Making a Medium Page 18

  But hella fun!

  With a big goofy grin on my face, I look over at the passenger seat, waiting for Willie's reaction when it hits me. He's not here.

  I blow out a sigh and wait for the community gate to open. I ever so lightly tap on the gas, and I'm on my way. First stop is Newsgate House. I've never been there before, and I have no idea where it is. I'm sure there's a feature on this futuristic dashboard that would happily point me in the right direction (heck, it might even drive me there), but I don't have time to figure out how to use it. A quick stop at the gas station for directions and fifteen minutes later, I'm at Newsgate House—a bed and breakfast.

  "Crud. I was hoping I'd be wrong," I say out loud and instinctually look at the passenger seat.

  He's not there.

  "This is for Willie," I say, out loud, again. A habit I'm really going to need to break.

  Newsgate House is a yellow cottage with a cobblestone walkway, dormer windows, and jasmine growing on the white picket fence. I fall out of the car (there's no graceful way to enter or exit this thing) and pull the door closed.

  "You've got this," I remind myself and pat my bra, where the cufflink is.

  A bell attached to the door announces my arrival. The inside of Newsgate is a jumble of several different styles—country chic, Victorian, there's a lamp in the corner that has a modern vibe to it, and the rugs are Persian. It's like the owners shopped estate sales and grabbed whatever furnishings were viable.

  A tall, slender man wearing a cardigan with elbow patches and a pink bow tie emerges from the sitting area. "Welcome to Newsgate House. Can I help you?"

  "Do you happen to have a gift shop here?" I ask.

  Bow Tie Man shakes his head. "No gift shop, but there is a market around the corner."

  My heart thunders. No gift shop means Betty wasn't here picking out a gift or buying new towels.

  "Did you want to make a reservation?" Bow Tie Man returns to the sitting area and grabs a thick reservation book, licks his fingertip, and flips through several pages. "We had a cancellation for next week if you're interested."

  "Um … actually.” I clear my throat. "My friend was here last week and … well … she sent me here because she left a … um … notebook. Yes, a notebook in the room and wanted me to get it. Her name is Betty MacIntosh."

  Bow Tie Guy doesn't fall for it. "If a guest left a notebook, I would have found it. Sorry."

  Right. Time for Plan B: the truth.

  "Look, I need to see if Betty MacIntosh was here Sunday night or early Monday morning, and if she was, I need to know who she was staying with. She's currently awaiting trial for the murder of her husband, and I need this information."

  Anyway.

  So that didn't work.

  After being asked to leave, I take a seat behind a bush across the street and wait for Bow Tie Guy to leave. Not exactly a great plan, but it's all I've got.

  Finally, Bow Tie Guy emerges with a watering can, which he fills using the spigot on the side of the house. He's rhythmically tapping his foot and swaying his hips, and it appears there are earbuds in his ears. And once he pushes open the back gate, I realize this is my chance.

  I cross the street—checking both ways for a car—and open the front door, using a stick to hold the bell up so it won't announce my arrival to anyone else who might be in the house.

  Coast is clear.

  I tiptoe to the living room and grab the reservation book. This thing goes all the way back to the 90s. I start at the end and flip backwards until I get to last Sunday and run my finger down the list of reservations until a name screams out at me.

  Ronald McDonald checked in on Thursday and checked out Tuesday morning.

  "Ronald Freaking McDonald!" I slap my hand over my mouth and listen for footsteps.

  Nothing but silence.

  Phew.

  I return the book and tiptoe back to the door, using the same stick to hold the bell, and hurry down the cobblestone walkway back to Willie's car.

  Ron lives in Trucker. What would be the point of staying in a hotel—more specifically, a romantic B&B—in the town you live in? And if Ron is married, why would he be staying by himself? Where is his wife? More importantly, why did Betty have a laundry bag from Newsgate Monday morning?

  I don't have a definitive answer to any of these questions. All I have are assumptions.

