Making a Medium Page 8

  I'm not sure how I can make this happen for Willie, but at least it won't require autopsies and accusations of murder.

  "And I want you to find out who murdered me," he adds.

  Ugh.

  I can't believe I'm even entertaining this idea. "Let's pretend for a moment that you were killed. What was the very last thing you remember?"

  Willie takes a moment to think. "I woke up. Went to the bathroom. Took a shower. I went outside. Came back in through the garage. I locked the door. Then I went to take my morning pills. Realized I was out of my blood pressure medication. Called Betty. She said she was out shopping. Then I went to the kitchen and got my oatmeal out of the fridge. Heated it up in the microwave and … that’s it."

  "You don't remember sitting in the chair Betty said you died in?"

  "No."

  "And who are the three people who threatened to kill you recently?"

  "My neighbor, Arnie. He said he'd kill me if I touched his geraniums again."

  "So you touched them."

  "They were on my side of the property line! Took a weed whacker to them. He was livid." Willie laughs at the memory. "He still has that tall fortress of bushes in the front. He did it on purpose, you know. So that I couldn't see his house and he couldn't see mine. But they're against HOA."

  "Weed whacker to geraniums and HOA …” I write this down on my notepad. "And the next person?"

  "Ron MacDonald."

  I drop my pencil. "You're joking, right? Ronald MacDonald?"

  "He's a golfing buddy. We got in a heated argument last week about Betty. He had a thing for her." He smirks. "But she picked me."

  "After you offered a life of luxury and three hundred million dollars," I remind him.

  "What can I say, I'm a charmer."

  I roll my eyes. "What exactly did he say to you?"

  "He accused me of using my money to trap Betty into an unhealthy relationship. I told him that I satisfied her in ways he couldn't."

  "Which is a lie."

  "Not a lie," he says, mocking offense. "I satisfied her in other ways. None of them happened to be what was implied. But that's neither here nor there. Ron got mad. Then he told me he'd kill me if Mother Nature weren't going to take care of it for him. Oh, he also told me to rot in hell."

  "Rot in hell …” I write this down. "And the third person?"

  "LeRoy."

  "The man you had witness your will threatened to kill you?"

  "Meh. It was a petty argument over …” He pauses to think. "I can't remember. The older he gets, the ornerier he gets. Whatever it was, he lost his temper and said some things." He waves off the concern. "But he wouldn't have killed me. Punch me in the face, sure. Spike my drink with Ex-Lax, probably. Not kill. Man doesn't have it in him. I've known LeRoy my entire life. We would have played golf today if I were still alive."

  Ironically, he almost killed me. But whatever. I write this down on my notepad. "The key stuck in the lock. Does Betty come in through the garage?"

  "No." Willie crosses the room. "She parks in the carport on the other side of the house and enters through the back door. That's why you need to tell the police about the key. It was probably Daniel. They need to take fingerprints and DNA samples. They do that nowadays."

  The thought of talking to the police again gives me heartburn. Especially since I'm not entirely convinced Willie—despite the alarming amount of people who'd threatened to kill him—didn't die of a heart attack, and all this talk of murder will do nothing but ruffle a lot of feathers. What we should concentrate all our efforts on is protecting Betty from Daniel. If only I could get Willie on board. Perhaps if he saw Daniel as a person, as a dad, as a husband, then he'd be less angry and be able to focus on peacefully transitioning.

  Which gives me an idea.

  I wiggle the mouse to wake up the computer and Google Daniel MacIntosh. His Facebook profile pops up at the top of the search. Perfect. I can show Willie pictures of his great nieces and nephews! Brilliant idea. If I do say so myself.

  Willie appears behind me and looks over my shoulder at the computer screen. "What are you doing?"

  "Looking at Daniel's Facebook profile."

  "Good idea. We can see what he was doing Monday morning."

  Not exactly what I was going for, but, sure, why not? I click on the link, and I'm taken to the Facebook sign-in page. "Shoot."

  "What's wrong?"

  "I don't have a Facebook account, so I can't see his profile."

