by Erin Huss
"Were you married before Betty?" I ask.
"No."
"Were you ever close? Ever been madly in love?"
Willie frowns. "No time for that."
"Come on." I cross my legs and lean back on my hands. "There had to be someone."
He grunts. "There was one woman back in the forties, but it didn't work out."
Now we're getting somewhere. "Did you meet at one of those USO dances? Oh! Was she a nurse, and you were a wounded solider? Oh, wait, wait. I got it! She was your sweet, innocent, virginal secretary, and you were one of those hot millionaires who swept her away in your private jet."
"You need to get out more."
"Come on! I'm stealing cars, demanding autopsies, researching wills, and accusing people of murder. Give me something good here. I need it." Man do I need it. I haven't read a good romance novel in almost five days. Typically, I devour four books a week. My fictional characters are what keep me going …
A sad reality when you think about it. Especially since I've momentarily replaced my fictional characters with a ghost.
"You're making that face again," Willie says.
"Oh, sorry." I take a sip of my juice in hopes it will get rid of the dismal feeling slithering around in my stomach. No such luck.
Whatever. This isn't about me. It's about Willie. "Tell me more about your one great love."
"I didn't say it was a great love."
"But it was love, and I want to hear."
Willie's face is motionless, but I can see his eyes flickering from me and away again. "I'll tell you once, and we never talk about it again. Agreed?"
"Agreed." I try not to appear too anxious, but I am dying to hear the details.
"Wipe that goofy grin off your face," he says. "It's not one of those trashy romance novels you have hidden in your closet."
"They're not trashy."
"One book is titled Trashy with a picture of a shirtless man on the cover holding a wastebasket."
"Because it's about a trash man who falls for … you know what?" I throw my hands up. "It doesn't matter. We're talking about you. No goofy grin." I pretend to wipe the smile off my face. "I'm ready."
He switches his weight to one hip. "When I was about your age, there was a girl. Her family didn't approve, and that was that. I lived my life, and she lived hers."
I wait for more, but apparently that's all I'm gonna get. "What happened to her?"
He shrugs.
"Is she still alive?"
He shrugs.
"Why didn't her parents approve?"
He shrugs.
Seriously? That's it! Then I remember his comment about being in Mexico during World War II and put two and two together. "Did you go to Mexico to avoid the draft? Is that why her parents didn't approve?"
He shrugs.
I rest my elbows on my knees. "I read a book once about a man who went to Venezuela to avoid the Vietnam draft and fell in love with a woman there."
"How'd it end?"
"He went back to the United States, was arrested. She met someone else and had a baby."
"Some romance," Willie mutters.
"They reunited later in life. It was so romantic."
"Sounds stupid. For your information, I served in the Navy for a year."
"Then why were you living in Mexico?"
"It's not important."
"It is to me." I scratch my lower legs. The grass is giving me a rash, and I pull up my socks to protect my ankles.
"I had a good life, person. Don't worry about my past." Willie buttons his jacket and pulls out his cuffs. "Let's talk about your lack of social life instead."
"I'd rather eat dirt," I say. Oddly, my mouth tastes a bit like dirt. I take a sip of my juice to wet my palate. It doesn't help.
"You're sweet on the editor at The Gazette," Willie says. "But you're going about it all wrong."
"I don't remember asking you for advice."
"If you're going to dress like a Golden Girl, then you have to back it up with confidence. A self-assured woman is sexy as hell."
"Hey, I'm confident." I'm very confident. I think. Okay, maybe I'm not confident enough to walk around in a bikini like Betty. And maybe I'm not so sure about … anything. "Just out of curiosity. How might one go about showing confidence?"
Willie smiles. "Stand up."
I stand.
"See, that right there is the problem. You're too compliant. Don’t be afraid to push back."
Okay. Push back. I can do push back. So I sit down.
Willie gives an exasperated sigh. "Why are you sitting down?"
"Because you told me not to stand …” Oh. I get it. But I don't know whether to stand or sit, so I rise to my knees.
He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again, then snaps it shut. "I don't like the boundaries because I can't give it to you straight."
