Killer Coin

by Elka Ray

  Lukas toys with the frayed hem of his fleece vest. “I guess Izzie and Grace were right,” he says, slowly.

  His mom rounds on him. “What does that mean?”

  “Well, they didn’t like him,” says Lukas. “They thought he was after your money.”

  At just that moment Grace reappears. She’s bearing a lacquered tea tray.

  Daphne glares at her. “You didn’t like Stephen?” she asks. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  Grace sets the tray onto the gleaming coffee table. “You were happy,” she says, flatly. “And would you have listened?”

  Daphne looks taken aback. “Of course I would have . . .” She swallows hard.

  Grace tilts her head. “No you wouldn’t have!” she says. “Love is blind! Everyone knows that. There was nothing I could say. And besides, what if I was wrong?” She pours the tea and hands a cup to Daphne. “Maybe I was just . . .” She gulps a little, like what she’s about to say next has shocked her. “A little jealous.”

  “Oh Grace!” says Daphne. She looks shocked too. “You were jealous?”

  “Not of him,” says Grace. “I didn’t much like him. But seeing you so happy made me wonder. I mean about my life’s choices. Maybe I was letting life pass me by. I’ve always thought I was happy being single, but maybe . . . even at my age . . .” Her round cheeks flush. She emits an embarrassed little titter. “Ignore me,” she says. “I’m being silly. I’m far too old for this. It’s been a strange few days, that’s all.” She sets out a plate of homemade cookies.

  “That’s not silly,” says Daphne. “I can teach you to internet date. There’s nothing to it.”

  I blink. What?

  “There’s this website called seniormatch-dot-com,” continues Daphne. My eyes flick to my mom. Holy crap. And here I thought they weren’t online. Does she do it too? “You can meet all sorts of interesting people,” continues Daphne. Then her eyes harden. “Or total assholes.”

  My mom reaches for her tea. Clearly reminded of Stephen, Daphne is chewing on her over-full lips. “I wish you’d mentioned your misgivings about him,” she tells Grace. “Were there clues I missed? He seemed so charming.” She rings her be-ringed hands. “I’ve been such a fool,” she moans. “It’s like they say, there’s no fool like an old fool.”

  Grace sighs. “Well, what’s the use of dwelling on it now?” she says, kindly. She stirs a spoonful of sugar into a cup of tea. “The man’s dead and gone.” She crosses herself and mutters something under her breath, then passes the teacup to Lukas.

  Daphne’s already frozen face permafrosts. Only her blue eyes widen. Her gaze darts from Grace to my mother, then back. “D . . . dead?” she stutters.

  The ensuing silence is broken by Lukas. “Dead as a doornail,” he says. “Poor Toby here . . .” He nods my way. “She found his body.”

  All the color that’s not painted on leaches from Daphne’s face. She presses a finger to her temple. Her voice rises to a desperate question. “What? All . . .” She swallows hard and falls silent.

  I search her stricken gaze. I may be wrong but I think the word on her lips was “already.” But that can’t be right. Did she know about Stephen’s death and think it’d take longer to find his corpse? I recall the poker. Daphne is a tall, strong woman. And not one to mess with.

  Perhaps sensing his mistress’s disquiet, Kevin crawls closer. He lays his snout in Daphne’s lap. She rubs his ear absent-mindedly. Her hands are shaking.

  Looking into Daphne’s glassy eyes, I see heartbreak. And shock. But also rage. And satisfaction. Like Grace, she’s not sorry Stephen’s dead. Not really. She’s sad. But she thinks he had it coming.

  Leaning back against the sofa, Daphne shuts her eyes, shutting me out. With her hair spread around her, her flawless face appears regal.

  “Daphne?” says my mother.

  Daphne’s eyes flick open. “I feel old,” she says. “Old and tired.”

  My mother nods. “You’ve had a big shock.” She sighs. “Or several, in fact. But the police need to know you’re back. So they can stop looking for you.”

  Daphne tilts her head. “Sure,” she says. “Grace, could you please inform the police that I’m alive and well? Or at least . . . alive,” she says, sadly.

  “They’ll want to talk to you,” says my mom. She twists the amethyst in her left ear. “About this man.” She speaks his name with distaste. “Stephen Buxley.”

  Daphne sits up and pats at her stiff hair. “Why?” she asks. Her forehead tries to wrinkle. Then she turns my way. “How did he . . .” She coughs. “Pass away?” she asks.

