Making a Medium

by Erin Huss

  "What kind of legal help?" Jackson is pleasant but brisk and sounds like he could do voiceovers for movie trailers.

  "Errr … murder,” I say.

  "I'm on my way." He hangs up without asking for more details like, gee, I don't know, who did she murder, when was she arrested, what jail is she in, who are you? Seems like important details. But I'm a medium not a lawyer. So what do I know?

  "Who was that?" Brian asks.

  "A lawyer for Betty." I snap my phone closed and slide it into my pocket. "Do you happen to have something to drink in here?" I twist around to see if by some miracle there's a jug of water sitting on the backseat, because I'm parched and my mouth tastes like pennies.

  "No, but we can stop and get you a drink if you want," Brian offers.

  "There's no time!" Willie bellows into my ear. "Tell him to pass this horse trailer in front of us. We're not even going the speed limit!"

  I should not be dishing out driving advice. The last time I was behind the wheel, I nearly rolled the car and took out a sprinkler.

  "Tell him!" Willie is still at my ear. "This road turns into a single lane soon, and we'll be stuck. Tell him to pass the horse trailer! Tell him! Tell him! Tell him!"

  Gah! Fine. "Can you please pass this horse trailer? We're kind of in a hurry."

  "Yes." He flips the blinker, checks over his shoulder, and eases into the left lane, going a solid four MPH faster.

  Willie attaches the F-word to a variety of creative nouns, kicking at the front seat. I can feel his angst bubbling over, and it's causing my palms to sweat.

  I turn in my seat to face Brian. My gosh, he has a gorgeous profile.

  Concentrate, Zoe.

  "Brian, can you please drive faster?" I ask politely.

  He taps the gas, and we're now going sixty-five in a sixty zone.

  Willie claws at his neck and pulls his tie loose. I fidget with my fingers, eying the time displayed on the dashboard. It's been almost an hour since Betty called, and we haven't crossed the Fernn Valley city border yet.

  "This boyfriend of yours is a …” Willie moves his hands helplessly. "Moron!"

  “No, he's not," I mouth.

  "What was that?" Brian asks.

  "Nothing," I say with a smile. "Nothing at all."

  Brian returns his eyes to the road, and I slump in my seat, which is hard to do given its perpendicular state. He turns on his blinker and glides into the slow lane. I crack my knuckles one at a time, anxiety thumping around in my throat, until I can't take it any longer.

  "Floor it!" I blurt out before I can stop myself. "There's an innocent woman in jail!"

  Without a word, he steps on the gas, and we lurch forward, zooming across the city line and officially into Trucker County.

  "Finally!" Willie says, exasperated.

  Brian has his hands at ten and two and checks the rearview mirror every few seconds. I can tell disobeying traffic laws makes him uneasy. Not a bad quality in a man.

  "Why are you so sure Betty's innocent?" he asks.

  "Because I know she didn't kill him."

  "How do you know? What information do you have?"

  "Well, for starters, she's the one who ordered the autopsy. Why would she do that if she's the one who killed Willie? She wasn't home Monday morning when Willie died, and she has no motive. Sure, if he dies she gets his fortune, but it's not like he had years left to live anyhow, and it's not like she had to perform wifely duties either." I feel a bit like Sherlock Holmes. All I need is a hat and a pipe and a Watson. "Daniel MacIntosh, on the other hand, did not want the autopsy. He did have a motive, and I believe he killed Willie … or … erm … I suppose it could be an alarming number of other suspects." I think about Willie's fifty-person list.

  "What was Daniel's motive?"

  "I'm glad you asked," I say and launch into the CliffsNotes version of what I know about Daniel MacIntosh. I end with, "There was a key stuck in the garage door lock Tuesday afternoon, and when we went back on Wednesday, it was gone. So was the hide-a-key."

  "And Daniel knew where the hide-a-key was?"

  Good question. I turn around and confirm this with Willie.

  He shrugs. "I don't know."

  "What are you looking at?" Brian asks.

  "Um … nothing.” I shift in my seat. “So … um … I’m not sure if Daniel knew about the key or not." Okay, so maybe I'm not exactly Sherlock Holmes. "But … um … there are also several golfing buddies and one neighbor who made death threats to Willie shortly before he died."

