Divorce Is Murder

by Elka Ray

  She looks so excited I don’t have the heart to say no. I grab a tea towel and dry my hands.

  “Do you want tea or coffee?” asks my mother. She turns to Quinn. “Can you drink coffee, honey?”

  “Decaf,” says Quinn. “If you have any.”

  “I’ll have that too,” I say. I wonder if there’s any way I can get out of having my cards read. Maybe Quinn and my mom will forget about it. Or should I say I need to leave early to catch up on work? But it’s Friday night . . . I blame Quinn for getting my mom’s hopes up.

  “Are you ready?” asks my mom, after the coffee is brewed. She pours milk into a small jug. I realize she’s talking about my reading.

  “Do you want privacy? Should I, like, wait in the other room?” asks Quinn. She stands in the doorway, filling most of it. It’s obvious she wants to listen in.

  “I’ve got nothing to hide,” I say. This is the truth. While I’m privy to various clients’ indiscretions, my life is an open book. More like a pamphlet, really.

  Quinn smiles.

  “Have a seat,” says my mom. “I’ll get the cards.”

  In most ways, my mother is easy-going. Too easy-going, I’d say. She lets people—like my dad, for example—take advantage of her. But there are a few things—all weird and totally irrational—about which she’s anal, such as the rule that no one can touch her tarot cards unless invited.

  As a kid I found these cards spellbinding. I loved the old-fashioned pictures, which, although in color, have a creepy, dimly lit quality. I loved the characters: a naked woman pouring water beneath The Star; The Devil stretching his wings; Justice looking glum with her sword and scales. Although I was strictly forbidden from touching the cards, I often did, always being careful to leave them just as I’d found them. Sometimes, I got away with it.

  Quinn is already sitting at the kitchen table. I sit next to her. My mother hands me the deck and tells me to shuffle. I keep dropping cards. Everything related to the paranormal makes me uneasy. I hate how credulous people are, how eager they are to be tricked. And I hate that little twinge of curiosity I feel when my mom flips my first card. There’s a thoughtful look on her face. “This card shows your present position.”

  I nod grimly, the lopsided cap of The Fool instantly recognizable to me.

  “Hmmm,” she continues. “The Fool. It suggests the start of an adventure, maybe one you haven’t thought through properly. You need to pay attention to the details and not get fooled by things that look better than they are.”

  I nod, as does Quinn, who’s sitting on my mom’s other side, fascinated.

  I try not to take the negative comments personally. If I believed, without a doubt, that clairvoyance is bogus, playing along with this reading shouldn’t matter. But, while I’m pretty sure my mother lacks the gift, I suspect some people have dangerous talents. We aren’t meant to know the future or talk to the dead. Some secrets should stay secret.

  My mom reaches for another card. She shuts her eyes, as though listening to inaudible music. I heap sugar into my decaf. What if my mother’s ham-fisted attempts get the spirits riled up? What if they take it out on me? She turns the card. “Goal or destiny. Hmmm, The Tower.” She and Quinn exchange a look. Quinn stares at the card as though it were a poison pen letter. My mom stares at me. I feel as though I’m the one who was recently diagnosed with cancer.

  “This card signals a big change,” says my mother. “There’s deception and disruption. You doubt yourself. You face adversity, even ruin.”

  The picture shows two people surrounded by massive hailstones falling head-first out of a tall tower that’s been struck by a fireball. Could it get any worse? “So it’s bad?” I ask. I was trying to be funny but my mom doesn’t get it.

  “Well,” she says carefully. “It signifies that things will get shaken up, but that’s not always a bad thing.” She takes a sip of coffee. “It depends on the other cards.” These turn out to include The Hanged Man, The Moon, Death, and The Devil.

  “Wow, I’ve never seen cards that shitty!” says Quinn excitedly. She has the same look on her face that she gets when discussing killer whale sex, her current academic obsession.

