by Erin Huss
I sit at the table, and Mom plops down a blueberry muffin, a cup of orange juice, and an iron pill. She's unusually quiet. It's because of last night, when I asked about my childhood. She's actively trying not to think about it by singing Bon Jovi songs in her head. Clearly, she's hiding something, but I have serious doubt I'll be able to crack her. My eyes slide to Dad, who is cleaning up his mess.
Dad I can break. It's just a matter of getting him alone so I can read his thoughts.
I'm struck with an idea. "Dad," I say while unwrapping my muffin. "Do you want to meet for ice cream after work, just you and me?"
Mom drops a plate in the kitchen.
"You okay in there?" I ask.
"A-okay." Mom grabs two potholders from a drawer and slams it shut with her hip. "Forgot the pan was still hot."
"What are you making?" I move to the kitchen. Mom has dropped a sheet of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on the ground.
"That's unfortunate," Willie mutters.
I help Mom clean up the mess. "Are these for work?" Mom typically buys scones and donuts from Butter Bakery for their open houses.
"No." She drops a handful of mushed cookies into the sink and wipes the chocolate off of her hands. "I made them for Brian Windsor."
I pause mid-chew (ten second rule). "Wh-wh-why are you making him cookies?" I ask in a panic. Why? Why? Why? My mom cannot talk to Brian. Also, who bakes their daughter's boss cookies? He's not my teacher. I'm socially awkward, and even I know that's weird.
Mom grabs a rag out of the sink. "As a thank you. Word around town is he was quite heroic when you were hit by Old Man LeRoy."
What in the what?
I look at Willie for confirmation, and he shrugs. "I wasn't paying attention."
"Why not?" I mouth.
"I'd just died. I needed a moment to figure out what the hell was going on!"
Fair enough.
Dad chimes in. "Everyone says Brian rushed to the scene and carried you to Dr. Karman's office."
"He carried me?" The thought is equal parts horrifying and thrilling. "I don't remember him being there at all."
"The story goes," Dad says, "that he dropped you in the office and ran to tend to his uncle."
"Who is his uncle?" Willie and I say in unison.
Mom is on her hands and knees, wiping the floor with more vigor than the situation requires. "Brian Windsor is LeRoy's great-nephew. Don't you know that?"
"Why would I know that?" I look at Willie. "Why don't you know that?" I mouth.
He pauses, struck by a memory. "Now that I think about, he did mention his nephew moved to town to run the paper."
I roll my eyes then realize Mom and Dad are staring at me. "What's wrong?"
"Who are you talking to?" Dad asks cautiously.
Oops. "I … um … wasn’t talking to anyone." I shove another broken cookie into my mouth.
Mom slaps the rag onto the counter, and both Willie and I jump. “Yes, you were!"
“No, I was … um, talking to Jabba." I hurry out of the kitchen, and Mom follows.
"I know you were not talking to that cat. You were talking to something else," Mom is adamant, and I'm scared to make eye contact.
“No, I wasn't!" I say to the ground and grab my sneakers.
"Not the ugly man shoes," Willie whines. "You'll ruin the whole youthful vibe of the outfit."
"Shut up!" I say out loud. Oops. Gah! I need to be more careful.
"Zoe Matilda Lane." Dad marches to the living room. "You don't tell your mother to shut up."
"She didn't, John." Mom crosses her arms. "She's talking to imaginary people. Is it the guy with the hat?"
"What? Pffft. No. I was talking to … um … you!” I cross my arms. "Yeah, you!"
"That's it,” Mom seethes. "You're … you’re … you’re grounded!"
Willie takes a seat on the couch and laces his fingers behind his head. "This is getting good."
“No, it's—I mean." I blow out a breath and regain my composure. "I'm an adult," I say to Mom. "You can't ground me. And what are you going to ground me from? I don't touch the computer. I rarely use my cell phone. I never leave the house. I don't hang out with friends." I feel a sudden surge of anger and resentment. "You've prohibited me from living, and I'm sick of it! Get your own damn life and stay out of mine, woman!"
