Killer Coin

by Elka Ray

  When I pull up out front, I see my mom has strung up her Christmas lights. Her front bushes are striped red and white. Icicle lights drip from the rafters. In the window stands her tree—potted and dragged in annually from the back porch. It makes Charlie Brown’s tree look lush. I’m surprised it hasn’t collapsed, given all her homemade decorations. Many of them date from my childhood.

  Cradling my wine bottle I climb the red-painted front steps. I try to psyche myself up. If my mom senses I’m feeling down, she’ll worry. Or ply me with revolting herbal pick-me-ups. The last thing I need is another “healthy” smoothie.

  “Hello?” I turn the knob. The door’s open. I peek my head around. “Hey Mom?”

  The smell of molten cheese makes my tummy growl. I can hear women’s laughter in the kitchen.

  Quinn and Jackie are already there, both seated on my mom’s mismatched chairs. I only saw Jackie’s car parked out front. They must have come together. “Hi, sorry I’m late,” I say.

  At the sight of me, they both smile: a matched set of tall, pretty blondes. My mom is peering into her oven. “Hi, hon,” she says. She extracts a casserole dish. “Perfect timing.”

  I wash my hands and open the wine, then select glasses from the cupboard.

  “Only a taste for me,” says Quinn, holding her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. I know. I know. She’s still breastfeeding.

  I pour a regular-sized glass for her and three supersized ones for the rest of us. After handing Jackie her glass, I lean down to kiss her. “You look great,” I say. She smells of citrus and chamomile. Her eyes match her cornflower sweater.

  Last summer, Jackie tripped over a dog while jogging and broke her foot, thumb, and collarbone. Luckily, she’s now fully recovered and back to her usual energetic self. She and Alistair just got back from a trip to Hawaii. Unlike the rest of us, who are Arctic pale, she’s glowing.

  When I tell her she looks wonderful, Jackie smiles. “Thank you, dear. There’s no cosmetic like a good vacation.” I think of Daphne and her frozen face post–medi-spa.

  I hand Quinn her wine. Compared to her mom, she looks wan and too thin. Pulled into a messy ponytail, her hair is lackluster. “How are you?” I ask.

  “Great,” she says, a little too brightly. Right. “How about you?”

  “Oh good!” I say. Right. I doubt I’m fooling her. She lets it go, as do I, on account of our moms’ presence.

  I sit across from my mother. She lights some candles. “Bon appetit,” she says. In the candlelight, her dark eyes and ruby earrings sparkle. She looks at each of us. “It’s so lovely to have us here, all together.”

  Quinn is the first to dive in. As usual these days, she looks ravenous. I wait for Jackie and my mom to dig out squares before taking the spatula. My mom’s eggplant parmigiana is the ultimate comfort food. After just one bite, I feel better. Tonight feels special. Great food. Decent wine (better still, it was on sale!). And the company of three wonderful women. This beats a night of moping in front of the TV, or checking my phone every two minutes.

  After hearing about Jackie’s trip to Kauai, I maneuver the conversation to Daphne Dane. “Did she call you?” I ask Jackie.

  For a second, Jackie’s face tightens. She takes a sip of wine and nods. “She did indeed. We went to the police station this morning.”

  “She sounded relieved to have gotten it off her chest,” says my mother. “She called me shortly after.”

  Since Quinn’s in the dark, I fill her in. She looks aghast. “So Daphne found the body before you did?” she asks me.

  I nod, then look at Jackie. “How did the cops take it?”

  Jackie toys with her wine glass. “Hard to tell,” she says. “The detective we met with. A woman. Tall. Long reddish hair.” I grit my teeth. Miri. “She was very polite but she’s got a real poker face,” says Jackie. “I guess that’s her job.” She sighs. “Daphne did well,” she goes on. “She was calm and not too emotional.”

  I’m tempted to have more eggplant parmigiana. But what if another serving leaves me too full for Jackie’s cheesecake? A dilemma. I don’t want to miss out. Finally, I decide on a small helping. I maneuver the eggplant onto my plate. My stomach is already straining against my pants’ waistband.

  “How about Isobel?” asks my mother.

  I sever the long strings of gooey cheese linking my serving to the pan. Quinn tilts her head. “Who’s Isobel?” she enquires.

  “Daphne’s daughter,” I say. “Remember? The skinny blonde from the Easter egg hunt.”

