Killer Coin

by Elka Ray

  My apartment is on the fourth floor. The lack of an elevator usually doesn’t bother me, but tonight, in heels, my ascent is slower. “I’m almost up the stairs,” I tell my mom. I try not to breathe too heavily into the phone. “So I’ll say goodnight now.”

  “Okay. Goodnight hon.” A tiny intake of breath. “Wait. Tob?”

  “Yes, Mom?”

  “Just tomorrow. Be careful. Okay?”

  Her warning puts me on edge. When Mrs. Van Dortmund’s cat flashes past my shins, I jump and clutch the banister. This jolt of fear is quickly followed by annoyance. Careful of what? What happened two months back was a one-off. Me and Josh are taking a cruise on a totally safe, modern luxury yacht. That’s pretty much a dream date. Can’t Quinn and my mom just be happy for me? I’m going out with one of the most eligible bachelors in town, if not all of Canada. Josh—aka Adonis—Barton!

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I blurt out, before I can stop myself. Immediately, guilt kicks in.

  “I just . . .” My mother sighs, her voice tremulous and apologetic. “I’m sorry. I’m just feeling anxious. About Daphne, I guess, and now it’s spilled over onto you.” She takes a deep breath, then sounds more resolute. “I’m being ridiculous. You go and have fun. Tomorrow’s forecast is decent, so hopefully you’ll have good weather.”

  Her apology makes me want to apologize too. Instead, I just say goodnight as I climb the final steps.

  “Sweet dreams, sweetheart.” A pause, followed by a couple more plops as brightly colored stones slide through her fingers. “Just promise you’ll wear your lifejacket, okay?”

  I roll my eyes. What am I, six? “Of course, Mom.”

  Across the hall, I can hear tinkly feminine laughter waft out of Mr. Garlowski’s place. One of the building’s few widowers, he’s a hot commodity amongst Oak Bay’s countless single senior ladies—despite bearing a resemblance to a gargoyle.

  I unlock my door. Stepping inside, I kick off my heels, then try to sound less like a teenaged brat. “I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you t—” A little gasp makes me stop.

  “Mom?” When she doesn’t answer right away, I can’t help but imagine the worst: a heart attack, an aneurysm, a fall . . . “Mom?” I say again.

  “It’s the turquoise!” says my mother. “It’s . . .” Her voice drops to a stricken whisper. “Oh my goodness! The color! It’s faded . . .”

  I swallow hard, torn between relief and teeth-clenching annoyance. While I have no idea what she means, she will surely inform me.

  “Turquoise can sense danger,” says my mom. “And infidelity and poison. When it changes from dark to light . . .” Her voice shudders. “That’s a very bad sign.”

  Not wanting to encourage her, I stay quiet. I head into my tiny kitchen to fill the kettle. My mom’s Sleeping Beauty turquoise has always been one of my favorite stones, a wonderful smooth, robin’s egg blue. I used to press it to my eyelids as a kid, convinced some color might rub off, like Barbie’s powder-blue eyeshadow.

  “Toby?”

  “Yeah, Mom?”

  “Honey, this is terrible. You gotta be c—”

  Since it’s obvious what’s coming next, I cut her off. “I know, Mom. Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

  After hanging up, I wonder if my mom’s eyes—or head—need checking. Pouring my tea, I can’t help but sigh. While rocks don’t change, people do. Is old age making my mom even less logical and prone to wacked-out, magical thinking?

  The tea is scalding. I open and slam some cupboard doors, unable to find the honey. While it seems my mom beat her breast cancer, that scare changed me, opening up a new, inescapable reality: sooner or later our roles will flip, caregiver turned dependent. My mom, who’s always supported me, will need me to support her. I don’t feel ready for this role, which seems impossibly adult. But like it or not, it’s coming. As my mom gets older, weaker, and nuttier, I’ll have to be the strong, sane one.

  CHAPTER 9:

  GETTING SOMEWHERE

  The morning dawns cool and overcast. The days are rapidly getting shorter and the temperatures lower. While there’s no wind, it’ll be cold on the water. I don thermals under my jeans and a thick wool sweater.

  Stuffed with a thermos of hot chocolate, a package of ginger snaps, a warm hat, and four bottles of Corona, my backpack clinks as I descend the stairs to the lobby. From his tree-top perch, Angel Chucky leers down at me. Someone has trod on one of the fake presents. Half squashed, it looks sadder than ever.

