by Erin Huss
I'm speechless.
Watching Willie singing to Betty is a touching sight. It's hard to imagine him as a ninety-three-year-old man with saggy ears and a frowny face. Side-by-side, the two look as if they were made for each other. Like they could be one of those couples that come stock in picture frames. I feel a flash of jealously. Not because I want a dead husband to serenade me, but because I can feel the genuine affection the two have for each other. But it doesn't feel like a passionate, once-in-a-lifetime, all-consuming love. What Betty and Willie have is a deep friendship. And that, I realize, is something I've never had.
Betty wipes her eyes. "I feel better."
Me too, actually. Betty may be withholding information, but I don't think she killed Willie. Which makes me feel better about helping her become a multimillionaire.
Willie retreats to the backseat, still humming the tune but, thankfully, not singing it.
"I'm glad," I say and check the time. It's almost one o'clock. "Should we get going now?"
Chapter Nine
The funeral home looks like a school house, with red siding, white trim, and a weather vane on top. Across the street are a florist, a Dress Barn, an estate attorney, a caterer, and the superior courthouse (where Betty needs to file her paperwork), making this corner of Trucker your one-stop-funeral-shop.
Betty parks beside a hearse, and the three of us exit the car. There must be a funeral going on because the parking lot is packed. Betty tugs at the bottom of her black shorts, which barely cover her butt, and holds tightly to her purse as if afraid someone might snatch it.
The funeral home smells of astringent, and there's melancholy music playing through the speakers. The chapel doors are open, and we can see an oak coffin with a spray of pink gladiolus, carnations, and asters on top. Floral wreaths are displayed around the altar, and every seat is filled with solemn-looking individuals.
I can't feel the presence of any spirits, which is odd given where we are. Even Willie is nowhere to be seen.
A man in a dark suit with chestnut-colored hair emerges from the chapel and slides the doors closed behind him. "Mrs. MacIntosh," he greets Betty and kisses her on each cheek. Per the name tag pinned to his suit, this is Franklyn the Funeral Director.
Betty introduces me to Franklyn, and we step into his office—a small brown room with a large desk. It's oddly soothing in here. Or maybe it's Franklyn. He has the slightest lisp, a missing canine tooth, a servant’s heart, and a calming spirit. I want to tell him all my secrets. But I probably shouldn't.
"What can I do for you, Mrs. MacIntosh?" Franklyn takes a seat behind his desk and folds his hands on his lap.
Betty gulps, still holding tightly to her purse. Her face pales and beads of sweat break out around her forehead.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
"It’s a bit overwhelming," she says barely above a whisper and fans her face. “Maybe I should tell Daniel I’m here. I don’t want to cause trouble.”
Franklyn walks around from behind the desk and touches Betty’s shoulder. "This is a difficult process, and we're here to do whatever we can. Take your time."
I check my watch. Problem is, we don't have that much time. I need to be back by five, and we still need to go to the courthouse. Who knows how long that will take.
Betty isn't talking, so I step in. "We're here to get Willie's death certificate, and Betty would like to inquire about an autopsy."
Franklyn nods. "I can get you the certificate, not a problem. If you'd like an autopsy, we can make the arrangements."
"I'm fine with that," Betty says with weak resolve. "It's what Willie wants."
Franklyn returns to his chair, flips through a Rolodex, and pulls out a business card. He picks up the phone then hangs it up almost immediately, distracted by a pink sticky note on his desk. "I'm sorry, Mrs. MacIntosh. I'm only just now seeing this. It seems Daniel MacIntosh called earlier to inquire about having your husband moved to a different funeral home. Are you aware of this?"
Betty's shoulders fall, and she looks to me, desperately pleading with her eyes for help. "Betty is the executor of Willie's estate and his wife," I say, "which gives her the legal right to make all final decisions."
"Of course," Franklyn says, his words laced with compassion. "It's not a problem. I will arrange for the autopsy, and we can still have your husband's remains ready for pickup Friday, so long as the autopsy is finished in time."
