by Elka Ray
“What does Daphne think?” I ask my mom, gently.
She sighs. “She refuses to believe it was Grace or her kids.” She squirms on my sofa. “She suspects Vonda.”
“Vonda?” I say, in disbelief. “Was she even there?”
“Not for dinner,” says my mom. “Afterward. Grace says she stopped by. To give Daphne a book.”
“A book?” I say, surprised. I wouldn’t peg Vonda as a reader.
“Daphne doesn’t remember Vonda’s visit, but the book is there,” says my mom. “On her bedside table.”
“Oh yeah? What was it?”
“Self-help. Women Who Love Too Much.”
I fight down a snort, then tell myself off. There’s nothing wrong with self-help. It might help me. I shouldn’t be so judgmental.
My mom can’t sit still. She’s like a toddler on a long plane ride, crossing and uncrossing her legs, edging to and fro on the sofa. I try to picture Vonda crushing pills into Daphne’s cocoa. “Why would Vonda want to drug Daphne?” I ask my mother.
My mom twists the damp tissue in her hands. “Daphne figures she’s furious that she stole Stephen.”
I keep quiet but don’t buy it. Stephen’s dead. I think Vonda’s got new fish to fry, including a rich, blond, handsome one.
“Or maybe it was revenge, if Vonda thinks Daphne killed him,” ventures my mother.
I shake my head. Vonda’s about as sentimental as a Komodo dragon. If she did drug Daphne, it was for financial reasons. “I don’t believe that.”
My mom sighs. “Nor do I.” Her anxious frown deepens. “But I can’t say that to Daphne. She’s so distraught . . .” Her voice falters. “Daphne’s strong but I’m worried about her health. She’ll be seventy-five next April.” She keeps shredding the tissue. “Of course she’d kill me if she knew I was telling you her real age. She pretends she’s still forty-something.”
We both fall silent. Poor Daphne. Imagine the strain she’s under, knowing someone either tried to kill her or wanted to destroy her sanity and reputation. No wonder she wants to blame Vonda. It’d be so much better to suspect a near stranger than the people you ought to trust the most in the world.
CHAPTER 27:
EAVESDROPPING
After lunch, the rain stops. I call Quinn to meet at our favorite cafe, which doubles as a nursery. When I pull up, I see her out front. She waves at me. She’s wearing a yellow raincoat and a blue knit cap. Abby is sleeping in a sling on her mom’s chest. She’s wearing a pink knitted cap with cat ears. Her cheeks are like ripe peaches.
“Hi,” I say. I grin at Quinn and Abby. “She’s getting big.”
Quinn nods. “Yes, she’s changing so fast.” She squints up at the sky. I do too: grey clouds with cracks of sun, like those Japanese ceramics that are broken and fixed with gold solder. “Want to risk sitting outside?” Quinn asks me.
While it’s far from warm, we’re all bundled up. And after days holed up indoors, I have cabin fever. “Let’s,” I say. “You save a table.” I order our coffees at the counter and carry them back outdoors. Quinn chose a table set under the eaves, surrounded by greenery. The bushes glisten in the weak sun. Potted plants sit in shelves like bleachers. Even in December, some flowers are in bloom. Victoria is dubbed “The Garden City.” All winter long, its smug residents post photos of flowers to rub it in the frostbitten noses of everyone else in Canada, who are snowed under.
At my approach, Quinn smiles. She’s removed her hat. Abby is still asleep. I’m relieved to see Quinn looks good. Her eyes are bright. Her nose and cheeks are pink.
“I got you extra whipped cream,” I tell her.
I set down our mugs and pull out a chair. They’re heavy, with ornate iron legs. I move slowly, to avoid waking Abby.
Quinn shifts to reach for her cup. “So what’s new?” she asks.
I take a sip of my latte. It’s hard to know where to start. It’s been one shock after another this week: Vonda confronting Josh. Colin and Miri. The scary lab results of Daphne Dane’s cocoa.
I start with this last one. Having only found out this morning, I’m still processing it. Quinn frowns as she listens. She cups the back of Abby’s head, as if to protect her from this grim tale.
When I’ve finished, she shudders. “That’s beyond awful.” She stirs her hot chocolate. “That guy, Stephen, of course it’s terrible, him being murdered. But we didn’t know him. And by all accounts he was up to no good . . .” She shrugs. “Not that he deserved it. But, you know.”
