Making a Medium Page 5

  "There it is." Willie points to a colonial-style home at the end of the street, and I stop the car.

  "Willie," is all I can say. The house is gorgeous. The most beautiful home I've ever seen. Which is saying a lot. With real estate agent parents, I've seen a lot of gorgeous homes. Well, pictures of gorgeous homes. Willie's mansion has a stone facade with more windows than I can count. Each window is adorned with dark blue shutters. The door is red and the landscaping pristine. Despite its vastness, the house is warm, approachable, and friendly. The kind of house you see on a Christmas card or on a picture hung in the doctor's office.

  "Park around the corner out of sight," says Willie. "You're not pulling this thing into my driveway nor are you parking it in front of my house. That's the rule when LeRoy visits me, too."

  "What a nice friend you are." I park around the corner at the curb. Well, more like on the curb, and the front right wheel might be on the grass. But, hey, this is my first attempt at driving. I open the door and … "Whoa! Why is the car moving?"

  "You have to pull the parking brake!"

  "Oh, right." I jump back in and yank the parking brake. The car stops, and I exit again. This time the car stays where I put it.

  "What am I supposed to say?" I ask Willie as we climb up the long circular driveway. "Hi, my name is Zoe. Your dead husband thinks he was killed."

  "Tell her you're a reporter doing an article on me and ask if you can interview her."

  Willie is much better at crafting lies than I am. "Should I grab my briefcase then?"

  "Why in the world would you do that?"

  "To look more professional."

  "So help me, if I had the use of my hands, I'd burn that monstrosity."

  "It's a good thing you don't because that briefcase was almost thirty dollars." We step up to the door, and I ring the bell. A melody of chimes announces our arrival, and a dog barks in the distance. “You're not a very nice person, do you know that?" I add.

  "Yeah, yeah."

  The door opens, and I come face-to-boob with a life-size Barbie in a black bikini. This can't possibly be … “Mrs. MacIntosh?"

  She gives me the once-over. "That's me."

  I thought Betty MacIntosh would be, gee, I don't know, old. I pictured her with white hair and arthritic hands. The real Betty can't be more than thirty. If that. She has a raspy voice and eyes so blue they're almost see-through. The dog at her feet is a little terrier mix with scruffy gray hair, a brilliant red collar, and an impossibly long tongue.

  Willie walks past Betty and disappears.

  Gee, thanks. Guess I'll do this alone.

  I clear my throat to buy time. Betty’s beauty, and house, and cute dog intimidate me. And it's really hard not to stare at her cleavage. Not because cleavage is my thing. But because it's at eye level and quite impressive—as far as cleavage goes. I guess. “Um …” I tuck a strand a hair behind my ear, feeling self-conscious. I should have worn my navy pantsuit today. "My name is um … Zoe and I'm a reporter for um … the … um … the paper?" That's the best name I can come up with. "Can I ask you a few questions about Willie MacIntosh?"

  Betty surveys me from head to toe with a skeptical tilt of her head. "You said your name is Zoe? With a Z?"

  "Um … yes.” I have a feeling that I'm about to get a door slammed in face.

  Betty props one hand on her hip. "What's your last name?"

  I'm hesitant to give her my real name, but something tells me I should. And that something is Willie who has returned and is yelling in my ear to, "Hurry the hell up! Tell her your name and get on with it!"

  "Lane," I say. "Zoe Lane."

  Betty claps a hand over her mouth. "Lane? With an L?"

  "Um … yeah.”

  Her eyes gloss over and, before I know it, her arms are wrapped around me. She smells like vanilla. Unsure of what else to do, I keep my arms plastered to my side.

  Betty releases me and fans her face. "Come in. Come in." She opens the door wider. "Come. Come. I'm so happy you're here."

  That was easy.

  Too easy.

  I step inside and realize I'm still wearing my sneakers. They're almost unrecognizable, dirty from Old Man LeRoy's driveway and unworthy of the marble floor I’m standing on. "Would you like me to remove my shoes?" I ask, but Betty is already gone. She's on the couch in the living room with her feet tucked under her little butt. The dog is curled up at her side, tongue still dangling from its mouth.

