Making a Medium

by Erin Huss

  This is true.

  Dad starts the car. "Where are we off to now?"

  "I don't even know." I let out a sigh and think about the cufflink buried in my bra. Five hours ago, I was convinced Ron killed Willie. But something my dad said casts doubt on my theory. If you love someone, you'll do everything in your power to protect them. Why wouldn't Ron come forward and protect Betty? Why wasn't he at her house last night so she wouldn't be alone?

  Perhaps I have Ron all wrong.

  But then why would Betty have a clothing bag from the bed and breakfast?

  No, the two are involved somehow.

  I think …

  If they weren’t, what would be Ron's motive to kill Willie? It's not like he'd get money.

  Whoever killed Willie is missing a cufflink. Which means it can't be the nosey and obnoxious neighbor, Arnie. It was Ron, or it could be Jackson, or it could be both. They killed Willie before he could attend the Member of the Year surprise party Monday morning … except …

  My eyes slide to The Gazette on the ground. Jabba is sitting on the paper with his paw positioned over the picture, staring up at me with his golden eyes. There’s something strikingly familiar about his gold eyes that I’d never noticed before, probably because the crazy cat would never allow us to look him straight on. But for the first time, I feel an odd, familiar connection.

  Jabba hisses and circles around the paper, which brings me back to Willie.

  Specifically, Monday morning.

  Monday.

  Morning.

  Monday morning.

  MONDAY MORNING!

  I sit up. It's like someone has stuck a flash drive into my brain and all this new information is downloading … the cufflink; the day I met Willie; Ron, Jackson, LeRoy, Arnie; Brian; Betty; the rock; the key; the accident; LeRoy's car; the missing broken key; Isabel … and suddenly I know where I need to be.

  "Dad, do you have The Gazette's number on hand?"

  "Sure, why?"

  "I need to borrow your phone."

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Dad peers over the steering wheel. "MelBorne Assisted Living. Are you here to drum up business?"

  "I don't think that's how it works."

  Dad strokes his mustache. "Do you get some sort of warning when people are about to die? Like an alarm? Because if you do, your mother and I can make their acquaintance before they pass. We could build a relationship and list their home after they're gone."

  "Dad! Seriously? After everything that's happened today, after everything we've talked about, that's what you come up with?"

  "It's hard being in a business built entirely off of referrals," he says.

  I pause, struck with a thought. "Were you and Mom real estate agents before we moved here?" My parents never talked about our life prior to living in Fernn Valley. Now I know why. Before Jackson's notes, I wasn't even aware we lived in Los Angeles.

  Dad shakes his head. "I worked in finance and your mother owned a consignment shop."

  My mother in a consignment shop? It's hard to imagine her doing anything other than real estate, but somehow, her in a shop filled with old clothes makes total sense. I'd venture to say most of her wardrobe came from her consignment days. "What made you become real estate agents, and why Fernn Valley?" I ask.

  "We heard about it through a friend of a friend who grew up here. It sounded like a nice, tranquil place. After we moved here, we learned the only real estate agent in town had died. Which left an opening."

  Oh, geez. They'd completely flipped their lives upside down for me. "Dad? Who is Phil?" I ask, remembering Phil was associated with the S and the fire.

  "He was your therapist."

  “Like Dr. Phil?”

  “Yes, but not that Dr. Phil.”

  “Good to know.” I still have so many questions, but there is a pressing need to get this over with. "Thank you for the ride, Dad." I pat Jabba on the head and grab my briefcase. "And thank you for …” I search for the right words to adequately describe what a freeing feeling it is to have his support, to know I'm not crazy, to know the pieces of my past—but there aren't any.

  Dad gives my arm a reassuring squeeze. "Remember, the less Mom knows, the better."

  "But you won't let her drug me again, right?"

  "How about you don't take any pills that anyone gives you. It's a good life practice anyway."

  He's right.