Oh, sweet relief! I wish Willie were here, he'd be happy to know his autopsy has been ordered and he will have his answer by Friday. Which means I should be ghost-free by the weekend!
"It generally takes four to six weeks for the results," Franklyn says, and my head implodes.
"Four to six weeks!" I don't mean to yell, but, honestly. FOUR TO SIX WEEKS? "That's over a month!"
If Franklyn is taken aback by my outburst, he doesn't show it. "The preliminary results will be released about twenty-four hours after the autopsy is performed, but the full report takes longer."
Oh. Okay. Preliminary results should be good enough for Willie.
I hope.
Franklyn produces two copies of the death certificate. Betty chooses an urn, signs the papers for the autopsy, and bolts so fast you’d think the building were on fire. I hurry to catch up. There's still no sign of Willie, but I can't dwell on his whereabouts. He's around here somewhere. I'm just not exactly sure where or why he disappeared. So I escort Betty to the courthouse without him.
An hour later, the paperwork is filed, and I'm in desperate need of two Advil, one nap, and the ability to teleport because I have twenty minutes to get back to Fernn Valley.
We hop in Betty's Escalade, and I jump when I see Willie sitting in the backseat. "Where have you been?" I mouth to him while Betty jerks the car into reverse and zooms out of the parking lot.
"Too much death. I didn't want to go in there."
"Is Willie still here?" Betty asks.
"He is," I assure her and check the time. "I don't want to rush you, but, um, can you hurry? I need to get home."
"Not a problem." She slams on the gas, and I feel a roller coaster lurch. "Can you ask Willie if he likes the urn I picked out?" Betty asks.
I turn around in my seat to face Willie. "It's a handsome, masculine metal urn with—"
"I don't want to know," Willie cuts me off and stares out the window.
With a sigh, I turn back around. Betty looks at me expectantly. "He says good job."
A smile creeps across her face. "I knew he'd like it. It reminded me of him. Strong and attractive."
I flinch a little when she refers to Willie as attractive. Just as I did at the courthouse when she told the county recorder that Willie was, and I quote, "a total beefcake." It's almost like she's trying too hard. As if she's justifying her marriage to others. Or perhaps she's trying to assure herself. Either way, it's uncomfortable. No one else sees the dashing thirty-something Willie I do. They see the long-eared, old man. Sure, he was a handsome old man. But he was no beefcake.
The phone rings, a local area code appears on the screen in her dashboard, and Betty presses a button on her steering wheel. "Hello?"
"Betty," a throaty voice blasts from the speakers. "It's Arnie. You might want to get home. There's a car outside your house. I asked the gentleman what he was doing, and he said he's a detective for the Trucker County PD, and he's waiting for you to get home."
Betty's face goes pale. "Is that normal?" she asks me. "For a detective to come to your house after your husband dies?"
Um … I have no idea. But I'm suspecting, no.
"Have her go home right now and tell the detective about the key in the door," Willie instructs. "Tell her! Tell her! Tell her! Tell her!” He's in my ear. "Go! Go! Go! Go!"
If Betty turns around and goes home, I will not beat my parents back to The Gazette, which will prompt a load of questions, forcing me to confesses that I lied about the job, which will raise another load of questions and, ultimately, a straightjacket.
>
On the other hand, this isn't about me.
This is about Willie.
"You better get home right now," I say, and Betty makes an illegal U-turn across two solid yellow lines.
Chapter Ten
"What do you mean you won't be home until after dark?" Mom asks.
I pace along the side yard of Willie's mansion, the gravel crunching under my pumps. Betty is inside speaking to a detective with the Trucker PD. I should be with her, but first I have to deal with Mom. When I called, Dad answered. I said I'd be late. He said okay. We hung up. A nanosecond later, Mom called wanting more answers.
"I have to work late, that's all," I say, which technically isn't a lie. Dealing with Willie has become a job.