"You mean you can't be a jerk."
"What's the point of being an old man if I can't say what I want …” His voice trails off, and he tilts his head to the side as if straining to hear a noise off in the distance.
"What's wrong?"
"Your newspaper guy is here."
"What? Where?" I turn around, and much to my horror, I can see Brian through the library window. He's standing at the computers talking to Rosa. "What is he doing here?" I ask Willie.
"He's probably looking for you."
"Pfft. No, he's not."
Just then, Rosa points out the window, and I can see her mouth make the words Zoe is out there.
Gah!
I crawl to the tree and take cover. What is Brian doing here? In all my years, I've never seen him in the library. I've never seen anyone in the library!
"He's coming," Willie says. "Remember to be confident."
I will myself to become one with the tree. I'm not ready to face Brian, not after I nearly maimed him with my briefcase then ran away like a lunatic. Also, there's the whole dead man hovering nearby. If I accidentally spoke to Willie in front of Brian, I'd be mortified.
I hear the side door open. Crud. I can hear footsteps in the grass. Please don't see me, please don't see me, please don't see me. Brian's shadow grows taller. Gulp.
"I've been looking for you," he says.
Willie gives me two thumbs-ups. I try to ignore him. "Wh-what can I do for you, Brian … or not do for you … um.” This confidence thing is confusing.
"Were you at the MacIntoshes’ house yesterday pretending to be a reporter writing an article on Willie’s death?”
Oh.
I don't know how to answer. So I play dumb. "What makes you think I was there?"
"Betty MacIntosh said a reporter named Zoe stopped by yesterday to do an article on Willie."
"Pfft." I stand and dust off the back of my pants. "There're lots of people around here with the name Zoe."
"Betty said the reporter was about five foot one with light brown hair, dark brown eyes, and wearing a blue pantsuit."
I shrug innocently. "That sounds like a lot of people."
"Subsequently, Old Man LeRoy was accused of being at the MacIntoshes’ house yesterday. His car was seen outside. Both Betty and Old Man LeRoy deny he was there."
This is getting really hard to talk my way out of. I look to Willie for help. He's mouthing abort, abort, abort.
Good idea.
I step aside, and Brian moves with me, blocking my path. My stomach erupts in butterflies. If this were a novel, he'd kiss me right now. He'd grab me by the cheeks and plunge his tongue into my mouth. Our bodies would dance in sweet unison. Sparks would fly. His hands would be in my hair, on my face, on my … oh, my.
I stare up at Brian, my chest pumping, my hands sweaty, my mind blank.
"You're drooling," Willie says.
Oops. I wipe my chin.
"Are you unwell?" Brian asks.
"I am perfectly fine," I say with, what I hope is, a confident smile.
"Why were you at the MacIntoshes’ house?"
Smile gone. "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know Betty MacIntosh."
A horn beeps in the distance. I know without having to look that it's Betty. Mostly because, of course, she shows up right now.
I turn around to verify.
Yep. Betty is sitting in a silver Escalade, waving at me.
"You don't know Betty MacIntosh?" Brian asks again with a wry smile.
So denial is no longer a viable option. Willie says men want confidence. Well, I'll give Brian confidence!
"As a matter of fact, I do know Betty MacIntosh. She's a friend. Now, I must be going." I grab my briefcase, and it pops open. Reaching the Other Side falls to the ground, and Brian picks it up.
"A guide to speaking to spirits?" he reads.
I yank the book out of his hands. "It's research for … um … a friend." I shove it back in my briefcase, and Sizzling Hot Fireman falls to the ground. Brian picks it up. This is not a fun game we're playing. Not fun at all.
"Love has never been so hot?" he reads from the back cover.
I yank it from his hands. "It's research for … um … a friend. Gotta go." I run as fast as I can to Betty's car, yank open the door, hop in, pull the seat belt over my shoulder, and say, "Go, go, go."
Betty doesn't ask questions and slams on the gas. Willie's in the backseat, looking out the window. "We lost him," he says. "That boyfriend of yours is nosey."
