by Erin Huss
I'm on my hands and knees, searching under the couch. Then I shove my hands along the sides of the cushions. "I'm looking for a silver pen. I left it here the other day."
"What does it look like?"
I give him a look. "It's silver, and it's a pen."
"Right. I'm tired."
Me too. I check my watch. It's nearly midnight.
I move to the chair and lift the cushion. Voilà!
"Found it," I say as I put the chair back together.
"Check this out," Brian says. He's looking under the chair Willie died in, using his phone as a flashlight.
I drop to the floor. Stuck to the upholstery netting is what looks like a small, silver golf ball. I grab it and sit up. Upon further examination, I determine it's a cufflink.
"This must have been Willie's." I show it to Brian. "This is the chair he died in."
Brian shines his light on the cufflink. "You'd think the police would have found it if they searched the house."
"They obviously didn’t search the chair."
"That's mine!" Willie yells, and I scream in fright.
"What's wrong?" Brian touches my arm gently. "What happened?"
Betty runs in from the kitchen, drops to her knees, and grabs my face, holding it tight between her hands. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine." I hold up Willie's cufflink like it's a trophy. "I've found this!"
Betty grabs the cufflink, her brows knitted together. "Thanks," she draws out the words, as if not sure what to make of my discovery. Then she folds into the fetal position and sobs.
Um …
Brian taps my shoulder. "We should go," he mouths.
I can't leave Betty now, not in this state. That wouldn't be right. I can't go home either.
Hmmm …
* * *
"This is my favorite guest room." Betty flips on the light—and not just any light—a dramatic crystal chandelier, which hangs above a queen-sized bed covered in more pillows than I can count. All cream and gold with long tassels. The room is lovely and romantic. If only Brian hadn't decided to go home and leave me here, we could have picked up where we left off in the car. Maybe on that chaise lounge at the foot of the bed.
Hey. Hey.
"Wipe that goofy grin off of your face," Willie says. "And be grateful she's letting you stay here. That bed has never been slept in."
"Why not?" I ask him when Betty moves to the attached bathroom.
Willie shrugs. "Never had too many guests."
"Then why have this beautiful room for guests?"
Willie shrugs again. "I'm rich."
Oddly enough, this feels like a perfectly reasonable explanation.
Betty returns with a bathrobe and two towels. "Here you go." She drapes them over the side of the lounge chair. "If you need anything else, please don't hesitate to ask me. I'm two doors down on the right."
"This is great, thank you."
"No, thank you." She boops my nose with the tip of her finger. "I wouldn't have been able to do this without you."
This is true.
But not in the way she thinks.
If I hadn't interfered, the police wouldn't have had a reason to look into Willie's death, Betty wouldn't have ordered the autopsy, she wouldn't have been arrested, and she wouldn't be out on bail right now awaiting trial for murder. At worst, she would have lost half her fortune to Daniel and be forced to live the rest of her life on a tight one-hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar budget.
Betty and I say goodnight, and I close the door behind her. "What now?" Willie asks.
"Is sleep not an option?"
"I guess." He rolls his eyes.
I grab the towel and burry my face in the soft fabric and inhale the sweet, calming scent.
"Are you smelling my towels?" Willie asks.
"They smell like I'm standing in a field of lavender and," I take another whiff, "yet it also smells like I'm standing on the beach with my toes in the sand and the ocean breeze on my face."
"You're weird."
"Mmmhmmm." My towels smell like Tide and the fabric is rough and scratchy from years of being tossed around in our old washing machine.
"Seriously, person. Step away from the towel. We need to go check on something."
"Fine." I take one more whiff with my eyes closed. Man, how I wish I were on a beach right now. I let out a sigh. "Okay. Where are we going?"
Chapter Nineteen
I follow Willie down the long staircase, past the library, and past the office, and past a powder room, and past a closet, and into his bedroom. It looks exactly as it did the last time I was in here. Same bed. Same worn recliner. Same deer head staring at me. Same bad feeling.
