by Elka Ray
He cuts me off, his voice tight with disapproval. “Wait. Look Toby, this is an open case. I think you should, you know, stay out of it.”
I blink. For all he knows, I could hold the key to the whole mystery. “I’m just trying to help,” I say, tightly.
“I know,” he says. “But just . . . Don’t. It’s not your p . . .” He coughs.
I swear he was about to say “place.” If I were a cat I’d be hissing.
Instead, he says “problem.” His voice softens a little. “Please Toby. Please let me deal with this. There’s already been one murder.” He sounds weary. “And what happened to Daphne . . .”
For what feels like ages the line is silent—the sort of heavy silence that follows the rattle of an earthquake. My desire to ask where we stand, to learn the truth about Miriam, is now buried beneath a layer of resentment.
“I’d like to see you,” says Colin. He sounds wistful.
I hold my breath, waiting. Do I even want to see him? Yet again, my feelings are stirred up and murky.
“But right now, it’s . . .” He sighs.
I shut my eyes, steeling myself for the coming blow. But. In any statement, it’s what’s after the “but” that counts. “It’s complicated,” says Colin.
My nose wrinkles. Wasn’t that the title of some predictable romantic comedy?
He coughs again. “I’m so . . .”
There’s a crash so loud I almost drop the phone. “Colin?” I say in alarm. “Hello? Colin?”
“Hello? Hey, ah, Toby?” He sounds thoroughly fed up. “Look, can I talk to you later?”
“Fine,” I say—the second most passive-aggressive word in the English language, after “whatever.”
What I mean is “don’t bother.”
After hanging up, I lie down on the floor. Tears flood my shut eyes. If the lump in my throat were any bigger, I’d choke, right here on my pristine no-kids-no-pets cream carpet.
Whatever I had with Colin, it seems I’ve lost it.
My tears overflow. It’s like hearing his voice ripped a scab off my heart. Why didn’t I stop dithering months ago?
Behind closed lids I see his twinkling green eyes, the cowlick above his left eyebrow that he’s always trying—and failing—to subdue, his little-boy smile, full of kindness and mischief . . . It all seems so poignant, so precious.
Do I only appreciate things when they’re gone? I’m like a bad Country Western song. No love. No money. No dog. No pickup truck. I feel like howling.
It’s so quiet I can hear the kitchen clock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. It’s doing my head in, every beat a reminder that I’m a second older, another second past my prime.
Or is this my prime? It should be. At thirty-three I’m hardly some old crone. Yet I’m lying on the floor, alone and mopey on a Saturday night. I blink back tears. It’s hard not to picture a string of lonesome Saturday nights stretching before me like a sad, wilting daisy chain . . . I see myself older, wrinklier, and increasingly bitter, jaded by decades of divorce-lawyering, scanning the Engagements column with the smug satisfaction of knowing that I’ll never run out of new clients.
I rake my fingers through my hair and tug. Jeez. Self-pity is worse than smack. And pessimism is poison. I need to quit both, cold turkey. This is my early New Year’s resolution. No more dwelling on Colin. No more lusting after Josh. No more wasting time worrying about stuff that might never happen. It’s time to grow up and be happy with what I’ve got, which is a lot. The energy I’m putting into men should go into financial planning. I ought to be saving up for my own place. I can’t rent this place forever.
To prevent a woe-is-me relapse, I force my thoughts to Stephen Buxley. Who slapped him? Who killed him? Daphne, Vonda? Or neither?
Since Colin wouldn’t listen, I’ll have to ask Daphne myself. I’ll stop by her place in the morning.
When my phone rings, I figure it’s Colin. My heart lifts so fast I get the bends when I sit up. I leap onto the sofa, where I tossed my phone in despair. It’s under a pillow. I snatch the phone. The pillow goes flying.
“Toby?” It’s my mom.
If my heart bottomed out any harder, I’d be under a pile of rubble in the lobby. “M . . . mom?” I try not to sound too devastated. “Are you okay?” Maybe she’s having a bad date. My throat is thick with unshed tears. “Aren’t you at the movies?”
“It’s about to start,” she says. “I’m in the ladies.” Sure enough, somewhere nearby, a toilet flushes. “I need a favor.”