  "Then get one."

  I bite at my lip. My parents are adamantly against social media.

  Actually, that's not true.

  My parents have a business Facebook page. I've seen them use it before. They're adamantly against me having social media. I’ve never contested it because I didn’t have a reason to. It’s not like I have a ton of friends who will care about what I’m doing on the daily.

  Willie drops his head. "You're an adult, Zoe. If you want a Facebook account, you can get a Facebook account. You don't need your parents’ permission to live."

  "But …”

  "You don't need anyone's permission."

  "But …”

  "You are a capable and smart woman with way too much to offer the world to be hiding behind Mommy and Daddy."

  "You know what?” I roll my shoulders. "You're right. If I want a Facebook account, then I can get a Facebook account." I feel a surge of empowerment, and I'm not exactly sure why. I'm hiding in a library getting a pep talk from a ghost.

  "Attagirl."

  "Yeah. I can do this." With my head held high, I click on create an account and … “It’s asking for an email account, and I don't have one. I don’t know …”

  Suddenly, Willie is in my face. "Fire!"

  I scream and jump back, fall out of the chair, scramble to my feet, whack my head on the table, and stumble into a book shelf.

  Rosa runs toward us, her glasses swinging around her neck. "Are you okay back here?"

  I rub my head and look around. No fire alarm. No smoke. Rosa doesn't appear to be in distress. I take a whiff. Smells like damp wood and books.

  "Ta-da!" Willie says like he just produced a rabbit from his hat. "Now you have help. Get on with it."

  I shoot him a look, and he responds with a full-face sardonic smile. If this man weren't already dead, I'd happily escort him to the nearest cliff.

  Okay, maybe I wouldn't do that.

  But, geez.

  Now I know how his friends felt.

  Rosa looks at me expectantly, and I smooth out the front of my blazer and clear my throat to buy time.

  Willie saunters up to Rosa and tips his hat back. "She needs help creating an email and Facebook account."

  Rosa cocks her head and narrows her eyes.

  Can she hear him?

  I look at Willie, and he shrugs. "Help her with her Facebook page," he says directly into her ear.

  Rosa's eyes glaze over like she's in a trance. Holy crap! She can hear him!

  Willie cups his mouth around Rosa's ear and says, "Testing, testing! One, two, three. Testing, testing."

  Rosa rubs her hands along her biceps. “Oh, heavens. I just got the chills." She looks directly at Willie.

  He takes a step back. "Can she see me?"

  I'm scared to ask.

  Rosa shakes it off and slips on her readers. "Do you need help with your Facebook account?"

  “How'd … how’d you know that?" I ask.

  "Because you're on the Facebook login page?" She points to the computer.

  Oh.

  "Is it not allowing you to sign in?" She moves the mouse and checks the internet connection. "Sometimes the Wi-Fi can be wonky in this place. I swear it's haunted."

  If only she knew.

  "The signal is strong.” Rosa cups her hands and blows into them, trying to get warm. “Is there anything else I can do for you?"

  Rosa can feel Willie’s presence. I’m sure of it. Perhaps she doesn’t know that she does, or maybe she’s
playing it off so I don’t know that she has medium abilities. Either way, it would be nice to have someone to talk to about … all of this.

  I narrow my eyes and concentrate, hoping to read her thoughts.

  "Anything … else?” Rosa runs her tongue across her teeth, appearing uncomfortable.

  Willie sticks his face next to mine. "Are you into girls?"

  "What? No! I like men."

  Rosa sucks in her lips. "That's nice, dear."

  Oh, heck. That's it!

  I need Willie to go … wherever he's going. Up or down? I'm not so sure anymore. I'm also not so sure how to make that happen.

  "Um … actually … since you're here,” I say, desperately trying to sound normal, “do you happen to have any books on …?” Oh, geez. How do you ask if she has books about communicating with the dead without sounding insane? "I'm researching … um … do you have books on conversingwithghosts?" I spit the words out so fast I'm not sure she heard me right.

  "We do," she says without hesitation and walks down an aisle.

