Killer Coin

by Elka Ray

  Tonight, when I need it most, I’m completely alone. There is no one at all watching over me.

  CHAPTER 31:

  DOWN AND OUT

  I wake early, on account of the pain in my wrist, and roll carefully out of bed. My body is stiff from yesterday’s exertion. I open the curtains. It’s still pretty dark. Out front of my building, under a streetlight, I can see my 70-something neighbor, Mr. Garlowski, stretching in preparation for a jog. He’s wearing a vintage 70s red tracksuit with an orange reflective vest over top, like Elmo doing roadwork. His bald head is circled by a fuzzy John McEnroe-type tennis headband. I bet he’d make a fortune selling his vintage duds on eBay.

  I shuffle to the kitchen. A look in my fridge reveals an Arctic wasteland. The cupboards are equally barren. Various types of herbal tea, for when my mom visits. A box of prunes so old they’re extra pruney. Some dusty cans of tuna. Thank god they’re dolphin-friendly. A bag of quinoa, untouched since my mom gave it to me. Can I eat it for breakfast? I squint at the back. No instructions. I push the quinoa to the depths of the cupboard.

  At least there’s—Oh no. I tilt the tin, just in case some magically materializes. Damn. I’m out of coffee. I stare at the clock. Does Thrifty’s open this early? Then I remember: my car is still at Daphne’s.

  I eat a sad breakfast of antique prunes washed down with Licorice Spice tea. It tastes vaguely like ouzo, but worse. And it’s nonalcoholic.

  It’s too early to call my mom for a ride. She likes to sleep in. And Quinn? It’s hit or miss. She’s probably up with Abby but what if she’s not? I can’t risk waking her when she’s already sleep-deprived. I’d feel too guilty.

  Daphne’s isn’t that far. It’d take me twenty or thirty minutes to walk, tops. That might be good for my sore muscles. I’ll stop for groceries on the way home, unless it’s still too early.

  It’s not easy pulling on leggings one-handed. Brushing my teeth is hard too. I don’t even try for lipstick or mascara.

  I imagine my mom’s dismay when she hears about last night. Since moving back to Victoria last summer, I’ve suffered one gunshot wound, one broken collarbone, and now a fractured wrist. So much for this place being safe and serene! My life was hectic but safe in Toronto. Here, I feel like a magnet for trouble.

  I excavate my running shoes from the back of my closet. They look sad and misshapen, like relics from a lost, sportier civilization. While I shun gyms, I figured I’d start exercising outdoors, when I moved back here. So far, apart from some walks on the beach with Quinn, that plan has gone nowhere.

  This could be another pre-New Year’s resolution! Yesterday’s frenzied run and today’s walk could be the start of my new get-fit campaign! This thought lifts my spirits. I swing the shoes by their laces to shake off the dust. It’s a nightmare to tie them left-handed.

  Finally, I’m ready to go. When I get outside there’s a little more light. Mr. Garlowski is long gone. Mrs. Van Dortmund’s decrepit tortoiseshell cat is sitting on the low wall out front. When I pass, it hisses at me. I step back. I’ve done nothing to deserve such hostility! I swear it’s got dementia. Unless it somehow knows I’m the one who keeps removing the brick from the lobby door, barring its entry and exit.

  Turning to look up, I see Mrs. Daggett back in her window, glaring down at me, half hidden by her lace curtain. I wave. She pretends not to see me. I can’t help smiling.

  I zip up my jacket and turn right. After a few minutes, my muscles feel less sore. Despite the lack of caffeine, my brain is waking up too.

  I revisit last night. Have the police arrested Lukas yet? Will I have to testify against him in court? Whose babies were those at Colin’s?

  With so much on my mind the walk zooms by. I’m surprised to find I’m already near Colin’s street. I hesitate. Should I go another way? But my legs feel rubbery. For sure Colin—and Miri if she’s there—are still sound asleep. Unless they’re up with those possessed twins.

  I stuff my hands deeper into my pockets and tell myself to get a grip. This is the quickest route to Daphne’s. What am I planning to do? Avoid Colin’s street for the rest of my life? I resist the urge to pull up my hood and turn the corner.

  As I pass, I can’t help but glance at his front window. It’s unlit, like all the other windows in his building. I feel oddly disappointed, like part of me was hoping to catch a glimpse of him. I grit my teeth. Am I that masochistic?