  “Ah,” says Quinn, like all is clear. At some long-ago Easter egg hunt, Isobel went whining to her mom because Quinn and I found more candy than her—not surprising since we ran around searching, while she couldn’t be bothered. Despite our superior talents and efforts, we ended up having to share our stash evenly. The resentment still lingers, which is why Communism failed miserably.

  I explain how Daphne admitted to seeing her daughter at the Sooke cabin, just before finding her lover’s body.

  “Oh. Wow.” Quinn looks at her mom. “What was the daughter’s story?”

  Jackie sets down her knife and fork. “She flat out denied it,” she says. “She said her mom was wrong. She’d gone nowhere near the place. And her husband, Gerard, gave her an alibi.”

  I lower my fork. “Oh yeah?” I guess it doesn’t mean much. Spouses must lie for each other all the time. “Did the police confirm Stephen’s time of death?” I ask Jackie. Daphne says she went out there on Wednesday. Josh and I found the body on Saturday. That means he’d been dead for three days when we found him.

  “They were asking about Tuesday and Wednesday,” says Jackie. She looks somber. Her eyes slide to my mom. “Isobel claimed Daphne’s been forgetting stuff, that her memory’s going . . .” She sounds apologetic. “She more or less implied she’s losing it.”

  My mom blinks angrily. “That’s absurd! Daphne’s sharp as a tack.” She turns to me. “You saw her, yesterday.” Her cheeks have colored.

  I shrug. Daphne seemed fine. Finer than fine. A force of nature. But then I recall the conversation Vonda and I overheard on Daphne’s front porch: Isobel’s claim that Daphne approved her B&B plans, then forgot all about it.

  When I recount the argument, my mom looks furious. “What a load of crock,” she says. “Isobel’s always been sneaky! She’s after the family fortune.”

  I blink. That’s a serious accusation. Is Isobel lying to her mom, trying to make her doubt her own sanity, just to gain control of her money? It seems so cruel, gaslighting your own mother. I recall her encouraging Daphne to see a doctor. What’s she trying to do, get Daphne declared mentally unfit? Or does Isobel have a sound reason to worry?

  “Are you sure?” I ask my mom. “Has Daphne said anything about this?”

  My mom sets down her fork. “Isobel and Gerard have been pressuring Daphne to move into a grannie flat. Or a condo.” Her lips purse. “Assisted living.”

  I shudder. Like most euphenisms, the phrase has a scary undertone, evoking iron lungs or robotic nurses. Surely, Daphne’s a long way from needing that. She’s more energetic than I am.

  From the way Jackie’s studying her empty plate, I fear she’s mulling over something unpleasant. She clears her throat. “Isobel gave the police an example,” she says. We all wait.

  “What do you mean?” asks my mother.

  “Well, apparently last month Daphne bought a giant new barbecue at The Bay.” She takes a small sip of wine, like her throat’s too dry to continue.

  “And?” says Ivy.

  “It was top of the line,” says Jackie. She tucks her blonde bob behind her ears. “All the bells and whistles. We’re talking a barbecue the size of a cow. Six thousand dollars.” I blink, as does Quinn. Who spends that much on an outdoor grill? My mom’s car isn’t worth that much. “So,” says Jackie. Another throat clear. “When The Bay delivered it, Daphne said they were mistaken. She claimed she’d never bought the thing. But it was paid for with her credit ca
rd. And the slip bore her signature.” Jackie scratches her ear. “Daphne insisted she never bought it. Isobel says she did but forgot.”

  My mom looks stunned. “I . . . I don’t believe it.”

  Looking at my mom’s stricken face, I feel a quiver of fear. Daphne’s only ten years her senior. How hard must it be for my mom to accept: her longtime friend and protector is getting older and weaker?

  I faced a similar shock last year when my mom had breast cancer—that sudden, blinding awareness that the person who’d always been there for me, my tower of strength, could be toppled. Daphne Dane seems indestructible. But what if she’s not? She looked awfully shaky yesterday, watching her daughter’s angry retreat. What if the Cookie Queen is crumbling?Jackie addresses me: “You must have seen this in Family Law,” she says. “Older people making increasingly irrational decisions, getting estranged from family and old friends who are just trying to help . . . And their loved ones are left powerless . . .” She looks at my mom. “I’m not saying this is what’s happening with Daphne.” She sighs. “But it could be.”

