Making a Medium

by Erin Huss

"I told you to leave me alone!" LeRoy lowers to one knee and reaches for my neck. He's moving in slow motion. If I had my wits, I could give him a soft kick, and he'd tumble over.

  Unfortunately, my wits have abandoned me. So has Willie. He's left the room—not that he could do much to protect me in this situation.

  "LeRoy!" comes a familiar voice. "What are you doing?"

  LeRoy is distracted long enough for me to crawl back on my elbows.

  "What is happening?" Brian helps LeRoy to his feet. Willie is beside him.

  "She attacked me," LeRoy points a bent forefinger right at me.

  If I weren't so physically drained, I might laugh.

  "He killed me!" Willie is screaming in Brian's ear. "He killed me!"

  Brian helps LeRoy into a chair, and a nurse runs in and stumbles back when she sees me lying on the ground, surrounded by soil.

  "Should I call the police?" she asks Brian.

  He looks at the plant, then at his uncle, then at me, then at the plant again.

  "LeRoy killed me, you idiot. Pay attention!" Willie is now in Brian's face. "I know you've got a brain in there. Use it!"

  I roll to my side and rest on my elbow, still struggling to remain awake. "LeRoy accidentally killed Willie. He slipped him the wrong medicine. I bet if you check his property or his car, you'll find that broken key," I say.

  Brian looks at LeRoy. "Is this true?"

  LeRoy rests his hands on his knees, face pointed to the floor.

  "Is it true?" Brian asks again.

  LeRoy closes his eyes, clutches his chest, and falls back.

  “Oh, get up, you big faker!" Willie nudges LeRoy with the tip of his shoe. "LeRoy?"

  Oh, geez.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Dr. Girt, the same emergency room doctor who diagnosed me with an iron deficiency and prescribed me antipsychotic meds, is standing at my bedside with his iPad. "You have a minor concussion, three stitches, and you're still anemic."

  "Wanna know something?" I signal Dr. Girt to come closer and cup my hand around my mouth. "I see dead people."

  Dr. Girt types this information into his iPad.

  "You're high,” Willie says. "I want to know what they put in your IV, because I want some."

  "Mmmhmmm. High as a …” I raise my hand, searching for the right word. "As a … as a … My friend here invented the space ship," I tell Dr. Girt.

  "A part of the fuel system," Willie corrects.

  "I'm sorry." I grab the sleeve of Dr. Girt's white jacket. "He invited the fuel."

  "It's invented not invited and … never mind," Willie grunts.

  Dr. Girt yanks his arm free. "I called your parents, and they should be here soon. Hang tight."

  I salute the doctor as he pulls the curtain around my bed.

  "I don't think he likes me so much," I tell Willie.

  "I know he doesn't like you so much. He rock-paper-scissored with the another resident to see who had to take you when you were brought in."

  "I still think calling an ambulance was over-dramatatacized."

  "It's MelBorne. There are two ambulances waiting in the parking lot at all times."

  "Oh. Mmmmkkaay. I'm sorry about, you know … the whole dying thing," I say. "Sucks when your best friend kills ya, huh?" My brain filter was busted in the Pot versus Zoe battle, because I have no control over the words falling out of my mouth. "And it looks like your wife had an affair with a much younger man who is hotter than you. That really sucks.” My empathy must have also been busted in the battle.

  "Nah. It's fine. I had a good life with a lot of women. And LeRoy didn't mean to do it."

  "You forgive him? Just like that?"

  "I'm dead. What am I supposed to do?"

  "It's always about a girl, isn't it?" I say, my voice unnecessarily loud and slurred. "Also, I don't think you were a good person when you were alive." I slap my hand over my mouth. "I didn't mean to say that."

  Willie heaves a sigh. "Don't be. I'm beginning to think you're right."

  I open my mouth and pause. “Oh, no. My parents are here." I can feel my mother coming.

  The curtain swings open, and there she is, wearing the same tight skirt as earlier. Dad is holding her by the elbow.

  "Zoe!" Mom practically throws herself onto the bed. "Your face." She touches the bandage above my right eyebrow. "Old Man LeRoy really has it out for you. I don't understand it."

