by Elka Ray
Beside me, Vonda’s pantyhose swish. She peers up at the huge house. Her scarlet lips tighten. “Vhat did this voman do to get so rich?”
We climb the steps side by side. “She owns Dane cookies,” I say. “You ever heard of them?”
Vonda shrugs. With that tiny waist, she’s probably never had a cookie in her life.
I explain how Daphne and her late husband founded a highly successful confectionary company. Vonda looks unimpressed. “She is a baker?”
Indoors, the pig starts to squeal. “Kevin! Stop!” says a sharp voice. To my surprise, the pig does. This is a revelation: it actually listens to Daphne.
I’ve raised my hand to knock when Daphne speaks again. She sounds irate. “I said no,” she says. “End of story.”
A whiny voice answers: “But you agreed, Mommy! I showed you all the B&B plans. You said yes!”
Daphne’s reply is clipped. “I did not! I never wanted those renos, and there’s no way I’m giving up my house!”
Even through the door, I can hear Isobel’s sigh. “But you said yes, Mommy. You approved it all. And now you’ve forgotten.”
“Forgotten?” Daphne’s voice rises. “How could I forget?”
Another long-suffering sigh. When she speaks again, Isobel sounds plaintive. “You’ve been forgetting stuff, Mommy. It’s getting worse and . . .”
Daphne cuts her daughter off. “Bullshit!”
“Oh Mommy, it’s not! You just can’t remember . . . You need help. Maybe we should go to the doctor, try to find a specialist . . .” She coughs. “I’ve been worried for a while but now this thing, with this man, Stephen.” Her voice has a hysterical edge. “The police think he was a conman, Mommy . . . A conman trying to take advantage of you. Don’t you see it’s time to . . .” Her voice quivers. “Time to get some help with the company. I could take on more responsibility, take charge of more assets. You know, just to double-check everything.”
Daphne’s voice is icy. “There’s nothing wrong with my intellect. Nor my eyesight.”
Isobel sounds taken aback. “Uh, eyesight?” she says. “What d’you mean? How is that . . .”
Daphne’s voice drops menacingly. “What I mean,” she says. “Is that I saw you there, at the cabin, the day Stephen died.”
I hold my breath. Holy crap. As far as I know the police haven’t released an estimated time of death. How does Daphne know what day Stephen was murdered?
There’s a little thud, like Isobel dropped something. Her voice is now a strangled croak. “I was not!” she cries. “I haven’t been to that cottage in years. I can’t even remember how to get there!”
“I know what I saw,” says Daphne. “You ran into the woods, headed toward the road.” Her voice drops so low I have to strain to catch her next words. “I know what I saw! I remember that perfectly!”
Isobel gives a strangled sob. “Seriously, Mommy? You’re going crazy!”
Footsteps pound down the hall. The front door opens so fast Vonda and I are forced to jump back.
Isobel rushes past us, her face pale as old snow. While she stares right through me, as usual, Vonda is harder to ignore. Isobel gasps but doesn’t stop. Her blue eyes goggle. She staggers past us.
Vonda and I watch in silent amazement as she stumbles down the steps. Thin shoulders hunched, she hurries down the lit path. Her coat flaps around her.
As Isobel nears the gate, it opens to emit my mother. Ivy stops in surprise. She’s clutching a brown paper bag. “Isobel?” she says.
Isobel rushes right past her.
My mom shrugs. Looking up at the house she spots me and Vonda on the front porch. She raises a hand and waves. “Sorry I’m late,” she calls. She gestures behind her, toward Isobel’s retreating back. “Is everything okay with Isobel?”
Behind us, Daphne steps out onto the porch. Beneath her carefully applied makeup, her face is as bleached as her daughter’s. She looks so dazed and shaky I wonder if she’s been drinking. For some moments, Daphne stares toward the road. Then she shakes herself. Her look of angry dismay smoothes into a gracious smile. She nods to me and Vonda.
“Why hello,” she says. She extends a perfectly manicured hand. “You must be Vonda.” Her face is a mask of polite and polished calm.
I’m amazed by how she hides her emotions. In that way, she’s like Vonda. Their ability to compartmentalize is astounding.