Someone with a dark spirit was here. My eyes slide to the pills lined up on his nightstand. The blood pressure medication is gone. The police must have taken it. Whoever killed Willie was in here messing with his pill bottles. Which is why I had the bad feeling the first time I came in here.
I’m momentarily paralyzed, in awe of how powerful this gift I have is. Now I just have to figure out how to use it properly.
"What are you doing?" Willie asks.
“Nothing …” He already knows he died of an overdose of medication. Why state the obvious? “What are we doing in here?”
"This way." He waves for me to follow him into his closet. I flip on the light, and they come on one by one, illuminating his impressive suit collection.
"Did you wear all these?"
"No."
"Then why have them?"
"Because I'm rich."
"Yeah, okay. What are we looking for?"
"Pull that open." He points to the third drawer under his shoe rack.
I do as I’m told and reveal a long tray of cufflinks in every shape, size, color, and some look like they have real diamonds in them.
Wow.
"This is impressive," I say. "And I'm guessing we're looking for a golf ball?"
"Exactly."
I scan the drawer, and my eyes land on the small golf ball identical to the one I found under the chair. Except there are two.
"Dammit!" Willie punches the air. "Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!" He rips the hat off his head and slams it on the ground.
I feel like I'm missing something here. But I wait for him to finish before I ask.
"I died on a Monday," he replies, as if this explains everything.
"I'm not following."
"Don't you see …” he jerks his hands around. "I wear those to the club. I don't go to the club on Mondays. I wasn't wearing cufflinks when I died."
"Okay."
"So there's no way this fell off of me when I died."
"Still not getting it. Sorry."
Willie grunts. "Listen to me, person. I don't lose things. Never have. Never will. That right there”—he points to a pair of small gold cufflinks—"I've had those since nineteen fifty-five. Look!" He pulls his cuffs out of his jacket and shows me the same cufflinks. "They're the first pair I bought."
I'm trying, really, really, really hard to understand where he's going with this. "Are you saying that the golf ball cufflink didn't belong to you?"
"Yes!"
"B-but, you have golf ball cufflinks."
"I have two!"
"Betty could have put it back after she left my room."
"No, she didn't."
"But you said it was yours," I remind him. "You yelled it into my ear."
"That was before I thought about it. I have these golf ball cufflinks, but so do several other people."
Oh! Okay, now I'm getting it. He's saying this cufflink fell off the person who killed him. Which seems like a long shot, but I'm going to trust Willie's instincts. "Like who?"
He directs his gaze to the ground. "My golfing buddies. I bought a pair for Ron, Jackson, and LeRoy last year for Christmas. Right before Betty started working at the club."
Willie's anguish is palpable, and I wish I could give him a hug.
"But couldn't it have falle
n off one of them when they were here for a visit?" I ask.
"No," he says curtly. Anger rising up inside of him. "No, it couldn't have because none of those ungrateful pieces of crap have been to my house since Betty moved in. And Betty is the one who ordered those damn chairs!" He's up pacing again.
Okay, this is bad.
It would be far easier for Willie to accept that Daniel, who he never liked, who was desperate for money, who Willie never trusted, killed him. It's going to be difficult for him to accept the fact he was killed by a man he called his friend.
"No," I say. "I'm not giving up hope. There has to be a reasonable explanation as to why there was a cufflink under the chair." I close the drawer and hurry out of the closet, up the stairs, down the hall, past the guest room, and find Betty's door.
I grab the handle and jerk it open an inch, to make sure Betty's decent before I barge in. She's at the foot of her bed, sitting with her legs crisscrossed, talking on the phone.
"It was under the chair," she says.
The room is a mess, and there are bags on the floor. One from the pharmacy, two from Target, and a drawstring laundry bag from a place called Newsgate House. Betty said that she had gone to the pharmacy the morning Willie died and that she'd brought the bags up to her room before she went to check on him. So it's safe to say she went to Newsgate House that morning as well. I've never heard of it. Not sure it's relevant.
