t he look like an older version of himself?”
“He should look like himself,” she says. “I’m impressed because creativity isn’t an area in which I excel.”
Oh, now I get it.
Not because her explanation makes any sense, but because I can see her thoughts. She believes this is a dream and that she is looking at the older version of Mike that she created in her own mind.
I guess all the graphs did not help her hurdle the shock of death after all. “I’m sorry, Connie, but you are not dreaming,” I say. “You are dead. I am going to help you transition to the next phase of existence. To do that you need to finish all earthy business.”
“No, I’m dreaming,” she says with a shake of her head. “Do you know how I know this?”
I’m scared to ask.
So Mike does. “How?”
“This doll collection.” Connie walks over to the shelves where I keep my porcelain dolls. “These are exquisite.” She inspects a doll with blonde curls, wearing a frilly pink dress. “I had a collection like this when I was a girl. I gave them away when I went to college, and it’s one of my deepest regrets. I dream about them often.”
“I’m sorry about that,” I say. “But the truth is, you have died.”
Connie looks unmoved. “At first, I thought I was in a coma. But the fact that I am having vivid dreams means my visual and auditory cortex is fully intact. This is great news. My brain has manifested you, Michael”—she points to Mike—“because you were my patient, and I remember your mother and aunt died, leaving you with a man who didn’t appear capable of taking care of a child. I recommended we do a colonoscopy and change your diet, and your father never followed through with any of my recommendations. It has bothered me ever since.” She turns to me. “I see you, Zoe Lane, because you represent death. I’ve always had a fear of death.”
Connie seems pleased with her assessment until she catches a glimpse of her arm. “How? Why?” She starts patting her face, her hair, her stomach, and her butt. “I need a mirror.”
I reach into my nightstand and grab the little mirror that I use to pluck my eyebrows. It’s twenty times magnified, not that it matters. Connie can’t see her reflection because she is a spirit. Hopefully when she doesn’t see herself, she’ll realize that she is, in fact, dead.
“Here.” I hand her the mirror, and it falls through her palm and shatters on the floor. Well, that plan backfired. Really, I should have known better. Shoot. That mirror was twenty dollars.
Connie smiles. “Yet proof again that I am in a lucid dream. I do not drop things. I’m quite coordinated.”
“You’re a spirit, Connie,” I say. “That is why the mirror fell. You have died.”
“Oh, Zoe.” Connie pouts her bottom lip. “You’re sweet, but there is no afterlife. When you die, you’re done.”
“That’s not actually how it goes,” I say. “You get to have life after death. I hear it’s wonderful.”
“Is this her?” Mike has his phone out and shows me. It’s Dr. Connie Batch’s website. The spirit in front of me looks like a younger version of the woman on the screen. In the picture on the website, Connie was in her mid-to-late thirties, and she wore her hair parted down the middle and pulled into a low ponytail just as she is now. Wire-rimmed glasses rest on her thin nose, and her cheeks are a little rounder.
I take the phone from Mike and show Connie. “This is you, right?”
“Yes,” she says with a sigh. “I am not photogenic.”
“I think it’s a nice picture. Hold on a second … Your last name is Batch! As in Mr. Batch, our mayor?” I don’t mean to yell, but I was just with Mrs. Batch less than an hour ago.
Connie gazes at me looking terrified and hurt. “They are my husband’s grandparents. I-I’m married. I-I have a husband. I-I have a … child. How did I forget that even for a single second? W-what kind of dream is this?”
My heart takes a swift nosedive into my stomach and shatters into millions of unrecognizable pieces. I can see the images flashing through Connie’s mind of a little boy in various stages of life: as a baby lying on her chest; an unsteady toddler taking his first steps; a five-year-old with a First Day of School crown proudly displayed on his head; a memory from this morning of a preteen with a mop of brown hair, blue eyes, braces, and dimples.
Many spirits have visited me before. Spirits who were daughters, uncles, friends, girlfriends, spouses, and fathers—I’ve never helped a mother with a child still at home. The thought of the blue-eyed boy learning about the death of his mom is almost too much to bear.
“I have a family,” Connie says reverently. “Elijah is my son, and he’s eleven years old. My husband’s name is Russell.” Connie suddenly folds over and quietly talks to herself. “I have this horrid feeling that my family is in danger. Why do I feel this way? I can’t do anything about it because none of this is real. This is a nightmare. Or it’s possible that I’m in a medically-induced coma. Maybe I was in a car accident. I won't even remember this when it’s over. That has to be it. The medication is making this all feel so real. I hate nightmares. I hate them.”
Mike and I share a look of concern.
“Connie?” My voice quavers, and I clear the baseball-size lump in my throat. “If you have a feeling that your family is in trouble, then they probably are. Spirits have natural instincts about these things. Mike and I can help. But first, can you think of anyone who would wish your family harm?”
“I-I don’t know.” She’s now on the floor with her arms tightly wrapped around her stomach. “There’s my former patient, Don Archer. He came in presenting with persistent nausea. I promised that I would not stop until I found the source of his pain, but every test came back negative. After several months of working with him, I felt his symptoms could be psychological, and I referred him to an excellent psychologist. He was very upset, and he threatened to ruin my career. I refunded him all the money that he spent at my office, even though I was advised by my attorney and Russell not to do so. I just wanted to get it over with. But Don filed a complaint with the medical board and asked that my license be revoked. I received a letter yesterday from the medical board cc’ing Don stating they did a full review and found there was no case for malpractice. I im
agine he was upset.”
I use a random sock sticking out from under my dresser as a makeshift eraser and clear my whiteboard. Not that Jose’s case isn’t important. Not that I don’t want to find Jabba. But I do have most all of Jose’s information saved on my phone. With a clean board—well, except for MILK, which is scrawled in permanent marker up on the corner—I write Connie in a circle then make a line with a smaller circle and write Don Archer inside.
“I’m looking Don up right now,” says Mike with his phone clutched in both hands, thumbs flying across the screen.
“Anyone else?” I ask Connie.
Connie is still folded in a ball on the floor, now rocking slightly. “We had an incident with our painter … um … we had hired him to touch-up the fascia outside of our home. His name is Arturo Hansen, and he stopped in the middle of the project. Russell refused to pay him until he finished. Arturo refused to do anymore work unless we paid him. Russell thinks he under-quoted the job, and he has run out of money needed to finish. I think we should just pay him, but I’m letting Russell deal with it. It's just … Arturo was very mad. He came by yesterday, and he and Russell were arguing on the porch, yelling at each other for almost an hour. I don’t know why Russell didn’t just pay him.”
I draw another line and circle Arturo Hansen on the whiteboard with money as the motivation.
“Is Arturo’s company name Painting by Arturo?” Mike asks.
Connie shrugs her little shoulders. “Russell is the one who hired him, but that sounds familiar.”
Mike shows me his phone. He found Painting by Arturo on the Better Business Bureau website. There aren’t any reviews or ratings, and the business isn’t accredited, but there is an address and phone number.
“Should we call?” I ask.
“What am I going to say?” Mike lowers his voice. “Hey, dude, my name is Mike, and I’ve got Connie’s ghost here. We were wondering if you killed her and if you plan to hurt her family?”
Well, when he puts it like that.
“I can hear you, and I am not dead. This is a lucid dream,” Connie says.