  I set down my teacup, reluctant to be the bearer of such bad news. But there’s no way to sugarcoat the truth. “He was murdered,” I say. “In your cabin, out at Sooke.”

  “W—what?” Her eyes goggle. She bows her head and starts laughing.

  I blink. Whatever reaction I expected, it wasn’t raucous laughter, now bursting out in throaty gusts, a sexy bar room laugh—full of cigarettes, dirty jokes, and good whisky. She laughs until fresh tears fill her eyes and cascade down her cheeks. Is this shock? Hysteria? I glance at my mother.

  Just as quickly as it began, Daphne’s laughter stops. “Jesus. That bastard,” she says. “Getting himself killed in my cabin and making me a suspect!” She swipes the tears from her eyes and pats at her still-perfect hair. “No doubt the cops want to grill me!” She rolls her eyes. “I wish I had killed him!”

  Grace tries to pooh-pooh this, but Daphne waves her protests away. She smoothes down her knee-length turquoise skirt, and sits even straighter. “Call them now,” she instructs her housekeeper. “Yes, I’ve been foolish, but that’s not a crime.” She takes a sip of tea. “I’m going to tell the cops all about that cheating scoundrel! Let’s get this over with! Grace! Call them!”

  Over the rim of her teacup, Daphne’s eyes blaze with determination. This is the Daphne Dane of my childhood memories, the Cookie Queen, going into battle.

  I think of Stephen Buxley, lying dead in that decrepit cabin.

  At any age, Daphne’s not someone to mess with. Did he pick on the wrong rich old lady?

  CHAPTER 17:

  REPLACED

  As much as I’d like to see Colin, this isn’t the time or place. He made it glacial-lake clear I’m to avoid the Danes until Stephen’s killer has been found. And yet here I am . . . I’d better slink away before he arrives to quiz Daphne.

  I bid them farewell. My mom stays to lend moral support. Not that Daphne needs it. War paint retouched and freshly armored in a teal suit, she looks ready for anything. I hope Colin survives the interrogation.

  As I climb into my car, I feel cut adrift. All morning I was tethered by the Danes’ drama. Now, I’m free to float. Or sink.

  I check my watch: 11:42 a.m. It feels much later in the day. I do the math in my head and check my phone, just to be sure. The time is right. I’ve had no missed calls or messages. I fight back a sigh. It’s going on eighteen hours since my fight with Josh, and still no word from him. Is it really over?

  My stomach twists. I’m not sure if it’s sadness, hunger, or both that has caused the hollowness in my gut. So far, all I’ve consumed today is my mom’s smoothie, a few bites of rock-hard muffin, two double espressos, and countless cups of tea. It’s not surprising my stomach is in knots. I feel both jittery and lackluster.

  Part of me wants to drive to Josh’s house. But then I recall his officious tone, and how he’d refused to listen. What would I say? That I was wrong and am now ready to commit? So what about Colin? I put the key into the ignition. I can’t think about men right now. I need food—real food—first.

  I retrieve my phone. Quinn picks up on the sixth ring, just when I was ready to give up.

  “Hey? Quinn?” I say. My best friend mumbles a hello. “Can I come over?” There’s more unintelligible mumbling. It sounds like her phone is squished right up against her mouth. Or else she’s being smothered. “Hey Quinn?” I say. “I can’t hear you.”
/>   After a few squishy sounds her voice grows clearer. “Sorry, I don’t have any free hands,” she says. “Oh shit. I just tipped Abby’s diaper and spilled poop everywhere.”

  Well, there goes my appetite. “Ew,” I say. “I was going to ask if I could come over.”

  Maybe it’s my imagination, because the line’s not good, but I think there’s some hesitation in her voice. “Um. Sure. Bruce is at work. I’m just here at home with Abby.”

  “You sure?”

  Again, she misses a beat, then tells me to come over.

  I do up my seatbelt. “Have you eaten yet?”

  “There’s leftover mac n’ cheese in the fridge,” says Quinn. “My mom made it.”

  I perk up. Quinn’s mom, Jackie, is a great cook. I’ve loved that mac n’ cheese since I was a ravenous kid. She makes it with five kinds of cheese—and a whack of butter to boot. Just thinking about it gets my saliva glands going. “Great,” I say. “Do you need anything?”

  “A pack of Huggies. Size extra-small.”