As they shake, the two women assess each other. They’re like boxers, prefight. Or a pair of dogs, both poised and alert. I hold my breath. I half expect to see hackles rise, to hear growls. Instead, in perfect sync, their smiles widen with approval. It’s as if they’ve recognized kindred spirits: two women as tough, practical, and ruthless as they are beautiful to look at. They could be the sort of mother and daughter who’d pass for sisters.
“It is very nice to meet you,” says Vonda.
“Thank you for coming,” says Daphne.
I follow them inside. Killer legs. Killer heels. Killer curves.
Holy crap. Talk about biting off more than you can chew. What was Stephen/Dennis thinking?
CHAPTER 21:
TRUE LIES
Following an exchange of pleasantries in the hall, we move into Daphne’s formal living room. With a fire burning in the grate, golden light glints off the chandelier and various crystal ornaments. On the coffee table rests a huge vase of irises that complement the sofa set’s iris motif.
Vonda looks suitably impressed, until she spots the pig, curled up asleep on the sofa. She stops. A hand flutters to her chest. “Is that a . . .?” Words fail her.
“He’s a potbellied pig,” says Daphne. She sits beside her pet. The pig grunts sleepily. “He’s friendly. And very clean. Most people don’t realize that pigs are cleaner than dogs. And much easier to toilet-train than small children.”
Vonda sits daintily in an armchair. “Ve eat pigs,” she says. “Vhere I come from. But not dogs.” She looks at me. “Don’t they eat those vhere—”
Since I’m not in the mood for racist assumptions, I cut her off before she can say “where you come from.” Which is the Jubilee Hospital, not far from my place. “Daphne,” I say. “These flowers are stunning.”
Daphne nods, distractedly. “Yes, that wonderful blue. Irises were always Walt’s favorite.”
While I take a seat too, my mom remains standing. Dressed in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt with an image of a bright, smiling unicorn, she looks twelve, at most. She pulls something out of her brown paper bag: a bundle of dried leaves. Ignoring my look of dismay, she smiles. “Sage smudge sticks,” she says. “For dispelling bad energy.”
I think back to the argument I just overheard between Daphne and her daughter. That was bad energy for sure. But I know my mom is referring to Stephen, aka Dennis Butts. Aka the dead guy.
Ivy smiles sadly at Daphne and Vonda. “I’m sorry for both of your losses,” she says. “It’s such a . . .” She struggles to find the right word. “A real tragedy.” (I’d have replaced tragedy with something far less polite.) She glances around the room. “The energy’s off in here,” she tells Daphne. “Sage is wonderful for removing bad memories.”
I try not to roll my eyes. If it were that simple, I’d smoke the stuff. How much sage would it take to make me feel fine about Josh and Vonda making out, mere hours after he dumped me?
Daphne nods. “How thoughtful,” she says. “Thank you, Ivy.”
Vonda cocks her head, like she’s watching two unknown creatures at the zoo. Her expression says: Vhat-da-fuck? I cross my arms. Me and Vonda don’t have much in common, but I recognize a fellow skeptic.
My mom lights a bundle. It emits not-unpleasant-smelling smoke. She retreats into a corner and waves the smoking wad. My eyes start to burn. A little of that smoke goes a long way. It’s very fragrant.
Grace strides into the room bearing a tray laden with cookies and tea things. “Hello,” she says, cheerfully, then does a double take at the sight of my mom waving her smudge sticks.
/> I fight back a laugh. Poor Grace. Her surprise looks so comical. No doubt she’s envisioning ash stains on the Persian carpets.
Grace’s eyes pop. “Is that . . . the weed?” she whispers to Daphne.
Again, I fight the urge to laugh. Oh no. As if she doesn’t have enough to worry about with Lukas smoking up, now she’s scared Daphne’s at it.
“No,” I reassure Grace. “It’s just sage. You know, the spice? Good with chicken?”
Grace flushes. She puts a plump hand to her mouth and starts to giggle. “Oh,” she says. “Now that it’s legal, I just thought . . .” Her voice peters out. I’m pretty sure where her thoughts were headed: my mom looks like the kind of old hippie who’d be growing it in her herb garden.
Grace sets out a plate of homemade cookies and pours the tea. “Thank you, Grace,” says Daphne. She beams at her. “Those biscuits look amazing.”
Grace’s eyes twinkle. “They’re your recipe.”
Daphne eyes the tea with less enthusiasm. “Perhaps some wine?” she suggests. “Or a cocktail?” She looks around at the rest of us. “Grace makes wonderful martinis.”
