by Erin Huss
"Do you have any evidence?" the detective asks.
Evidence would be nice, but … "No."
"We did order an autopsy," Betty says. "That should let us know if Willie was killed, right?"
The detective takes a step back, not hiding his surprise. "An autopsy would provide some answers, yes. The initial death report said he died of natural causes …”
Betty and I share a look, neither of us knows if the detective is making a statement or asking a question.
Manfreed massages his temples. "I'll take this information back to the station and be in touch," he says with a shake of his head. He pushes open the side gate and stalks back to his car, which is parked at the end of the driveway.
My legs feel all shaky, and there's a slight chance that I've either soiled myself, or I'm just sweating profusely. This whole situation is out of control, and all I want to do is go back to last week when my days consisted of reading, and eating, and watching television.
Also, I have a headache.
"I don't think that went well," Betty says.
Ya think?
I turn around slowly to face her. "Why did you have to tell him I was a medium?”
“Because you are. I’m not going to lie to him.”
Ugh. “What about the hide-a-key? Willie told you about the key under the rock. He told you multiple times."
Willie returns to Betty's ear. "Last week, you were in the kitchen making my lunch when I told you about the hide-a-key! Remember! Remember! Remember! Remember!"
Betty's eyes gloss over. "It sounds familiar."
"Then you should have told the detective!" I snap. I can't help myself. I've just inserted myself into a murder investigation and given the detective enough reason to think I should be a suspect.
"Don't yell at her!" Willie is in my face. "It's not her fault!"
"I'm not yelling!" I rise to the tips of my toes until we're nearly at eye level. "I'm talking loudly and, yes, it is her fault that she can't remember a conversation that happened last week!"
"You're right!!" Betty wrings her hands. "I just … just … I just …”
Willie appears beside Betty and wraps a protective arm around her. "Now look what you've done. She's upset."
Oh, geez.
Betty's bottom lips quivers. "I just … I just … I just … This whole thing has me completely freaked out! The will, Daniel, the detective, the key, and now murder! Everyone thinks I’m a gold digger, and it’s just … it’s awful!"
Okay, now I feel bad for snapping. "I'm sorry," I say. "I shouldn't have yelled at you."
"Damn straight," Willie agrees.
I suppress an eye roll. "But I have to ask. When you married a ninety-three-year-old millionaire, did you honestly think no one would think of you as a gold digger?"
A mixture of pain and confusion flashes across her face. "I don’t know. The thing is, Willie was arrogant, and grumpy, and intrusive, and—”
“Tell her to get to the point,” Willie says.
“He sounded like he was trying to hide the fact that he was lonely." Betty goes back to wringing her hands. "My parents divorced when I was three, and my dad took off—"
"So you married a man to replace the hole your father left?" I interrupt, trying desperately to understand.
Willie grimaces.
"No! … Yes? … No!” Betty kicks at the gravel. "You don't understand; I never had siblings or any family around. Especially after my mom died. I know what it's like to be lonely, and I thought, perhaps, I could keep him company. We could keep each other company."
She's wrong.
I do understand.
I understand better than anyone else what it's like to be lonely, to be cooped up in your house all day by yourself, to have no one but your parents to converse with, to schedule your days around little excursions like the library, or the bakery, or even a drive around town. What it's like to pine over a man whose picture you see in the paper and to … wait … not about you, Zoe.
Back to Betty.
Anyway.
I understand what she's feeling, which is why I'm having a hard time believing her. "Betty, I'm here to help Willie and because he cared about you, I'm here to help you, too. But I need you to be honest with me." I think back to our conversation in the car. She's hiding something. What? I don't know. I don't think she killed Willie. Otherwise she wouldn't have ordered an autopsy. I do genuinely believe she cared for her husband. But I do think she knows more than she's saying. Or maybe she knows more than she realizes she does.
I take a step forward and place my hands on Betty's shoulders. She closes her eyes. "I need you to be honest with yourself," I say. "If you were lonely, that's fine. If you thought Willie was lonely and you wanted to keep him company, I get it. But you could have been friends with Willie, or even his roommate. You didn't have to marry him. That's what I don't understand. Was it the money?"
