Making a Medium Page 7

  I can't very well ask how they became involved with Daniel MacIntosh or why they were at Willie's house because it's obvious they had no idea I was there. Mom would have said something by now.

  "He thinks we should be able to put the house on the market by the end of the month," Dad says.

  "Did you say MacIntosh?" I ask, trying to sound nonchalant. "As in Willie MacIntosh?"

  Mom spins around in her seat. "How do you know about Willie MacIntosh?"

  I look to Willie for help, but he's not paying attention. Um. "We're … we’re doing an article on Willie MacIntosh at The Gazette."

  Mom and Dad share a look. They're confused, and I'm not sure why. They had to have known I'd be privy to news when I took a job at the newspaper.

  "Well," Mom says, turning back around to face the front. "We were contacted by Mr. MacIntosh's nephew this morning. He wants to put the house on the market as soon as possible."

  Willie turns his head so fast I fear it will fall off. "I still can’t believe that I’ve been dead a day and he's already planning to sell my house! What the hell is wrong with him?”

  "What the hell is Daniel doing calling you?" I repeat and slap my hand over my mouth. Oops.

  "Zoe Matilda Lane, that is no way to talk to your mother," Dad scolds.

  "Sorry." I take a breath. "Why is Daniel contacting you? I, um … it’s just you're here in Fernn, and Willie lived in Trucker. You've never sold a house in Trucker before."

  A smile spreads across Dad's face. "We put an ad in The Trucker Times last week. Worth every cent."

  Mom and Dad both beam with excitement and rightfully so; Trucker is twice the size of Fernn Valley, and houses cost five times as much. I have no idea why they haven’t branched out sooner.

  "I heard Willie left the house to his wife," I say.

  Dad looks at me in the reflection of the rearview mirror but doesn't respond.

  Mom does. "A ninety-three-year-old multimillionaire meets a broke twenty-nine-year-old waitress, and two months later he marries her, cuts his only blood relative out of his will, and leaves her his fortune. That doesn't sound fishy to you? Daniel is distraught over his uncle’s death. His lawyer is positive they'll be able to prove Betty MacIntosh is a scam artist."

  Willie's mouth drops open. "He already has a lawyer?"

  "But Mom, that's not right," I say. "Willie wanted her to have everything."

  "How do you know so much about this?" Mom asks.

  "Um … I heard at … um … I heard it at work."

  Mom purses her lips. "Daniel is his nephew, and I think he knows more about his uncle than you do."

  "That worm." Willie punches the back of the seat. "He's been waiting for me to die so he can take my money. He's going to drag this out in court until Betty gives up." He rubs his temples. "Why couldn't I have died next Monday morning?"

  Seeing Willie in so much anguish hurts my heart. I don't blame my mom for thinking the way she does. From an outsider’s perspective it does look fishy.

  I try to think of how I can help in this situation. Talk to Daniel? Help Betty find an attorney? Convince my parents to drop Daniel as a client? Not that he wouldn't find another real estate agent. Not that he can even list the house without fighting the will in court. My mind is churning through all the possibilities, and I barely noticed that we've turned onto our street.

  I do, however, take notice of the sheriff parked in our driveway.

  Chapter Six

  Here's what I know about Sheriff Vance: he's been the sheriff for possibly ever, and he looks like a sheriff. Gray mustache, gray hair, and appears to be about six months pregnant with a donut.

  Dad parks the van in front of our mailbox, which is a mini replica of our single-story ranch-style home. "What's Vance doing here?"

  "Surely I don't know." Mom unbuckles her seat belt. "Zoe, dear, stay in the car."

  The two exit the van simultaneously, as if they'd been practicing their timing. Mom pulls at the bottom of her jacket and plasters a huge smile across her face. "Sheriff Vance, to what do we owe the honor?"

  The three huddle near the front door, and I can't hear what's going on, but I can hear Mom's fake laugh, so I know it's not good.

  "If you're arrested, plead the Fifth Amendment, and I'll give you the number of a good lawyer," says Willie. "Jackson Anderson. He's terrible at golf, but I wouldn't want to face him in court."