  When I step outside, a gust of wind nearly knocks me over, and I hold down my hair to keep it in place. It's then that I notice the dirt smudges on my knees, the ice cream stain on my thigh. My sweater is wrinkled, and there's an unidentified green dribble down the front. Looks like bird poop. Not sure when a bird pooped on me, but it seems right considering the day I've had. Who knows what's happening with my hair or if that spider from earlier is still crawling around on me. The thought makes me shudder. I want to go home and clean up, but there's no time.

  I take a deep breath and go.

  Dad rolls down the window. "Remember what I said? We could really use the referrals," he hollers after me.

  I hold up my hand as an acknowledgement. He obviously doesn't understand how this works. There are no alarms that go off when someone is on death's door. At least I don't think there are. That would be a cool feature, though.

  As I approach the building, the automatic doors part, and I'm assaulted by the same urine and day-old cafeteria food odor. A man in a blue nurse's uniform walks by without acknowledging my presence.

  Good.

  What's not good is that Patricia Attwood, the nurse from the first time I visited, is sitting behind the counter on the phone. I grab a magazine off a side table in the waiting area, some tabloid with Jennifer Aniston on the cover, and use it to cover my face while I pass the nurses’ station. When I make it to the end of the hall, I discard Jennifer into a bin and duck into an alcove with a chair and telephone. I take a seat, open my briefcase, and pull out Reaching the Other Side.

  I remember there being a section on reconnecting with spirits. After scanning through the table of contents, I find it.

  There's no time to read all thirty-eight pages dedicated to the subject, and I skim through, picking up the basics.

  First I must close my eyes. Then I must … shoot. I open one eye and check the book, forgetting the second step.

  Right.

  Got it.

  Take a deep, calming breath and picture a door surrounded by white light. I'm not exactly sure what I'm supposed to do with the door … knock? Open it? Tap to the rhythm of “Shave and a Haircut”?

  “Hello, there," comes a crackly voice, and my eyes pop open. An old woman with blue hair and a multicolored afghan wrapped around her frail shoulders is talking to me. She's using a walker with pink tennis balls attached to the bottom. "Are you lost?" she asks.

  "Um … no.”

  "Then what are you doing?"

  "I'm … waiting to visit … a friend."

  "Who is your friend?"

  "Um … Ttttammmbra.” I pull a name out of my butt, assuming Tambra is an actual name.

  The woman's face lights up. "I know Tambra!"

  Okay, so I guess it is a real name. Who knew?

  "She's not in her room right now," the old woman says. "It's Tuesday, Bingo in the community area. I can take you to her."

  I open my mouth to respond but am interrupted by a high-pitched beeping sound.

  Holy crap. I do hear alarms!

  I stand and lean my ear closer to the woman. The alarm grows louder, and a group of men and women in blue uniforms turn the corner and run down the hall into a bedroom, one pushing a resuscitation cart.

  The woman peers up at me. “Hello, there. Are you lost?"

  "Um … no.”

  "Then what are you doing?"

  "Dammit, person!" Willie thunders into my eardrum, and I fall back into the phone. The receiver falls and dangles by the cord while I scramble to my feet.

  I can't believe it.

  He's back.


  Willie is back!

  He's standing there in the same fitted tan suit, dark tie, shiny black shoes, and a vintage homburg hat, looking as irritated as ever. My heart explodes in my chest, and I instinctually go to hug him, forgetting he's invisible, and end up stumbling over the chair and ramming my face into the wall.

  "Security!" The blue-haired woman starts shuffling down the hall. "Security, there's a maniac on the loose!" Her yell is an octave louder than her speaking voice, and no one can hear her, not over the alarm. "Security! We have a mad woman here! Security!"

  "Now look what you've done," Willie huffs.

  "Where have you been?" I ask.

  "What do you mean where have you been?" he repeats in a nasally mocking voice. "I've been here with you." He points his finger at my nose. "It took a great deal of self-control to not say something when you took my favorite car for a joyride."

  "Wait … you were with me then?"

  He looks at me as if I'm an idiot. "I told you, I can't stay away. No matter how much I want to. You were gone for maybe twenty minutes, and then suddenly I was in the backseat of my car. If I weren't already dead, watching you drive my baby would have killed me."