Her eyes flutter open. "Yes," she says in her raspy voice.
Willie doesn't appear shocked or upset by this news.
"But I didn't think it would be that big of a deal," Betty continues. "He doesn't have kids or a wife. He didn't like Daniel. So, I married him."
I nod my head, keeping my hands on her shoulders, encouraging her to keep going.
"I didn’t think it would hurt anyone. I honestly thought we’d do more good than harm. I promise. But I really care about him," she says. "More than I thought I would. He is so funny, Zoe. Like I could be having the worst day, and he'd make me smile.” She laughs at a memory. “He took care of me, and I took care of him." She pauses to regain her composure. "So, yeah, okay, maybe I married him for the money, but I think he married me to prove something to his friends. I'm not a total idiot. I know Willie, Jackson, and LeRoy all had a thing for me. They were great tippers. I know none of them were happy with Willie when the two of us got together, and I know that's part of the reason he asked me to marry him. So I think we're sorta even, right?"
Dang.
Betty is more insightful than I thought.
"What about Ron?" I ask.
Betty crinkles her nose. "Huh?"
"Ron MacDonald. You said LeRoy, Jackson, and Willie all had a thing for you. But I know Ron was in that group as well. Did he?"
"No," she says, drawing out the word. "He's the only one in the group that's married."
So Ron is married. Not sure how this matters, but it feels important. I open my mouth, about to inquire more about Ron MacDonald, when I'm interrupted.
"Yo, Betty?" A middle-aged man with thick, black hair and unruly eyebrows is peeking over the fence. "Everything okay?"
Betty steps away, and my arms fall to my sides. "Oh, hey, Arnie." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "We're fine."
"Why were the cops here?"
Betty sighs. "We think Willie might have been k-i-l-l-e-d."
"That doesn't surprise me," Arnie says. "MacIntosh was an arrogant son of a—"
"You idiot!" Willie is on the other side of the fence now. "I'm not arrogant. I'm right! The judge said so!"
"Honestly, Betty," Arnie says, not at all affected by the ghost beside him. "I think you're better off."
"You're done, little man." I can only see the top of Willie's head over the fence, but I imagine he's rolling up his sleeves. "Punch this fool for me, Zoe."
Yeah, no.
"Oh, stop," Betty says with a wave of her hand. "You're such a flirt."
Willie walks through the fence. "Flirt? That's not flirting! He's an idiot!"
Seems every resident of Trucker County over the age of fifty has a thing for Betty MacIntosh. Why all these old men believe they have a shot with this thirty-year-old hottie is beyond me.
Arnie uses the bottom of the fence to hoist himself up so we can now see his nose. "If you're ready for a real man, I'm available."
"Gross," Willie and I say in unison.
"Excuse me?" Arnie raises his bushy brows. "Who are you?"
It takes me a moment to r
ealize he's talking to me.
"This is my medium, Zoe," Betty says. "She sees Willie."
Every time she says this out loud, I cringe a little. It sounds so absurd and, yet, so true … wait, where is Willie?
He's gone, and I have a sinking suspicion wherever he is, he's up to no good.
Arnie laughs. But not a he-he-he polite or someone told a joke type of laugh, more of a mocking laugh.
"There is no such thing as a medium." He reaches his hand over the fence and points a chubby finger at me. "You're a fraud and, based on your clothing, not a very good one."
Okay, now I want to punch him.
Willie reappears, speaking so fast I can barely keep up. "The man has a subscription to a hair club service, and there are fuzzy pink handcuffs in his nightstand! In the medicine cabinet is a prescription for Viagra! Say it, Zoe. Say it out loud. Say it! Say it! Say it! Say it!"
Awk, I can't say that.
"Say it! Say it! Say it! Say it!"
"Fine!" I shoo Willie away. "There is Viagra in your dresser drawer, and a hair piece in your cabinet, and fuzzy handcuffs in your nightstand."
