Making a Medium Read online

  "Which is the last thing Willie ate before he died," I say, remembering out loud. "And what you made him every night." I look at Betty. “It’s also how your psychic said he died.”

  Dang, I really do need her number.

  "But I didn't put his pills in there!" she cries out.

  "We could argue that you put the pills in there because Willie refused to take them on his own," Jackson says, writing this down on his paper.

  "But I didn't put his pills in there!"

  "They claim you were at the pharmacy Monday morning causing a commotion about needing to refill Willie's medication," Jackson says.

  Betty fumbles with her fingers and takes a deep breath. "Like I told Detective Manfreed, the reason I was upset at the pharmacy was because they wouldn't give me the medication. They had to call the doctor because it was too early for a refill. The doctor wasn't in and his front office staff wouldn't agree to refill it! Willie had just recently changed his blood pressure medication, and the doctor said it was vital that it be taken properly. Why would I put it in his oatmeal? He's not a dog or a child I needed to trick into taking medication. The truth is that I did not do it. Tell him, Zoe. Tell him what Willie said."

  Jackson slides his gaze to me.

  Please don't say it, Betty. Please don't say it, Betty.

  "She's a medium," Betty blurts out despite my mental pleas. "She sees Willie. What is he saying right now, Zoe?"

  I can feel Jackson's eyes beating into the side of my head. "Not much, actually," I say, mostly to the ground because I refuse to make eye contact with Jackson.

  "A medium?" Jackson doesn't hide the skepticism from his voice.

  Willie walks through the wall and disappears, which isn't like him. Makes me wonder if he questions Betty's innocence. Makes me wonder if I should question Betty's innocence.

  Jackson clasps his hands together, appearing as if he's about to lead us all in prayer but silently studies Betty instead. "I've known you and Willie for a while. I know Willie was arrogant and outspoken, but I also know that he adored you, which is why I want to help. But I need you to be completely honest with me, because once I start digging, I will find the truth."

  Betty stares him straight in the eyes. "I did not kill my husband," she says, unyielding.

  Jackson picks up his pen. "Then who did?"

  "Have you looked into Daniel?" I ask. "He had a clear motive."

  "The police say he has a rock-solid alibi, but I haven't seen a transcription of his interview yet," Jackson says.

  "There's also the key," I say. "The hide-a-key is missing, and on Tuesday it was broken in the garage door lock."

  Jackson pauses with his pen poised and ready, his brow furrowed. "I don't recall seeing a broken key on the list of evidence the police recovered from the MacIntosh home.” He looks to Betty, and she looks to me, and I look to Willie who is still nowhere to be seen.

  “So … um … here’s the thing. Someone came back and removed the key between Tuesday afternoon and Wednesday evening. So the police didn't have a chance to see it."

  "But you did?" Jackson asks me.

  "Well … um … here’s the thing. I didn't actually see it, but I know it was there."

  Jackson slides his chair back. "Can I talk to you in private?" He must be speaking to me since he's headed toward the door and Betty isn't permitted to leave.

  So I follow.

  We step outside, and Jackson closes his eyes, as if mentally composing himself, and I wait for him to finish.

  "I don't know who you really are," he finally says, his voice measured. "But there is no such thing as a medium, and what you're doing to Betty is unacceptable. I know she believes in psychics and all that other bull, but Willie didn't, and I don't. You're nothing but an opportunist looking for fame and money. You are not allowed near my client. Do you understand me?"

  "B-b-but Betty wants me here," I say.

  "Because she believes you see her dead husband," he says as if he's explaining something very simple to someone very stupid. "I have zero tolerance for frauds. Do you think that you're the first person I've run into who sees dead people?" He hooks his fingers into air quotes. "Now, wait here."

  I'm too shocked to protest. Jackson slips inside and returns with my briefcase, holding it between his forefinger and thumb like it's contagious.

  "Take this," he says, and I do.

  He steps back inside and closes the door behind him. I stand there, trembling in outrage. I'm tired of people calling me a fraud. I can see dead people, and I can prove it! I'm not sure how, but there's got to be a way!