  Rather than inhale the lobby’s standard odors of cat pee and Vicks VapoRub, I wait outside. I sit on the low, mossy wall that runs along the sidewalk.

  As usual, Josh is late—something else I don’t like about him. But no one’s perfect, least of all me. When he pulls up my stomach does its customary gymnastics routine. Ten out of ten at the Crush Olympics.

  “Hi,” I say, breathless as a schoolgirl jumping into her first boyfriend’s first car. In both good and bad ways, Josh’s presence transforms me into an adolescent—excited and insecure in equal measure.

  “Morning,” he says. He leans in for a quick kiss. As always, he smells wonderful, like spice and the ocean. With his bright blue eyes, tanned face, and mussed blond curls, the man is summer personified. It’s like he travels in his own sunbeam. Sure enough, despite the cool day, the Porsche’s sunroof is open.

  Doing up my seatbelt, I feel shy. When we talked on the phone last night, I told him about my hopes of finding Daphne Dane’s summer cabin. “You still want to head out past Sooke?” he asks. “There’s a high chance of rain. Should we risk it?”

  “Yes,” I say. I don’t care if it rains. “That’d be fantastic.” I hand over the road directions I got from my mother.

  Josh squints at my handwriting. “Wait, let me check.” He turns on the car’s sat nav. “Hmmm,” he says. On the screen, grids of neighborhoods give way to sparse lines and white space. “It must be around here someplace,” says Josh, pointing at a blank spot. “There’s no road access, right?”

  “You have to walk in,” I say. “But there’s a bay with a jetty.”

  “Great.” Josh takes out his iPhone and opens Google maps. “So it’s somewhere around here,” he says. I examine the smaller screen. “We should be home before dark. Want to stop at Subway to grab lunch?”

  “Good thinking.”

  The last time we went out on his boat he’d prepared a fancy picnic with strawberries and champagne. I’m glad he hasn’t tried to recreate that romantic scene. It feels better to keep this casual—subs, hot chocolate, and cold beer. I get a six-inch tuna. He opts for a foot-long pepperoni.

  By the time we reach Oak Bay Marina, some blue sky is peeking through the clouds. We park near the restaurant and walk through the coffee shop’s large outdoor deck. Looking out at the docks and boats, it’s hard not to think of Josh’s estranged wife, Tonya, who was murdered here last summer.

  Maybe Josh is thinking about her too because his steps slow. I wonder if I should bring her up, and give him the chance to talk about her death, or if it’s better to leave it.

  I’m saved from having to decide by the arrival of a large black standard poodle. It bounds up to Josh with its tail wagging. “Hi, Claude,” he says. He bends to pet its wooly rump. The dog spins in happy circles.

  I look around. “Is Mike here?” The dog, formerly Tonya’s, now belongs to Josh’s brother.

  “He must be.” He scratches Claude’s ears. “We’re looking into buying another boat.” He grins. “To take out more charters.”

  “That’s great,” I say, pleased to hear their charter business is expanding. Josh made his money in the States, on a tech startup, but moved back to Victoria for a more outdoorsy lifestyle. He and his brother Mike haven’t always had an easy relationship. I’m glad their partnership’s thriving.

  We descend the ramp, which is steep at low tide. I look for the seals that hang out under the ramp, waiting for tourists to throw them frozen fish, but both t
he water and dock lie empty. Even in the harbor, the water’s clean enough to see the rocky bottom.

  Claude follows us some way along the dock, only to veer off and start chasing a seagull. We turn toward the Customs station. As we get further from shore, the boats grow larger. Josh reaches for my hand and squeezes it. At his touch, my insides squirm. I can’t stop smiling.

  Near the Great Escape, my steps falter. It’s impossible not to recall my last, terrifying trip. I thought we’d both die. Josh gives my hand another squeeze. I turn his way. Does he know how I’m feeling?

  But no, a look at his face reveals he’s studying his boat. “The new boat will be even bigger,” he says. “It’ll be ready for the spring tourist season.” He looks delighted. He climbs onboard, then gives me a quizzical look. “You coming?”

  I nod. I can’t back out now. And I don’t want to. I must get over this fear. With a deep breath, I follow him onboard. A brief, dizzying flash of déjà vu strikes as I climb the spiral stairs. I touch the wall to steady myself and keep going.