Willie drops his head. "Well, you royally screwed up the delivery on that one, person." He clasps his hands together and speaks slower. "The Viagra is in the medicine cabinet. He has a hair piece subscription and fuzzy handcuffs in the nightstand."
Oh.
Oops.
Okay. I suck in a breath, prepared to try again, when I notice there's no need. The portion of Arnie's face that I can see has gone white.
"You're a liar," he says.
“No, I'm not," I say. "And I know it's a hair piece for men subscription, and the medicine is in the cabinet, and the cuffs are in the nightstand." I feel vindication. Who is he calling a fraud now? Ha!
Arnie grumbles and jumps down from the fence. We can hear his back door slam shut.
Willie and I share an air high-five.
"Let me guess. That was Willie?" Betty asks trying, and failing, to keep a straight face.
"Yep."
She smiles. "That wasn't very nice of him to pick on Arnie like that."
Willie tips his hat back, pleased with himself.
“Well …” Betty blows out a long breath. "Was Willie really killed?"
"Yes," Willie says. "I'm sure of it."
"He sure thinks so," I say. "And, honestly, I'm beginning to think he was as well."
"Finally!" Willie claps his hands together. "Now tell Betty to set the alarm whenever she's in the house. I don't want her hurt as well."
I relay this to Betty.
She screws her face into a giant question mark. "We have an alarm?"
"Yes, of course we have an alarm," Willie says with a shake of his head. "Go show her how to use it, person. The code is one-two-three-four."
Chapter Eleven
Betty gives me a ride, and I'm home by nine o'clock. Dad is already in bed, and Mom is sitting at the kitchen table wearing the same red paisley bathrobe she's had since I was a kid. Her hands are wrapped around a steaming mug of hot chocolate with a lipstick stain on the edge.
"It's about time,” she greets me.
I drop my briefcase on the couch and take off my walking shoes—which I'd fortuitously grabbed from Betty's house.
"Sorry I'm late." I place my shoes in the rack beside the door and run my hands down my face. It's been a long, exhausting day. "Good-night," I say over my shoulder.
"Wait, Zoe." Mom grabs me by the elbow. "You can't go to bed again without dinner. You need more protein and iron in your diet. Now sit. I saved you a plate."
I'm too tired to argue. I take a seat at the table and rest my chin in my palm. Mom pulls a plate out of the microwave. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and corn. Not sure how iron-rich this meal is, but it smells divine. I don’t realize I am hungry until I take a bite.
"That looks like hospital food," Willie says.
I ignore him. Mom makes the best meatloaf, and her mashed potatoes are creamy and soaked in butter—just how I like them.
"I had the pictures from your first day of work printed." Mom goes to her office and returns with a scrapbook, the same scrapbook I've had for as long as I remember. It holds all my childhood, adolescence, and adulthood photos of my most memorable events. Mom flips to the back page. I am smiling for the camera, holding the pen Dad gave me. It's so odd to think Willie was beside me in this picture, yet there's no visible trace of him. It's also odd that I didn't remember to grab the pen when I was at Betty's. I make a mental note to get it tomorrow.
"Thanks, Mom," I say and flip back a page. It's the day my high school diploma came in the mail. I'm standing by the mailbox with a paper cap on my head that my dad bought at the party store, smiling from ear to ear. "Mom, can I ask you a question?" I flip to the front of the book, a picture of my mom holding me as a newborn in the hospital. The next few pages are my first bath, first steps, first birthday, second birthday then the day we moved into this house, shortly after I turned seven.
"What is it?" Mom asks.
"I have no memories of my life before I'm seven, and even in this book there's nothing between my second birthday and my seventh. Why is that?"
"It was a busy time. We were moving, and you were quite the active toddler. There was no time to take pictures." Mom stands and rinses out her mug in the sink.
"I should have at least one memory," I say. "But there's this huge void."
"Most people don't remember anything before they're seven years old. Your brain isn't fully developed yet." Mom kisses the top of my head. "I'm going to bed. I'll see you in the morning." She is out of the room before I can say another word. Very unlike her.