  I decide to slip off my shoes and place them by the umbrella holder in the entryway. I’m cold, and I shove my hands into my pockets to keep them warm. My socks are slippery, and I nearly tumble down the single step into the living room—if you can call it that. It looks more like an Ethan Allen showroom with large bay windows overlooking a small garden and the calm lake.

  "Go ahead and have a seat." Betty gestures to one of two chairs. I pick the one closest to her and sink three feet into the cushion.

  Oh, my. I want to take a nap in this chair.

  "I'm sorry about the temperature." She sweeps her golden locks into a bun at the top her head, and, of course, it looks perfect. Like she spent thirty minutes pinning every hair into place. "The thermostat is stuck at eighty-five.”

  Willie appears in the other chair with one foot propped on the ottoman. "That’s because I put a lock on the heater."

  I roll my eyes, but Betty doesn't notice.

  "The temp is fine." I bite at my lip, not sure where to begin. I've never interviewed anyone before, and coming right out and asking how Willie died feels insensitive. So I start with the obvious. "I'm very sorry for your loss, Mrs. MacIntosh."

  She looks up and frowns. "You can call me Betty, and thank you. You know what? You're the first person to say that to me. Everyone assumes I was with Willie because he was rich. I'm totally heartbroken. I mean, look at me." She opens her arms, and I'm not sure what exactly I'm supposed to be looking at. "I'm obviously in a state of mourning here."

  Still confused.

  "She's wearing black," Willie clarifies.

  Oh, right. Black bikini. State of mourning. Got it.

  "How long were you two married?" I ask.

  "Almost two weeks. I know it may sound silly, but I thought we had at least another year together. Willie was in great shape for his age."

  "Told you." Willie smirks.

  "I mean, he couldn't … you know … but I was fine with that."

  Ew.

  Willie shrugs. "I'm ninety-three years old. Been there, done that. Don't need to do it anymore."

  Oh, geez.

  "How did you two … um … meet?” I ask.

  "Why does it matter?" Willie scoffs. "Ask how I died and get on with it."

  "I'm conducting an interview," I say through a smile. "I need to ask more than one question."

  "You can ask whatever you want. I'm an open book," Betty says. "I worked as a waitress at the country club where Willie and his friends played golf on Tuesdays and Thursdays. One day, Willie asked me if I'd like to marry him, and I said yes."

  "Just like that?" I ask in shock. "You just married him?"

  "No, silly. Not just like that." She snaps her fingers. "We dated for two months before we went down to the courthouse to make it final." The memory curves a weak smile on her face. "He said he didn’t want to spend the time he had left in this big house alone and that I could stop waitressing and spend my time doing what I'm passionate about."

  "Which is?" I ask, half expecting her to say something like shopping, or working out, or hot yoga. Not that I enjoy stereotyping anyone. But a beautiful young blonde marrying an old rich man is the premise for the entire Hot Bazillionaire series—which is my least favorite of all the romance books I’ve read.

  Betty grabs a magazine off the side table and uses it as a fan. "I’m passionate about humanitarian work."

  Oh.

  "She spends her free time volunteering at the Trucker Teen Center, working with kids who are struggling at home,” Willie says proudly. �
�Bet you pegged her for a blonde bimbo, huh?”

  “Pffft … no.”

  “What was that?” Betty asks.

  “Um … I said … that’s great.”

  “I’m finishing my master's in social work,” Betty says. “Do you know how many children are currently in the foster care system?”

  “Uh … no.”

  “Over sixty thousand children in California alone,” Betty and Willie say in unison.

  So Willie MacIntosh does have a softer side. Who knew?

  “It’s awful, Zoe. I know I’m just one person, but I think I can help,” Betty says. “So when Willie said I could quit my job and concentrate solely on my charities and education, I said yes.”

  "It was a bet," says Willie. "The guys didn't believe I could still get any girl I wanted, so I proved them wrong."

  "Excuse me?" I ask.

  "I said that I took him up on the offer," Betty repeats. "Shouldn't you be writing this down?"

  Probably. “I, um … am recording it.”

  "Really?" Betty asks. "Where is the recorder?"

  I blow out a breath. That's a good question. I pat around my pockets and pull out the pen Dad gave me. "This is a recording device." I give it a click.