A poorly paying job.
"When we drove past The Gazette, the lights were already off and no one appeared to be there," she says, her tone accusing. She's not buying this I have to work late excuse. Not one bit.
"That's because, um … I’m in Trucker on assignment." Again, not technically a lie.
There's a long pause on the other end. "Does this have to do with Willie MacIntosh?"
"No. It's clerical … stuff.” Yeah, okay, that is a lie.
Willie appears in my pacing path. "Hurry up. I need you."
"I'm dealing with my mom," I mouth to him.
"Tell her you're allowed to be out past five o'clock by yourself and she's overbearing. Hurry up!"
Not a chance I'm saying that to my mother. "Mom, I have to work late, and I'll get there when I get there."
Mom exhales loudly. "How are you getting home?"
Good question. I suppose I can ask Betty for a ride, even if her driving makes me green. "I'll catch a ride with Be—tttthhhh. Beth!" I don't know anyone named Beth, but it's best to keep Betty and Willie out of the conversation.
"Oh," Mom perks. "Beth Wood? I heard she's thinking about listing her three-bedroom off Crawford Street."
"Um … yeah, yeah. I heard that too." Another lie. This is becoming alarmingly too easy.
"Well, okay then. Put in a good word for us." You can always count on a real estate agent to jump at a good referral opportunity.
We hung up with a promise that I will call on my way home. "I'm probably going to hell for lying to my parents," I say to Willie as I slide my phone into my pocket.
"Trust me, kid. If I'm not going to hell, then there's no way you are. Now get to work!"
Turns out Willie wants me to sit with Betty and the detective—a serious-looking fellow with a long face and sunken cheekbones that goes by the name of Manfreed. They're in the living room. Daisy is back, sitting beside Betty with her front paws crossed. I sink into the chair Willie died in, feeling very much out of place.
"I didn't catch your name," Manfreed says to me.
That's because I didn't give it to him. When we drove up, the detective marched up to Betty and I made myself scarce, hoping to catch my parents before they drove to The Gazette. I’m well aware they’ll find out about my fake job. I just hope it’s after Willie is gone.
I can only deal with so many disasters at once.
"My name is Zoe Lane. I'm a … family friend."
"Zoe Lane?" The detective repeats and glances down at the tiny notepad in his hand. "You spoke with Sheriff Vance yesterday about Daniel MacIntosh."
Right. Forgot about that. Crud.
"I may have mentioned his name." I pick cat hair off my pants to avoid eye contact.
"You accused him of murder."
Betty gasps.
"Um," is about all I can come up with. What am I supposed to say? Yes, officer, I did accuse Daniel MacIntosh of murder. Even though I've never met Daniel. Even though I've known Betty fewer than forty-eight hours. Even though I've never met a living Willie.
"Why do you believe Daniel MacIntosh murdered his uncle?" Manfreed asks.
Betty gasps again.
The word murder seems to have that effect on people.
"The thing is …” I say, again not exactly sure what the thing is. "Errr …” Willie is at my side, muttering into my ear. "Daniel has been counting on his inheritance from Willie for years. When Betty entered the picture, he feared his fortune would be jeopardized. I believe he killed Willie before he and Betty could get married, or before Willie could alter his will to include Betty. But what Daniel didn't know was that he was too late. Fewer than twenty-four hours after Willie's death, Daniel had already made plans to sell the house. It sounds like a person desperate for money. It also sounds like he was a little too prepared if you ask me. You can stop talking now … I mean …”
Willie smacks his forehead. "You weren't supposed to say that last part out loud."
"Obviously," I say under my breath.
Detective Manfreed is just staring at me.
So is Betty.
"Tell him about the key," Willie says.
"Yes!" I jump to my feet. "Let me show you the broken key in the garage lock."
Even though I'm fairly certain this detective thinks I'm off my rocker, he follows me outside. Betty opens the four garage doors revealing a row of sparkly sports cars in every color of the rainbow.