Jabba jumps up onto the table and eats what’s left of my meatloaf. I go to pet his head, and he snaps at me.
“That has got to be the ugliest cat ever created,” Willie says.
Jabba narrows his golden eyes and hisses at him.
Willie puts his hands on his knees. “Can you see me?”
Jabba claws at his face, and Willie jumps back and falls through the wall.
My life is weird.
I flip through the scrapbook again. So many baby pictures then—bam—I'm seven. And every little event is documented from there on out. Losing a tooth. Playing baseball in the backyard with dad. The day Jabba showed up. There's an entire page dedicated to a time I found a snail in the backyard. A snail! Yet nothing between two and seven.
"It's just bizarre," I say out loud.
"What's bizarre is your mother.” Willie is back, standing on the other side of the room, keeping his distance from Jabba. “And that cat.”
I flip the book closed and run my hand along the vinyl cover. "I don’t think my mom is bizarre. The situation is. I know she’s hiding something, though. The question is, what?”
Chapter Twelve
According to Reaching the Other Side, a spirit cannot make you do anything against your will. Which means deep down, way deep down, there must be a part of me okay with allowing Willie to give me a makeover. Nothing drastic. Of course. I’m wearing jeans and a white T-shirt.
"How is this any better than what I typically wear?” I ask.
Willie smiles. "Those clothes are too big on you. Too old. You’re young, smart, and too pretty to hide behind brightly colored parachutes."
I tug at the bottom of my shirt. It’s not awful, but it feels a bit too plain. "Did you spend this much time obsessing over fashion when you were alive?"
"No, but I don't have anything else do right now but stare at people, and even I—a grumpy old man—know you need a makeover." He circles me slowly, tapping his chin with his forefinger. "What other shoes do you have?"
"My pumps."
"You mean those slippers with a peg attached?"
"No, I mean my pumps. I also have my sneakers.”
He shudders at the thought.
“You’re getting on my last nerve, ghost.” I cross my arms. "What would you suggest I wear?”
“Somethin
g without arch support. Something with a little more pizazz … something … youthful. Let’s move on for now. We’ll come back to the shoes. Take your hair out of the ponytail.”
Okay, there's a request I can deal with. I yank the scrunchie out, and my hair falls below my shoulders.
"Do you have one of those … shoot, what are they called?" Willie closes his eyes, as if the answer is written on the backside of his lids. "Straight iron! You need one of those to make your hair less …” He puffs his cheeks and mimics an explosion.
"No, I don't." I sweep my hair up into a bun on the top of my head.
Willie whistles. "Even better. Your hair looks good off your neck, kid. Really good. Now I can see you."
My cheeks go red. I can't help myself.
Still, whether I look good or not, or whether I was hiding behind my clothes or not, this outfit feels too plain. "The jeans I can live with," I say; admittedly they look pretty good. I’ve had them in my closet for years. I’d found them in a hand-me-down bin outside the library, but I’ve never even tried them on. I’m not sure why. "But I'm not wearing this top."
"What? No," Willie grumbles. "That's the best part. You look your age."
"I'm not comfortable." I grab a pink blazer off the hanger.
"If you wear that, I'll vomit," Willie says.
"I'd like to see you try." I shrug into the blazer and leave the buttons undone. Much better. This is an outfit I can live with.
Mom, not so much.
I think her eyeballs are about to fall out of her head when I walk out to the living room. Dad spews his hot chocolate all over the table. Even Jabba is giving me the once-over.
Geez. It’s not like I’m prancing around in a bikini.
"Pay no attention." Willie is behind me. "Your people don't know style. Is your mother wearing shoulder pads?"
"Boundaries," I remind Willie under my breath. "No making fun of my clothes or talking badly about my parents." I'd also added no accompanying me to the bathroom after I nearly chocked on toothpaste this morning when he appeared out of nowhere wanting to talk about my wardrobe.
Willie MacIntosh has a hard time adhering to boundaries.