  I turn onto Daphne’s street. Walking toward the water, the mansions and gardens get bigger. As usual, the street is deserted. That’s the thing about rich neighborhoods: there’s so much space and no people. Poor areas are the opposite. Everyone is in each other’s faces. Sometimes I wonder what’s better. Money is both a buffer and a wall, separating us from our fellow, irritating humans. The really rich end up living like they’re in a six-star hotel, serene but lonely, with no one around but discreet, professionally smiley waiters.

  My footsteps ring loud in the empty street. Parked out front, my little white car looks small and sad. My plan is to get it and go. But I’m surprised to see lights on in Daphne’s house. She must be awake. Should I go in and say hi? While the police retrieved my purse and phone, my good wool coat remains inside. I need it for work. I may as well get it now, if Daphne’s up.

  I have trouble unlatching the gate with my left hand. My thighs throb as I walk down her long front path. I pray she has coffee.

  As I climb the steps I feel oddly uneasy. I hesitate, then knock. The sense that something’s off grows. But why? All is quiet. Ah. That’s it. Where’s the pig? It normally squeals like its throat is being slit. I knock again. Nothing. I turn the door handle. To my surprise, it opens.

  I start to push but stop. What if Lukas is in there? But surely, this is the last place he’d hide. I hope he’s been caught. Should I call Colin?

  I fumble my phone out of my coat’s pocket. Daphne’s house lies utterly silent. Could she be out walking the pig? Are pigs walkable? I imagine Kevin in a diamanté collar.

  I find Colin’s number but don’t press it. What if I wake him? He looked beyond wrecked last night. But better safe than sorry. I press Call. It rings and rings. Maybe he’s asleep, after all. Or already at work, hopefully interrogating Lukas Dane. I send a text message: Lukas caught yet? I’m at the Danes’ place. I wait. There’s no answering message.

  I shut Daphne’s door. I’ll just go home. But what if something’s happened to her? It’s kind of weird, her front door being unlocked, especially so early in the morning.

  I stuff my phone back in my pocket and open her heavy front door. “Hello?” I call. The hall lies dark and silent. I take a few steps and stop. The air smells of coffee. My mouth waters.

  Another step and I see a shattered espresso cup in the middle of the front hall. Some brown stains have splashed onto the pale rug. I walk closer and crouch. Dark liquid is puddled on the hardwood.

  Bending low, I sniff. It’s definitely coffee. I touch it: still a bit warm. There’s some pale grit in the puddle. I’m suddenly alert. Has Daphne been drugged again, in her morning espresso?

  My thighs quiver as I rise and step over the mess. My heart is thumping. I call her name. Nothing. “Daphne?” I yell up the stairs. If she were on the ground floor, she’d have heard me for sure. Maybe she’s in bed, drugged, like last week.

  On protesting legs I climb the stairs. My ears strain for the slightest sound. The light is dim.

  Walking down the hall, I look into each room I pass. Everything is neat: Lukas’s teenage bedroom, the five-star guest rooms . . .

  At Daphne’s door, I falter. But I’d better check. I crack the door open. “Hey, Daphne, are you okay?” I call.

  With trepidation, I enter.

  Both the sitting room and her bedroom are orderly and empty. The bathroom is sparkling.

  I retreat. Maybe she’s out walking Kevin after all. The pig could use the exercise. I’m worrying for nothing.

  I’m back downstairs searching for my coat when I become aware of
a strange noise—a weird, background hum. White noise. It could be a fan or an engine. I tilt my head, listening. Is it coming from the basement? Does Daphne have a generator? The steps to the basement lead down from the kitchen.

  Walking into the kitchen, I’m surprised to see progress on the renovations. New cupboards have been installed. The table, counters, and boxes are covered with paint-flecked tarps. Near the sink stands a stepladder. The wall by the stove bears three test swatches of paint—burnt orange, latte, and ochre. Are these Daphne’s or Isobel’s choices?

  I listen at the basement door. The sound is louder. I open the door, cautiously. Who isn’t freaked out by basements?

  “Daphne?” I yell down the stairs. The hum is definitely coming from downstairs. I click on the light and creep down the steep, cement stairs. My legs are quaking.

