by Erin Huss
I immediately go to the Find My Phone app. This is fantastic! Not only can I see Connie’s phone, but I can also see where Elijah’s phone is as well. His is at a home off White Street, and Connie’s is at the medical plaza. I enlarge the picture.
“It looks like her phone is between the dumpsters and the old children’s hospital,” I say.
“Do you think her body is in there, too?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
Twelve
Mike drives while I look through Russell’s phone. He doesn’t have any social media apps, and all his texts are from Mike trying to reach him this morning, and Rose. I go to his email and search Charleyhorse99.
No messages matched your search.
Shoot.
I scroll through his inbox and find several emails from Painting by Arturo. I click on the first email exchange.
Russell,
Thank you for contacting Painting by Arturo, we would love the opportunity to work with you. Arturo can meet with you this Thursday at 5:00 PM to go over the scope of work. Does that work for you?
Sincerely,
Charlotte Hensen
Russell replied ten minutes after he received the email: Can Arturo come by earlier than 5:00?
Charlotte replied: Unfortunately, Arturo can’t come out any earlier because he has a job across town. He can come later if that would be better, or he’s available on Tuesday at 9:00 AM.
Russell replied: I can’t do Tuesday mornings. He’d need to be here Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday between 10-3.
Charlotte replied: Arturo can do Monday at 10:30.
Russell: That works.
Russell made sure Arturo came when Connie wasn’t there, which is why Arturo couldn’t come on a Tuesday morning. That’s Connie’s late day. But why couldn’t she be there? Obviously Connie knew the house was going to get painted. It’s not something you can hide. Why would Russell want to meet with Arturo alone?
“It’s almost four o’clock, Zoe,” Mike says. “The sun sets at seven thirty, and there’s another spirit who is supposed to die along with you!”
“I know.” That is hard to forget.
I search through the rest of Russell’s emails and find nothing of consequence. There are several replies on job inquiries and one reply from a gate company about putting one around their property.
“Why does he need twenty grand?” I ask. “That’s a lot of money, and yet he’s asking about painting and putting up a gate around his property?” Makes me wonder. “Connie said she had a feeling that her family was in danger, and then she changed it to trouble. At first I didn’t think there was a real difference. But what if Russell is sneaking around behind her back? Eiljah is bullying a boy at school. Her family is in trouble.”
“I really want to know who the third spirit is supposed to be,” says Mike. “If we can save her, then we can save you.”
“Are you even listening to me?”
“No,” he says with a shake of his head. “I’m consumed with keeping my girlfriend alive.”
“Why do you think saving Don actually saved your life and put mine in jeopardy?”
“I have a theory.”
“Care to share?”
“Not yet.” He pulls into the parking lot of the medical plaza. There are still no cops. No crime scene tape. No CSI vans. No sign of a murder. It’s baffling to me that Connie didn’t show up to work and no one has called the police.
Not wanting to run into the security guard, we go straight to the side of the building, hop over the waist-high wall, and go past the dumpsters. The embankment is covered in bright green ground covered with red flowers. The dense vegetation is hard to navigate without stepping on a flower and even harder to see the dirt beneath. The flowers don’t go any higher than my ankle, which means it would be hard to stash a dead body here.
“Call her,” says Mike. He’s on his hands and knees, feeling around.
Good idea. I find Connie in Russell’s contact list and call her. Mike and I freeze.
There’s a familiar cellular jingle coming from directly behind the same dumpster we found the bathroom key under.
We find her phone inside an iceberg plant.
I go to pick it up, and Mike stops me. “We shouldn’t tamper with evidence.”
True, but on the other hand, “I don’t care.” I swipe the phone off the ground. The screen is cracked, and I hold down the home button and type in Connie and Russell’s anniversary.
It works.
Connie’s background picture is of her, Russell, and Elijah all wearing matching pajamas and standing in front of a Christmas tree.
“We have donut crumbs, a bathroom dowel, and her phone all out here,” says Mike. “That guy must have taken her to a second location, but where did they go? To the house I see in the vision?”
“If only she had kept her phone on her, then we could see exactly where she is.”
“I wonder if the killer tossed it.”
“If he did, then he should have removed the SIM card and chucked the phone into the dumpster.” I learned about that trick from Detective Firmbod.
I check Connie’s emails.
At 9:27 AM she sent the message Mr. Fanster giving me permission to pick up Elijah. Mr. Fanster immediately replied with:
I hope everything is okay. I’ve had word sent to Elijah that he’ll be going home with Zoe Lane. Thank you.
“If Elijah had been told that he was going home with me, then why did he act so surprised when I showed up? I’m beyond baffled by this entire email. How’d she even send it if she was being abducted by a man in a mask?”
“What if the bandana man sent it?”
Oh, hell. I hadn’t even thought of that “Why would he want me to pick up Elijah? How would he know that I would pick up Elijah? How does he know me?”
“He’s trying to trap you?”
“But there are too many variables for that to work.” Right?
“I think it’s time to get out of here.”
“I agree but … wait a second.” I catch a glimpse of Mike’s mind. He’s typically good at hiding his thoughts when he’s around me, for which I’m grateful. I don’t necessarily enjoy seeing in people’s heads. “Did your vision change?”
