Making a Medium

by Erin Huss

  He lets out a relenting sigh. "I always liked puzzles."

  "Okay?" I'm not a fan of his newfound ambiguity. "If you know who killed you, then you need to tell me. I could relay the information to Jackson Anderson, even if he thinks I'm nuts. What's with him, anyway? Do you only surround yourself with beautiful people?"

  Willie laughs.

  "It's not funny," I say. "He called me a fraud and told me to stay away from Betty."

  Willie shrugs like this is of little importance.

  "How can I help Betty if I'm not allowed near her?" I say.

  "You'll figure it out. You always do."

  "Since when did you become so … so …” I search for the right word. "So casual."

  "I'm getting tired, kid. That's all."

  "That's all," I repeat. "What do you mean? Can ghosts even get tired?" I'm struck with a horrid thought. Is this Willie's way of saying he's ready to go? Ready to cross to the other side? The thought brings on a wave of despair. Even though he has been a royal pain on multiple occasions, and even though I've found myself smack dab in the middle of a murder investigation, and even though he screams in my ear and curses and has way too many opinions on what I wear—I'll miss him terribly when he leaves.

  "We're here, now what?" Willie says.

  I look around. We've made it into town. The streets are bare, and the buildings are shut down. Fernn Valley doesn't exactly have a nightlife. Most places close at seven.

  "I know where we can go," Willie says.

  "Are you thinking about sleeping behind Butter Bakery? Because that's what I'm thinking." Mr. and Mrs. Muffin (when your last name is a baked good, you sort of have no choice but to own a bakery) throw out all day-old items before they close shop. Normally, I wouldn't eat out of a trashcan, but I'm starving.

  "Nope." Willie points straight ahead to the only building with a light on—The Gazette.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Banging on someone's window at night, while wearing all black, with twigs and leaves sticking out of your hair, and dirt smeared on your face, is perhaps not the best idea.

  Unfortunately, I didn't realize that until after I had banged on the window, while wearing all black, with twigs and leaves sticking out of my hair, and dirt smeared on my face.

  So I can't really blame Brian for calling the police.

  "And you said you had car trouble?" Sheriff Vance confirms. The blue and red lights alternate across his face as he talks, making him look a hundred times scarier than he actually is.

  "Um … yes,” I say, hoping he doesn't ask for more specifics because I don't have any—neither do I have a car nor a license.

  Really, I should have come up with a better lie.

  "I'm sorry, Vance," Brian says. "I didn't realize it was Zoe, otherwise I wouldn't have called."

  Sheriff Vance rubs his protruding belly in slow, rhythmic circles. Like he's about to birth his donut any moment now.

  It's unnerving.

  "Okay," he finally says and gives me the once-over. "Are you working on the MacIntosh story?"

  "We are," Brian says. "We've got a tight deadline."

  Sheriff Vance nods his head but doesn't move. "What kind of car trouble did you say you had?" he asks me.

  My stomach does an almighty flip.

  "There … um … was … a …”

  "Flat tire," Willie says. "Tell him you had a flat tire, but you were in such a hurry to get back that you didn't have time to change your clothes."

  I relay this story to the sheriff. I'm not sure if he's buying it or not, but at least he's inching toward his car now.

  "Have a good night," Brian says with a wave.

  "You too." Sheriff Vance turns around and saunters back to his car, stealing one last glance our way before driving off.

  "What's his problem?" Willie asks.

  I have no clue.

  "And your boyfriend is a sissy," he says, sounding more like himself. "If there was a crazed person pounding on my window, I'd handle it like a man." Willie closes one eye and holds a pretend rifle up and fires two shots.

  Oh, geez.

  "Sorry about that," Brian says. "You scared me, but I'm glad you're here." He opens the door for me. "You have to see what I found."

  I follow him through the workspace and into his office. It looks exactly the same as the last time I was here, except for the large chalkboard in the middle of the room with notes scribbled in barely legible writing. It looks like some sort of family tree made with circles and connecting lines. Willie's name is written in the middle circle with lines and smaller circles coming off of it. Betty, Jackson, LeRoy, Daniel, Ron, and a big question mark fill the smaller circles.