A tremor of shock passes over Mom's face. This is the moment when I should feel guilty, except I don't feel guilty, which makes me feel guilty, and really I'd like to go back to a time when the only feelings I felt were my own. The S name is swimming around in Mom's head, and she narrows her eyes. "Zoe Matilda Lane, you are out of line."
"You are out of line!" I yell back.
"How about ice cream?" Dad offers, because in his book, any disagreement can be settled with dessert.
"Why aren't there pictures of me when I was a child?" I ask.
"I told you it was a busy time, Zoe!"
"What are you hiding from me?" I demand.
"Nothing!"
The doorbell rings, and we all freeze. Mom with her mouth wide open, me with my arms still crossed, Willie on the couch, enjoying the show. Then there's Dad, who is in the kitchen digging around in the freezer.
"I'll get it,” I finally say and swing open the door. "Ah!" It's Brian. Brian Windsor is at my house, on my front doorstep, wearing a plaid blue shirt, jeans, and a smirk. I step outside and slam the door shut behind me. "What are you doing here?"
Willie appears and is studying Brian's face with intense scrutiny. "Now that you mention it, I can see the resemblance. He's got LeRoy's nose. Damn shame. LeRoy didn't age well."
Brian adjusts his glasses and clears his throat. "Every time I try to speak to you, you run away. I figured I'd catch you at home."
"Um." I look right, then left, feeling the urge to run again. But where do I go? If I go inside, I'll have to face Mom, and I don't want to. So I give up. "What can I do for you, Brian?"
"Make eye contact," Willie says. "You're not making eye contact."
I stare into Brian's eyes, and my stomach does an almighty flutter. They're gorgeous.
"Move closer," Willie says. "And take off the blazer."
Gah, this ghost is maddening.
I stand my ground and leave my outfit alone. Brain already appears uncomfortable enough with the direct eye contact. "I'm writing an article about your accident on Monday and would like a statement. I also wanted to see how you're doing."
Oh, an article. I, Zoe Lane, will be featured in The Fernn Valley Gazette. How exciting … wait a minute. "Isn't it unethical or un-something to write about the accident when your uncle is the one who hit me?"
"I can be impartial." He pulls a notepad from his pocket and clicks a pen. I wish I could read his mind. I wish I could feel his feelings. I wonder if his heart thrums when I'm around. I wonder if he lies in bed and thinks of me like I've thought of him many times over the last year. Or if he's ever wondered what it would be like to kiss me.
I concentrate, hoping to catch a glimpse of his emotions the way I can with my mother. Hoping to feel something, or hear something, or see anything.
Brian takes a step back. "Are you unwell?"
"Stop being weird," Willie grunts.
So I can't read Brian.
What's the point of having gifts if you can't freely use them on whomever you want?
"Smile!" Willie is behind Brian, giving me an exaggerated grin. "Show your teeth."
I give a fleeting smile to appease him. "I feel good," I say, which is a lie. My back is killing me this morning. I was, after all, hit by a car.
Brian writes this down and looks up. "For your information, we packed up LeRoy's house and got him situated at MelBorne Assisted Living last night. So he's off the streets."
"What!" Willie shrieks so loud I flinch. "You put LeRoy in a nursing home? That old man doesn't need a nursing home!"
"Wh-why would you do that?" I ask Brian. "I didn't press charges. He said he'd stop driving. Was that
necessary?"
"It was his idea," Brian says. "He hasn't been the same since the accident. He doesn't even remember driving to Betty MacIntosh's house the other day. Then I caught him in the car yesterday driving around. It's for the best."
Willie turns around slowly. "You broke the old man."
"I didn't break him! I was in the crosswalk."
"I'm not arguing that point,” Brian says. "I witnessed the entire thing. It was one hundred percent LeRoy's fault."
"You witnessed it? Weren't you inside?"
"I had come after you," he says.
Brian came after me!
"I felt bad," he says. "About how our interview went. I was going to offer you an internship."
He came after me because he felt bad. I can live with that.
"Looks like you already have a job though," Brian says.
"I do?"
He makes a V with his brows. "Aren't you writing for another paper?"
Am I? I can't remember all the lies I've told over the last few days. I should probably write them down. "Sure?"