  "You saw everything? At the bed and breakfast, and the club, and at …” I bring my hand to my mouth. He must know about Ron and Betty. "I'm sorry," I say, my voice low.

  "What are you sorry about?"

  "I'm sorry about Betty and … you know."

  "You don't know anything. Their affair has not been confirmed."

  "But Betty had a laundry bag from Newsgate House, which is where Ron was staying."

  “So?"

  "And Ron recently split with his wife."

  "Because she had an affair with their tax attorney! Just because Ron and his wife are separated, that doesn't mean anything."

  "Willie," I say and take a step closer. "It's time to come to terms with the fact that Ron and Betty are having an affair."

  “No, they aren't."

  "Yes, they are."

  Willie crosses his arms. "Then what are we doing here?"

  "If you've been with me the whole time, then you know why I'm here. You saw The Gazette," I say and check down the hall. The blue-haired woman has shuffled three feet since I last checked. We have a little time before she makes it to the nurses’ station.

  Unless a nurse finds her first.

  We’d better hurry.

  I don't bother knocking on LeRoy's door. It's not like he'd give me permission to enter anyway. The curtains are drawn, and the lights are off. A quick glance at my watch says it's his nap time.

  Unfortunate timing.

  I grab the chair from the corner of the room and drag it closer to his bed. He stirs and wipes at his nose but doesn't wake.

  "LeRoy." I shake him by the shoulders. "LeRoy!"

  He smacks his lips, squinting one eye open.

  "It's Zoe," I say. "Zoe Lane. The girl you ran over with your car."

  LeRoy frowns and squeezes his eyes shut. "Get out of my room."

  "No." I scoot to the end of the chair. "We need to speak."

  “No, we don't."

  “Yes, we do. I've been communicating with Willie."

  LeRoy blows out a breath and laughs. "You're as nutty as your parents." He reaches for the call button, and I grab his arm.

  "Don't do that. This is important. See, I've been doing a lot of thinking this past week, and there are a few things gnawing at me. I've met Betty. She's beautiful, and kind, and she has a good heart. Yes, her decisions do cause pause, but I know you were fond of her."

  “No, I wasn't," he says too quickly.

  "I think the answer to that is yes." I take a moment to regroup. "I know the answer to that is yes."

  He mumbles under his breath.

  "I know Willie only proposed to Betty to prove to you all that he could. Makes sense. He's arrogant, wealthy, a royal pain in the—"

  "Get to the point!" Willie crosses the room.

  I suppress an eye roll. "Betty has been arrested for the death of Willie MacIntosh," I say.

  LeRoy waves his hand, as if this is of little consequence.

  Not the reaction I had hoped for.

  "Willie was poisoned," I continue, hoping to draw a reasonable reaction from him. "Someone snuck into his house Monday morning, using the hide-a-key in the backyard, and took his medication. They crushed it up and sprinkled it into his overnight oats. Betty wasn't there because she was at a bed and breakfast with Ron. It doesn't look good for her."

  LeRoy shrugs.

  He's as frustrating as his former best friend.

  I let go of his arm and slide onto the foot of his bed. "There are a few pieces of information only you can help us with, LeRoy. First, I have to admit that I borrowed your car last Tuesday morning."

  Leroy glares at me but doesn't say a word.

  "I drove it to Betty's house, but I parked it around the corner, out of sight. But what I just realized was that Arnie, Willie's next-door neighbor, said he'd seen someone at Willie's house and that it was you. At the time, Willie and I assumed that he had seen your car at Willie's. But Arnie couldn't have seen your car—it was parked around the corner—and he can't see over his ugly fortress of bushes which are clearly a violation of the HOA terms and conditions, section One-A and section Five-B …” Willie is in my ear, and I shoot Willie a stay on topic glance.

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah," he says and puts his mouth to my ear.

  "But he can see into Willie's backyard, specifically, his side yard." I shoo Willie away, wanting to use my own thoughts. "I never thought about the timing of everything until recently. I thought it was all a wild coincidence. But perhaps there is no coincidence. We view life as some big complicated mess, when in reality we're all pieces to a bigger puzzle that fit perfectly together to make—"

  "If you start getting philosophical on me, I'm going to vomit," Willie moans.