“Yes, but hear me out.”
My hand flies to my mouth. "Michael Handhoff, you lied to me. I don’t die. You die. When did it change?”
“When you went inside the school,” he says. “And I’m not sorry that I didn’t tell you.”
“You lied,” is all I can say. “You lied to me.”
“Come on, Zoe. Don’t look at me like that. If roles were reversed, you’d lie to me.”
“Pfft. No, I wouldn’t. I’d never lie to you.”
“Yes, you would. My theory is that the killer confronts us both. He tries to kill you, I step in front of you, and I’m killed instead of you. I think the future changes because when you know that I’m going to die, you are determined to save my life. When I know that you’re going to die, I’m determined to save your life. That’s why it keeps changing. Right now”—he looks off into the distance—“I’m dead. You’re alive. The same female spirit is there with Connie.”
I feel as if I’ve swallowed a pinecone. “I’m not letting you die.”
“I’m not letting you die.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
We do this for a while until he snatches Connie’s phone from my grasp. “How about neither of us die and we figure this out.”
“Fine.” I snatch the phone back. “But I’m not letting you die.” I go back to Connie’s emails and check her outgoing folder. She has one email that was drafted at 9:32 AM.
This was a reply to Dr. Smith with the subject: Lunch tomorrow?
Yellow banana blue eyes man
“I think banana is supposed to be bandana, and this is Connie trying to send details about her killer.�
�� I show the message to Mike. “She didn’t send this email.”
“I thought Connie panics when faced with danger?”
“Who else would draft this email? The killer?”
Mike takes the phone and reads through the emails. “She first sent the email to the school, and then she drafted the email with the physical stats of the yellow bandana man. If she could compose an email, why didn’t she just call nine-one-one?”
I have zero idea. “The killer can’t be Russell, though. She would have recognized him.”
“Russell could have sent someone else to killer her.”
True.
If Connie were here, there is no doubt in my mind that seeing the emails she wrote would jog her memory. Did Russell send someone else to kill Connie? She says she never forgets a face. Granted, this man’s face was covered. I’m confident she’d still recognize Russell, though. Could this man be connected to Charleyhorse or Russell’s mistress? Assuming an affair is what Charleyhorse meant by “sneaking around.”
Or are we completely off base here?
Is Mike right?
Could the killer be after me? How the heck did Connie know I was a medium?
Oh!
I’m struck with an idea.
I tap on her Safari icon and check her search history. Yesterday evening, she looked at a porcelain doll collection at an estate sale in Fernn Valley. The listing doesn’t say who the owner was, but I know it was Mrs. Laguna. She died two weeks ago at the age of 101.
I wrote her obituary.
Connie then searched the obituaries in The Gazette, likely to find out whom the doll collection originally belonged to. She found the piece I had written about Mrs. Laguna—not a bad tribute, considering the only information I was given was her birthday and the day she died.
After she found the obituary, Connie read the article I wrote on the new pharmacist. Mrs. Batch had left a comment on the article: Wonderful piece, Zoe Lane. I look forward to meeting our new pharmacist. I think it’s wonderful that Brian Windsor let you write this article since you are the medium that solved the murder of poor Mr. Sanders. RIP.
No doubt Connie read this comment, which is why she next searched Zoe Lane Medium. Which led her to several articles pertaining to the Fernn Valley Strangler—the serial killer that I helped put behind bars. She read the last article that was printed in the California Tribune.
Connie knew I was a medium. She just doesn’t remember that she knew.
I think about how she blasted into my bedroom room this morning. I’ve never had a spirit arrive so dramatically. Typically, spirits just appear and they’re confused, and scared, and have no idea how they died.
Did Connie know she was about to die, and she made up her mind to come look for me? Did she know that I would help her, which is why she gave the school my name?
But if she were able to accomplish so much on her phone without the killer noticing, why not call 9-1-1?
“Connect with Connie,” says Mike. “She can look around. Her memory can get jogged. She can tell us who killed her. We can go back home, and no one else dies.”
That is not a terrible idea. It is a little awkward to summon a spirit while I’m surrounded by trash, but that’s all I’ve got to work with.
I sit on the ground and cross my legs. Connie’s comment about germs festering on my flesh comes back to my mind, and I make a mental note not to touch anything.
Summoning spirits has never been a strength of mine. Why? I’m not sure. I think every medium—like every spirit—has different gifts, and mine is the ability to see and speak to spirits who have yet to transition to the next phase of existence.
I take a deep, calming breath and picture a door surrounded by white light. In my mind, I summon Connie.
She doesn’t respond.
Since I’m already here, I take the opportunity to summon Jose.
No response.
Shoot.
“She’s not responding, and neither is Jose. I tried both.” I get up and dust off the back of my pants.
“The bathroom key is gone.” Mike is by the dumpster. “Someone must have found it.”
“We never did check the bathrooms,” I realize.
“Dude, there’s no way her body is hidden in a bathroom here. Someone would have found her by now.”
“There may not be a body, but there may be a clue.”
“How we gonna get a key?”