  My gut sinks. "I should have never let you talk me into taking the car. I don't know why I listened to you." That's not true. I know why. Because I thought he'd leave, and yet, here he is, and I'm about to be arrested. What's my defense? A dead guy made me do it?

  I'm screwed.

  "I'll be right back." Willie disappears and reappears beside the trio. When my dad gets upset, which isn't very often, he becomes a hand talker. Right now his hands are flinging around like he's conducting an orchestra.

  This isn't good.

  Willie returns. "You're in luck. The sheriff is here to talk about the accident yesterday."

  I melt into a puddle of relief. So help me, for as long as I live, I will never break the law again. I'm not cut out for the criminal life.

  "What else did they say?" I ask.

  "The sheriff asked to speak to you, but they said you're too emotional and not up to it. After we figure out who killed me, we'll deal with your parents, because they need to get a life."

  "This is ridiculous." I slide open the van door and walk up to the group. "Here is my statement," I say to the sheriff. "I don't want to press charges, and I'm fine.”

  The sheriff takes a wide stance. "Zoe Lane, I don't think I've had the pleasure." He extends a professional hand and offers a flat smile.

  I slip my hand into his, and he flinches, probably because my fingertips are numb and my palms feel as if they’re made of ice. I’ve always run cold, but since Willie’s arrival, my body temp seems to vary between a light sweater will do and go get the toe tag.

  Apprehension flashes across the sheriff’s face, and I yank my hand free. "Are you sure you don't want to press charges?" he asks.

  "I'm positive. I don't believe Willie should be driving, though."

  The sheriff scrunches his brow. "Willie?"

  Did I say Willie? Oops. There are too many old men in my life. "I mean LeRoy. I don't think LeRoy should be driving."

  "You won't get any argument from LeRoy," the sheriff says. "I talked to him this morning, and he assured me he's retiring the keys."

  "He’s lying," Mom interjects. "He was in Trucker earlier today at the MacIntosh home. On the road we saw tire marks and swerve lines. Then hidden outside the house was Old Man LeRoy's car parked next to a broken sprinkler head that you could tell he'd run over. We have pictures to prove it."

  Oh, no.

  "Is that so?" the sheriff says with a shake of his head. He produces a notebook, clicks a pen, and jots this down.

  This is bad.

  "You know what I think," Mom says, and I want to shove a sock in her mouth. "Poor Willie MacIntosh died a day ago, and his wife has already moved on to her next victim. We're working with Willie's nephew, Daniel MacIntosh, and he warned us about her. She stole Willie's fortune. It's quite scandalous."

  Willie throws his hands into the air. "Aren't you going to say something?"

  Yes.

  What, though?

  I blow out a breath. "I believe that Betty is truly heartbroken over Willie and … perhaps … um … LeRoy was there to comfort her?"

  "Heartbroken my bum, excuse the language," Mom says to the sheriff. "Abusing the elderly is a crime. She was in a bikini, entertaining an old man one day after her husband died."

  "All the perm solution is going to her head," Willie says. "Do something!"

  "That's not true!" I yell, and now everyone is staring at me. Even the neighbors across the street who are outside doing yard work pause to see what the commotion is about. "Betty is a good person. I think Daniel is a weasel who wants his uncle's money. He's the one who
killed Willie." I want to take it back as soon as I say it. Accusing someone of murder is an awful idea.

  What is wrong with me?

  "Zoe Matilda Lane," Mom gasps. "Mr. MacIntosh died of natural causes."

  The sheriff strokes his mustache. "What makes you think Daniel MacIntosh was involved in Willie's death?"

  I have no words.

  My mind is a complete and total blank. I got nada.

  Willie is making a W with his arms.

  Pull it together, Zoe, and think. "Here's the thing," I start. Unsure of what exactly the thing is. "Twenty-four hours after Willie's death and Daniel MacIntosh not only has a lawyer but real estate agents ready to sell the house. That doesn't sound suspicious to anyone else?"

  "Yeah!" Willie adds.

  "What I know of Willie MacIntosh is he was in great shape for his age," I say, building momentum. "He still skied and drove his boat. He doesn't sound like a man easily persuaded to do anything he doesn't want to do."