  As before, I’m hit by how bright it is up on the bridge—everything gleaming white—the floor so clean it’s like it’s never been walked on, the table and chairs also shining. I fight back a memory of the bloodstains. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

  Josh unlocks a cupboard and pulls out two floatation jackets. We both put them on. Mine comes down to my knees. He laughs. “Want to try a kid’s size?”

  I’m not sure if he’s joking. “This one’s fine,” I say. If I ever want a pumpkin costume for Halloween, all I’ll need is this jacket and a black marker.

  Josh starts the engine. “Are you okay to go down and untie us?” he asks.

  “Aye, aye Captain.”

  I follow his shouted instructions.

  “You learn fast,” he says, when I regain the bridge. “You’ll make a fine first mate, after all.”

  I fight back a smile. “And you thought I was just some feeble landlubber.” I sink into a large white swivel chair. “Know any good pirate jokes?” I ask him.

  Josh shrugs and turns the wheel. “You got me stumped.” The boat edges smoothly away from the dock.

  I curl up in my chair. “Neither do ayyyye,” I say.

  He groans. “Any more jokes like that and you’ll be walking the plank.”

  “You know there’s an official Talk Like a Pirate Day?” I say. “I think it’s in September.”

  Josh rolls his eyes. “You and I are never going boating on that day.”

  As we motor out of the harbor, I start to relax. I like the implication that we’ll still be together next fall, that pirate talk will be an in-joke we share, part of our couple language. This is fun. I’m glad I’m here, seeing another, important side of Josh’s life.

  We cruise around the breakwater and turn toward the golf course. The wind is cold and damp on my face. Out to sea, I spot some seals on the rocks, fat as bratwurst. There’s the little beach where Quinn and I used to play as kids, skipping rocks and collecting sea glass. With no wind, the ocean is smooth and shiny as a high-grade sapphire, set beside the polished emerald of the Victoria Golf Club. From this angle, the familiar landmarks look different: McNeill Bay, the Chinese Cemetery, Beacon Hill Park, Ogden Point. I feel excited each time I recognize a place. Past Esquimalt, nothing looks familiar, although I know we’re passing Colwood and Metchosin. Victoria’s suburbs keep spreading westward.

  “You having fun?” calls Josh, from behind the wheel. His blond curls bounce around his smiling face, eyes covered by black Ray-Bans. He looks even hotter than usual.

  “Yes!” I yell. It’s invigorating to be out on the water, moving at speed. Up ahead, in the distance, I can see a fishing boat. More of the clouds have blown away. Currents of multicolored blue crisscross the sea. Where the sun hits it, the ocean sparkles.

  “That’s East Sooke Park,” says Josh. He slows to consult some charts and his iPhone. I see grey rocks, backed by dark green forest. Once we’ve passed the park, the occasional cabin comes into view, little matchboxes set by the water. We pass three sailboats headed the opposite way. All their passengers, also dressed in orange, wave at us. We wave back. Out toward the States I spot a hulking cargo ship.

  “Want to steer, matey?” calls Josh.

  I walk to his side. “I’m a little green, m’hearties.”

  “Here.” He moves over so I can take the wheel. “There’s nothing to it.” With him standing so close, it’s hard to follow directions. Before I know it, my hands are off the wheel and on him. He slows the boat and pulls me close. It’s suddenly much hotter in my giant survival jacket. Our kiss sets my heart racing.

  When we finally lean back, Josh grins. “Shiver me timbers.”

  I laugh. “See, you’ll love Talk Like a Pirate Day.”

  Back on track, we see less traffic. The coast looks more desolate now. I see dark trees and grey rocks with some ribbons of beaches.

  Josh slows the boat and checks the GPS. “We must be close,” he says. A few minutes later, he points toward a narrow cove gripped by steep cliffs. “That should be it, just ahead.”

  I squint to follow the line of his finger. Thick trees come right down to a rocky beach. There’s a rickety jetty but no sign of a cabin.

  We slow further and turn into the cove. Above the trees, I spot a circling bald eagle.

  As we draw closer to shore, I peer overboard. The water is crystal clear. Down below, I see rocks and seaweed. “Is it deep enough?” I ask.

  Josh nods. He studies the depth sounder’s small screen. “Yes. Plenty deep.”

  Josh’s obviously had lots of experience; he makes steering this big boat look easy. “Now heave ho,” he says. “I need you to run down and tie us up.”