  "He killed Willie MacIntosh." Sheriff Vance saunters into the room, belly first. "We found the key in his backseat of his car. Then he confessed before …"

  "Before what?" Willie and I ask.

  "Before he passed."

  Willie and I gasp in unison.

  "He did die," I say in almost a whisper.

  "They were able to revive him enough to talk and get him here, but he ended up passing a few minutes ago," Sheriff answers, giving me a peculiar glare that—even in my drugged state—causes my insides to shrivel.

  "I told you it wasn't Daniel MacIntosh," Mom is saying to the sheriff. "And that old man tried to kill my daughter not once but twice. This is unbelievable. What are you going to do about it?"

  Dad taps Mom's arms. "Sweetie, Old Man LeRoy died."

  Mom acts like this is the first she's hearing this information. "Oh, my. Well … okay.”

  The news sinks in, and I fight with the drugs in order to truly comprehend what has happened. LeRoy is dead. I check the room. And he's not here.

  Thank goodness.

  But Sheriff Vance is. He's still standing at the foot of my bed, rubbing his belly.

  "Do you need a statement from Zoe, Vance?" my mom asks.

  "Not right now. I only came to see how she was doing and to give her the sad news." His voice has an edge. "She cracked the case. Not sure how, but she did it."

  "She's always had a flare for true crime," my dad says, and I suck in my bottom lip, afraid I might blurt out the truth.

  "You take care of yourself," the sheriff says to me and gives me one last glance before he leaves.

  It could be the drugs, but I swear Sheriff Vance doesn't trust me.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The next few days fly by in a post-concussion blur. Betty is vindicated. The press is all over the story, but there is no mention of me—about which I'm equal parts relieved and peeved. Relieved no more attention has been brought to my gifts. Peeved because no one has acknowledged my help. I don't need a full-page spread in The Gazette or anything crazy like that, but a "Hey, thanks for solving a murder," would be nice.

  Mom is as frantic as ever—is it illegal to toss a Xanax into someone's mouth while they're talking or is it just frowned upon? She drugged me. I think it's only fair I get to drug her.

  No word from Brian—not even a sorry my uncle tried to kill you. Hope you're well note, or a phone call, or a fruit basket.

  Which is fine.

  I don't have time to worry about feelings and internships (assuming I still have one), because as soon as Betty was vindicated Daniel contested the will.

  Which was a shock to no one.

  "I still don't think we should be here," I say to Willie. There's a Bluetooth in my ear—a present from Dad. It doesn't actually connect to my phone, but it does prevent people from thinking I'm crazy.

  "Daniel is not taking my money, and it's your job to make that happen. Suck it up."

  "You don't have to be so grumpy," I say as I climb the courthouse steps. "If you had used a lawyer to alter your will, none of this would be happening."

  "If you learned how to dress, we wouldn't be running late!"

  "Gah! You're impossible today." I stop to rummage through my briefcase, in search of loose change for the homeless man lying across three steps. It's the same transient guy in a Davy Crockett hat with a long beard I saw walking along the frontage road near Willie's house the day I had the meltdown.

  "What are you doing, person!" Willie pulls at his tie. "We're going to be late!"

  "Slow your roll," I mumble and dr
op twenty-seven cents into the man's hand.

  "Bless you," he says in a gruff voice and flashes me a toothless grin. "God bless you."

  I smile back and dash up the remaining steps to the courthouse entrance before Willie has another fit. I pass through the metal detector and am deemed safe to proceed. "Are you sure you want Betty to have the money?" I ask once I'm reunited with my Bluetooth.

  "Yes. Stop asking me that question."

  The courtroom is busier than I anticipated. The gallery is filled with news reporters covering the case. At the front is the judge—a woman with a stiff blonde bob and purple-rimmed glasses. Betty is sitting with Jackson at one table, and Daniel is sitting beside the man with the light bulb-shaped head at another.

  The judge bangs her gavel, and everyone stands.

  Wait … what? I check the time. We're fifteen minutes late. There's no way it's over.