“Er, okay,” I say, aware that tonight might get even worse. What if she wants me to come and meet Mr. Self-help? What if he’s creepy? “What’s going on, Mom?”
“It’s Daphne,” she says. I fight back a groan. I should have known. “Those lab results,” says my mom. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
I wait. It’s been preying on my mind too—the possibility that Daphne’s in danger.
“I have a really bad feeling,” says my mother. “And all the signs.” I grit my teeth, lest she elaborate. “I asked Daphne to stay at my place but she refused,” continues my mom. “She’s so stubborn. I was going to stay there tonight but . . .” She coughs. “Well, I might be out late.” Another cough.
I squint at the phone. Is my mom planning to stay overnight with some guy she just met? What kind of self-help was he reading?
“And now Daphne’s not answering her phone,” says my mom. She swallows anxiously. “Could you please pop by and check on her? Just in case . . . Please, honey?”
I’m tempted to say no. But really, why not? I was planning to go there tomorrow, anyway. And it’s not like I’ve got anything better to do. I make a face, as if to spit out this fresh shot of self-pity. “Okay, Mom,” I say. “I’ll drive over.”
“Oh hon. You’re the best,” says my mom.
The gratitude in her voice makes me smile and roll my eyes. “How’s your date?” I ask.
“Good!” Her voice drops to a whisper, as though he might somehow overhear. “He’s a Cancer! And a Pig!” While this doesn’t sound good at all, it must be, judging from her tone. “I’d better go. Bye, honey! Remember, drive carefully!”
After she hangs up, I try Daphne’s number. Her machine answers. I sigh. Looks like I’ll have to keep my promise and go check on her. Daphne’s probably out, anyway. Doing something fun—unlike me. Ugh. Enough desolation already.
I wash my face, brush my teeth and hair, and add a dash of court lipstick, for confidence. Satisfied that my sunken spirits don’t show, I open the balcony door to check the weather.
The night is cold but dry. I hesitate between my stylish charcoal wool coat and a tatty old navy raincoat before selecting the latter. The break in the rain might not last. But no. I swore off pessimism! I shrug on my nice wool coat. I retrieve my purse and keys off the coffee table.
As usual, when I get off the main streets there’s little traffic. I consciously avoid Colin’s street. There’s optimistic and then there’s plain dumb. The last thing I need is to see a loved-up silhouette of him and Miri in his picture window.
Daphne’s house is well lit. She must be home, after all. I wonder if she’s truly recovered from Wednesday night. It’s scary knowing that whoever drugged her could try again. Do the police really think Daphne took the drugs knowingly? If so, they’re not even trying to protect her.
Again, I feel mad at Colin. How can I not get involved when my mom’s best friend—who gave us so much—is in danger?
I’m only halfway up Daphne’s garden path when Kevin starts to squeal. By the time I knock he’s like a siren. The longer I wait, the more anxious I feel. What if Daphne is unconscious, or worse? I’m even tempted to try another call to Colin.
The door cracks open, restrained by a safety-chain. A heavily made-up eye peeps through the gap. “Toby?” Daphne swings the door open. “Hey. What are you doing here?”
“Sorry to show up unannounced,” I say. “But you weren’t answering your phone. My mom got worried.”
<
br /> With a frown she ushers me indoors. Kevin sniffs at my boots. I bend to pat his back, which is covered in sparse, wiry hair. He feels side-of-ham solid.
“Oh, my phone’s on the blink,” says Daphne. “I dropped it and . . .” She waves a hand, dismissively. “I need a new one.”
Clad in a quilted maroon dressing gown over matching satin pajamas, she resembles an aging soap-opera star lounging in her trailer. Despite being home alone, her makeup is camera-ready. Under all that foundation, it’s hard to tell if she’s less pale than she was the other night. I eye her bright red lipstick. Scarlet Woman?
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asks. “Or wine, perhaps?”
“Tea, please,” I say. I’ll be driving home soon. “I wanted to ask you something, about Stephen.”
Daphne’s jaw tightens. “Right, well,” she says. “Come on.”
The pig and I follow her into the kitchen. Half the cupboards remain missing, their contents still stacked in cardboard boxes.
“Jackie advised me to stop talking to the police,” says Daphne. “They think I might have . . .” Her painted index finger rakes her throat. “You know.”