  "That doesn't surprise me. Did you know Willie MacIntosh?"

  "No," I say, crossing my fingers. Which I suppose I don't need to do. Technically, I didn't know Willie—past tense.

  I know him now.

  "He was the most obnoxious person I've ever met," Brian says. "And I grew up in Portland. I've met a lot of obnoxious people."

  I cough to cover a laugh. Mostly because Willie has the most hysterical expression on his face—like he's just swallowed a fly. "He's got a lot of nerve. I never even met this man!"

  I work hard to keep a straight face. "When did you meet Willie?" I ask Brian.

  "I had lunch with him and LeRoy three weeks ago at the country club."

  I glance back at Willie. He's avoiding eye contact. "I forgot about that," he says, playing with the end of his tie.

  "All he did was talk about himself," Brian says. "About his boat, and his house, and wife, and his invention, and about all the amazing things he's done in his life. Seemed to me he was compensating for the fact that he wasn't all that interesting of a person.”

  Willie grabs at his hair. "This coming from the editor-in-chief of the most boring paper in the world! Aren't you going to say something, Zoe?"

  Nope.

  I just admitted that I didn't know Willie. I can't very well argue against Brian's impression.

  So I decide to change the subject. "LeRoy was one of the people who threatened Willie right before he died."

  This news surprises Brian. "That doesn't sound like something LeRoy would do. He and Willie have known each other since they were kids. Hell, during World War Two, Willie and LeRoy drove to Mexico to hideout and dodge the draft together."

  Aha! Willie did go to Mexico to avoid the draft. I knew it. "Did LeRoy ever mention a woman Willie met in Mexico while he was there?" I ask in a whisper, hoping Willie won't hear.

  "Yes, a woman named … Isabel. Her father owned a chicken farm where LeRoy and Willie worked. From what I know, Isabel and Willie had a fling, but her father was adamantly against the relationship and kicked them both out. Willie went back to the states, joined the Navy, while LeRoy went down to Guatemala to wait out the war.”

  "Did Willie go back for her?"

  "Yes, I did,” Willie says. “She'd moved on. Like I said, I don't want to talk about it."

  What a sad ending. "How do you know so much about Isabel and Willie?" I ask Brian.

  "I found a picture of LeRoy, Willie, and Isabel in one of my uncle's photo albums once, and he told me the story."

  "Did LeRoy ever talk about Betty?" I ask.

  "I know he thought she was sweet and pretty," he says with a hint of a smile. "Not that you can blame him. She's an attractive woman."

  I feel a stab of irrational jealousy.

  Then I remember that Betty is in jail for the murder of her husband, and there's no time for feelings right now.

  I blow out a breath, making an involuntarily raspberry sound with my lips. "Did LeRoy tell you that he witnessed Willie's will?"

  Brian narrows his eyes, still watching the road. "When did this happen?"

  "The week before Willie died."

  "Willie altered his will the week before he died?"

  "Odd timing, right?"

  He nods. "A terrible choice on Willie's part. LeRoy has been on a mental decline for a while now. Talking to himself, mixing up dates and times, having trouble recalling recent events. He shouldn't be signing any legal documents."

  W
ell, crap.

  "That's part of the reason I moved here," Brian says. "So he wouldn't be alone."

  Willie pushes his hat back on his head with a grunt. "This kid doesn't know what he's talking about. LeRoy is still sharp as a tack. And he doesn't deserve to be at MelBorne, that's for sure. Tell him, Zoe. Tell him! Tell him!"

  Gah. I need to add no more screaming in my ear to Willie's list of boundaries.

  I shoo him away. "LeRoy shouldn't be at MelBorne. It's not a good fit for him."

  Brian gives me a quizzical look. "I wasn't aware you were well-acquainted with my great-uncle.”

  "I'm not! It's just … that place is depressing, and it … um … seems like he would do better at home?" I feel intrusive butting into his family affairs, but I also don't want LeRoy spending his last days in a dark room staring at a blank wall.

  "I offered for him to come live with me, but he declined," Brian says. "Between Willie's death and the car accident, he's been having a hard time. Honestly, I don't know how much longer he has left."