  Phew!

  I follow. She stops and runs her fingers along the spines of the books, whispering to herself, until she finds what she's looking for. "Aha. Here you go."

  The book is two inches thick with Reaching the Other Side in swirly letters on the front. When I open the cover, it cracks, and even though the copyright says 1995, it smells of fresh ink.

  Rosa's cell phone rings from her pocket. "What now?" She checks who the caller is and groans. "Do you need anything else, dear?" she asks me.

  "No, I'm good," I say, and she slams the phone to her ear and retreats back to her desk, yelling in Spanish.

  I turn the book over.

  Medium Tabitha Corner began communicating with the dead when she was three years old but didn't fully accept her gift until she was forty-two. Now, she's helped hundreds of people connect with their deceased loved ones using her remarkable gift. In this book, Tabitha helps those with the same gift cultivate their talent.

  A picture of Tabitha Corner with purple hair, wearing a purple sweater, holding a black cat with a purple collar on, is under the blurb.

  I flip to the table of contents, run my finger down the chapter headers, and stop at Chapter Twenty-Two: How to Help Your Spirit Transition.

  Hallelujah!

  I open to the corresponding page. Even though the book appears fairly unused, the first paragraph is underlined with a pencil. There are many reasons why a Spirit will stay in his or her physical realm instead of transitioning to the other side. It's your job to be compassionate, set boundaries, and help the Spirit find the peace of mind required to cross into the light. Listen and remember he or she was once a person. Speak kindly and let the Spirit know you're here to assist him or her. Remember, most likely the Spirit is just as scared, if not more so, than you are. Especially if the Spirit has suffered a sudden and traumatic death.

  The last sentence jumps out at me.

  A sudden and traumatic death.

  I haven't been compassionate or patient. Nor have I considered how scary or frustrating this must be for Willie.

  I take the book back to the table.

  "What's that?" Willie asks.

  "Nothing." I slip it into my briefcase and make a mental note to check it out before we leave, along with Sizzling Fireman Volume Five. "Willie, I'm here to assist you with compassion."

  "Yeah, okay."

  "But we must set boundaries," I say. "First, no more making fun of my clothes, my shoes, our car, my room, or any member of my family."

  "Deal. Now, are we going to figure out who killed me?"

  I heave a surrendering sigh. "I'm here to assist you to peacefully transition to the light."

  Whatever that means.

  Chapter Eight

  "What happened to you?" Betty's voice cracks. Willie and I are on the greenbelt behind the library with her on speakerphone.

  "I'm sorry for leaving," I say. "Are you okay?"

  "No! It was awful, Zoe. Daniel accused me of coercing Willie into marrying me and changing his will to be sure I got everything. I’m not a gold digger, and I’m sick of people saying that. When Willie came home with the will, I'm the one who said I'd only feel comfortable with it if he told Daniel about our marriage."

  "When did you and Willie have this conversation?"

  Betty thinks. "It was … last Thursday?"

  I glance at Willie and cover the phone. "You changed your will Thursday? Why didn't you say that before?"

  He shrugs as if this is of little consequence. When in reality, at least in my reality, the timing changes everything. Willie alters his will Thursday and is dead Monday. But if Daniel didn't know about the will, why would he kill his uncle so soon after the change? Could it be a coincidence? If anything, the situation looks bad for Betty. "Did you have a gut feeling you might die very soon?" I ask Willie.

  "No. I was in—"

  "Great shape," I finish for him and remove my hand from the phone. "Betty, you there?"

  "I am." She exhales loudly. "Maybe I should just give Daniel half. After all, he's Willie's only blood relative, and I don’t want to drag this out in court. What if this gets in the paper? That’s going to ruin any chance I have at a career.”

  "No," Willie is adamant. "He will never touch my money."

  I cover the phone again. "Think about Betty. Maybe if she gives him, like, five mil, he'll be happy and this won't have to go to court?"

  "No."

  What's five million when you have three hundred? But, it's not my decision. I release my hand from the phone. "Betty, if Willie wanted Daniel to have the money, he would have indicated as much in his will. You’re married. This shouldn’t be a problem. You need to file the paperwork today with the court."