“I heard,” I say. “Are you feeling better?”
While Daphne nods, I see her hands shake as she fills the kettle. Her cheeks look sunken, like she’s lost weight.
“Do you have any idea who could have drugged you?” I ask.
Daphne closes her eyes and rubs her smooth forehead. With her eyes squeezed shut, she looks gaunt and tired. “Izzy thinks I took it myself. An accidental overdose . . .” Her lower lip trembles. “Like I took a bit to sleep and then forgot and took more.” She leans against the counter, as if standing straight is too much effort.
“Is that possible?” I ask.
For a second, Daphne’s face sags but then she rallies. Her shoulders and chin lift. “Of course not,” she snaps. “I don’t even know where you’d get that stuff!” When she pours the hot water, her hands have steadied. “I don’t know who did it, but don’t worry. I’m watching my back.” Her spine straightens a little more. “And I have my suspicions.”
I suppress a shiver. How awful must it be to know someone wants to hurt you—or even kill you. “Such as?” I say.
Daphne’s red lips clamp shut. “I’m not accusing anyone without proof,” she says, tightly.
“Mom said Vonda came by that night,” I say. “Did you tell the police that?”
This earns me a dirty look. “The police!” says Daphne. “I’m their number one suspect! Anything I tell them, they’ll use against me.” She sets the cups onto a silver tea tray.
Armed with the tea, she marches into the living room. I follow meekly.
A gas fire burns in the grate. She sets down the tray and bends to light some tall white candles. Again, I’m struck by the room’s beauty, the ceilings high, with ornate, old-fashioned moldings. There’s another chandelier in this room, almost as big as the one in the front hall. Its lights twinkle.
“Please, sit,” she says, again the perfect hostess. I take a seat. She pours the tea and hands me a cup. It has a delicious smoky flavor.
“Now what was it you wanted to ask me?” asks Daphne. She smoothes down her dressing gown, waiting.
“The last time you saw Stephen,” I say. “Did you hit him?”
Daphne’s over-plumped lips tighten. She hesitates, frowning at her dark front yard. Then her eyes snap my way. “No,” she says, stiffly. “Certainly not.”
I’m not sure I believe her.
Again, Daphne stares out the darkened window. On her left ring finger is a ring she keeps twisting. It’s got a dark red stone, so big I’d assume it was glass if I saw it on anyone else. On Daphne, I figure it’s a Burmese ruby—darker than fresh blood, a stone that protects the heart. I grit my teeth as if to chew this last thought to bits. Is there no way to empty my mind of my mom’s crazy crystal nonsense?
When Daphne notices my eyes on her ring she stops twisting it. Using her left hand, she reaches for her teacup. Stephen was struck on the right cheek. Is Daphne left-handed? But if she did slap him, wouldn’t she admit it? I, for one, wouldn’t blame her. He’d pretended to be single—and was after her fortune!
Although her reluctance to admit having lost her temper is understandable, given that he was murdered.
I consider sharing my theory that it was Lukas she saw in the woods instead of Isobel. But something stops me. “You told the police you saw Isobel there, right?” I ask.
Daphne nods tightly. “I said I thought I did,” she says. “But maybe not . . .” She stares into her teacup. “That drug in my cocoa . . .” She clears her throat. “I don’t think that’s the first time someone drugged me. I’ve been having memory problems for a while. And . . .” She swallows hard. “Even hallucinations.”
“Hallucinations?” I say, alarmed. “What about the past couple days?” Whoever spiked Daphne’s drink could still be doing it.
Daphne shakes her head. “I’m being careful,” she says again. “I feel totally clear-headed.”
I nod. She does seem her shrewd old self. “The day you found Stephen’s body, when you saw Isobel running away,” I say. “How far away was she?”
Daphne’s lips twist in annoyance. “Like I said, I’m not sure I saw anyone,” she says. “I thought I saw her—or someone fair—slipping into the trees.” She shrugs. “But I might have been mistaken.”
There’s no point asking again. It’s obvious she wants to protect her daughter. I take a deep breath, unsure whether to show my hand or not. So far, I’ve learned nothing. What’s stopping me? “Do you think it could have been Lukas?”