"My babies!" Willie gives a red Porsche a hug. "I've missed you." He kisses the hood.
"I’ll leave you two alone," I whisper as I walk past him, and past a green Lamborghini, and past a blue Maserati, and past a blocky-looking yellow car which appears too low to the ground to even move, and stop at the door leading to the house. "See," I point to the lock.
"What am I supposed to be looking at?" the detective asks.
"There's a key stuck …” It's gone! There's no key stuck in the lock. I look at Willie for help, but he's too busy caressing a BMW to notice. I clear my throat loudly. "There's no key stuck in the door!"
Willie appears and examines the lock. "It was here yesterday. I'm sure of it."
I look at Betty for help this time. “I … I … I never come out. I didn't …” She gives a desperate shrug of her shoulders.
"Check the rock!" Willie says.
Right. "The rock! There's supposed to be a spare key under the second or third rock from the back gate." I push past the detective, exit the garage and make a left, until Willie tells me to turn around and go right. I do as told and walk down the crunchy gravel along the side of the house and lift the second rock from the gate. No key. I lift the third rock, and first rock, and the fifth rock (and these rocks are more like boulders), and the sixth just to be sure. Still no key!
Unfortunately, this proves nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Both Betty and Detective Manfreed are looking at me with polite smiles.
"There's the proof!" Willie almost cheers. "Someone stole my hide-a-key to enter my house and kill me! Tell them. Tell them." He's in my ear. "Tell them!"
"There's typically a key under the rock," I say, feeling a bit panicked.
The detective looks to Betty for confirmation. "It's possible there was a key there," she says. "I haven't lived here very long."
Well, she's of no help.
"Come on, Betty." Willie is now in her ear. "You know there's a key there. I told you I put a key there. Tell them there is supposed to be a key there!" Willie yells desperately and Betty's eyes flicker from the detective to the rock and back again. I can almost see the wheels in her head turning, but unfortunately, nothing comes out of her mouth.
"And you said your name is Zoe Lane, correct?" The detective asks me with a click of his pen, notepad out. "Spelled without a y at the end?"
Oh, geez.
"Correct," I squeak out.
"And what exactly was your relationship with Willie MacIntosh?"
My heart thunks into my gut. "Um … I didn't exactly know Willie."
Manfreed regards me with an unreadable expression. "How did you know about a key supposedly hidden under the rock in his yard?"
Oh, gosh. I think I may vomit. Um …
"Tell him, Zoe," Betty urges. "You can tell him the truth."
Unfortunately, Betty can, and she will, and she does.
"She's a medium," she says as if this explains everything. As if medium is a typical, humdrum, every day type job.
Willie grimaces.
I don't know how to respond. If I deny it, then I'll lose Betty's trust. If I confirm it, then I look like a complete nut-ball. So I say nothing.
"You are a medium by profession?" the detective finally asks.
"Not exactly by profession," I say. "It's more of a newfound … talent.” Oh gosh, he's going to arrest me. He's going throw a pair of cuffs around my wrists, shove me into the back of the squad car, and drop me at the nearest mental institute.
"She can see Willie," Betty says. "She knows things no one else does. She can also see my dog, Daisy, who passed away when I was seven. She's the real deal."
I'm sending mental messages to Betty, begging her to stop talking, but she's not getting them.
"My psychic told me Willie would send a sign, and he did." Betty wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes me tight. I want to melt into the ground.
The detective is staring at us with such an odd expression I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
"And you have reason to believe your husband was killed?" Manfreed asks Betty.
She looks at me. "Does Willie think so?"
"Yes!" Willie answers. "Whoever used the key under the third rock to enter my house, got the key stuck in the door, and returned today to remove the evidence. Tell him, Zoe! Tell him now!"
I can't believe I'm about do this. "Yes," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Willie believes the killer broke into his home using the hide-a-key."
"Tell him to check into Daniel!" Willie yells.
"And he thinks it might be Daniel," I repeat, my voice still low.