“I do,” I say. We know Daphne. She helped me and my mom. Each year, she donates a small fortune to Secret Santa and helps to buy, wrap, and distribute the gifts to poor families. Her and Walt’s generosity built the local woman’s shelter. She MCs the annual auction at the Empress Charity Ball. She has a great laugh and tells jokes that are off-color but funny. How could someone hate her that much?
“Bruce hasn’t said a word,” continues Quinn.
I nod. I wouldn’t expect him to, seeing as Quinn’s mom is representing Daphne. I tilt my head. “How about Jackie?” I ask her.
Quinn studies her daughter’s head. “She’s advised both Daphne and Isobel to stop talking to the police.”
“Oh,” I say. I wonder if one or both of them will actually be charged. Do the police have evidence that Daphne or her daughter killed Stephen Buxley?
My friend rolls her head, as if to relieve a stiff neck. Maybe the baby sling is digging in. She stifles a yawn. “Have you seen Colin lately?” she asks. There’s no tension in her voice, nothing to suggest she knows or suspects.
My stomach clenches. “No.”
That single word is like an exploding flare in the dark. Quinn’s chin jerks up. She peers at my face like she expects more illuminating flashes. “Oh yeah,” she says. “Why? What’s happened?”
I sigh. Even talking about it is depressing. I explain what I saw through Colin’s window.
Quinn looks shocked. “No. Come on! Are you sure?”
I nod miserably. “He was holding her.”
“Like a friendly hug?” asks my friend. She sounds hopeful.
Eyes fixed on a potted fern I recall the silhouette in Colin’s window. Could it have been innocent? “I don’t think so.”
Quinn sighs. “I don’t know what to say. And he hasn’t called?”
I admit he has but I haven’t answered.
Quinn sighs again, this time with an exasperated edge. “Well, that’s mature.”
Immediately, my back goes up. “What’s the point when he’s just going to dump me?”
“You could talk about it,” she says. “That’s how relationships work. People discuss things.”
I cross my arms. Why’s she being so mean? I sobbed the whole way home from Colin’s house. Next morning, my eyes were like currants in puff pastry. Can’t she see I feel sick with disappointment?
“At least give him a chance to explain,” says Quinn. She spoons out a glob of whipped cream. “And even if he did kiss Miriam, you’ve been seeing Josh all along! Doesn’t that seem like a double standard?”
We’ve been talking quietly on account of Abby, but our increasing tension must have roused her. She stirs and frowns, as does Quinn. Moments later the baby starts squawking.
How can something so small be so loud? I shrink back.
Quinn unclips the baby sling and lifts Abby out. She digs through layers of blankets and fluffy clothes to check her diaper. From the look on Quinn’s face, it must be fine. But Abby’s still shrieking.
I watch as Quinn unzips her jacket. She fumbles under her sweater and unclips her maternity bra. There’s a pale flash of boob as she maneuvers the baby closer. Abby lunges like a shark. Thank god she’s still toothless.
All is quiet but for the puck-puck of sucking and swallowing.
“Where were we?” asks Quinn.
I shrug. It’s impossible to berate a woman while she’s nursing a baby. And maybe she’s right. Kind of. “Okay, I’ll call him,” I tell her.
> My friend nods. She eyes me speculatively, as if trying to gauge whether I mean it. “I will!” I say.
She spoons out more whipped cream. “How are things with Josh?” Her tone is casual.
I drain the last of my cappuccino. “Shit,” I say. I recount the scene in my office: Josh begging for another chance, Vonda’s dagger-eyed fury.
When I’ve finished, my best friend sighs. I would expect her to get a few digs in at Josh. Instead, she just shakes her head. “So, you going to keep seeing him?” she asks. She readjusts Abby to the opposite breast.
I rub my forehead. Behind my eyes, there’s a dull ache. I think of before I met Josh and Colin. Sure, I was hoping to meet someone. But life was also peaceful, minus this drama and angst. Maybe I’m too old for it. “I’m kind of over dating,” I tell her.
Abby rolls away from Quinn’s chest, sated. She looks drunk.
Quinn shrugs her up onto her shoulder and rehooks her maternity bra. She pats the baby’s back gently to burp her. “Well, plenty of fish in the sea,” she says. “Whenever you do feel like fishing.”