  My mom eyes me suspiciously. “Are you sure things are okay at work?” she asks. “Has anything strange happened lately? No new, troublesome clients? Or are there issues with your new apartment?”

  I grit my teeth. Quinn is giving me a pointed look. Like me, I’m sure she’s thinking of my one and only new client. Josh. The one with the missing estranged wife, whom the police think is in trouble. And I haven’t even told Quinn about meeting Chantelle last night. I ignore her and shake my head vigorously. “Everything’s fine, Mom.”

  My mom collects the cards, as though the sight of them laid out like that is giving her the heebie-jeebies. She shuffles. “Well, you’d better watch your back.” She slips them back into their lacquered box. “Because somebody’s out to get you.”

  Although the kitchen is hot, I suppress a shiver. I recall Chantelle’s warning as I was leaving Safeway. While I neither like nor trust her, perhaps she was being sincere. Now my mom’s reading seems to back her up. Except that’s absurd. Coincidence, and nothing more. I feel mad at Chantelle for having brought up bad adolescent memories, and mad at Quinn and my mom for having suckered me into this stupid reading.

  But most of all, I’m annoyed with myself. Why did I agree to get my cards read? Now my mom will worry, and so will I, because what if—just this once—she’s actually onto something?

  CHAPTER SIX:

  BAD NEWS

  It’s Labor Day Monday, that last gasp of fun before the nation’s kids trudge back to school. A poignant reminder that summer is officially over. I’m pulling up in front of Quinn’s bungalow when I see a FOR SALE sign planted in the middle of her neighbors’ front lawn. Above the words “I make dreams come true—-for all your real estate needs, call Alana Mapplebee” is a picture of a smiling blonde. I recall Chantelle Orker’s sneering claim that Josh and Alana Mapplebee had “gone fishing.” Was she Tonya’s competition?

  Instead of walking up Quinn’s driveway, I make a detour to check out Alana. She and Tonya could be sisters, both with big, bleached blonde hair and ample cleavage, Alana’s peeking out of a bright red suit jacket. I take an instant dislike to her, but maybe I’m just jealous. If I read Chantelle’s innuendo correctly, Josh clearly has a type—my physical opposite.

  “Toby?” I turn to see Quinn’s husband Bruce, standing on their front porch, squinting at me. “What are you doing over there?”

  “Oh, hey Bruce.” I ascend his front steps and he bends—really far down—to kiss me. At over two hundred fifty pounds, Bruce resembles a giant, wooly teddy bear, his stocky body covered with dark fuzz and his eyes like two shiny black buttons under thick lashes. He’s part Samoan and part Italian. Given that Quinn’s parents are so successful and she’s an academic, I know many people were surprised when she married a cop instead of some hotshot professional type. But Bruce’s regular-guy demeanor is part of his appeal. He’s warm and funny, as well as kind. The type of guy who performs silly dances to make small cranky kids laugh and will happily rescue a cat from a tree. If I had to call 911, I’d want Bruce to show up.

  Now dressed in cargo shorts, a tank top, and a red apron, Bruce takes my bottle of wine and holds the screen door for me. “Thanks for this,” he says, scanning the label. “Ooh, French. It looks fancy. Let’s go and have some.” His smile, like the rest of him, is massive. “Or did you want red?”

  “Anything alcoholic,” I say.

  He shoots me a look. “Work trouble?”

  “Nah, not really,” I say.

  I follow Bruce into their back yard, which consists of some patchy lawn and a couple of ragged apple trees. Quinn and her brother Dan are standing near a smoking gas barbecue. “Hey stranger,” says Dan, when he spots me. It’s been a few years since we last met, but Dan looks exactly the same—like a slightly older, sloppier male version of Quinn. T
hey even have the same long blond hair, plus the same killer arm muscles and off-kilter sense of humor. I’ve known Dan since I was five and he was nine, back when he impressed me by singing the Transformers’ theme song backward. He could also stick spaghetti up one nostril and have it come out of the other—equally impressive, but not in a good way. Dan gives me a hug and I congratulate him on his recent success. His first documentary film—about a group of First Nations kids who reenact Harry Potter scenes—was a big hit at the Toronto Film Festival.