But what is relevant is the fact that the golf ball cufflink is sitting on the dresser near the door and not in Willie's closet.
"It could only be one then," Betty says. "You're right. But … okay … I will … I love you, too."
My breath hitches in my throat. I love you, too.
She could be talking to her family about the cufflink under the chair.
Although, she did say that she didn't have any family.
"I'm coming," Willie says from the end of the hallway. "I am approaching you, and giving you plenty of warning, so you won't scream."
I carefully reach in and grab the cufflink. Betty doesn't notice, and I close the door and slowly release the handle.
"What are you doing?" Willie asks.
"Um …”
"What happened? Where's Betty?” He disappears through the wall and returns. "She just turned on the shower. Go speak to her now.”
"Um …”
"Come on, person!" He walks through the wall again and reappears several moments later. "I don't see the cufflink, maybe you're right." His face bewildered. "She could have put it back. Go ask her. Ask her! Ask her! Ask her!"
I fold my hand tightly around the cufflink. "I'll wait until she's out of the shower."
"She's not going to take that long," Willie huffs as I walk toward my room. I close the door and lock it, the cufflink still hidden in my grasp.
"My head hurts." Which isn't a lie, it does hurt. Quite badly, actually. It’s also past midnight. "I'm going to bed now." I push the mound of pillows off the bed and slip in, pulling the comforter up to my nose.
"You're not even going to shower first?" Willie says in disgust. "I'm sure you stink and are covered in cat hair. That’s my brand-new bed."
"Betty's," I say. "This, all of this, now belongs to Betty."
“Tomato, tomahto. Who cares?"
I close my eyes and deepen my breath. Willie puts his face right up to mine, and I breathe deeper.
"There's no way you fell asleep that quickly."
My legs go cold, and I know he's sitting on them.
"Person! Wake up! This is important!"
I concentrate on my breathing and even add in a little snort for effect.
Willie finally gives up and stalks to the other side of the room. "Falling asleep while my murderer is out there," he mutters to himself.
If only I could fall asleep. I'm too afraid to let go of the cufflink, and my mind is too busy crafting a plan to find its owner.
Chapter Twenty
For a while I can't even move. I lie there, dazed, and stare at the chandelier hanging above the bed. The early morning sun reflects off the teardrop crystals, making a mesmerizing rainbow on the ceiling. Sweat trickles down my forehead, and a spasm runs through my body. I close my eyes and breathe through the pain.
There is a chapter in Reaching the Other Side that talks about the physical toll communicating with spirits takes on you: headache, exhaustion, and even shivers. But nowhere does it mention hot flashes and body spasms. Nor does it say anything about blurred vision and nausea.
It could be the stress.
You know what, yes!
Of course it's the stress.
There's a key piece of evidence clasped in my hand, and I'm almost convinced Betty is having an affair. I think about Willie's face when he realized it was likely one of his friends who'd killed him. News of Betty's involvement will crush him. Which is why he can't find out. At least not until I know the details. Not until I know for sure.
The problem is wherever I go, he goes.
Case in point: I roll upright and sit on the side of the bed, waiting for my equilibrium to catch up, and there is Willie. Standing in front of me with arms crossed, foot tapping, mouth set to a line.
"Go talk to Betty now," he says.
I check the clock. It's six a.m. "I'm sure she's still asleep."
"Then wake her up!"
"Give me a minute." I shuffle to the bathroom, grabbing one of the towels on my way, and shut the door. Willie impatiently waits outside.
No bathroom—it's one of our boundaries.
I stand at the sink and stare at the mirror. Oh, geez. I look terrible. My face is pale, my eyes red-rimmed, my hair … oh, my hair … it looks like a poorly constructed beehive with … what the heck? … I yank a little twig out.