  This news has me equal parts sad and terrified.

  Sad that LeRoy is in an assisted living home. Sad that he's not himself. Sad that Brian will lose his uncle. Yet I'm terrified LeRoy will visit me after he dies. I'm still a little bitter that he ran me over with his car.

  Also, isn't one grumpy-old-man ghost enough for one lifetime?

  Brian takes the East Road exit and turns right onto W Street. We pass by news van after news van after news van. All parked along the side of the road with their satellite antennas up. A crowd is gathered on the front steps of the sheriff’s station, with cameras and microphones pointed at an unseen target.

  "Did they arrest a celebrity?" I ask, trying to see through the group of reporters.

  Brian slows and leans over to get a better view out my window. He's so close I could lick him. Not that I would. But I could. If I wanted to. But I won't.

  Don't lick him, Zoe.

  I need to lay off the erotic novels.

  "There aren't any celebrities around here, though." Brian pulls over and parks in a red zone, leaving the car running.

  "What are you doing?" I ask.

  He opens the glove compartment and pulls out a press pass. "I'm going to find out what's going on." He smacks the hazard button to turn on his emergency lights and gets out of the car.

  Um, okay.

  I stumble outside with my briefcase in hand. Brian disappears into the crowd, and I snake around the reporters, trying to reach the entrance, but find myself at the front of the press line instead.

  Much to my horror, standing behind a podium is Daniel MacIntosh with his weasel face and slicked red hair. To his right is a petite woman with dark skin, silky hair streaked with gray, and expensive looking shoes on. To his left is a short man with a lightbulb-shaped head and rimless glasses. Further off to the side is Detective Manfreed.

  Willie appears behind Daniel. He steps forward with a feral look in his eyes.

  Oh, no!

  "On behalf of the family, we would like to thank the Trucker County PD for their swift action and superb investigation into my uncle's death," Daniel says, reading off a paper in front of him. The petite woman places a supportive hand on Daniel's back, and I assume she is his wife. "We understand this will not bring Willie back, but we're happy that justice will prevail."

  Willie plunges forward in a snarling rush and goes right through his nephew and lands in the pit of reporters.

  I crumble into childlike panic. Unsure of what to do or what to say or how to help, but before I can dwell too much on the implications, my hand shoots up in the air, and my mouth is moving. "Betty MacIntosh is innocent! Daniel MacIntosh is the murderer!"

  Everyone swivels their attention to me. Seven microphones appear an inch from my mouth. Oops.

  Both Daniel and his wife appear to be in a complete state of shock. Until Detective Manfreed leans in and whispers something into Daniel's ear. I'm not sure what he said, but Daniel meets my gaze, and there's a murderous look in his eyes.

  Gulp.

  I barely notice the reporters firing off questions. What's your name? How do you know Mrs. MacIntosh? How are you acquainted with the family? What makes you think Daniel MacIntosh murdered his uncle?

  "Everyone, calm down." Detective Manfreed has taken over the podium. "Calm down! I can assure you that we thoroughly vetted Mr. Daniel MacIntosh and are confident he had nothing to do with the murder of Willie MacIntosh."

  "I have a question! I have a question!" a familiar voice yells from the crowd. I crane my neck to see who is talking. Brian steps forward with his hand raised. "Brian Windsor, The Fernn Valley Gazette. When did this interview with Daniel MacIntosh take place if the autopsy came back Saturday morning and you immediately brought Betty MacIntosh in for questioning and spent all day Sunday searching the MacIntosh home? Can you thoroughly investigate anything in such a short amount of time?"

  Willie appears at my side. "I'm liking your boyfriend more now."

  "According to my sources, there was a high amount of blood pressure medication found during the autopsy," Brian goes on. "Given the advance age of Willie, isn't it possible he accidentally took the medication?"

  "Never mind," Willie says.

  "The results of Willie MacIntosh's autopsy are classified," Manfreed says. "I don't know where you're getting your information."

  "Isn't it true Betty MacIntosh was the one who ordered the autopsy and you, Daniel, were against it?"

  My mouth drops open. Brian is repeating the information I gave him in the car!