  And I'm assuming the answer is this: Betty stayed with Ron the night before Willie was murdered.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  If Betty and Ron were having an affair, then both of them had motive to kill Willie. My gut still tells me Betty didn't do it, but my gut also told me to steal a hundred-thousand-dollar car, so I'm not sure how trustworthy my gut is this morning.

  But I need more information on Ron, specifically, where he lives and where his office is. And while I don't know where he works, I do know where he plays golf on Tuesdays, and that seems like a good start.

  The country club is located near the lake and looks like your average country club. Single-story building with vines growing up the sides. Clean landscaping and golf carts scattered everywhere. I'm fairly certain you need a membership to enter, which is problematic since I don't have one. Instead, I wait near the entrance for someone to walk in.

  If Willie were here, no doubt he'd be impressed with my spying abilities. I'm practically James Bond. I mean, I've got the car.

  Two older men with silver hair, each one wearing beige pants and a white-collared shirt, shuffle toward the entrance.

  "Hello!" I jump up, and both men grab their chests.

  Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have been quite so energetic.

  "Oh … um … gosh … I’m sorry," I say.

  The first old man pounds his chest, while the second old man folds over into a dry, hacking, coughing fit.

  I pat Man Two's back. "Should I go get help?"

  Neither answer. Man One is still giving himself chest compressions while Man Two is too busy hacking up a lung. I guide them both over to the nearest bench, one on each arm. My plan was to strike up a conversation and casually follow them in—not to kill them.

  Some James Bond I am.

  "Now … um … stay here. I'll go get help." I run to the entrance and yank on the door. It's locked. I cup my hands around the window and see a man wearing beige pants and a white-collared shirt walking by. "Hello!" I pound on the glass. "Hello!"

  The man stops and looks around, unsure of where the noise is coming from.

  "Help!" I yell even louder and suddenly the door swings open.

  The man is around mid-thirties, black hair, dark eyes, small nose, impressive cheekbones, and nice eyebrows, which are currently squished together.

  "These two men out here need medical attention," I say breathlessly.

  The man rolls his eyes. "Arthur and Bernard are here," he hollers over his shoulder.

  Another man in beige pants and a white-collared shirt—I’m sensing a pattern here—pokes his head around the corner and does the same eye roll. "Let's go take them home," he says, and the two start toward my dying duo, leaving me enough room to slip in behind them. I feel guilty leaving the elderly men, but it's not like I can offer much help, at least not until after they die.

  The club's entryway looks like an upscale hotel lobby: it has cherrywood floors, beautiful sprays of brightly colored flowers adorn the console tables, a red oriental rug the size of a swimming pool is splayed out on the ground, and the curtains are long and velvet.

  Lucky for me it doesn't appear to be busy, and I follow the signs pointing toward the bar without being stopped.

  The bar is closed, which makes sense, it's not even eight o'clock. The chairs are still upside down on top of the tables, the floors are shiny and wet, and the lights are dim. The television is on behind the bar, and there's a woman watching the news while drying glasses.

  I carefully walk across the clean floor and slide onto a bar stool. The woman is engrossed in what's on the television screen. As
am I. It's footage from yesterday. Betty walking down the front steps of the sheriff's station with Jackson cautioning reporters to back away.

  “Oh, Betty," the bartender sighs. She's in her fifties, with dirty blonde hair twisted into a clip, and a smoker’s voice. "How'd you get yourself mixed up in all this?"

  I clear my throat.

  The woman turns around and swings the towel over her shoulder. "We don't open till ten, doll."

  "I'm not here for a drink," I say. "I came looking for someone, but maybe you can help me. Do you know Betty?"

  The woman places a glass on the shelf behind the bar and grabs a wet one from the peg tray. "I ain't talking to any reporters."

  "I'm not a reporter," I say. "I'm a friend of Betty's."

  “Oh, yeah," the woman's not buying it. "Then what's your name?"

  "Zoe."

  The woman frowns and shakes her head. "Yeah, I heard of you. Betty told me. You’re the one who claims to be seeing Willie."

  Oh, geez.

  I wonder how many people Betty has told?

  "I am a … medium, actually." It's still hard admitting this out loud—it sounds absurd.