"Are you covering the Willie MacIntosh story?" He tilts his head. "There's a lot of talk about his wife Betty and a possible scam."
"Tell him he's being ridiculous, Zoe." Willie is in my ear. "Tell him!"
"That's ridiculous." I shoo Willie away. "There is no scam. The marriage is legal. The will is legal and was drafted by a sound-minded Willie. Your uncle was one of the witnesses …” Crap. If LeRoy is not himself and he recently checked into a nursing home, will he be a credible witness if or when this goes to probate court?
"Stay here,” Willie says and suddenly disappears.
Great. What's happening now?
"Are you okay?" Brian asks.
“No … I mean, yes. I am." His face blurs into two, and I blink to focus. "I'm fine. I'm great! You can use that in your article," I say, distracted. It is odd that Mom hasn't stormed out here demanding to know who is at the door.
"I know that you're friends with Betty," Brian says. "But if you're writing an article, you need to see it from both sides. Willie MacIntosh was a well-known womanizing bachelor. Doesn't it strike you as odd that he married two weeks before his death and that he altered his will shortly before? When Daniel had been set to inherit his money for the last thirty-something years?"
"No to the marriage. Yes to the death. Not sure about the last question."
"I heard the police were at her house yesterday," Brian says.
"Are you trying to poach my article?" I ask, as if I'm actually writing a story. As if I actually have a job. As if I actually know how to craft an article even if I were asked to write one.
Brian doesn't answer. Instead, he returns the notepad to his pocket and gives me an incredulous look. "What paper did you say you were writing for again?"
"I'd rather not say."
Brian nods and backs away. "Then I guess I'm done. I'm glad you're doing well," he says. "I'll see you around." He strolls to his car, which is parked along the curb. A black sedan with tinted windows.
I'm trembling as I watch him drive away. The lying is getting to me. I can't live in this made-up world anymore. I can't pretend that I don't see Willie. I can't pretend I'm not devastated to learn that if I had waited outside The Gazette for ten more minutes, I wouldn't have been hit by a car, Old Man LeRoy wouldn't have checked himself into a nursing home, and I would have an internship. I feel horrible about LeRoy. I need to fix it. I don't know how. But I have to.
Willie appears. "How'd it go?"
"Terrible. We need to speak to LeRoy and clear this up."
"Agreed. But we've got a bigger mess inside."
I massage my temples. My head already hurts. "What's happening now?"
"Your parents are in their room arguing. Your dad wants to come clean. Your mom refuses. She said if your dad tells you, then she'll leave him."
I drop my hands. "That's serious."
"They won't say what it is that they're keeping from you. But they mentioned a fire."
"A fire?" I whisper in shock. "Did they say anything about a person with a name that starts with an S?"
Willie shakes his head. "But we're going to find out what's going on."
I take a seat on the step and pull my knees to my chest. "I'm not going to put my dad in a position where he needs to tell me. Not if it will break up my parents' marriage."
"You don't have to." Willie kneels beside me. "I found a safe in your parents’ closet, and I have a feeling that whatever it is they're hiding is in there."
This is not news to me. I've seen the safe before. It's a twelve-inch black cube, sitting on the top shelf of my parents' closet. I once asked my mom what was in it, and she'd said it's where she kept her jewelry. Made sense to me, and I never inquired again.
"We'll walk back to your house after they drop us off," Willie says. "And we'll get inside the safe and find out what's going on."
"What about LeRoy, and Betty, and Daniel, and your will, and your autopsy, and the key, and the detective, and Ron, and Arnie, and—"
Willie shushes me. "That can wait. I also have some good news." He rubs his hands together with the goofiest grin on his face.
"What is it?" I could really use some good news right about now.
"When I was in the closet, I found a red box filled with lingerie, and your mom has a pair of black leather shoes."
I grimace. "That is the opposite of good news."
"They could look good with your outfit, or not, but it’s worth a shot."
"Gah! Would you get off the shoes? Honestly. We have more important things to deal with." I stand, dust off the back of my pants, walk inside, slam the door, and make a mental note to never look inside a red box.