My mom and I decline, but Vonda says vhy not? I don’t blame them for wanting some lubrication. This is a pretty weird situation.
“Two martinis, coming right up,” says Grace, then retreats.
Daphne turns to my mom. “Hmmmm.” She inhales. “Thank you, Ivy. That sage is wonderful. The room does feel lighter.”
Amidst clouds of spicy smoke, my mom takes a seat. “Ooh, one more thing,” she says. She reaches into her boho bag and withdraws a fist-sized blue rock. “Sodalite aids communication.” She deposits it on the coffee table.
“Lovely,” says Daphne.
Vonda eyes the rock warily, like it might contain some hidden surveillance device. Grace reappears with two giant martini glasses. “Here you go,” she chirps. “With extra olives.”
Both Daphne and Vonda’s eyes light up. Daphne grabs hers lightning-quick. Again, I wonder if she’s already sauced up. Or maybe she’s just agitated thanks to her recent fight with her daughter, or the stress of meeting her younger love rival.
Vonda takes a sip. “Delicious,” she says, approvingly. “Just like Moscow.”
Grace retreats, beaming. Vonda pulls her cell phone from her purse and jumps in close to Daphne. She points the screen their way. “Selfie!” she says, brightly, holding her martini aloft. Daphne grins in surprise. I fight back a laugh. I wonder how Insta-Vonda will caption that photo. Perhaps something about Girl Power and Sisters Sticking Together.
When the selfies meet Vonda’s satisfaction, she stows her phone back in her purse. There’s a brief pause, like we’re all waiting for the curtain to rise, before Daphne addresses Vonda. “So,” she says. “How did you meet Stephen, I mean Dennis?” She waves a ringed hand and frowns. “Your husband.”
Vonda studies my mom’s ridiculous blue rock, like she’s trying to work out its value. “It vas a vhirlvind romance,” she says. Perhaps it’s just the sage smoke, but her gaze looks suddenly wistful. After a brief description of their meeting in Paris, her voice hardens. “I should have known he vas too good to be true.” She sits up straighter and tugs down her tight red top. “I vas fooled for too long.” Her ruby lips pout. “Vhat made you suspicious?” she asks Daphne.
“I got a text message,” says Daphne. “About looking good nude in some red boots. And how he couldn’t wait for a replay.” She eyes Vonda’s knee-high, red snakeskin footwear. Fighting the Botox, her forehead struggles to wrinkle. “Since I don’t own any red boots, I knew it wasn’t meant for me.” She swallows hard, as if the memory pains her. “But for some other woman.”
Vonda’s nostrils quiver angrily. “Hmphphft,” she says. “One time I vear red boots vhen ve—” She waves a hand and looks coy. She leans closer to Daphne. “Then vhat?”
“I called him right away,” says Daphne. Her voice is taut, regret tugging against righteous fury. “And he denied everything. Said it was some telecommunications glitch.” She makes a throat-clearing sound much like Vonda’s. “But come on! I’m not some tech-challenged old grannie who can’t work the remote!”
Vonda nods angrily. “Men!” she says. “Always underestimating us!” She toys with her silky red skirt. “Then vhat?”
“He rushed over,” says Daphne. “To try and convince me.” Her pink nails flash as she opens and shuts her hand to mimic a talking mouth. “You know. Blah blah blah.”
Vonda snorts. “Yes,” she says. “He vas a smooth-talker.”
“So smooth,” agrees Daphne. “But I knew he was lying. I didn’t want to believe it but . . .” Her hands shrink into tight fists. “Deep down I knew. So I followed him.” She licks her lips. “I thought he’d go see this other woman. You.” She smiles tightly at Vonda. “I wanted to catch him in the act. So I could be a hundred percent sure.” She studies the sodalite. “It’s always better to know. Isn’t it?”
Vonda nods over her teacup. “Yes,” she says. “The truth vill set you free.” It’s a Biblical quote, but I bet she got it off Instagram. My mom smiles. Vonda lowers her cup. “So vhere did he go?” she asks Daphne.
Daphne’s cheeks are bright pink. She is talking fast. “He drove out of town, on the Juan de Fuca Highway. Out to Sooke.”
My mom frowns. The unicorn on her top is made of sequins that change color—pink to white—depending on which way you brush them. My mom keeps stroking them back and forth. The unicorn looks like it has a rash. My mom’s face is tight with worry. “What? Sooke?” she asks Daphne.