  I give him a mock salute, then grab my backpack and descend the spiral staircase.

  When we’re safely tied up, I peel off my floatation jacket. Now that we’re stationary, I’m sweating.

  Josh trots down the stairs.

  As I step onto the thin dock, it shudders beneath me.

  I shade my eyes as I walk. Negotiating this rickety dock I feel a sense of misgiving. This is private property. We’re uninvited. What if Daphne’s here and doesn’t want visitors? Am I being invasive?

  But then I recall my mom’s worry. She thought it was a wonderful idea to check Daphne’s cabin, just in case. As Daphne’s best friend, surely my mom has a right—no, a duty—to look for her. Or has my mom lost the plot? After all, even the turquoise looked ominous. If you’re convinced of something, you’ll see signs everywhere. Ordinary things become omens. Every bird, bug, or rock is a messenger. That’s the danger of magical thinking.

  I step off the dock. Josh’s right behind me. “So, where to?” he says. Our feet sink into the pebbled beach. I squint into the trees, looking for a trail. There’s a faint gap in the woods, up ahead.

  “That way,” I say, pointing. We start to walk, our feet crunching through the pebbles.

  Josh glances my way. “I’m glad we came today,” he says.

  I nod, suddenly tongue-tied. “Same.” Our hands find each other’s as we walk. As usual, I get a charge from his touch. Everything around us looks suddenly brighter.

  “Whose place is this, again?” asks Josh, scanning the bay. Our feet stir up loose pebbles. Some long, shiny strands of kelp litter the beach, like snakes from some alien planet.

  “Daphne Dane’s,” I say. I’d explained the whole saga last night, on the phone. I guess he wasn’t really listening.

  One of his golden eyebrows rises. “As in Dane cookies?”

  I’m surprised. “Yes. Do you know her?”

  “We’ve met at the marina,” he says. “She keeps her yacht there.”

  “Oh,” I say. I didn’t know Daphne had a boat.

  “How do you know her?” he asks me.

  “She’s an old friend of my mom’s,” I say. “From way back.” What I don’t say is that Daphne helped my mom stay afloat, back when my dad deserted us. Without Daphne�
��s aid, we might have ended up in a shelter. Or on the street. Daphne also introduced Ivy to all her rich, gullible friends, who—with more cash than sense—became devoted clients. I bet half my mom’s customers have some link to Daphne Dane.

  “Daphne seems like a smart woman,” says Josh. “Not the flighty type. I think your mom’s right to be worried.”

  “Really?” I say, surprised. I’m mostly here to appease my mom, not because I think Daphne’s in real peril. Except what if she is? “Col—,” I stop myself from mentioning Colin. “The cops think she’s gone off on holiday, maybe with her new boyfriend.”

  Josh bends to pick up a reddish pebble. He examines it before tossing it away. “Well, I think it’s strange,” he says. “Leaving without telling her kids or friends. No note, nothing.”

  I think of Daphne’s kids: disapproving Isobel and lazy Lukas, both eager to milk their mom for cash. Maybe she’s not that close to them. And my mom? That’s a little weird, although maybe Daphne’s feeling secretive about her new romance. It’s very recent, after all. Maybe she’s scared it’ll all go wrong and she’ll end up feeling foolish. It’s hard enough dating at my age. Imagine doing it as a senior! Even the language—boyfriend, girlfriend—seems absurd. We need new words to match today’s reality: it’s not just kids who are dating.

  We walk along the beach in silence, then scramble over some large driftwood logs. Josh steps onto a big rock. He shields his eyes to look around. “What a great spot,” he says. “A deep protected harbor with good views.” He examines the tall cliffs bookending the bay. “Does Daphne own those points too?” Twisted pines and cedars overhang the cliffs’ edges.

  “I don’t know. My mom said it’s a big property.” Whatever that means. Given the Danes’ wealth, it could be gigantic. It’s isolated, that’s for sure. And Josh’s right: the aspect is lovely.

  We follow a narrow path into the dark trees. The ground is springy beneath our feet. Apart from our footsteps, it’s utterly quiet. Under the trees, the light is greenish-grey. Thanks to my teenage stint at summer camp, I recognize pine, spruce, and mountain hemlock. I recall being in the woods with Josh, our first kiss, at the age of fourteen. Time for a repeat, only better. I stop and pull him toward me.