  "And isn't it true, Daniel MacIntosh, that you had no idea Betty and Willie were married? And that the day after Willie died, you tried to list his house for sale?"

  Daniel starts to go after Brian. The man with the lightbulb head holds him back and leans into the microphone. "These allegations are absurd, and my client has no comment."

  "A reliable source told me there were several death threats made to Willie MacIntosh over the last couple of weeks, yet I know you didn't interview these individuals."

  Yeah, okay, I need to be careful about what I say to Brian. I cannot believe he’s repeating everything I told him!

  Manfreed grips the podium. "I don't know who your source is, but they're wrong. We are confident in our case against Betty MacIntosh. We will take no further questions."

  The lightbulb-head guy grabs Daniel MacIntosh by the shoulders and directs him through a side door into the building.

  Well … that happened.

  "We need to go to Betty," Willie says.

  Right. Betty.

  The reporters disperse to their various news vans, leaving a clear path to the door, and I run inside before anyone can question me about my allegations.

  The lobby is beige, square, and gloomy. The linoleum floors are scuffed and faded, and the walls are chipped and smudged with dirt. There are a few professional-looking individuals scattered around the room, talking on their phones, but no one is in line. I walk right up to Window One and tap on the plexiglass. A policewoman with big bangs and dry lips slides open the window and stares at me as if she's already bored with our conversation.

  "I'm here to see Betty MacIntosh," I say.

  "You and every other person in the city."

  "She probably put you on the visitors list," Willie says.

  Good call. "I should be on the visitors list."

  The policewoman grabs a clipboard. "Name?"

  "Zoe Lane. Spelled without a y."

  "You're Zoe?" a deep voice asks.

  I jerk my head up and—

  Holy moly!

  A tall hunk of a man with a square jaw, dark skin, luscious black hair, piercing hazel eyes, and pouty lips is standing in front of me, and I forget how to speak.

  "Great, Jackson is here. Let's get my girl out," Willie says and walks through the metal detector toward the guarded door.

  Here's what I know about Jackson Anderson: he could be an underwear model.

 
I was expecting someone around Willie's age, but Jackson can't be much older than thirty—if that. And he could easily grace the cover of Sizzling Fireman IV, or any romance novel for that matter.

  We shake hands, and he flinches at my touch—my fingers are numb, which tells me there are more spirits here, but the only one I see is Willie.

  "Betty wanted to wait for you before we proceed," Jackson says. "Sign in, get your sticker, and we'll go back and see her."

  I do as I’m told. I'm patted down by two officers wearing blue gloves. My briefcase is thoroughly searched, and I walk through the metal detector—twice—because I forgot to take off my watch the first time. I'm deemed safe and am escorted down a long hallway with hazy florescent lighting. Jackson follows. I have no idea where Willie is, but I suspect he's already with Betty. My suspicion is confirmed when the police officer opens the door to a small room and there's Betty sitting at the table in a blue jumpsuit, her hands clasped in her lap, face plagued with distress, and Willie sitting beside her.

  "Zoe, you're here." Betty stands and opens her arms until the guard barks at her to sit down and not to touch anyone.

  Geez.

  "I got here as quick as I could." I take a seat on one of two chairs across from Betty. Willie is quiet and retreats to the corner with his hands shoved into the front pockets of his slacks.

  Jackson plops his briefcase onto the table and pulls out a leather-bound folder. "We're going to get you out of here," he says.

  "Thank you," Betty sighs. "I can’t believe this has happened. I’m ruined. Completely ruined. They’re never going to let me back at the Teen Center. I’ll never get a job with the county doing social work. I have a big paper due next week.” Her breathing quickens.

  I want to tell her she doesn’t have to worry about any papers due, because likely she’ll still be jail next week, but I don’t think that will help.

  “I should have just given Daniel all the money and walked away!" Betty slams the table.

  "What reason do they have for arresting you?" I ask.

  Jackson unbuttons his suit jacket and takes a seat, opens his folder, and clicks his pen. He moves with such precision that I wonder if he served time in the military. "There was a lethal amount of blood pressure medication found in Willie's system," Jackson says. "When they searched the house, they found the medication had been smashed and mixed in with a container of overnight oats in the refrigerator."