  "Wow, you've been busy." I plop down on the chair and resist a moan. My legs, back, neck, and head are throbbing, and I would kill for a hot bath, four Advil, a cheeseburger, and a two-week nap.

  Brian grabs a piece of chalk. "There hasn't been a murder in Trucker County since two-thousand-and-three. This is big news. Tomorrow's paper is already printed, but I can print a special edition."

  That’s a long time without a murder. “When was the last time there was a murder in Fernn Valley?” I ask, curious.

  “Over fifteen years ago.”

  “Let’s concentrate on my murder, please.” Willie studies the board with his hands on his hips. "What's with the question mark?"

  Not sure. I ask Brian.

  "You said a neighbor made a death threat, but I don't have the neighbor's name," he says. "You also said Willie's golfing buddies had made death threats." He points to each circle as he speaks. "LeRoy, Ron, and Jackson played golf with Willie at least twice a week. Then there's Betty and Daniel."

  "Arnie," I say. "His neighbor's name is Arnie."

  Brian erases the question mark and writes Arnie in all caps. "I've been on the phone for hours with various contacts at the police station and friends of the suspects." Brian returns to his desk and shuffles through a pile of papers. "According to my sources, Daniel and his family were in Mammoth all weekend."

  "But that doesn't mean anything," I say. "He could have hired someone to kill Willie."

  "Exactly."

  "Zoe!" Willie hollers over his shoulder. He's still studying the board. "Come here."

  I do as told. Willie points to Daniel's bubble. "Why does it say boat under his name?"

  Good question. I ask Brian.

  "According to Daniel's friends and neighbors, Daniel has been making big purchases lately. Bought a boat, motorhome, remodeled his kitchen, and is currently getting bids for a new pool. And he's been telling everyone about his big inheritance that is coming soon."

  What a weasel. I'm liking Daniel less and less. Who spends their inheritance while the person they'll be inheriting it from is still alive? It's just poor manners. "Is this friend going to tell the police?" I ask.

  "No, but I'm printing it. The jury of public opinion, especially in a small community like this, can hold more weight than anything the police say." He talks with such childlike excitement I can't help but smile. This is a far cry from the potholes, new trees, and “Squirrel of the Month” articles typically printed in The Gazette. He did say he wanted to "shake things up" around here.

  Murder is a big shake-up.

  "There's still so much to do before we go to print," Brian says. "I haven't been able to come up with plausible motives for Ron and LeRoy." He slides his gaze to me. "You never told me why they made a threat. Care to share now?"

  "I thought the internship was mine whether I gave you details or not."

  "It is. But if you know how to connect a few of these dots, it could make for one compelling story." He smiles, showing his teeth, and what nice teeth they are.

  Fine.

  Problem is, though, that I don't remember why LeRoy and Ron were angry with Willie.

  I'm hungry.

  I have a hard time thinking when I'm hungry.

  Good thing I have Willie here to recall the details. "Ron and Willie got in an
argument about Betty," Willie is whispering into my ear, and I repeat out loud. "He didn't approve of our relationship … I mean … of Betty and Willie's relationship. Not that I gave a damn … I mean … not that Willie gave a damn."

  Brian writes this down under Ron's name.

  "You need to speak in third person," I mutter under my breath to Willie.

  "What was that?" Brian asks.

  "Nothing. Nothing at all. I was just thinking about Jackson, you wrote down that he might have been in love with Betty. Therefore he had a motive to kill Willie. I observed Jackson and Betty together today, and I don't think he has strong feelings for her. I mean, it’s possible.” Since every able-bodied man in the area seems to be in love with her. “But he could have killed Willie because they were both jerks."

  “Being a jerk isn’t a good reason to kill,” Brian says.

  “Is any reason a good reason to kill?”

  “Touché.” He writes jerk beside Jackson’s name.

  Willie shakes his head. "Jackson Anderson is a terrible golfer but a decent human. You’re getting this all wrong."