  Feeling indignant and determined, I grab ahold of the door handle, ready to burst in and give Jackson Anderson and his beautiful mug a piece of my mind, but an officer barks at me to leave, and I do as I’m told.

  I mean, it's not worth being arrested over.

  "How'd it go?" Brian asks as soon as I step into the lobby. At first, I'm pleasantly surprised he waited for me, but then I remember with a crash of my ego that I'm his informant on the case, so of course he wants to know about my visit with Betty.

  "I'm not talking to you." I step around him and set my sights on the exit when suddenly the door blurs into two and I'm struck with a whoosh of vertigo.

  "Zoe?" Brian grabs ahold of my arm.

  I look around for Willie, but he's gone. "I-I-I'm fine," I say and close my eyes, attempting to regain my balance.

  "Let's sit down," Brian says.

  Good idea.

  Brian ushers me to a row of chairs lining the side wall, and I plop down with my head in my hands.

  "Water?" Brian asks, and I give a feeble nod.

  He returns with a Dixie Cup of room-temp water. I'm not sure what has come over me. It must be the stress of the situation. My body isn't used to this much excitement.

  I take a deep breath in through my nose and blow it out slowly through my mouth. Inhale … exhale … inhale … exhale … inhale … exhale …

  "Are you practicing Lamaze?" Comes a familiar voice, and I can't help but smile.

  Willie is back.

  I polish off the last of the water. The vertigo is gone, and I'm feeling better. "Thank you for your help, Brian. But I need to get going." I stand without assistance. Willie and I stride side by side toward the exit when I suddenly remember. "Um …” I smooth out my sweater. "Can … um … you give me a ride?"

  Brian grins, and my stomach does that fluttery thing, even though I'm upset with him. Stupid stomach.

  "I'd be happy to.” Brian spins his keys around his finger.

  "But I'm not divulging anymore information about Betty MacIntosh." I pretend to zip my lips close.

  "Fair enough." He holds open the door. "After you."

  "I don't mind if I do," Willie says and steps ahead of me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The car ride back to Fernn Valley is quiet. I'm too preoccupied for chitchat, which is good because Brian appears lost in thought anyway. Willie stares straight ahead with his hands on his kneecaps, feet planted on the floor, and back straight, like he's Forrest Gump waiting for bus number nine.

  When we reach The Gazette, I see our van parked out front.

  Great.

  "Why do your parents drop you off here every day?" Brian asks as he pulls into a parking spot.

  I unbuckle my seat belt. "They think I work here," I say, because my brain is incapable of producing any more lies.

  "Why do they think that?" Brian asks.

  I give a relenting sigh. "Because I needed a job to get out of the house, but don't worry, I'll tell them the truth."

  "So you're not working for another paper?"

  I shake my head no, feeling hot in the cheeks and completely humiliated.

  "Does Betty MacIntosh still think you're a reporter?" he asks.

  I shake my head no and reach for the car handle.

  "The internship is still open," Brian says.

  I let go of the handle and gape at him. "Really? You want me to work at Th
e Gazette … Wait, is it just so I can give you inside information about Betty?" Admittedly, I'd still say yes even if it was. Not that I'd tell him anything. Lesson learned. But I'd love a job. Except … I’m fairly certain "intern" is code for free employee, but at least it would be a step in the right direction.

  "I don't expect you to give me any information unless you want to." He pauses and runs his finger along the stitching of the steering wheel. "I'm sorry about today. I thought the information you provided was on the record."

  "Well, it wasn't." I hug my briefcase.

  "I misread the situation, and I apologize." His tone is husky, and I feel a bit flustered.

  "It's … um … well … good. I mean, it's fine." I can't concentrate on what I'm saying. My heart starts beating more quickly, and I'm suddenly aware of every movement I'm making.

  "Okay," he says.

  "Okay."

  "Good."

  "Good."

  “All right."

  “All right."