I nod but don’t feel cheered at all. I don’t want any old fish, I want my fish. I was sure either Josh or Colin was my perfect match—not just the catch of the day. Maybe my match doesn’t exist. I stare into my empty cup. Is that so terrible? Has society brainwashed me into believing that single means lonely? My life is actually pretty full.
“You want another drink?” asks Quinn. “Or a cookie?”
I smile. A cookie would definitely cheer me up. This place makes killer white chocolate macadamia nut cookies.
“I’ll get the cookies,” she says. Her nose wrinkles. She lowers the baby and peers down at her. Sure enough, Abby’s little face is bright red. “Can you pass me a diaper out of that bag?” says Quinn. She nods at the massive tote occupying our table’s only empty seat. I hand it over. She stands. “I’ll be right back.” She heads indoors. At the door she turns back. “White choc macadamia nut?”
I nod. Maybe I don’t need a boyfriend after all. I have Quinn. She knows me so well. I should count my blessings: a good job, that pays well enough. Friends and family to love. I’m young, healthy, fit. Okay, not fit-fit, but fit enough. I live in a beautiful place in a beautiful, peaceful country. Today, the sun is trying to shine. It’s not raining.
I bury my nose in the potted lavender that rests on our table.
My eyes are shut, inhaling its scent, when I hear a familiar raspy voice: “Do you want to sit here?”
“Yes, this is lovely,” says an older woman.
I look up. It’s Lukas Dane and Daphne’s housekeeper, Grace. I recognize her gingerbread coat and pink pom-pommed toque. They’re headed toward the closest table.
Once they’re seated I can’t see them. A thick bush separates us. They didn’t notice me.
“What will you drink?” asks Lukas. His voice is hoarse. “I’ll get it.”
“Just regular coffee, please dear,” says Grace. “Nothing fancy.”
Lukas goes off to order.
Quinn returns bearing a plate with two gigantic cookies. Abby is back in her baby sling. Now wide awake, she grins at me. Her gummy smile is adorable. It’s impossible not to grin back and make goo-goo eyes. She looks so much like Quinn. I feel a welling of love for her.
Quinn doesn’t give Grace or Lukas a second glance. She’s never met Grace. And hasn’t seen Lukas since childhood. “The cookies are supersized today,” she says, happily. She sits back down and brushes back her hair.
“Thanks,” I say, quietly. I keep making faces at Abby. The baby giggles.
For some minutes we’re too busy chewing to talk.
I hear Lukas return to the table next door. “Thanks, dear,” says Grace. “Oh, that’s lovely.”
There’s a scrape of a chair. “So what did the cops say?” asks Lukas.
When Quinn goes to speak I raise a finger to my lips. I point in Grace and Lukas’s direction. “Lukas Dane,” I whisper, so quietly I practically mouth it.
Her forehead creases in confusion before she gets it. She shrugs and keeps eating her cookie.
Grace starts to recount everything the cops said to Daphne when they stopped by her house this morning. “Your mother was poisoned!” concludes Grace. “She could have died! But the police barely mentioned that! Instead they went on and on about that horrible man, Stephen. Except that’s not even his real name. He wasn’t even British but Australian! Can you imagine? He was wanted for fraud down there too, something to do with timeshare condos on the Gold Coast.” She sighs. “The police kept asking your mom about the Sooke cabin. The same questions, over and over . . .”
“Jeez,” says Lukas. “It’s like they really think she did it.” He sounds worried. “Did they talk to you too?”
“They did,” says Grace. She sounds ominous.
Lukas’s voice thins in alarm. “You didn’t tell them she hit him, did you?”
“Hit him?” says Grace. “You mean Stephen?” Lukas must nod because she contradicts him. “No. They were just yelling at each other. And then he drove off and your mom did too. She never hit him.”
I stop chewing.
“Oh,” says Lukas. “It’s just . . . that cut on his cheek. I figured she’d smacked him and . . . you know, she always wears those giant rings . . .”
All my Spidey-senses tingle. I recall that red mark on Stephen Buxley’s pale cheek. And the cut. But how could Lukas have seen it? Stephen died the day Lukas got home from India. I saw Lukas that evening, still lugging his backpack. The cops must have checked his flight time by now.
Quinn’s watching me closely. What? say her eyebrows.