  I ignore him.

  "You knew Willie's gate code. You knew where the hide-a-key was. Monday morning, you ran me over while I was crossing the street in the pedestrian lane. I don't remember much, but I was told that you were badly shaken up. Which I attributed to your hitting me, but the pictures at the scene have me questioning something." There’s a shift in the air. Every hair on my body stands to attention. "You and Willie were best friends, but maybe not best friends as much as oldest friends. You'd known each other since childhood, and he had a tendency to take what was yours. Starting with Isabel and ending with Betty."

  LeRoy sits up with the aid of his adjustable bed. His eyes are almost black. I reach into my bra and grab the cufflink, keeping it grasped in my hand.

  "That morning, your car was facing south, but if you were on your way to Trucker it should have been facing north. You were wearing tan pants, a white shirt, and these." I uncurl my hand and show him the cufflink. "You dropped this one when you snuck into Willie's house to kill him."

  LeRoy's face remains unmoved.

  "You were on your way to the club for the gentlemen's meeting, where Willie was about to be named Member of the Century, but you made a detour to Willie's house."

  "That's enough!" Brian is in the doorway. He crosses the room in one stride, slams the pictures I'd asked him to bring onto the bed, and grabs his uncle's hands.

  LeRoy slouches, like he's fallen asleep.

  "You need to leave, Zoe," Brian says.

  "No." I stand my ground. Well … I sit my ground. My butt is still perched on LeRoy's bed.

  Brian shakes his head, looking betrayed. "Leave, please."

  “No, thank you."

  "Zoe, stop it. I'd appreciate it if you left."

  "I understand, but I do have to speak with your uncle."

  Willie moans. "This is the most polite argument I've witnessed."

  "Then I'll get the nurse." Brian leaves, and I grab the pictures and quickly flip through them. Willie is looking over my shoulder.

  First picture: LeRoy is holding the driver's side door.
He's wearing the beige pants and white shirt, but his right sleeve is down, and if I squint and turn my head to the side, I can see a single cufflink.

  The next picture: Brian is carrying me. It's an even more unflattering angle than the one printed. I look pregnant!

  The third picture is of LeRoy sitting on the curb, his face in his hands, and his left sleeve is not buttoned. There is no cufflink.

  Aha!

  LeRoy was on his way home from killing Willie, as I suspected. Which is exactly why I asked Brian to bring the pictures. If he were going to Trucker, he'd be going north. But his car is facing south. If I hadn't been walking (legally) in the crosswalk, he would have made it home.

  "You killed Willie. You took the key, broke into his home, and when you went to lock it on your way out, you were so frazzle that you broke the key. Then you went there to get the key out of the lock before you asked to be admitted here! You never fully forgave him for Isabel. It's not his fault she chose him. It's not his fault that she found someone else. It's not his fault Betty didn't want anything to do with you either. You killed me!" I stand up. "You selfish son of a bastard. You put the pills in my meal to teach me a lesson, but you didn't think it would kill me. I remember now. You tried to resuscitate me, but it didn't work, because of your damn arthritis. I told you to go see the rheumatologist! I remember everything."

  Willie has taken over my body, and I don't know which way is up or down, and my legs feel like goo. I grab ahold of the bed rail and struggle to catch my breath, and then suddenly I'm on the ground. My hand goes to my forehead, and I stare at the crimson covering my fingertips. LeRoy blurs into two, his arms above his heads with a potted plant in all his hands.

  Willie throws punch after punch after punch, growing more frustrated as his fists go straight through LeRoy.

  "He wasn't supposed to die," LeRoy chokes out. "He was just supposed to have diarrhea!"

  "You grabbed the wrong medicine, you fool!" Willie screams. "I died because you never got your damn cataract surgery!"

  Between the head contusion and the lack of energy, I'm paralyzed.

  LeRoy slams the plant down onto my head. My face is covered in soil and pieces of ceramic pot.