  Neither of us makes an attempt to exit the car. Instead, we sit there, side by side, eyes forward. There's a dumpster in front of us. It's a faded green color with the Fernn Valley Disposal logo stamped across the lid and trash bags piled to the top. Not exactly a lovely view, yet Brian and I are staring at it as if it's the most interesting thing we've ever seen.

  I sigh.

  He sighs.

  We do this for a while until Brian gives a short laugh and leans on the console between us.

  Willie slides to the middle seat in the back. "Hot damn! This fool wants to kiss you," he says, but even his commentary can't spoil the moment.

  I meet Brian's gaze and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His eyes are glossed over, almost as if he's in a trance, but I know it's not Willie because he's still in the backseat, biting at his fingernails, watching with wide eyes. So perhaps it's me. He's entranced by me.

  Brian puts a hand up to my chin and cups it for a moment, as if deciding what to do with it.

  Okay, so I've never been kissed before. But I've read a lot of romance novels, so I know how it goes. I know that he will gently pull my face up to meet his, and our lips will touch, and our tongues will dance, and my insides will shrivel into a giant ball of passion, and my heart will explode into a billion pieces.

  Except in my books the heroine's mother doesn't knock on the window and ask what's taking so long.

  Which is exactly what happens.

  Mom is standing outside, peering in, telling me to hurry up.

  Willie covers his eyes and falls to his side. "We were so close!"

  Yes, yes we were.

  If looks could kill—my mother would be dead.

  But she pays no attention to my death glare and pulls open the car door. "We're in a hurry, dear. Let's go." She grabs my briefcase off my lap. "Come, come."

  My cheeks are burning red, and I can't seem to move. Like my butt has attached itself to the seat.

  "Hi, Mrs. Lane." Brian gets out of the car. "How are you doing?"

  Mom forces a smile. "We're doing well, thank you." She bends down. "Zoe?"

  I feel so stupid but force my legs to move anyway. I step out of the car and yank my briefcase from my mother's grasp.

  "I'll talk to you later," Brian says.

  I'm too embarrassed to speak, so I give him a thumbs-up and stalk toward the van.

  "Wait for me, dear." Mom has on a black pencil skirt and is having a hard time catching up. Dad isn't in the van, and I fling open the front passenger side door, toss in my briefcase, and jump in. Willie appears in the seat behind me, with his legs crossed.

  "It's time to cut the cord," he says.

  Agreed.

  Mom slides into the driver’s seat and locks the doors. "How was your day?"

  I don't want to speak to her. There's no point. So I pull my seat belt on and keep my mouth shut. Mom doesn't press for more details and starts the van.

  "We sold the Attwood house," she says in an effort to start conversation.

  I don't respond.

  "It was a hard sell, too. Only has one bathroom and the kitchen was outdated, but we managed to find the perfect buyer." She smiles at me, but I keep my focus on my shoes.

  Mom continues to go on and on about the Attwood listing as if I care, when in reality, I don't. I'm too busy plotting how I can break free from her tightly wound parental cord and start living my own life. Kiss boys and go to work. Even drive!

  Note to self: go the DMV this week and start the necessary steps to obtain a driver’s license. Also, find out what the cost of living is in Fernn Valley.

  "May Day. May Day. May Day," Willie is chanting. "Houston, we have a problem!"

  I peer up and notice we're nowhere near home but on a bumpy back road that I've never seen before. "Where are we going?" I ask.

  "We're running a quick errand," Mom says with a forced smile.

  She's lying. I can feel it. The S name is flashing in her head, and panic rises inside of me.

  "Tell me where we are going,” I demand.

  Behind a bend in the road, I see a two-story Victorian-style building with a sign out front: Fernn Valley Mental Care.

  "Stop the car!" I unlock the door, and Mom locks it again, her finger on the button, ready to strike.

  "It's nothing to be upset about, Zoe," Mom says. "I did a tour this weekend, and it's a lovely place."

  I press unlock, and Mom locks it again.