This comment hits home. Her pupils widen like bull’s-eyes as she reassesses her memories. Daphne raises her teacup, as if to shield her thoughts. She takes a slow sip of tea and collects herself. “Of course not!” Her tone is haughty. “As you know, he was . . .” Her left hand finds the gold chain at her throat. “Away. At a . . . meditation retreat.”
“Where was it?” I ask her.
Her eyes slide left. “In India. Goa . . .” She sighs, like she’s too tired to keep telling this story. “Oh what the hell. We only lied because Izzie wanted it hushed up. She’s embarrassed that her brother had a problem and doesn’t want anyone to know.” Daphne tugs at the heavy chain around her throat. “But to hell with Iz. Lukas was in Duncan. Getting treatment. For alcohol and marijuana.”
I perk up. Given Lukas’s pallor, I should have questioned his India story. I just assumed it was true, based on what he was wearing.
Daphne’s eyes narrow. “I know what you’re thinking. But by the time Lukas was released from the clinic, Stephen was already dead.” She shudders. “I saw his body, remember?”
I nod, but wonder. Is that true? Duncan’s not that far from Sooke. Could Lukas have skipped out of rehab early and hitched a ride to the cabin?
“The police will be able to check,” I say.
A noise makes us both turn. “Check what?” asks Grace. She is standing in the double-wide door from the front hall. Lukas is beside her.
Dressed in her brick-red quilted coat, Grace looks warm and cuddly. As usual, her hands are full of shopping bags. Beside her bulk, Lukas seems extra thin and weedy. In a wrinkled oilskin coat and brown wool toque, he could pass for a hobo. His green backpack hangs from one thin shoulder.
“Oh, nothing important,” says Daphne, with a tight smile. She sets down her cup. The saucer rattles. She looks at me pointedly. “Toby was just leaving.”
I stay seated. I suspect Daphne’s defensiveness means one thing: I’m right. She saw her son at the scene of Stephen Buxley’s murder.
“Lukas,” I say. “Where did you go when you left rehab early?”
The way his eyes bulge tells me my guess is spot on. “Wh . . . what?” he stammers. He glares at his mom. “You told me not to tell anyone about rehab,” he says, his voice like a spoiled child’s. “And now you told Toby. Why—”
Daphne cuts him off.
“Lukas, quiet!” she snaps.
Lukas looks sullen.
Still holding the groceries, Grace walks closer. Her round face is flushed and imploring. “Please Toby,” she says, softly. “Please keep this quiet. If the police know about Lukas’s problems they’ll suspect him . . . They’ll say he was high, that he’s an addict.”
I shake my head. It’s obvious Grace and Daphne want to protect Lukas. What I want is the truth. “If Lukas didn’t do it, he has nothing to fear,” I say. “But he has some explaining to do. I know he was there the day Stephen died.”
While Grace’s face is pink, behind her, Lukas is ashen. He blinks, slowly. Grace starts to splutter.
I ignore her and get up, then walk closer to Lukas. “Who told you about the coins?” I ask him. “Is that why you went out there?”
“No!” protests Lukas. “No! It wasn’t like that!” When he shrugs, his pack slips off his shoulder. Upon hitting the ground, the top opens, disgorging its contents: a family-sized Snickers bar, a bamboo bong, an orange lighter, and a brick-sized bag of marijuana.
At the sight of it, his mom jumps to her feet. “Lukas!” she hisses. “What is that? You promised you’d stopped smoking!”
The fury in her voice startles all of us, but especially Lukas. He shrinks back and starts to stutter out a response. But Daphne isn’t finished. “You swore you quit!” she yells. “You swore on my life! When will you stop lying?”
Faced with his mom’s ire, Lukas looks at Grace, as if for backup, but she has frozen. He spins toward me. His guilty expression changes to one of accusation. He jabs a skinny finger my way. “This is your fault!” he whines, like a six-year-old, claiming I tattled. “Why are you even here?” His voice rises. “Why couldn’t you mind your own business?”
As he steps closer, one foot lands on his bong, which rolls. Lukas loses his balance. His arms pinwheel and his fist catches my jaw. It might be an accident, I’m not sure. The blow knocks me down and sideways. I put a hand out to catch myself.