"That's the guy from The Gazette," Betty says, checking her rearview mirror. "He was at my house earlier today." She takes a sharp turn, and I hold tight to the grab handle to keep from tipping over. "He asked questions about Old Man LeRoy. I don't know why everyone thinks LeRoy was at my house? Arnie next door said he saw LeRoy there as well. I swear I haven't spoken to him in weeks." She makes a sudden stop at a red light, and I put my arms up to keep from head-butting the dashboard.
"It's my fault," I admit. "I used LeRoy's car yesterday."
Betty looks at me, red in the cheeks. "Why did you have his car?”
"Errr … I borrowed it."
The light turns green, and the back of my head slams against the headrest.
"How do you know LeRoy?"
"We … um … ran into each other?"
Willie laughs. "That's a good one."
"Well, that makes sense." Betty flips the visor to check her lipstick. "When that editor guy showed up, I thought he was there to ask about Willie. He invented a part of the fuel system for NASA, " she says proudly. "Except all he asked about was LeRoy and you.”
Oh, no. I'm scared to ask, but I have to know. "What exactly did you say?"
"I said LeRoy wasn't there, but he kept pressing and pressing and pressing." She shakes her head, agitated. "He was borderline rude. Anyway, I said the only person to come by was a reporter. Then he asked what paper. I said The Paper. He'd never heard of it. Then he asked for a description of the reporter, so I gave it to him. Then he asked if the reporters name was Zoe. I said yes. But don't worry, I didn't tell him about your gifts."
Oh, hell. Brian knows I pretended to be a reporter. I'm sure he'll figure out that I'm the one who stole LeRoy's car. I feel a bit dizzy, and I fear I'll vomit all over Betty's expensive-looking leather interior.
"Are you okay?" Betty asks.
I swallow a few times. "I'll be okay. Do you have the will?"
She nods and cocks a thumb toward Willie. "It's on the backseat."
I grab a blue folder labeled “Will” and look over the paperwork inside. The words blur, and I blink a few times to regain focus. After three hours of research this morning, I'm feeling like quite the expert. That is until I actually read through the pages. It's all a bunch of long words and fancy language. But it appears to be in order. I think. "We'll get the death certificate from the funeral home and file this at the recorder’s office."
"Thank you for coming," she says, pouting her bottom lip. "I don't think I could do this alone. Not after what happened yesterday."
"I'm happy to help." I tuck the will into the folder and set it beside Willie. "Betty, can you tell me more about Willie's relationship with Ron MacDonald and …” The name of the first person who wanted Willie dead escapes my mind.
"Arnie the neighbor," Willie says, as if reading my thoughts.
Right. Arnie.
"And Arnie," I say.
"Why do you want to know?" she asks.
"It seems Willie had arguments with the two prior to his death.”
Betty fidgets with the stitching along the steering wheel for a little too long. "Arnie is our neighbor. I've never witnessed any arguments between him and Willie, but I know the two had a love-hate type relationship."
"Mostly hate," Willie adds.
I blow out a sigh. "Do you think he'd ever hurt Willie?"
She gives a slight shrug of her shoulders.
Not exactly helpful, but it's a start. "What about Ron MacDonald?"
Betty wets her lips. "Ron and Willie were golfing buddies."
I wait for more, but apparently that's all I'm going to get. "Did you wait on him when you worked at the golf club?" I ask, remembering what Willie said about Ron having a thing for Betty.
She nods her head. "LeRoy, Ron, Jackson, and Willie would play golf on Tuesdays and Thursdays. They'd come in after for drinks."
"Who is Jackson?" I ask.
"My lawyer buddy," Willie says from the backseat, and I suddenly remember. Yes, the ruthless attorney who has a terrible swing. Got it.
"Sorry, I know who Jackson is," I say to Betty. "Please continue. When was the last time you spoke with Ron?"
Betty twists her mouth to the side. "I don't remember."
She's lying.
I can feel it.
I can see it.
The slouch of her shoulders. The tightening of her grip on the steering wheel. The rapid rise and fall of her chest.
"You don't remember the last time you spoke to Ron MacDonald?" I press.
"Stop pestering her about Ron!" Willie grumbles. "Ask about Monday morning."