  I nod. Jackie’s right. A lot of older people won’t admit they’re in physical or mental decline, going to great lengths to hide the decay, even from their best friends and doctors. Someone has to be pretty far gone before a Power of Attorney will be granted against their wishes. By then they’ve probably racked up a slew of disastrous personal, medical, and financial decisions.

  “You’re wrong,” says my mom. “I know Daphne. She might forget the odd little thing but . . .” She taps her temple. “She is not making irrational decisions.”

  I rise and start clearing the plates. No one wants to contradict her. But I know Jackie, Quinn, and I are all thinking the same thing: Daphne was planning to marry a guy she’d only just met, a guy determined to milk her hard-earned fortune. Conmen are predators. Like lions or wolves, they zero in on the weak, cut them away from the herd, and attack. It seems cruel to blame the victim, but one has to wonder: What was it that drew Stephen Buxley to Daphne?

  CHAPTER 23:

  A SLAP IN THE FACE

  It’s now been raining for three days straight. Today, the wind is up. Rain batters my office’s window. Despite the thermals under my suit I’m still cold. Gazing down at the wind-lashed street, I can just make out the posters in the travel agent’s across the road. While it’s raining too hard to see the details, there’s no mistaking that tropical-ocean blue. What I wouldn’t give for an escape to some Caribbean island . . . Warm water. Pina coladas. Romantic couples. This vision grinds to a screaming halt. I sigh. I will not think of romance.

  A knock on my door heralds the intrusion of Pamela Powell, the firm’s sixty-something secretary. The grimmer the weather, the brighter Pam’s outfits. Today, she’s in head-to-toe fuchsia. A hot pink bow circles her bleached blonde bouffant. She whistles under her breath. “Guess who’s back?” This is followed by a wink. Or it could be an eye tic. That fuchsia eyeshadow makes her look like a burn victim.

  Just moments ago, I studied my day-planner: no clients scheduled until 10:15 a.m. I’m in no mood for guessing games. “Pardon?” I say.

  Pamela’s fuchsia lips twist into a sly grin. “Ooooh,” she says. A mock sigh. “If only I were younger.”

  With that, she retreats. I remain standing by my window. Another knock, softer this time. “Hello?” I say. The door opens.

  My breath catches in my throat. It’s Josh. He peers into the room, like he’s scared something might jump out at him. “Hey. Can I come in?” he asks.

  I swallow hard. How good does he look? Rain is beaded on his red jacket and in his blond hair. Despite the lack of sun, he looks lit from within. I can barely speak. He’d look so great on a tropical beach, shirtless, bare chest shining in the sun . . . His eyes are the same color as that holiday ad ocean. “Sure,” I say.

  Josh steps in and shuts the door. He unzips his jacket. “Hi, Toby.” His grin widens. “Sorry to show up unannounced but I’ve missed you.”

  I want to stagger across the room and collapse into his arms. Cue the romantic music—violins and piccolos lilting toward the crescendo: a kiss . . . Happily ever after.

  Instead, some wariness holds me in place. I recall that scene in his car, the night we found Stephen’s body. Josh’s angry refusal to listen. And then him and Vonda, hot and heavy in her flashy red car. My stomach and fists tighten. No calls. No messages. No apology. Nothing. Why is he here now, acting like nothing happened?

  Faced with my stillness, his smile slips a touch. “I . . . I’m sorry,” he says. “Can you give me another chance? I overreacted. We can take it slow. Take our time getting to know each other more . . .” His gaze is laser-hot.

  I feel myself starting to melt. I am moving toward him.

  He meets me half way. His strong arms encircle my back. I am lifted off the floor, his chest warm and solid against mine. Oh my god. His lips are hot. That kiss. Like the first kiss I ever had, as a teen, me and Josh, in the woods, the air redolent with passion and pine sap. We are fourteen again, everything happening for the first time, all brand new. A fresh start. My knees buckle.

  The kiss goes on and on, both of us drinking each other in. Like we were parched. Dying of thirst. We cross the room, pressed together. My back is now up against my desk. He lifts me onto it. My arms and legs circle him. His fingers twist in my hair. I squeeze him like my life depends on it. We belong on the cover of a Harlequin romance.

  Until my door opens.