  "My mom used to go to a medium all the time," the woman says. "Claimed she once got a message from John Lennon."

  "Who?"

  The woman gives me a look. "He was one of the Beatles."

  "Pffft. Oh, yeah. Of course." I pretend like this isn't new information.

  "As far as I see it, if talking to you helps Betty deal with the death of Willie, then it doesn't matter if you're real or fake. You ain't charging her money. That's my take on it." She puts down the glass and extends a friendly hand. "The name is Lin."

  I place my hand into hers. "Nice to meet you."

  "Dang, girl. Your hands are freezing. You should see a doctor about that. My great-aunt Gertty's hands were always cold. Then one day”—she snaps her fingers—“she dropped dead. Blood clot in the brain or something like that. Messed with her circulation."

  Well, that's a pleasant thought.

  "Um … I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks. Actually, I'm here looking for Ron McDonald." Seems too early to golf, but I don’t play golf, so what do I know?

  "Yeah, I seen him this morning."

  "Do you know where he is now?"

  "I seen him five minutes ago. He was here for the membership meeting this morning. You must have passed him on your way in. You know what he looks like?"

  "No," I admit. There weren’t any pictures of him on the internet.

  "He's got dark hair, and he’s about this high." She holds her hand about an inch above her head. So around five feet eleven. "Mid-thirties, and he's got great eyebrows."

  "I did see him! He was going to help two elderly men who were having a hard time living."

  "Ah, yes." Lin nods. "Arthur and Bernard. Now that Willie's gone, and LeRoy ain't coming around anymore, them two are our oldest members."

  Shoot. Ron said he was going to take them home. I walk to the other end of the bar and peek through the window. I can just barely see the benches where I left Arthur and Bernard—which are now vacant. No Ron in sight.

  I go back to the bar. "You don't happen to know where Arthur and Bernard live, do you?"

  "Not a damn clue." Lin drops a napkin in front of me. "Pick your poison. On the house."

  "Oh … um … Sprite.” I'm not experienced enough to know what poison I like. Also, I'm driving a car worth more than the house we live in.

  "Sprite it is." She uses a soda gun to fill up a glass and places it on top of the napkin.

  "Thanks. Do you think Ron will come back here?"

  "Not a damn clue." She drops a straw into my cup.

  Darn it. I'm on a tight schedule.

  I take a sip. "I'm assuming you worked here with Betty, right?"

  "Girl, I've been here thirty years."

  So that's a yes. "Were you around when Betty waited on Willie?"

  She lets out a short laugh. "I witnessed the whole thing. They'd sit over there." She points to the table in the corner. "Willie, LeRoy, Ron, and Jackson. They'd have a fifty-dollar tab and give her a fifty-dollar tip, every time. When Betty told me about the offer Willie made, I told her, I says, 'Honey, if that rich fool wants to make you a millionaire, take it.’" She shakes her head and wipes the counter in slow, rhythmic motions. "I would have told her to run if I'd known it was going to turn into this." She gestures to the television—a commercial for the local carpet cleaners—but I get what she means.

  "Do you think she did it?" I ask, cautiously. I don't want to upset Lin for multiple reasons. One being that I'm a little afraid of her. Not sure why. Could be the voice.

  "Doll, I'm as sure of her innocence as I am that I'm standing here. Betty couldn't hurt a fly, even if she tried. You know what that girl did?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "Two weeks ago my boy, Billy, was in the hospital with a bursting appendix. And I was stressing out. We don't have good insurance, and if I don't work, I don't get a check. That damn fool of a girl paid for my son's hospital bill. Then she showed up here with her apron on and covered my shifts, even if she ain't technically an employee anymore. Gave me her tips and paycheck for the days she worked. Does that sound like a killer to you?"

  No. No, it doesn't.

  "What do you know about Ron?"