  "We can probably take LeRoy off this list." Brian draws a big X over his name. "Which leaves us with Arnie, Betty, Daniel, Jackson, and Ron."

  "I don’t think you can completely dismiss LeRoy," I say. “He did threaten to kill Willie.” And he ran me over with his car.

  "I suppose you’re right." Brian erases the X and rewrites LeRoy’s name. "We have Betty, Daniel, Ron, Jackson, LeRoy, and Arnie. Really, Betty is the main suspect here."

  I feel like saying, no duh! Betty is obviously the main suspect—she's in jail pending trial for the crime! But duh isn't a very intelligent answer, and I don't want to insult him.

  "According to sources, she accompanied him to every doctor's appointment." Brian is tossing a piece of chalk up in the air as he talks. "She made the oatmeal he ate. Do you know where she was Monday morning?"

  "Running errands and trying to fill Willie's blood pressure medication," I say.

  Brian writes this down. His chalk is down to nothing but a pebble, but he keeps going.

  Willie takes a wide stance and strokes his chin, studying the board. There's something new troubling him—I can feel it—but I can't ask in front of Brian. I need to get Brian out of here.

  For lack of a better idea, I start coughing. But Brian doesn't notice. So I cough louder, adding in theatrical gasps for air.

  "Are you okay?" he asks.

  "Water," I rasp out. "Need water."

  Brian reaches under his desk and produces a plastic water bottle. "Here you go."

  Crud.

  "Um … do you have … ice?” I pause to cough into the crook of my elbow. "It helps … cough, cough … my … cough, cough … throat."

  "Ice water?" he repeats.

  I fold over in a coughing fit.

  "Okay, I'll get you ice." He hurries out of the room, and I turn to Willie.

  "What's wrong?" I ask.

  He's still stroking his chin. "It's sad to think that I spent a great deal of my time with the names on this board, and yet, there's a good chance one of them killed me. Except Arnie, I didn't spend much time with him. He's an idiot."

  "Do you have a hunch as to who it might be?"

  "I’ve always known that it wasn't Betty," he says, his voice low.

  I want to ask him if he's sure, but he was sure about being killed, and I decide to trust him.

  Brian returns with a cup of ice water in a red Solo cup, and I remember to cough.

  "Cough … cough … thank you." I take a sip. The water goes down the wrong tube, and I hunch over in a real coughing fit.

  "Seriously, person," Willie grumbles. "This guy is never going to kiss you if you're spitting everywhere."

  I pound my chest with my fist, take a few more sips of water, cough twice more, and I'm good to go.

  Hold on.

  … cough … cough …

  Okay, now I'm good to go.

  Brian and I spend the next hour combing the internet, looking for more information on Daniel, Betty, and Ron. We find out that not only is Ron married, but he was just named chiropractor of the year for Trucker County. Not exactly a huge accomplishment given there are three chiropractors in the county, but it's still something. The most concerning information is that he was born in 1984, which means his parents were well aware they were naming their child after a burger chain. We're having a hard time linking Ron to the murder. Sure, he was angry with Willie, but did he have a motive?

  We put a big question mark next to his name.

  The hardest part is the key. Who knew about it? Who could get in the gate? This points to Arnie, Betty, Daniel, LeRoy, but then Willie thinks he may have given Ron the code to his home before, and it's possible he knew about the key.

  The computer screen is getting fuzzy, and my eyelids droop. I'm exhausted.

  "Why don't I give you a ride home," Brian says.

  Home.

  Right.

  I'd almost forgotten about my mother's attempt to commit me. I can't go home. But where else can I go?

  At the very least I should call my dad to let him know that I'm alive. I don't want him worrying. My cell is still in my pocket, and check to see if he’s called.

  I have ten voicemails.

  TEN!

  Nine of which are from my mother, which I don't bother listening to. But the tenth one is from a number I recognize.

  I press play. "Zoe, it's Betty. I'm home now. Can you please come over right away when you get this? It's important."

  The message was left fifteen minutes ago.

  Jackson is a good lawyer if he managed to get Betty out of jail. I thought for sure they'd deny her bail based on many factors. One of which is that they believe she is a murderer.