I shake my head, still unsure. Then I get it. What if Daphne didn’t see Isobel heading into the woods but her son? Similar build. Similar blond hair. Maybe Lukas wasn’t fresh off a plane but at the cabin, the day Stephen died.
He could have been. And yet . . . Already, my mind is debating. Why would Lukas be there? He was the only one who didn’t know about the stash of gold coins. He wasn’t at that family dinner the night Isobel found her dad’s papers.
Grace is talking again. Her voice is low and worried. “I don’t trust the police,” she says. “They’re desperate to pin that murder on someone. Anyone. Whatever we tell them, they’ll just twist things . . . You have to be careful, Lukas.”
I’m listening but my mind is buzzing. Something else Lukas said is bothering me. I picture the red welt on Stephen’s waxen cheek. The gash below it. My stomach clenches. I study the crumbs on my plate. Oh. Wow. Of course it could be a coincidence, but I saw a similar injury just days ago, when Vonda smacked Josh in my office.
I rub my eyes. Did Vonda slap Stephen, aka Dennis, just before he died? If so, was she also at the murder cabin? So much for the place being deserted. It was like that intersection in downtown Tokyo. I recall the gold tube of lipstick I saw near Stephen’s dead body. Scarlet Woman. Vonda loves bright red lipstick. Scarlet Voman.
The last bite of cookie gets stuck in my throat. Quinn hands me her water bottle. “What’s wrong?” she asks, frowning.
I’m spluttering too hard to answer. Of all the potential killers, who had a better motive to bash Stephen than his feisty, wronged wife? Hell hath no fury, etcetera. Plus Vonda stopped by Daphne’s house, the night of the drugged cocoa. Maybe Daphne saw something that day in Sooke that Vonda fears she’ll remember!
Quinn tilts her head. “You just realized something?” I shrug. Her blue eyes narrow. “Something you’ll tell the police,” she says, sternly.
I nod again. The police might want to shift their focus from Izzie to Lukas, and from Daphne to the other scorned woman.
“I’ll tell them,” I promise Quinn. But will they listen?
CHAPTER 28:
FIRST STRIKE
Saturday night, home alone. Even my mother is out on a date, with some guy she met at the Oak Bay Library. He was in the Self-Help section. I’d have run a mile. But my mom is a kinder, more optimistic woman
than me. She found his eagerness to self-improve charming. I guess I should be glad she didn’t find him on pensioners-dot-com.
They’re going to see some artsy foreign film up at the Cinecenta—no doubt one of those movies where the question “what happened?” is impossible to answer if you’re not a 23-year-old Philosophy post-grad.
I sit on the sofa. Get up. Sit back down. I pick up the phone. Put it down. Pick it up. Drop it. I recall Quinn’s impatience when she told me to call Colin. Her implication that I was being immature. Or did she actually say it?
As far as Colin knows, Josh and I might have gone from just seeing each other to being head over heels, joined at the hip, planning our yacht club wedding . . . Maybe I overreacted about Colin and Miriam. Maybe I need to discuss things.
I find his number. Just the thought of him makes me hug my knees. I miss him. Quinn’s right. I should have returned his calls—both for personal and Dane-related reasons. I have to tell him that Lukas and Vonda might have met Stephen the day he was murdered.
My belly is fizzy with nervous excitement as I dial Colin’s number. “Hi, Colin. It’s Toby,” I say. The words come out in a big rush.
“Toby.” He sounds worn out, and like he’s fighting a cold. “I’ve been trying to call you.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Sorry.”
I take a deep breath, suddenly, truly contrite. I should have called him days ago. He sounds awful. Is he ill? Whatever is happening between him and Miri, I’ve been a bad friend.
I’m about to ask if something’s wrong but he beats me to it.
This is my cue. I inhale. How do I start? Do I just blurt it out, say how hurt I was seeing his and Miriam’s embrace? How I felt like a kid waking up to a bare Christmas tree, every gift stolen? The decorations in smithereens . . .
Or do I explain that I’m no longer seeing Josh, that I’m hoping he and I could be together, like, seriously? A real couple. Boyfriend and girlfriend. Partners—but no, not like Miriam. I bite my lip. To say that would make me so vulnerable. What if he’s already set on Miri?
I take the easy way out and procrastinate a little longer. It’s easier to focus on the Danes, to tell him about the conversation I overheard between Grace and Lukas. “It’s about the murder,” I say. “I heard . . .”