  I tell him I loved his movie and he looks pleased and embarrassed. Quinn told me he’s been struggling with his next project and is freaking out that he’s a “one-trick pony.” I figure it’s better to change the subject.

  Bruce has just opened the wine I brought when Quinn’s parents show up. Seeing me, Alistair waves. He’s pushing Jackie, who’s in a wheelchair on account of her recent accident. I wave back. Ali is the father I wish I’d had. Come to think of it, I’d like Quinn’s mom as my mother too, although I feel disloyal to Ivy after thinking this.

  After Alistair has helped Jackie into a lawn chair, I go over and hug her. I ask when she can ditch the giant cyborg-ski-boot contraption encasing her left foot and she grimaces. “About another month, if I’m lucky.” One of the hardest-working and most physically active women I know, she’s had to take time off work. The enforced inactivity is driving her crazy. “I haven’t watched so much bad daytime TV since I was breastfeeding,” sighs Jackie.

  Two weeks back, Jackie was jogging along Beach Drive when a Dalmatian-collie cross bolted in front of her to escape an amorous Pomeranian. She tripped over its leash and broke two metatarsals in her left foot, and fractured her right collarbone and her left thumb, which means she can’t write, type, or negotiate crutches.

  Alistair hands Jackie a glass of wine she can barely hold. “To coming home,” he says, clinking his glass against mine. “We’re so glad you’re back, Toby.”

  “It’s good to be here,” I say, and for the moment, it’s true. I offer a toast to friends and family, and to Jackie’s speedy recovery. Quinn mooches a sip of Bruce’s wine. They feel like family.

  The burgers are almost done when I ask Jackie and Alistair if they know Alana Mapplebee. They seem to know everyone in Victoria, Jackie a partner in the island’s biggest criminal law practice, and Ali a vascular surgeon and part-time professor at UVic.

  There’s a weird pause, and it occurs to me that I’ve said something inappropriate. “The real estate agent?” asks Jackie. She sticks her bobbed hair behind one ear.

  Quinn looks at Dan, who takes a swig of wine. “I dated her briefly a couple of years back,” he says. “Why? What about her?”

  “Her name came up at work,” I say. Quinn gives me a questioning look. I ignore her and take a seat beside her mother, who’s wearing a green calf-length skirt and a white cotton sweater. Looking at Jackie, I know exactly how Quinn will look in her late fifties: still blonde, trim, and beautiful.

  When I decided to move back here, it was Jackie who recommended me to my new bosses, Mel Greene and Philippa Olliartee, former teachers of Jackie’s at law school. Now, Jackie studies me. “How’s the new job?” she enquires.

  “Fine. I mean good.”

  Jackie looks thoughtful. “You’re not bored out of your tree?”

  I hesitate. I don’t want word that I’m not loving this job to get back to Mel and Philippa. “It is slower than Toronto,” I say, slowly. “But I’m just settling in.”

  “Right,” says Jackie. We chat about work and local lawyers I’ve met or have yet to meet. She recounts a recent case in which her client—an elderly widow—had allowed her grandson to grow “herbs” in her backyard only to be arrested for marijuana farming.

  “Who’s ready for a burger?” calls Bruce.

  The smell of grilling meat makes my stomach rumble.

  I offer to fetch Jackie a plate but she declines, saying she’ll get something later. Since I’m starving, I excuse myself and head for the barbecue. I’m loading up on condiments when Quinn sidles up to me. She’s wearing a long yellow sundress with a ruched top that makes her breasts look enormous. “So why were you asking about Alana?”

  I smack the bottom of a ketchup bottle until a huge glob pops out. “It’s to do with a case,” I say nonchalantly. I’m not going to discuss Josh’s divorce with Quinn any more.