  "Aside from the fact he's named after a burger place?" She slaps the towel back over her shoulder and leans in, folding her arms on the counter. "He's a chiropractor. Has an office off K Street. Let's see … he joined the club two years ago. Willie took him in right away. That Willie MacIntosh, he was like the quarterback of this place." She laughs. "An arrogant son of a gun, talked a lot about his money and how many women he'd been with over his life, and he'd take certain men under his wing. Always footed the bill. It's quiet around here without him. It's a damn shame he didn't make it to the celebration."

  "What celebration?"

  "He was named the club's man of the century, and they were having a big party Monday morning to surprise him. But he never showed up."

  I choke on my Sprite. "They were having a surprise party here, for Willie, on Monday morning?"

  "Sure were. We were all waiting for him when we got the call."

  "When you say we all, who exactly do you mean?"

  "I mean everyone at the club."

  A Monday morning surprise celebration for Willie means that's likely where LeRoy was headed to when he hit me.

  "Did Betty know about it?" I ask.

  "You know what? I don't know if she did or not. I assumed one of Willie's guys told her."

  It seems like something she would have mentioned.

  "Was Ron here?"

  "I don't remember," she says.

  Shoot.

  "Do you know anything else about Ron?" I ask.

  "Let me see … what else about Ron?" She clicks her tongue while she thinks. "I know he's going through a divorce."

  "Wait, what?"

  "He left his wife a couple of weeks ago," she says, and my head implodes.

  I stand up. "Did he say why he left his wife?"

  "Couldn't tell ya. I do know he had a thing for Betty."

  "Did she have a thing back?"

  "Couldn't tell ya."

  This is huge! If Ron left his wife because he was in love with Betty, then there's his motive. Now I just need to verify that Ron is missing a cufflink, and I can turn this information over to … crap. Who I can I give this information to? Not Manfreed. I don't trust him, and I think the feeling is mutual. Jackson thinks I'm a fraud …

  Brian.

  I'll turn the information over to Brian.

  "Where are you going?" Lin calls after me.

  "I'm going to K Street," I say over my shoulder as I run out the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  McDonald Family Chiropractic is in a strip mall on K Street, wedged between a dry cleaner and a shoe repair store, about a block from the funeral home. It's 8:45, and Ron's there. I can see him through
the window, sitting at the receptionist's desk, talking on the phone. By process of elimination, I decide his car is the silver Mercedes parked out front. The vanity plate BCKMAN—as in Back Man (it took a minute to get it)—and the frame saying I'd rather be golfing, gave it away.

  The bad news is the office doesn't open until noon.

  I knock on the front door, but he doesn't hear me. I could tap on the window, but last time I did that, the sheriff was called. I don't feel like being arrested, so I decide to wait until Ron gets off the phone. Until that happens, I'm sitting in a stolen car, with a key piece of evidence shoved in my cleavage, stalking him.

  It would make for an entertaining police report.

  All signs point to Ron and Betty having an affair. He left his wife. Argued with Willie the week before he died, accused Willie of enticing Betty with his money, which was right before he threatened to kill Willie. Sounds like a furious lover, if you ask me. And I would know. I read the entire Furious Lovers series by KR Tush. So I'm basically an expert.

  This has lover's vendetta written all over it.

  Ron is still on the phone, and I rest my forehead on the steering wheel and continue to watch. My head beats in time with my heart, and I feel a bit shaky all over. Could be the anemia. Mom wasn't around this morning to shove a pill down my throat, and my body is running low on iron.

  My thoughts return to yesterday—the treatment center, rolling out of the car, running away, the forty-two missed calls currently on my phone. I know Mom is desperately trying to do what she believes is right. But that doesn't change the fact that she's hiding something from me. I can't trust her, not until she comes clean.

  I deserve to know the truth.

  Finally, Ron hangs up the phone, grabs a notepad, and jots something down. He's left-handed, which doesn't mean much to the case, except for the fact that I'm left-handed, and I feel a sense of solidarity. He crosses the main waiting area with the note in hand.

  It's go time!

  I will confront Ron, tell him that I know he was involved in Willie's death, and force him to come clean for Betty's sake. And if he refuses, I'll show him the cufflink, and if that doesn't work, I'll call Brian and give him the story.