I hold my breath, fearful that the self-revelatory spell cast between Vonda and Daphne has been broken. But I needn’t have worried. Daphne is drunk and dying to continue her story. “At first, I figured this other woman, the one with red boots, lived out that way . . .”
Again, her eyes slide to Vonda’s feet. I stare at her boots too. Are they real snakeskin? How many snakes had to die for those?
“But eventually it became clear,” continues Daphne. “He was heading to my old summer cottage!” She gazes into her dark yard, her eyes far away. “I thought maybe he was meeting her—you—there.”
“Had he been there before?” asks my mother.
Daphne shakes her head. “No, but the night before we’d talked about it, at a family dinner. Isobel was complaining . . .” She waves a be-ringed hand, like she’s getting sidetracked. “Anyway, there’s a framed map of the area up in Walt’s office. I figured maybe Stephen saw it and decided to check the place out, maybe go find Walt’s coins . . .” She swallows hard, as if still unwilling to believe Stephen Buxley was a thief, as well as a cheat. “Or just use the cabin for some private liaison.”
My mom curls up her legs and rubs her sequined top. If she doesn’t stop, all the sequins will wear off. “What happened next?” she asks Daphne.
“I couldn’t follow too closely,” says Daphne. “Or he’d spot my car. His was already parked when I got to the trailhead.” She crosses her legs and smoothes down her magenta skirt. “I wasn’t wearing the right shoes so it took a while to walk.” Whatever she remembers next makes her grimace. She clasps her hands in her lap. Beside her, the pig snores. Daphne’s false eyelashes flutter. “When I got there he was already dead,” she says, softly.
My mom gasps. Vonda’s eyes glitter. I’m not sure if she believes Daphne or not. Does she think Daphne killed him? Would she blame her if she had, or just wish she’d beat her to it?
Daphne blinks, like she’s seeing something terrible. “He was still warm,” she whispers. “And his head . . .” She touches the back of her own head and shivers. “I . . . I felt for a pulse but . . . nothing.”
I take a deep breath. “When was this?” My mind is racing: Why didn’t she call for help? Has she told the cops this story? Why didn’t she admit to this sooner?
“Last Wednesday,” says Daphne. Five days back. “Early afternoon.” She pats at her frosty blonde hair. “I . . . I panicked and ran out. I knew it looked bad.�
� She looks at Ivy, beseeching. “I’d just found out he was cheating on me and here he was, dead at my feet. I should have called 911, but I instead . . .” She blinks. “I just ran back to my car in a panic.”
My mom’s dark eyes are wide. She keeps rubbing at her top. The poor unicorn looks mangy, pink and white sequins stuck in every direction. “Oh dear,” she says. “Then what?”
“I drove home, packed a small case, and went to the airport. Took the first flight to Vancouver I could get. From there, I flew to Denver and checked into The Sanctuary.”
I nod. The flights and spa-stay will be easy for the cops to check. It’s what happened before she left that matters. “Did you see anyone?” I ask.
Daphne casts her cool blue gaze my way. “At the spa?”
“No,” I say. “At the Sooke cabin.” This is the moment of truth. Will she admit to having seen her daughter? I wonder how much booze Grace put in that cocktail.
“I . . .” Daphne frowns down at my mom’s rock. She inhales. “No.” When she meets my eyes, her gaze is unflinching. “It was deserted. I saw no one.”
Vonda leans back, against a fluffed pillow. My eyes find hers. On her lips is the hint of an ironic smile. We both know Daphne’s lying.
I keep checking my watch, waiting for Vonda to depart. I need to talk to Daphne in private.
It’s quarter to seven when Vonda finally rises, citing another engagement. A date, no doubt, with some rich, potential husband. Is it Josh? I imagine them kissing in that little red car. The thought twists my stomach.
Daphne, my mom, and I see Vonda to the front door. She shakes my hand, and Ivy’s, then embraces Daphne warmly. “He vas a liar,” says Vonda. “But at least he had good taste.” She shrugs on her fitted leather jacket.
Daphne nods. “Yes. He was a cheating piece of shit.” Her voice quivers. “But he was charming.” She sighs. “I will miss him.” Is this for real, or merely to convince us she wasn’t mad enough to bash his head in?