  We do this for a while. Unlock. Lock. Unlock. Lock. Unlock. Lock.

  Curse you, stupid automatic locks!

  "You're not well, sweetie," Mom says. "We know everything. We know that you've been going around town talking to yourself. We know about the press conference today, and when I contacted Beth to talk about her possible listing, she told us you didn't have a job at The Gazette. Honey, it's not your fault, but you must let us help you."

  This is not happening. This is not happening!

  Even though it's proven to be a futile exercise, I press unlock again, and Mom quickly locks the door. I'm trapped! The panic rises up inside of me, and I unbuckle my seat belt, unsure of what to do. "Does Dad know?" I ask. Surely he wouldn't be okay with my mother taking me hostage.

  Mom's mouth pinches tight which answers my question. He doesn't know. "There are counselors here that can help you," she says, her voice laced with concern. I realize she's doing what she thinks is best for me, but I cannot go to a hospital. Not now. Not when Betty is in jail.

  Not ever!

  "We need to get out of here!" Willie is outside the van pulling at the handle to no avail.

  "Stop the car and unlock the door," I demand.

  "No."

  I break out into a sweat, my heart slamming against my chest, and I search the car, looking for something—anything—to help me escape. There's a water bottle in the cup holder. That will have to do, I decide. I grab the bottle and throw it toward my mother. It bounces off her forehead. She swerves off the road and is distracted enough for me to unlock the door, push it open, and fall out of the car. I roll down a slight embankment and land in a freaking rose bush.

  Ouch!

  "Let's go!" Willie says. "Get up!"

  I scramble to my feet and take off toward the woods. Mom shuffles after me with her legs still stuck together by her tight skirt, which works to my favor because we lose her quickly but keep going for good measure. I want to put as much distance between that hospital and me as I can.

  When we reach the main road, I grab ahold of a tree and stop to catch my breath.

  "That was a close one," Willie says. "That woman is crazy."

  "She's not crazy," I say between gasps for air. "She just thinks I am."

  "What are we going to do now?" he asks.

  I have no idea. I can't go home. I'm not going to call my dad for help and pit my parents against each other either.

  "Keep going, I guess." I swallow a few times, take a few breaths, and let go of the tree. We follow the road but stay hidden among the tre
es in case my mother drives by.

  What a mess.

  Just when I think my life has spiraled out of control—it spirals even more. And I have no idea what to do. My briefcase is in the van along with my wallet. I have my phone on me but no one to call.

  Willie kicks at the dirt. "You okay, kid?"

  "No." I pull a twig out of my hair. "Are you okay? You've been awfully quiet since we arrived at the courthouse."

  "I've been thinking, that's all."

  "About what?"

  "Life," he says reflectively. He's taking the news of his murder much better than I thought he would.

  But then again, since the moment he arrived he's maintained that there was nothing natural about the way he died. He's known all along he was murdered, and I'm the one who refused to believe him.

  Lesson learned.

  "Do you think Betty did it?" I ask him.

  "I don't think so," he says. He's so calm and soft spoken. It's very un-Willie-like, and frankly, it's freaking me out.

  Or perhaps I'm freaked because the sun has set and I'm walking through the woods with a ghost.

  The leaves crunch under my shoes, and I can hear an owl's "hoo-hooo" in the distance. I jump when a small creature darts from under a bush and scurries across the ground and up a tree. Likely a squirrel, but my mind conjures up all kinds of paranormal possibilities, and I know the only way I'm going to get through this night trek is if we keep talking.

  Unfortunately, Willie is not up for conversation.

  "Do you think it was Daniel?" I ask.

  "Not sure."

  "Do you want to talk about the list of fifty people? We can … um … go through each name and why … you um …think it's them …” Another small creature darts in front of me, and I nearly soil myself.

  "It's none of them," Willie says.

  "How do you know?"

  He doesn't reply.

  "Willie?" I ask. "Do you know who killed you?"

  He runs a hand down his face. "I'm working it out."

  I don't know what this means, so I say, "I don't know what you mean.”