“Ask someone in the building like we were going to do before. We can’t be denied the bathroom, right? It’s the law … I think.” I pull open the door to the stairwell. “Also, I’m not letting you die.”
Thirteen
Mike and I enter the first office we see as we step off the elevator on the third floor. The waiting room is narrow and bright and smells like lemon. Sitting behind a sliding glass window is a woman with stiff bangs, a big hoop in each ear, and shoulder-length wavy hair.
“Oh, hi there.” The woman has a welcoming look on her face and a placating tone to her voice. “Can I help you?”
Mike and I step up to the counter. “Can I please use the restroom?” I ask.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Restrooms are reserved for patients only, sweetie. It’s a health code thing.”
Not sure how allowing someone to use a semi-public restroom is against the health code, but whatever. “I am a patient,” I say brightly. “Or, uh … I’d like to be. Can I make an appointment with”—I glance down at the business cards propped up in a holder next to the patient sign in sheet—“Dr. Leonardo Paaa-the-thi-ou-sia?” No idea if I said that right.
“Sadly, Dr. P has a wait list for new patients right now.”
Mike pulls a pamphlet from the wall and flips it open.
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll go on the wait list. The name is Zoe Lane. Twenty-three years old. I have Anthem Insurance PPO, main subscriber John Lane. He was born September fourth nineteen seventy-four, phone number is five-three-zero-five-five-five-one-zero-zero-two. Can I use the restroom now?”
“Slow down. Slow down.” The woman scrambles to type my information into her computer. “And what is it that you’re seeing Dr. P for?”
“Uh …”
Mike holds up two pamphlets—one for testicular cancer and one for cataracts—and shrugs his shoulders.
What kind of doctor is this Dr. P?
“Uh …”
Mike holds up a third pamphlet for IBS.
“Uh …. my bowels and eyeballs are misbehaving?”
“Then you’ve come to the right place,” says the woman. “Dr. P is the Sherlock Holmes of diseases. People come from all over to see him. We’ll contact you a week before your appointment and arrange to get all your medical files, and we’ll have you fill out a questionnaire—”
“Can I use the bathroom now?”
The woman hesitates. “We like to keep the restrooms here for patients …” She bites at her bottom lip. “How about I give you the key for the restroom down the hall?”
I feel like saying, Are you freaking kidding me? That’s what I wanted this entire time! but I don’t. I just made an appointment with the Sherlock doctor for no reason. Gah!
“Yes, that is exactly what I need.” I hold out my palm, and she drops a key attached to a plastic uterus keychain. “Uh … thanks.”
“Is that what I think it is?” Mike asks on our way out the door.
“Yes. It’s a uterus. Apparently Dr. P deals with the entire body.”
We keep our heads down and briskly walk down the hall, not wanting to risk running into Rose. When we round the corner, we see a man pushing a walker about to unlock the bathroom.
“Excuse me!” I holler. “Excuse me, sir.”
The man looks up, startled, and squints his eyes as if trying to make sense of what he’s seeing.
“We have an emergency,” I say. “Can we please go in first?”
The man opens his mouth, to say what? I have no idea. I shove the key into the lock, kick open the door, and slam it be
hind us.
“Okay, what are we looking for?” Mike checks under the sink.
“Not sure.” I look behind the toilet. The room has tile flooring, a single toilet, one sink, a paper towel dispenser, and a mirror. There aren’t a lot of places to hide clues.
Mike crouches down and inspects the floor, while I run my hands along the wall. “I’m gonna feel super stupid if the key was not a clue at all,” Mike says.
“Me, too.” I rip the toilet paper holder from the wall. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
“Dang, Lane. Don’t know your own strength.”
“Apparently.” I check inside the holder and find two rolls of toilet paper and no clues. “Oops.”
Mike’s phone rings. “Hello?” He balances his cell between his shoulder and ear while he attempts to reinstall the toilet paper holder. “It’s Beth,” he says to me.
Beth is our co-worker. She sits across from me at The Gazette and handles the sports section.
I take the phone from Mike. “Hey, Beth, it’s Zoe.”
“Oh good, Zoe. I called you first and got your voicemail.”
Huh? I pull my phone out from my back pocket—except it’s not my phone. It’s Connie’s phone.
I take out my phone—except it’s not my phone. It’s Russell’s phone.
Geez. I have way too many iPhones on me.
I take out my phone and see that I have one missed call from Beth and a text from Brian saying Russell is on his way home. I must not have noticed the vibrations in my back pocket while I was running around.
“What is going on?” I ask.
“Does Jabba have golden eyes?” Beth asks.
“Yes!”
“Does he have a scowl?”
“Yes!” My heart gallops.
“And it’s a girl, right?”
“No,” I say. “Jabba is a boy.”
“Sorry, guys, this isn’t Jabba!” There’s a cacophony of ahh, man! in the background, and a cat hisses.
“Thanks, Beth,” I say and hang up. “Mike, I’m scared that I’m never going to find Jabba or connect with Jose.”
Mike balances the toilet paper holder on the grab bar next to the toilet. “Right now, I’m concerned that one of us is going die.”