  "Exactly!" Willie says.

  "Obviously, Willie cared for Betty, and she cared for him. Daniel was obviously sure he was going to get the money when his uncle died. But when this young woman, who—I think we all can agree is super hot—enters the picture, it threatened his three-hundred-million-dollar inheritance. So he killed his uncle before he could marry Betty, but he was obviously too late. Because they were obviously already married. Obviously." If I had a mic, I'd drop it.

  "Three hundred?" Dad chokes out.

  The sheriff isn't quite sure what to make of me. "I came to get a statement about Old Man LeRoy. But I'll pass this information over to the sheriff in Trucker County."

  "Surely you don't need to do that." Mom takes a step in front of me. "My daughter suffered a concussion yesterday. She doesn't know what she's talking about."

  “Yes, I do," I say over her shoulder. "Daniel killed his uncle."

  Mom nudges me in the side with her elbow.

  "I'll relay the information. You folks have a good night," the sheriff says and saunters back to his vehicle, stealing one last look over his shoulder. We lock eyes, and a chill runs down my spine.

  Yikes.

  In hindsight, I should have probably kept my mouth shut.

  Mom waits for him to leave before she snaps. "Zoe Matilda Lane, Daniel MacIntosh is a client of ours, and you just accused him of murder. That's it! You're quitting your new job. It's not healthy."

  Mom stalks inside, and I follow. "I am not quitting my job!"

  Willie is at my side, encouraging me to go on. "Tell her you're an adult who needs to learn to stand on her own two feet."

  "I'm an adult with two feet of my own!"

  "Not what I said, but close enough," Willie says. "Tell her you no longer want to be coddled. You want to break free and make your own choices."

  "I want to make my own choices!"

  "And you want money so you can dress better."

  "I want money so I can dress—hey, I like my clothes." I tug at the bottom of my blazer and … wait. I pat down my pockets. The pen! Did I leave it at Betty's? Did it fall out in LeRoy's car? Last I saw it was when I was at Betty's. It must still be there. Oh please, please, please let it still be there.

  "Concentrate, person." Willie claps his hands. "Your mom's looking at you like you're a nut."

  He's right.

  Mom's lip is curled, like she's doing a halfhearted Elvis impersonation. Even worse, I can feel her worry. She's thinking about the S again … A person … A person with a name that starts with an S … There’s fire, screams, and tears associated with that S … A three-story building with mirrored windows and a palm tree out front … Red, blue, white, heat …

  I'm so overcome with emotions—anger, sorrow, confusion, bitterness—it takes a great deal of effort not to collapse on the living room floor.

  I can't do this anymore.

  At least not today.

  "I'm tired," I say and go to my room. It’s already dusk. I don't bother changing out of my clothes before I shove Jabba out of the way and slip into bed. My world is spiraling out of control. I don't know how to stop it, but all I want to do is sleep. I pull the covers to my nose, ignore Willie who is sitting on my dresser and my mom who is knocking on the door, and fall into a deep, dreamless slumber.

  Chapter Seven

  It's like Groundhog Day. I sleep through the alarm. Mom wakes me up. Shoves an iron pill into my mouth. I get dressed in a sensible pantsuit. Willie hates my outfit. Mom begs me to quit my imaginary job. I refuse. I'm dropped off at The Gazette. Willie and I go the library. Rosa is on the phone arguing with the nursing home. Willie and I are at the computers.

  "Okay, so you created the will using an online legal service. But did you have it signed by two witnesses?" I ask Willie, who is perched on the window seat, tossing his hat up in the air and catching it by the rim. Completely casual, as if it were a typical Wednesday morning, while I’m over here trying to obtain a Google legal degree.

  "Why do you suppose your mom is against you growing up?" he asks.

  "I don’t know. Now, please concentrate. Was your will signed by two witnesses?"

  Willie tosses his hat up in the air, and it lands on his head. "Yes, it was witnessed and signed by my buddies."

  "Good. This is good." I grab a pencil and my notepad.

  "You're left-handed."

  "So?"

  "Didn't your parents teach you to write with your right?"