  “Toby?”

  A swish of silk and a tap-tap of stilettos. A furious gasp. “Vhat? I don’t believe it!”

  I turn in dismay. Beneath her raspberry beret, Vonda’s face is livid. Her eyes flash gamma rays. Her raspberry lips snarl with fury.

  Oh shit.

  Josh lets me go. He straightens. I sit up. My feet hit the floor with a dull thud, like an echo of my sinking heart.

  Vonda strides closer. “Men!” she spits. She points a red talon at Josh. “How could you?” Her dark mane sways ominously. “You vere vith me!” She lunges closer.

  Josh shrinks back but is too slow.

  The sound of her palm striking his cheek makes me flinch. “Bastard!” she hisses.

  Josh raises a hand to his face. He takes a step back. “Vonda, please!”

  Again, he’s too slow. Another loud smack. This time, her ring gouges his cheek. It draws blood. “Ow!” gasps Josh. He cups his face.

  “Vonda!” I say. “Stop it!”

  She rounds on me. “You?” She looks me up and down. “He is vith . . . you?” A dismissive wave, like I’m a bug, unpleasant but harmless, not worth the bother of squishing. She turns back to Josh, eyes flashing like a ninja’s knives. “You vill regret this!”

  She spins on her heels and strides out of my office.

  I blink. The door slams behind her. In her wake, the room is dead quiet. The smell of her perfume—too heavy, too floral—lingers.

  Josh is still holding both cheeks. I pluck a tissue from the box on my desk and hold it out to him. He takes it with a frown. After some hesitation, he presses it to his bleeding cheek. “I . . . I’m sorry about that,” he says. His voice is deep with regret. He steps closer.

  I cross my arms. The spell of desire has broken. I feel angry and embarrassed. But why am I embarrassed? He’s the one who deceived Vonda.

  Josh rakes a hand through his blond curls. “I . . .” He looks shocked. “Do you know her?”

  “She was my client,” I say. “When did you meet her?”

  He shrugs. “A few weeks back.”

  Immediately I’m on red alert. Did his liaison with Vonda precede the night he dumped me?

  “We recently had a . . .” He pats at his cheek. “A thing,” he says.

  “A thing,” I repeat.

  “Yeah, I mean, after you and I agreed to stop seeing each other.” He frowns. As do I. I never agreed to anything. It was all his decision. “Look,” he says. “That was awkward. I’m sorry. But she doesn’t mean anything.”
He looks toward the door, like he’s scared she’ll come back. The office’s front door slams. Josh looks relieved. When he speaks again, he sounds more confident. “Me and her,” he says. “It was nothing.”

  Once again, I feel cold all over. While I don’t like Vonda, there’s much to admire about her. She is a tough and resourceful woman. If Josh can dismiss her and her feelings just like that, he could do the same to me. It shows a lack of respect—for her, for me, for others.

  I recall Quinn’s dislike of him. Her assertion that he’s selfish. I know she’s right. And yet. How can I not want more of those kisses—like that moment in a dream when you discover you can fly, before Vonda barged into my office?

  I shiver. Josh steps closer. His arms reach out to me. “Please Toby,” he says. His hands grasp my elbows. “I really missed you.”

  At his touch my misgivings crumple, reason no match for chemistry. Every cell in my body pulls his way in a tide of pure longing.

  I’m just about to embrace him when my phone dings. A reminder of my 10:15 appointment. Out in the lobby I hear Pamela greet someone. I wonder where she was when Vonda stormed in and out. Probably cowering under her desk. Or adding a fresh layer of fuchsia cosmetics in the restroom.

  I lean back, torn between relief and regret. I’m at work. This is not the time or place to make up or break up. Romantic dramas have no place in my office. My clients deserve my full attention.

  Seeing Josh’s eager gaze, I’m tempted to apologize but don’t. There’s polite and there’s being a pushover. “Look, I can’t deal with this right now,” I tell Josh. “I’m at work. I have a client. She’s outside, waiting.”

  His jaw tightens. He lets go of my elbows. Then his smile returns, dazzling me. “Okay. You’re right. I’ll call you soon.” His confidence shines bright, catching me in its spotlight. I nod. Do I want that?

  My mind says no, it’s over. Everything below my neck shrieks hell yes.

  At my door he turns. “I really care about you, Toby.”