  "Did she order the autopsy?" Willie asks.

  Oh, right. "Betty, did you order the autopsy?"

  "No. Daniel called this morning and told me he would be taking care of Willie's remains and I have no right. When I brought up the autopsy, he said I was being ridiculous."

  Willie and I share a look. He clasps his hands together as if he's about to pray. "Repeat after me," he says. "Drive down to the funeral home and demand an autopsy. You are executor of the will, you have every right to make the decisions."

  I relay this message to Betty.

  "But … but … what do I do about Daniel? Zoe, he's married with three children. He said his kids all adored their uncle Willie."

  Willie's face goes puce. I think he's going to implode.

  But before he does, I say, "Betty, if Daniel's kids adored Willie, don't you think you would have seen them at least once over the last couple of months?"

  There's a pause. I assume she's thinking.

  "You're right," she says, her voice small. "You are so right. But—”

  "No buts," I cut her off. "You are a strong, beautiful, good-hearted woman. Now it's time to fight for your husband, dammit." I slap my hand over my mouth. Oops. My mom would have a conniption if she heard me use that language. Crude words trigger unnecessary stress, she would say.

  Except, this situation is already stressful, and she’s not here. So I guess I can say whatever I want, dammit!

  Willie urges me to keep talking.

  "Right. Sorry about that." I clear my throat. "Go to the funeral home and order an autopsy. Get the death certificate. Then you must file the will with probate court."

  "It's what Willie would want," she says, and I'm not sure if this is a statement or a question.

  "You know it's what Willie wants."

  “All right, I'll do it," she says with little conviction. "Can you come with me? I could really use the company."

  "Errrr …” I rub the back of my neck and look at Willie.

  "Go with her," he urges.

  “But how?” I mouth. “I don't have a car.”

  "She can pick you up."

  Huh. That's not a bad idea. I check the time. It's not even noon. I still have five hours before I get off of "
work." Why not? At least then I'll know it got done, and so will Willie.

  "Can you pick me up at the Fernn Valley Library?" I ask Betty.

  "I'll be right there.” I can hear the smile in her voice.

  We hang up, and I take a seat on the ground. The grass scratches the exposed parts of my ankles, but I don't mind. The fresh air is a welcomed change from the muggy library quarters. I open my briefcase, grab the lunch Mom made me, and the copy of Reaching the Other Side.

  "What do you think you're doing?" Willie asks.

  I look at the book in one hand and the sandwich in the other. "Lunch break?"

  Willie mutters under his breath and shoves his hands into his front pant pockets. I wish he weren't invisible, because he'd block the sun perfectly from where he's standing. I'm starting to get a headache, and the glare isn't helping.

  I take a bite of my sandwich and flip open the book to Chapter Ten: Unruly Spirits.

  Dark Spirits are ghosts, earthbounds, or entities who have walked away from the light and chosen to follow the dark path or transition to the dark underworld. Their presence can prove unsafe for your well-being. It's important to remember that if you want a Spirit (light or dark) to leave, all you have to do is ask with a sincere intent.

  In order to determine if the Spirit is dark or light, ask yourself these questions:

  When you're around your Spirit do you feel scared?

  Has the Spirit made physical or emotional threats?

  Do you have a sinking, unsettled feeling when your Spirit is around?

  My answer would be no to all questions. Which is a sweet relief. Willie is grumpy, a bit intrusive, and oftentimes rude, but he's not evil. I guess I'm lucky?

  However, I did ask Willie to leave multiple times, and he didn't. Perhaps there was a part of me that wanted him around.

  It must be a small … small … small … minuscule part.

  There was also that unsettling feeling I got in his room. Could that have been a dark spirit?

  "What's wrong with you?" Willie asks. "You're making a weird face."

  "Nothing." I slam the book closed and poke the straw into my juice box. Willie tilts his hat back and takes in the surroundings. I forgot how handsome he is, probably because his good looks are masked by his personality.