  Willie clenches his fists. "I told you to hurry up!"

  "We could have left earlier if you weren't so picky about what I wear." I had on my sensible blue pantsuit, and Willie threw a toddler-like tantrum until I slipped into jeans and a pink shirt. I added the floral cardigan to tie the outfit together.

  "I still think you should burn that sweater," he says.

  "Noted."

  A reporter gives me a sideways glance, and I point to my ear. "Bluetooth," I mouth.

  Dad really is a genius.

  I snake through the crowd to Betty. Jackson rolls his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

  "I'm sorry," I say, feigning ignorance. "I forget. Was it you who vindicated your client, or was it me?" I tap my chin, pretending to be deep in thought.

  Willie laughs.

  So does Betty.

  Jackson leaves.

  "I'm glad you came." Betty leans over the divide and gives me a hug. She looks beautifully shattered. Her hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, her makeup is under-exaggerated, and she's wearing a sensible dark blue pantsuit with pinstripes. Although hers is tighter, and she's wearing six-inch heels.

  "I'm sorry we're late," I say. "What did we miss?"

  Betty heaves a telling sigh. "It doesn't look good, Zoe. Jackson said ninety-nine percent of wills sail through probate court, but this is the one percent. Daniel is arguing that I tricked Willie into giving me everything when he'd agreed all along to leave his inheritance to Daniel. And since Willie crafted the will himself and had it witnessed by two men who are dead …” Her voice trails off, and she shifts her eyes to Daniel, who is smiling triumphantly and shaking his lawyer's hand. "I really think the judge is going to throw out the will."

  "Crap!" Willie kicks at the floor and continues to push profanity through his teeth.

  "What happens if the judge does that?" I ask Betty.

  She looks over her shoulder then nods her head toward the exit. "It's better if we don't talk about this here."

  I follow her out a side door into a small courtyard, away from reporters. "Did Willie have a will stating Daniel would get everything?" Betty asks. "Daniel said there was one, but Jackson and I have looked through all of Willie's documents and torn apart his room, but we haven't been able to locate it."

  "She tore apart my room?" Willie asks. "Tell her to put it back like she found it."

  "What does it matter if you're dead?" I mutter.

  "Because you leave a man's room alone—dead or alive. It's common courtesy."

  I roll my eyes.

  "Does he know where it is?" Betty asks.

  Willie kicks at the ground and whistles a jolly tune.

  "Willie?" I say. "Where is it?"

  He shrugs and keeps whistling.

  "Willie, where is the will?"

  He pretends to zip his lips and saunters off to inspect a tree.

  Gah! He's back to his infuriating self.

  "What happens if you can't find the original will?" I ask Betty.

  "I don't know for sure. Jackson uses a lot of big words when he talks about it, but it seems like if the judge throws out the will, it would be as if there isn't one." She twists her fingers, like she isn't sure of herself. "I'd still get everything since Willie didn't have any children."

  "Okay, that's good news," I say loud enough for Willie to hear.

  "Except Jackson thinks Daniel will fight it."

  "That's not great news," I say more at a whisper.

  "I'm just tired of all this, Zoe. Would Willie be mad at me if I split the inheritance with Daniel?"

  "Yes!" Willie bellows into my ear, and I stumble backwards. "I'll never forgive her."

  Geez.

  "Obviously Daniel didn't kill Willie. So it's not like he's this horrible person," Betty continues. "And he does have a family, and, like, he is Willie's nephew." I can tell she's trying hard to rationalize this decision.

  Willie steps between Betty and me and claps his hands together, looking straight at me. "Repeat this," he says. "Tell her that I didn't marry her because she was the great love of my life or even because I wanted a wife. At first, I wanted to razz my friends. I'll admit that. And it worked, obviously, since I'm now dead. When I asked her to marry me, I never intended to actually marry her. It was after she moved in and I got to know her that I realized what a genuine person she is. I married her because I didn't want Daniel to be my legacy. I didn't want my hard work to go to a man who would buy boats, and pools, and use my money to have fun and gamble it away. Betty will use it for good. She'll donate it to all her charities, and help her friends, and the animal shelters, and all that crap. I want her to get married, have kids, and send them off to college, and have the life she always wanted. That's why I want her to have the money."