But … ugh … fine. "Tell me more about Monday morning," I say. "Do you remember seeing anything out of the ordinary when you returned home?"
Betty swerves onto the main highway toward Trucker. "No. Everything appeared normal. In the morning I went to Target, Anthropologie, and a few other places. Willie called and asked for his medicine. I was at the pharmacy for almost an hour. Then I came home. Went to my room to drop off a few bags. Came downstairs and found Willie." She frowns at the memory.
I can't help but feel a stab of sympathy for Betty. I can't imagine how traumatic it must have been to perform CPR on your own husband.
Unless you're the one who killed him.
Then it might not be so traumatic.
"Ask her if she went through the garage," Willie says.
Right. The key. "Did you come in through the garage?" I ask Betty.
"Nope." She flips on the blinker and swerves into the right lane. I notice, for the first time, the wedding band on her left ring finger. Based on Willie's wealth, I would have expected a fifteen-carat diamond encircled with rubies and emeralds and pearls, but this wedding ring is a plain silver band no thicker than an ant. "I don't ever go in the garage," she continues. "That's where Willie keeps all his cars."
"How many does he have?"
Betty counts on her fingers. "Six?"
Geez. That's a lot of cars. We should be borrowing one of those instead of LeRoy's land ark. "Do you know about the key broken in the garage door lock?"
"No." Betty wrinkles her nose. "I haven't gone out there yet. Willie must have done that."
I glance at Willie in the rearview mirror, but he's not there. Panicked, I turn around and find him still sitting on the backseat right where I left him. So you can't see ghosts in a mirror. Who knew?
"My keys are in my top dresser drawer with my wallet," Willie says. "I wouldn't have locked the door with a key …” He makes a strangled sound and lurches forward. "Ask Betty if the hide-a-key is still under th
e second rock from the fence in the backyard."
"What are you looking at?" Betty veers off the road and nearly takes out a row of cyclists. "Is Willie here right now?"
"He is," I say, holding tight to the grab handle. "Please pay attention to the road."
Betty tears up. "Willie, where are you?"
"The road," I say. "You're driving on the shoulder. There's a deer!" I cover my eyes. Please don't hit the deer. Please don't hit the deer. Please don't hit the deer.
"I'm right here." Willie appears on the console between us. "Pay attention, Betty."
I peek one eye open. We're back on the main road again. Deer unscathed. Phew.
Betty turns to face me. "Is Willie in the car?"
"Yes, he's right beside you. But please pay attention to the road." I clutch the seat belt. This might very well be how I die. Betty's a worse driver than I am.
"But I don't feel anything," Betty says. "Why don't I feel anything?" She releases the steering wheel and clutches her face.
Ah!
I reach over and take hold of the wheel and keep us from veering off into the ditch alongside the highway. Betty's breathing becomes more rapid, and I try hard to keep my voice calm. "Betty, take a deep breath and pull over to the side of the road."
"I … can’t … feel … anything …” she stutters out.
"Calm, Betty," I say again, still steering the car.
Finally, she takes back control of the car and eases to the shoulder. I grab Betty's hands, take a slow, deep breath, and encourage her to do the same. Her eyes lock on mine as she inhales and exhales in a steady rhythm.
"Good girl," I say with an encouraging smile.
"Why can't I feel Willie?" she asks between breaths.
I don't know the answer to that. I look to Willie for help, and he shrugs. "Talk to her," I say. "Tell her something. Anything. Just try it."
Willie takes his hat off, holds it over his heart, and presses his mouth to Betty's ear. I think he's about to whisper sweet words of endearment. Instead, he says the lyrics to the Friends theme song.
Betty doesn't flinch. She doesn't bat an eye. Or give any sign she can hear Willie. So he says them louder, and louder, and louder until he's singing an off-key rendition of the song. It's quite unpleasant.
Slowly, a smile spreads across Betty's face, and her eyes gloss over as if she's in a trance. "We used to watch Friends together every night," she says. "At first Willie hated the show. He said the characters were too loud and had terrible style. But he eventually came around. We made it through seven seasons."