  Betty looks skeptical but doesn’t question me on it.

  "Can you tell me more about how Willie died?" I feel intrusive asking, but I only have so much time before Old Man LeRoy wakes, and Willie looks as if he's about to have a coronary if I don't ask soon.

  Assuming ghosts can have coronaries.

  Betty lowers her head and picks at a scab on her leg. "It's still weird to think he's gone. I'd been away shopping all morning. When I came home I dropped my bags in my room then came downstairs …” She points directly at Willie and his eyes go wide.

  Oh, my …

  "Holy hell. Can you see me?" he asks.

  "He was on that chair, sitting in a weird position," she says, still pointing. "I thought he was asleep, but when I tried to wake him, he just … fell over." She blinks, tears pooling in her eyes. Willie jumps out of the chair and moves to the other side of the room. "He wasn't breathing. I tried to do CPR, but it didn't work. By the time the paramedics got here, he was already … dead.”

  I can feel her shock and sorrow. But there’s another emotion there … one I can’t quite place. I’m still figuring out this whole feeling other peoples’ feelings thing. "Do you know how he died?" I ask.

  "The medical examiner said it was likely natural causes." The tears spill down her cheeks, and she buries her head into her hands. I move to the couch. Too afraid to touch her, I keep my hands on my lap. I know they're cold, and she doesn't have much clothing on. This must be why I'm here. Both Betty and Willie need closure, and it's my duty to provide that for them.

  Willie tilts his hat back. "It's one-two-three-four."

  I mouth, "What is?"

  "The code to the thermostat. It's one-two-three-four. I never told her because I didn’t want her changing the temp. She thought keeping the house at eighty-five wasn’t good for my arthritis. But I don’t care. I’m old, and if I want it to be eighty-five, then I’ll keep it at eighty-five. But I suppose she doesn’t have to live in tropical conditions if she doesn’t want to."

  "Betty," I say. "I can help you with your thermostat."

  She looks up at me with mascara-stained cheeks. "You can?"

  "Yes." I take her by the hand, and she flinches. "And please know that Willie cared for you more than he ever thought he could. You made him a better man. The way you put others before yourself. The way you looked after him. Like how you'd go to Butter Bakery in Fernn Valley and buy him those bran muffins he likes every Saturday morning. Or how you'd make his overnight oats in the evening before you went to bed. Or when you insisted on attending all his doctors’ appointments and took notes. He noticed everything, and even though he never said it, he cared for you. You made these last few months remarkable …” I shake my head, as if waking from a daydream. Willie is standing silently with his hat in his hands, starring at the floor, and I realized those were Willie’s thoughts. He did care for Betty. He is more than a grumpy old man (mostly). Maybe dating Betty started off as a bet, but that’s not how their relationship ended, which makes me feel a whole lot better about the situation.

  When I look at Betty, her mouth is wide open. "She was right!"

  "Huh?"

  Betty squeezes my hands. "Aleena said you'd come with a message from Willie, and she was right."

  I'm confused.

  "Aleena is her psychic," Willie says with an eye roll. "She spends an hour a day on the phone with her. Costs five dollars per minute. Waste of time and money."

  Huh. Two days ago I would have agreed that psychics are a scam. Now, I'm not so sure. I wonder if I can charge five dollars a minute for my services.

  Hmmm …

  "Concentrate, person," Willie says.

  Right. Back to Betty.

  "Aleena said Willie would send me a sign today. She specially said it would be a person with the name L," Betty says as a single sticky tear rolls down her cheek. "I’ve always believed certain people had the ability to communicate with spirits. You're Willie's messenger, right? Is he here?"

  Wow.

  I want Aleena's number.

  “Um …” I yank my hands free. "No. I um …”

  Willie gets in my face. "Ask about an autopsy."

  I stifle a grunt.

  "Tell her," he demands. "I want an autopsy!"

  Betty is staring at me with an unreadable expression. I clear my throat, forcing the words out. "Have you … um … thought of ordering an autopsy for Willie?"

  "Oh … I didn’t think it was necessary." She shifts her focus to the ground, and I catch the slightest hint of remorse from her.

  "Where is my body now?" Willie is still in my face.

  Gah! He’s making it hard to concentrate.