  A large, carpeted room comes into view. There’s a projector and a giant screen, a huge, tawny sofa set, some leopard-print cushions. Three doors lead somewhere. The closest door is partly open. I can see a white washer and dryer. I head toward the sound, which seems to be coming from the furthest door. My heart is now threatening to pop out of my mouth. But apart from that broken cup I’ve seen nothing unusual. Nothing alarming.

  I open the door. There’s a bad, chemical smell in here. When I find the light switch, the sudden brightness makes me squint. I peer around. It’s a large garage. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line the long sides of the room. There are stacks of boxes, most neatly labeled: CHRISTMAS ORNAMENTS. FISHING TACKLE. LAWN BOWLING & TENNIS.

  In the middle of the room, surrounded by empty space, stand two cars. I recognize Daphne’s silver Mercedes sedan. Behind it is a classic red Mustang. Where’s her Audi? Both cars look empty. The Mustang’s engine is running.

  I approach this red car. The smell of exhaust makes my eyes water. I raise my sleeve to my mouth. It’s smoky. Who left that car on?

  The Mustang has dark tinted windows. I peer into its dim interior, blinking. It’s like the air is curling and twisting. Is that smoke? The car’s front seats lie empty. In the back, I’m stunned to see the pig, lying on its back, short legs in the air. Daphne is sprawled under it. Her head lolls forward, tangled hair covering her face.

  Sick with panic, I pound on the glass. Nothing happens. “Daphne! Wake up!” I yell. I pound harder.

  Neither she nor the pig stirs. I tug at the door’s handle. It’s locked, as is the driver’s door.

  I run to the other side and claw at the handles. Neither door will open.

  I look around, frantic. A metallic tube has been stuck onto the car’s exhaust pipe and fed through the back window. It’s held in place with duct tape. More tape covers the gap. When I tug at the tube it flies out, spewing foul smoke. I splutter and reel back. I spin around, searching.

  On a shelf behind me lies a big plastic box labelled TOOLS. I wrestle it down and pry off the lid. Yes! A hammer. It feels surprisingly heavy.

  I race back to the car and swing, hard. The glass breaks but doesn’t shatter. I swing again. And again.

  When the glass spider-webs inward I reach through the jagged hole to unlatch the front door. The fumes makes me gag. My eyes stream. Gasping from the smoke, I reach under the steering wheel to snap off the ignition.

  The sudden lack of noise is startling. I hold my breath and stretch into the back seat. My fingers find the door’s lock. I scrabble out and open the back passenger-side door. “Daphne!” I scream. “Get up!” She doesn’t respond when I shake her.

  She’s wearing peach pajamas under her quilted maroon dressing gown. I grab her under the arms and pull. The dressing gown is slippery. She’s heavier than she looks. It hurts like crazy to use my right hand. I tug until she slides out from under the pig. Another heave and she’s halfway out of the car. My knees wobble under her weight. Her bare feet bump onto the cement floor. I drag her in fits and starts, stopping to gasp for breath.

  When her feet are level with the car’s back bumper, I set her down and go back for the pig.

  Kevin feels twice as heavy and five times as ungainly, like a giant sandbag. Holding the pig by its hind legs, I wrestle it out the door. It falls with a massive thump that makes me wince. I hope I didn’t kill it.

  I manage to tug the beast another few feet, then give up and race to the garage’s front roller-door. I can’t find the button or the remote to raise it. My eyes are on fire. The fumes are making me dizzy.

  There’s a small side door for pedestrians. I manage to unlock that and swing it wide open. For a minute, I rest, doubled-over, gulping down clean, cold morning air. Tears stream down my face. I can taste the oxygen.

  Fortified, I turn back toward Daphne.

  Luckily, I spy the panel that controls the garage door. In a panic, I jab various buttons. Maybe I pushed too many at once, or else the door is blocked, because it lifts a few feet and jams. The motor whines and shudders, then dies. But it’s better than nothing. At least some clean air is getting in. Smoke wafts out the gap.

  I race back to Daphne and start dragging her again. I pull her away from the car, closer to fresh air and the exit.

  I’ve gone back for the pig when I realize I’m not thinking straight. I need to call for help. I sink onto my haunches and dig my phone from my coat’s pocket. My fingers shake as I dial 911. I should put it on speed dial. The line stays silent. I try again. Nothing happens. Through inflamed eyes, I squint at the screen—only half a bar. There’s no reception in Daphne’s basement.