  “Okay, no problem.”

  “And some ice cream.”

  I don’t need to ask what brand and flavor. “Sure thing. See you soon, Quinn.”

  As I pull away I see Colin’s unmarked police car turn into Daphne’s tree-lined street, framed in my rearview mirror. I feel a twinge of regret at this missed chance to see him, yet oddly gleeful to escape in the nick of time.

  Just before turning the corner, I recheck my rearview mirror. A tall woman climbs out of Colin’s car. Miriam. My spirits plummet afresh. I’d managed to forget about Miriam. Dressed in fitted, dark clothes, she looks like an unusually statuesque ninja.

  Who’d have guessed that extra-small Huggies could be such a hot commodity? I stop in two 7-Elevens and a Save-On-Foods before managing to find a bag. By then, the caramel ice cream I bought in the first 7-Eleven is half-melted. Tough. Quinn will have to eat it that way. In fact, she’ll probably be thrilled. It’s too melted to refreeze, giving her the perfect excuse to polish off the whole tub.

  By the time I get into Gordon Head, my stomach is more than empty. It’s aching. I’m tempted to eat the ice cream myself but lack a spoon. I wish I’d bought a snack in 7-Eleven.

  While my mom’s neighborhood is dominated by houses built in the early 1900s, around Quinn’s place, the houses are slightly newer, mostly from the 1950s through 1970s. Most places look simpler, with less fancy wooden trim painted in contrasting colors. The lawns are less pristine. There are less elaborate flowerbeds. Gordon Head is full of younger families instead of the cashed-up seniors who dominate Oak Bay. But they’re both respectable, middle class neighborhoods, with minimal traffic.

  Set on a quiet dead-end street, Quinn’s house is pure 1970s: single-story stucco, the shape as simple as a kid’s drawing.

  No one’s in sight as I park and climb out of my car. Abby’s stroller is sitting near the bottom of Quinn’s front steps. I stoop to collect the junk mail off her open porch. The living room curtains are partially drawn.

  When I knock, Quinn yells for me to come in. The door is open. She’s sitting in a patch of sunlight in her kitchen, holding Abby. At the sight of the ice cream, her eyes light up.

  I tell her about the run on Huggies.

  “Thanks for doing that,” she says. “Can you grab me a spoon, Tob?”

  Abby’s leaned up against Quinn’s chest. Her tiny face is peeking over Quinn’s shoulder. I walk around to get a look at her. She’s grown in the week since I last saw her. Her hair is thicker. It’s the same honey blonde as her mom’s. I play peekaboo but she doesn’t react. She yawns and her tiny eyelids sag. Quinn strokes her small back. I start to say something and Quinn lifts a fingertip to her lips. She crosses her fingers.

  Moments later, the baby’s asleep. Still carrying the Huggies, ice cream, and spoon, I follow Quinn as she walks down the hall. She lays Abby into her crib and pulls a blanket up to her chest. I set the diapers on a shelf below Abby’s changing table. A painting of two smiling orange cats hangs nearby.

  After Quinn turns on the baby monitor, we both tiptoe out of the room. “Thanks,” she whispers. She takes the ice cream and spoon off me. We retreat to her orange kitchen.

  While Quinn starts on her ice cream, I heat up Jackie’s famous mac n’ cheese. The smell makes my mouth water. I pull a fork and another spoon from the cutlery drawer, then fill two glasses of water.

  There’s a weird, almost uncomfortable silence when I join Quinn at the table, like she’s got something unpleasant to tell me. I wait but she just keeps eating. “How are you?” I ask. She shrugs. I take a hot, cheesy bite of macaroni. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

  “Tired,” says Quinn. “Abby was up half the night.”

  I study my friend’s face, and note her pallor. She runs her fingers through her unbrushed hair. “I’m not sure what’s wrong,” says Quinn. “She seems extra restless.”

  I look around the kitchen. Dirty dishes are piled in the sink, while crumbs dot the old orange Formica countertop. A packet of prunes is sitting open on the table. Quinn yawns into her ice cream.

  Again, I study her, her eyes fixed upon the ice cream tub. Is this just the normal fatigue of new motherhood or something more sinister? I’d get depressed being stuck inside with a baby, day after day. And Quinn’s so smart and inquisitive. She must be bored half-to-death. She loves being outdoors. She craves nature.

  Quinn fights back another yawn. “How about you?” she asks.