  "No, because I was born left-handed." Honestly. Can ghosts have ADD? "Now, concentrate. What are their names?"

  "LeRoy Fillerup and Jerold Conway."

  I drop my pencil. "Old Man LeRoy? Why would you have someone so old witness your will?"

  Willie looks at me. "What do you have against the elderly?"

  "Nothing at all. But the person you choose to witness your will should be someone younger and in better health than you."

  "Says who?"

  "Says Legadoc dot com, Online Wills dot com …” I'm reading off the computer. "Preparing for Death dot org. Need I go on?"

  "Please don't." He appears in the chair beside me and stretches out his legs in front of himself. "LeRoy outlived me, so it doesn't matter."

  "Let's hope not." I write the names down on my notepad. "According to the internet, Betty needs to file the paperwork with the probate court, and if anyone contests, as I suspect Daniel will, then you have two witnesses to confirm that you were of sound mind when you created it."

  "One."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Only one witness. Jerold died."

  I smack my forehead. "How did he die?"

  "Liver failure. Was yellow as a banana. He went a few days before I did. Such a shame. He had a great swing. "

  "Why would you ask someone in liver failure to … gah. Never mind. Not important. Did you tell anyone else about your decision to cut Daniel out of your will?"

  He gives a halfhearted shrug. "It's no one else's business anyway."

  I push away from the desk and roll my chair closer to him. "This is serious, Willie. I'm worried about Betty. You created the will online. It was witnessed by one person who is dead and another person who just plowed over a pedestrian. If I didn't know you, if I didn't know Betty, I'd be suspicious as well."

  Willie brushes off my concern. "Betty and I are legally married. I only changed the will to make sure he got nothing. Weasel doesn't stand a chance in court. What is suspicious is how I died. I think your theory about Daniel might be right."

  My stomach lurches. If I could go back in time, I'd travel to yesterday and take back what I said about Daniel. I don't even know the man, and murder is a serious accusation.

  "I could never stand the kid," Willie says. "He's a self-righteous brat."

  "Then why were you going to leave him all your money and property to begin with?"

  "Because he's my brother's boy, and Tod was a good guy. Died in ninety-two." A flash of sadness crosses his face. "I promised to take care of the kid, but he's nothing but a
weasel. Only time he ever comes around is when he needs money for a house, or for college for his kids, or when his wife needs an emergency hysterectomy, or when he's gambled his four-oh-one K away."

  "Hold on. He has a family? Don't you want your great nieces and nephews to get part of your fortune?"

  "Pfft. I don't know them. Weasel never introduced me." Willie stands and studies a picture of Dr. Seuss pinned to the wall. "Aside from popping up now and then to ask for money, the only other contact I had was the newsletter his wife sends out every Christmas." He snorts. " Why do people send newsletters anyway? Do they think I have nothing better to do than to read about their year?"

  "Hey, I like reading newsletters."

  "That's because you have no life."

  "No, it's because I'm not a jerk."

  "That too."

  I blow out a breath and tap my pencil on the notepad. I feel even worse about accusing Daniel of murder knowing he has kids and a wife who writes newsletters. Just because he hired a lawyer and real estate agents right away doesn't mean he killed his uncle. Everyone deals with grief differently. Daniel may believe he's doing what his uncle would have wanted. Even if he's not. The hurt Willie feels when it comes to Daniel is palpable. And I suspect Willie left his money to Betty to teach Daniel a lesson.

  "I know what you're thinking," Willie says, still studying the picture. "You're thinking I cut Daniel off because he didn't come around, and because he didn't bother including me in his life, and because he treated me like a bank, and you'd be right."

  "Oh." At least this is all starting to make a little more sense. "The good news is that even if Daniel contests the will and wins, he won't get everything. According to my online legal knowledge, he'd get half, if that. Which is still one hundred and fifty million dollars. I'm pretty sure Betty can survive on that."

  Willie is shaking his head before I even finish. "I don't want Daniel touching my money. I want Betty to keep the house, and I want her to keep the boat, and the house in Aspen, and my cars, and clubs, and everything. I want her to have everything, and I want him to have nothing."