  I’m crawling unsteadily to my feet when I hear some noise, behind me, in the basement TV room. A voice. My knees go weak. I know that voice. It comes again. “Toby? Are you here?”

  Relief hits like a blast of warm air. “Colin,” I rasp. “Help. I’m in here.”

  “Toby!” he calls again. His footsteps stride closer.

  I regain my feet and start to stagger his way. Colin’s here! He came! Everything will be okay!

  I’m almost at the door when a scrabbling noise makes me stop. There’s a gasp and a crack, then a dull thud. I shrink back. What just happened? I hold my breath and listen.

  Silence. Colin’s footsteps don’t start up again.

  I open the door a sliver and peek through it. The room’s still brightly lit. I can see the back of the sofa and the pale, thick carpeting. A heavy crystal vase lies on the floor, the decorative grasses it held now crop-circled around it. Nearby, lies an outstretched hand.

  I bite down a cry. It’s Colin’s hand, the fingers long and strong. Hardly daring to breathe, I widen the door another inch.

  He’s on the floor, sprawled on his back. Through the gap, I can see his chest and his neck, the side of his face . . . His cheek is bone white.

  I gently push the door a little wider. His other cheek drips scarlet.

  My vision swims. He’s bleeding. And unmoving. Is he dead? I want to run but am frozen.

  Someone else enters my narrow field of vision—a figure in black pants and a long dark coat. He’s faced away, his head hidden by a black hood. My heart accelerates. Who is it? When he turns slightly, I see a pillow clasped to his chest. It’s leopard-printed.

  This sinister figure walks closer to Colin and crouches. He presses the cushion to Colin’s bloody face. It takes a moment to understand. He’s smothering Colin!

  I spin to look for the hammer. I must have left it near the Mustang. I run to find it, relieved to see it on the floor, surrounded by glistening chunks of glass. I grab it. It feels good and heavy.

  I creep back to the door. My eye finds the crack. The man is still bent over Colin’s inert form. I need to act quickly.

  Moving quietly, I push open the door. My heart has turned into a wild horse, leaping and bucking. I tiptoe toward them and raise the hammer.

  I brace, then aim for the center of his hood. Just as I swing, he turns and ducks.

  My blow misses his head but strikes his shoulder.

  The man staggers back and drops the pillow. With a growl, he clutches his injured shoulder. I
raise the hammer. He kicks at my legs. Pain geysers up my right knee. I’m propelled backward and sideways.

  I hit the ground, hard, the breath knocked out of me. I curl onto my side, gasping. I’m still clutching the hammer.

  My attacker’s dark hood slips down to reveal pale, watery eyes. They bulge in surprise, then narrow. His fat fingers cup his hurt shoulder. “You?” he hisses.

  I blink, equally stunned. It’s Daphne’s son-in-law, Gerard. Glistening with sweat, his face is pale and puffy. He’s like a malevolent toad, glaring down at me.

  I look from him to Colin. The sight of Colin’s waxy face—so still and vulnerable—sucks the air from my lungs. Is he breathing? Just the thought of him dying leaves me weak.

  Pain, fear, and confusion race through my overworked brain. Did Gerard kill Stephen Buxley? Why would he want to kill Daphne? Is this all about her money?

  I rise to a shaky crouch. “W—why?” I stammer.

  Instead of answering, Gerard lunges.

  As I jump back, I swing my hammer, desperately. While he’s unarmed, I’m weak with fatigue—and using my ungainly left hand.

  I miss. His fist strikes my chest. I jolt backward but stay on my feet. I reel away, gasping.

  Gerard straightens. His goggle eyes blaze with fury. “You!” he says again, like he can’t believe it. “Because of you, the police have been harassing my Isobel!” His voice rises in pitch. “You convinced Daphne she was there, at the cabine!” His flabby cheeks shake with rage. “You made the police suspect her!”

  I stagger back. My chest burns. Is that why Gerard attacked Daphne? Doesn’t he realize she’d do anything—including taking the rap—to protect her children?

  It’s hard to breathe, let alone talk. “The police know it wasn’t Izzy,” I rasp. Each word is a low, painful wheeze. “And so does Daphne. It was Lukas!”

  Gerard snorts. “Lukas?” He sounds dismissive. “As if. He is good for nothing, that Lukas! He is too weak to kill anyone! He has no backbone.”