Chapter Thirteen
My house is eerily quiet. There’s only the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking from the grandfather clock in the living room. I feel intrusive, almost criminal, and I don't know why. I've been home alone hundreds of times before—probably thousands. It could be because I had to climb in through the window. I realized after my parents had dropped me at The Gazette that I’d left the house key on my nightstand.
Smart move.
"Let's get this over with," I say to Willie and walk down the hallway. My parents’ room looks exactly as it has my whole life. The walls are a peachy yellow, and an oil painting of a farmhouse is hung above the bed. The nightstands and headboard are a matching pine set, and the comforter is the same color as the walls. White bi-fold doors are all that stand between me and the black box in my parents’ closet.
I rest my hands on the knobs. Do I even want to know what's in the safe?
Willie is staring at me. "Open the doors. Come on, person. We've got places to go, people to see, murders to solve. Open. Open. Open. Open."
Fine, I decide. I want to know who this mysterious S person is and why fire is associated with the name. This is my life, after all.
With newfound determination, I pull open the doors and spot the safe on the top self. It's next to the red box.
I'm too short, and the safe is too high. I drag a chair in from the kitchen table to give me a boost. The safe requires a code, and I start with my birthday.
Doesn't work.
I try my parents' wedding anniversary.
Nope.
My mom's birthday, Dad's birthday, the day Apollo 11 landed on the moon (per Willie's suggestion), D-Day, V-Day, one-two-three-four, four-three-two-one, Christmas, Fourth of July, and the first six numbers of our phone number …
Nothing works.
Frustrated, I start to descend from the chair when I'm struck with an idea. "Can you stick your head in there and see what's inside?" I ask Willie.
He stares at me for a few moments before he dissolves into laughter.
Well, he's cracked.
I fold my arms, not finding the humor in this situation. "Are you just about done?"
He slaps his knee, hunched over in a soundless laughing fit.
"What i
s so funny?" I demand.
"It's the fact”—he wheezes out between laughs—“that we’ve spent the last hour trying to crack the code to the safe when all I have to do is put my face in there." He wipes non-existent tears from his eyes. "You have to admit, that's funny."
"Wasting time isn't funny. Now, stick your face in there. And hurry up before you wake Jabba."
"Okay, okay. No need to be so pushy." He puts his head through the safe. It's unsettling to watch, and I turn away. "There's a manila envelope," he says once he emerges. "And there's also a pistol."
“No, there's not. My parents don't own a gun."
"I just shoved my head into a safe, and I'm telling you, your parents own a gun."
"Why would they need a gun? We live in Fernn Valley. The most criminal thing to happen around here is when someone changed Fernn to Sperm on the town's welcome sign."
"I don't know. But I have a feeling whatever you need to know is in that envelope."
Shoot! So close. Yet so far. I gnaw on my bottom lip and look around. There's got to be something else around here to give us a clue as to what is in the safe.
Willie and I search the room. I pull the mattress up, look through drawers, and under the bed. It would easier if we knew what we were looking for. In the end, all we find is a package of Little Debbie Donuts hidden in Dad's nightstand.
This mission is a total bust and a complete waste of time. I put the room back as I found it, and we go.
Next mission: Old Man LeRoy.
MelBorne Assisted Living is a somber-looking establishment. Single story with brown fascia, brown siding, brown doors, and windows with drawn, light brown curtains. Poorly kept shrubs line the walkway, and the cement is cracked and veiny.
Willie shakes his head. "I'd rather be dead than stuck in this place."
Agreed.
The automatic doors part, and I'm assaulted by a nauseating odor of urine and day-old cafeteria food. A woman in a blue nurse's uniform smiles at me. She looks to be in her thirties with jet-black hair slicked into a bun and thinly drawn-in eyebrows. Per her name tag, this is Patricia. "Do you have an appointment?"
"I don't. I'm here to see Mr. …” LeRoy's last name has escaped my mind, and Willie has wandered off. Then I remember where I live. Of course I don't need a last name. All I need to say is, "Old Man LeRoy." And the nurse knows exactly whom I'm talking about. Benefits of a small town.