  "Who was that?" Brian asks.

  "You up for another ride to Trucker?"

  Chapter Eighteen

  Betty walks in from the kitchen carrying a tray piled high with enough food to feed a small army. She's wearing gray sweatpants and an oversized pink sweatshirt. Her nose is red and raw, eyes are blood shot, and her blonde hair is in a loose ponytail.

  She looks equal parts terrible and beautiful.

  "You don't have to feed us," I say, and snatch several grapes before she's even set the tray down on the coffee table. Betty knows how to put on quite the spread—blocks of cheese, crackers with bits of fruit in them, deli meat draped into thirds, apricot jam, and candied walnuts.

  Brian politely declines, claiming he's not hungry.

  I understand why he's hesitant to eat food provided by a woman who is currently awaiting trial for poisoning her husband's breakfast, but if Willie says Betty didn't do then—bon appétit!

  "It's the least I could do. I appreciate you coming over. It's been an awful day, and I don't want to be alone right now." Betty curls into a ball on the couch and pulls her sweatshirt over her legs. Daisy is there, panting at her side. "Plus I like feeding people … oh.” She grimaces. "I guess I shouldn't say that in court! What a mess!"

  I'd comfort her, but my mouth is full.

  Willie is outside, pacing along the back walkway, mumbling to himself while stroking his chin. He's working through something. What? I don't know. We haven't been alone long enough for me to find out.

  "How are you holding up?" I shove another cracker into my mouth.

  "Jail is just so awful," she says. "They made me stay in this small room with glass walls. And I was all by myself. There's no private toilet, and the guards have to watch …” She looks so appalled and defeated that I feel bad I'm sitting over here stuffing my face.

  I slide my plate onto the coffee table and wipe the corners of my mouth with a napkin.

  "It's called The Bubble," Brian says. "It's a jail within a jail, specifically for dangerous or high-profile inmates."

  "Whatever it's called, it's horrible! I don't ever want to go … back …” A single tear slides down her face. "I seriously didn't kill my husband. I wouldn'
t even think to put his medication in his oatmeal. I'm not smart enough to come up with something like that!"

  I move to the couch. "Sure you are, Betty … I mean …” Oh, geez. That didn't sound right. Never mind. "Jackson will figure this out. We've been working on it as well."

  Betty pulls the sweatshirt over her hand and uses it as a Kleenex. "You have?" Her blue eyes are wide and hopeful.

  "Mmmhmmm, we've come up with a number of possible suspects. Haven't we, Brian?" I look to him for reassurance.

  He moves to the edge of the chair Willie died in and clasps his hands. "If you didn't do it, then who did?" He asks, and I shoot him a look.

  On the car ride over, I was quite specific when I said he could come inside so long as he promised to keep this visit off the record and not ask too many questions. I don't want my ghost-seeing abilities to come up, and the last thing Betty needs right now is another interrogation.

  Except … I still have Betty by the hand, and I can feel her pulse quicken.

  "Do you know who did it?" I ask.

  "No, of course not." She yanks her hand free and starts cleaning up, grabbing my empty plate and scooting off to the kitchen.

  She's lying.

  If she knows who did it, then why wouldn't she just say so?

  Unless she's protecting someone she cares about. Which would discredit the Daniel theory. Betty doesn't like Daniel. She told me multiple times when we were filing the paperwork last week.

  Unless she's being blackmailed.

  Although, if Daniel had something on Betty, I'm sure he would have played that card by now. He's counting on Willie's money. Who else would blackmail her?

  I'm so deep in thought that I don't realize Brian is talking to me.

  "Huh?" I ask.

  "I said, what do you suppose that is?" He points to a porcelain sculpture thing on the coffee table. It looks like a blob, but is probably worth six-figures.

  "If you squint your eyes, it kind of looks like an elephant."

  Brian picks up the art and examines it under the light. "It has a hole in the top. It could be a glorified pen cup?"

  Oh, pen!

  That reminds me.

  "What are you doing now?" Brian asks.