  Blowing on a spoonful of macaroni I realize we haven’t talked since our fancy French dinner. I haven’t told her about my fight with Josh, or about finding a dead body, or that Daphne Dane has reappeared. Where to start? It’s been a crazy weekend.

  I take a deep breath. “Josh doesn’t want to see me anymore.”

  A whole symphony of emotions plays across Quinn’s tired face: concern, anger, and yes—relief. She bites a cuticle. “Oh,” she says. “What happened?”

  I swallow. Saying it out loud has made it depressingly real. I spent close to two decades obsessed with this guy, who seemed as unobtainable as a movie star. And then he wanted me. Me! The dream came true but I couldn’t quite believe it was real. So I wrecked it.

  The mac n’ cheese feels like a shot put in the bottom of my gut. I rub my eyes. “We had a fight,” I say. “About Colin. Josh wanted me to commit.”

  I tell Quinn about our boat trip to Sooke and how we found a corpse in that desolate cabin. “We were both upset,” I say. “About finding the body. It was horrible, Quinn.” I shudder at the memory of Stephen’s crusty head wound. “I felt Josh was unreasonable, making those demands then.” I set down my fork. “I kept trying to explain how I felt, and he wouldn’t listen . . .” I blink the tears from my eyes.

  Quinn sighs. “I’m sorry.” She, too, stops eating. “Bruce told me how you and Josh found that guy’s body.”

  “Oh yeah?” I say. As well as being colleagues, Bruce and Colin are good friends. I hold my breath, waiting. “So, ah, what’d Bruce say?” I ask, when the silence is too pressing.

  “Colin was pissed you went out there by yourself.”

  I start to say I wasn’t by myself—I was with Josh—but don’t bother. I know what Colin means: I should have told him about Daphne’s cabin and let the cops handle it.

  Quinn’s been studying her scarred pine tabletop but now meets my eyes. I wait. Is she mad at me too? Maybe this is why she seems so cagey today. Am I in for a lecture?

  “A man’s been murdered,” she says. “This is serious, Tob. I know you were just trying to help, but Colin’s really worried. You need to stay out of this. Okay?”

  I nod. Quinn doesn’t need to be worrying about me. “Daphne’s back,” I say. “So it’s all good. My mom’s happy.” This last bit isn’t true. My mom remains inexplicably fearful, convinced Daphne’s in deep trouble—which she is, I guess, if the cops think she killed her cheating lover.

  “Good,” says Quinn, although her tone is more reluctan
t than relieved. She stirs her melted ice cream and bites her lip. “There’s something else,” she says. She rakes back her mussed hair and frowns. “Something I have to tell you. And it’s . . .” She stares into her bowl, looking gloomy.

  I push my bowl away. “Quinn? What’s going on?” Is something wrong with Abby? Are she and Bruce having trouble? Or is it something I’ve done or failed to do? It feels like bad news is looming.

  My friend moves her chair away from the table. She folds up her long legs and hugs her knees. “Bruce and I took Abby for a walk,” she says. “On Willows Beach. Early this morning.”

  I nod, mystified. Quinn and I often go for walks on that same beach. As kids we used to swim there, never cluing in to why the water was so much warmer near the end of the long sewage pipe that empties into the ocean. As they say, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

  Quinn takes a deep breath. “We saw Josh in a parked car, on the Esplanade.”

  I wait, the shot put in my belly now a wrecking ball. Swinging.

  “He was with a woman,” says Quinn.

  When I fail to react she tries again. “I mean with a woman.”

  If I were standing I’d stagger backward. Instead, I just lean back. I want to say she’s wrong. She misunderstood. That’s impossible. Only yesterday he told me how much I meant to him. He said he needed me! He gave me an ultimatum: me and him, exclusively.

  Maybe him and this woman are just friends. Or he went on a date, just to distract himself from me. He’s allowed to date other women, after all, given that I’m still seeing Colin. It’s only fair. This isn’t such a big deal. Or maybe it was staged and he was trying to make me jealous.

  Quinn’s blue eyes flash. “I wanted to run over and smack him,” she says. “But Bruce held me back.” She shakes her head. “Now, after hearing you guys ended it yesterday, I’m glad I didn’t.”

  I nibble on my knuckle. “What did you see?” I say. “Describe it.” Quinn waves a hand. “You don’t want to know,” she says, firmly. “I do.” My voice is equally firm.