Ugh.
I should have taken a shower last night. There are probably fancy smelling shampoos and soaps waiting for me.
I check.
Yep.
A cherry blossom bath and shower gel made by a company I can't even pronounce—L'Occitane—which means it's probably worth more than my shoes. I pop open the cap and take a whiff. Oh, my.
Can you wash your face with shower gel?
Probably not a great idea.
But I do it anyway.
I tame my hair into a bun on the top of my head. My clothes are wrinkled, and I wet my hands and use them as a makeshift iron.
Better.
"Okay," I whisper to myself in the mirror. "Time to put on your big girl panties and get to work. You can do this. You will do this."
My pants lack pockets. I guess this is when having jeans would come in handy. I slide the cufflink into my bra for safekeeping.
I suck in a breath and blow it out slowly. I do this a few times because for one, it feels good and two, I'm procrastinating. But if I don't leave soon, I'll lose the chance.
As soon as I swing open the door, Willie appears. "Took you long enough. Let's go talk to Betty." He starts for the door.
"No," I say, my feet planted.
Willie turns around slowly, weighted by shock. "What do you mean, no? This is your job. Go talk to her."
"No."
Willie is in my ear. "Go talk to her! Go talk to her! Go talk to her!"
I close my eyes and picture myself on the beach with my toes in the sand, ocean breeze on my face, and zero ghosts screaming in my ear.
Willie gives up and steps back, a tremor of shock passes across his face. "What is wrong with you?"
"I want you to leave."
He looks as though I've slapped him across the face. "Why?"
"I want you to leave," I say, my voice low and stern. It takes everything in me not to cry. But the truth is, I do want him to leave. I need him to leave for his own good.
Willie flickers slightly, as if he is shorting out. He appears so hurt and angry that I can't even look at him. I grab my cell phone and leave, knowing without having to check that Willie isn't following me. For the first time in over a week, I'm alone.
; The silence is deafening.
But there's no time to dwell. I race downstairs, turn off the alarm (one-two-three-four), open the garage door, and flip on the lights. The sight of Willie's car collection causes my heart to plunge into my gut.
I can't believe I'm doing this.
Borrowing LeRoy's old, dirty clunker of a car was one thing; borrowing a Lamborghini is another.
The keys are proudly displayed on hooks above the light switch. I decide on the copper colored BMW i8. Out of all the cars, it's the only name I can confidently pronounce (should I need to defend myself in court). I grab the key—except it isn't a key. It's a fob with a touchscreen—and when I get in the car, I'm super confused on how to start the thing (never mind that it took me ten minutes to figure out how to get in the car, since the doors slide up—Back to the Future-style).
This car is way out of my league. It's muscular and digital, and there is no keyhole. None! There is, however, a button on the center console that says Push to Start. So I push it and … nothing. The dashboard lights up, but I don't hear the engine. I press it again, and the dashboard turns off.
Well, this is frustrating.
I slam the brake pedal down and push the button. The dashboard lights up, but I don't hear the engine. I'm exactly three seconds away from throwing the stupid fancy fob out the window, except the window doesn't even roll down all the way!
"Okay, be smarter than the car," I chant to myself. "Smarter than the car."
I press the button once more. The dashboard lights up, but the engine remains silent. On the gearshift there is an option for Eco or Sport. Eco sounds safer, and the dashboard turns white. Okay, so maybe the engine starts when I put the car into drive?
Doesn't make sense, but I'm desperate.
Why can't Willie drive a freaking Honda?
I put the car into reverse and tap on the gas.
Aha!
I'm moving backwards … wait. Wait! I slam on the brake and search the visor for the garage door opener. Found it. The garage door rolls open, and I try it again. I've managed to make it out of the garage, which feels like a small victory. Car in drive and … holy hell!
I zoom down the driveway, pass all the mansions, and reach the community gate in less than thirty seconds. Wow. This thing is dangerous.