  And it all makes sense.

  Finally!

  The sincerity of his words touches my heart, and I have a hard time repeating this to Betty without getting chocked up.

  "And I don't give a damn about Ron," he adds.

  "He doesn't care about you and Ron," I say to her.

  Betty steps backwards, looking alarmed. "W-what about Ron?"

  "We know you and Ron were together at the bed and breakfast in Trucker the night before Willie was killed."

  Betty looks completely shell-shocked. "I was not with Ron! You take that back." Now I'm the one shell-shocked. Betty has never raised her voice before. "Why would you say that in front of Willie?"

  "Where you not at Newsgate House on Monday morning? I saw the bag on your floor."

  "Are you talking about the laundry bag?"

  "Yes."

  She shakes her head. "I offered to do his laundry because he and his wife are going through a divorce."

  "Told ya!" Willie says with a triumphant smile. "No affair. You were wrong. I was right."

  "Nothing happened between you and Ron?" I ask, trying to gauge her expression.

  Betty lifts her eyes. "No."

  I'm confused by this response; I should probably ask more precise questions. "I heard you say I love you to someone on the phone the night I slept at your house. Who were you talking to?”

  "Ron," she says, her voice small.

  Willie stops mid-celebration.

  "We were close, but nothing actually happened until after Willie died," she says in a panic. "I swear, all I did was grab his laundry for him. Please don't be mad. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I swear! Is Willie mad?"

  Willie explodes. "The man has a horrible swing! Really? MacDonald? He plays like he’s blind.”

  Betty's staring at me anxiously. "What does he say?"

  "Um … I think he's okay with it," I say.

  "He better not touch my cars, or my clubs, or take my parking spot at the club."

  I give Willie a you're dead, why does it matter? look.

  "Tell her."

  Fine. "Willie asks that Ron not touch his cars, or his clubs, and that he not take his parking spot," I say.

  Betty's entire face lights up. "Willie was always very particular about his things," she says.

  "Yeah, I've noticed."

 
Chapter Twenty-Nine

  According to Reaching the Other Side, the reason we are visited by spirits is because they have unfinished earthly business to tend to.

  Willie's killer has been caught.

  We know the motive.

  It appears Betty will inherit Willie's fortune just as he wanted.

  No one will touch his cars or his parking spot.

  It seems his earthly business is finished.

  Yet, here he is. Standing beside me, sulking. "I hate book festivals."

  "When was the last time you went to one?"

  "Never, because I hate them."

  I ignore Willie because even though this is my first book festival, I already know that I love them. I've never seen Earl Park look better. Colorful balloons tied to every surface, triangle banners hung around the gazebo, couples strolling hand in hand eating ice cream, and popcorn, and baked goods from Butter Bakery or one of the many other vendors present. In front of the gazebo are tables dedicated to the authors who have turned out for the event.

  I reach into my briefcase and pull out the Sizzling Postmen series Rosa gave to me years ago. She told me I was the only one who checked them out and she needed the shelf space. Who was I to turn down free books?

  Don't fangirl, I remind myself. Keep it together and act cool, calm, and collected.

  Crap, I'm almost certain I'm going to get weird. But how often does a famous author like TR Kuss come to little ol' Fernn Valley? There isn't an author picture on the back of her books, but I imagine she's in her twenties, with choppy hair and at least three tattoos. I bet she has a nose piercing and pink highlights. Her bedroom scenes are so detailed that I'm sure she's had a lot of boyfriends. Maybe she can give me a few pointers because as of yet, I've kissed exactly zero men, let alone visited anyone's bedroom, or bathroom, or locker room, or fire station, or elevator …

  "You're drooling again," Willie says.

  Oops. Right.

  Don't fangirl, Zoe.

  Keep it cool.

  I search for the TR Kuss sign and spot it beside a children's book author. I blow out a breath and step up to the table with my books clutched in my hands and …

  Willie folds over in a laughing fit.