  "Betty, what are your plans for Willie's funeral and remains?" I ask her.

  "He's at Trucker Funeral Home. Willie said he wanted to be cremated and his ashes to be scattered in the lake."

  "Stop her!" Willie explodes, and I almost fall off the couch. "I cannot be cremated before they do an autopsy. I was killed. I know it! Tell her!" He presses his mouth to my ear. "Tell her! Tell her! Tell her! Tell her! Tell her!"

  "Betty," I say and shoo Willie away like he's a fly, "can I bother you for a cup of water?"

  "Of course." She jumps up and retreats to the kitchen.

  I wait until she's out of earshot. "Willie, listen to me," I whisper. "You were seven years away from a century. The doctor said it looked like you died of natural causes. She found you sitting in a chair, not in a puddle of blood with a gunshot wound to the head. This does not sound like foul play. This sounds like you had a long wonderful life, and now you can peacefully go to wherever it is you're going."

  Willie narrows his eyes. "I want an autopsy."

  I wish it were possible to strangle a ghost.

  Betty returns. "Here you go." She places a coaster on the coffee table and puts down a glass filled to the brim with water.

  "I was just thinking." Betty takes a seat in the chair Willie died in, and the little dog curls up at her feet. "You now, I read somewhere that when you die you go back to your prime age. Willie was so handsome when he was in his thirties, and I'm wondering if when I die the two of us will be able to meet up and start over at the same age. Can you ask Willie?"

  “Um …” Oh, geez. I’m not ready to admit out loud that I see dead people.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Willie lowers to one knee in front of his wife. "Betty, please. You need to order an autopsy. Please."

  Betty freezes and tilts her head back. I think she can hear Willie, or sense his presence, but then she closes her eyes and sneezes.

  "Excuse me." She sniffles. "Since you're here, let me ask you something. When I was a little girl, my very best friend Daisy was hit by a car. It was tragic. She was the best little dog, an
d sometimes I can feel her. Willie said I was crazy. But do you feel her here, too?"

  My eyes shift to the dog at her feet. Oh, my word …

  So I see dead, rich old guys and dead dogs.

  I take a sip of water, needing a moment to digest this new information. "Daisy?" I say, and the little dog walks over and scratches at my leg with her paw, but I don't feel a thing.

  "This is getting weird," Willie says.

  Weird isn't the word I'd use to describe the situation. It's more so … beautiful. Daisy returns to her owner, nestles close to Betty's leg, and whimpers. She's here to comfort and protect Betty.

  I can't help myself. "She's here," I say. "Daisy is here. She has a red collar and scruffy hair."

  "And a long tongue?" Betty says through tears.

  I nod. "Willie is here, too."

  "He is?" Betty drops her head into her hands. "It was my fault!" she suddenly cries out. "I'm the one who killed him!"

  Willie stumbles backwards.

  Didn’t see that one coming.

  Betty is trembling. "He called me yesterday morning to say he was out of blood pressure medication. I didn't think it was an emergency. So I finished shopping before I went to the pharmacy. But they had to get ahold of the doctor before they would give it to me. It took forever. If he'd had the medication on time then he wouldn't have died. It was a heart attack. Even Aleena confirmed that's what it was. She said he died of a heart attack because of his blood pressure medication, and she’s never been wrong! She’s one of the reasons I agreed to Willie’s proposal. She said together we would create great change in Trucker. But now he’s gone, and it's my fault. No one believes me, but I really do care about him. I completely failed him."

  Um … that was a lot of information to take in. I glance at Willie, who is shaking his head. "Nope. That’s not how it happened. Tell her to order an autopsy."

  Ugh.

  Willie waves his arms to get my attention. "Tell her about the autopsy!"

  Fine!

  I first take another sip of water. Then I hold the cup in my hands, staring at the driblets of condensations slithering down the side. Then I clear my throat. Then I take another sip of water. Then I continue to procrastinate.

  Truth is, Willie likely died of a heart attack, especially if he didn't take his medicine. Even the physic said so. Once this is confirmed, the guilt will haunt Betty for the rest of her life. And, even if Willie will haunt me for the rest of mine, it's not fair to her. She needs peace. She needs closure.