  My best friend gives me a knowing look, then bites into her pickle. “Not Josh Barton, by any chance?”

  “What?” asks Bruce. Still armed with metal tongs, he has walked up behind us. Something about his face causes both Quinn and me to pause. Bruce lowers his tongs. “How do you know Josh Barton?”

  “We went to summer camp together,” I say, confused by the intense look on Bruce’s face. “And I’m handling his divorce from HP Tonya”.

  Bruce looks even more serious. “You know her too?” he asks.

  “Same camp. But it’s not like I know her. I mean, I haven’t seen her in eons.” I pick a carrot stick off my plate and chomp it in half. “I read about her being missing in the papers. Has she turned up yet?”

  Bruce frowns. “No. Not yet.” He checks his watch—like he expects news any minute. “We’re still looking.”

  His clipped tone makes me uneasy. Why did Josh seem so blasé about Tonya’s disappearance when the police are clearly concerned about her? I recall Chantelle’s implication that Tonya had caught him cheating on her and skipped town. Have the cops spoken with Chantelle yet? “I met a friend of Tonya’s last Thursday in Safeway,” I say. “Chantelle Orker?” Bruce makes no response. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him unsmiling for this length of time, ever. “Anyway,” I continue. “Chantelle suggested Tonya had gone back to L.A. because of her marital difficulties.”

  Quinn waves her fork: “What? You met Chantelle Orker? When? What was she like? Last time I saw her she was podium dancing in some nightclub in, like, 2006. Is she still that weird orange color?”

  Bruce just stands there, staring at us. The look on his face is making me uneasy. Ignoring Quinn’s machine-gun questioning, I turn back to her husband. “Bruce?” I ask. “What’s going on? D’you really think something has happened to Tonya?”

  Now Bruce looks confused. He looks from me to Quinn. “It’s been all over the news,” he says.

  Quinn and I both shake our heads. I spent the morning at my mom’s doing yard work. Quinn stopped listening to the news in her first trimester, when a story about a school shooting left her sobbing hysterically. Suicide bombers. Police shootings. It’s tempting to just stick your head in the sand.

  “Oh,” says Bruce. He rubs one giant hand and then the other on his red apron. “I guess you don’t know. Based on some new evidence we’ve sent out divers. They’re searching the Oak Bay Marina.”

  Quinn and I exchange horrified looks. Police divers. In the marina where Josh’s boat is moored. We all know what that means.

  Quinn touches her throat. “Does Josh know?” she asks, quietly.

  CHAPTER SEVEN:

  UNREAL

  I mean to drive home but don’t. It’s not such a big detour and it’s a beautiful afternoon to putter along Beach Drive, watching the classic cars driven by old codgers, the bikers in their neon spandex and pointy Star Trek helmets, the dog-walkers stopping to let their charges sniff each other’s butts. There’s Glenlyon School, like a miniature version of Hogwarts, with the sea deep blue behind it. And there’s the walking path full of old folks dressed, despite the heat, in Burberry raincoats, and the oh-so-Canadian sculpture of iron wolves chasing a moose, then the wooden swing, the turnoff to Oak Bay Marina. I turn like someone in a dream. What am I doing here? I have no good reason to be looking for Josh Barton.

  I park out on Turkey Head and sit in my car, the ocean shimmering to the horizon. Josh is my client, nothing more, and if his wife is dead, he’s not even that. A widower doesn’t need a divorce. I should go home. But I still don’t believe Tonya’s dead. How could she be? They say on
ly the good die young.

  With the sun shining through the windows, the car is hot. I shut my eyes. I can’t stop thinking about Tonya, whom I still blame for some of the worst memories of my life—and yes, I know it wasn’t that bad, that compared to ninety-nine-point-nine percent of humanity my existence is blessed and always has been. Every day, people endure real tragedy. I wasn’t raped, maimed, or enslaved. My trauma was minor, ordinary, just part of growing up. And yet that night and its aftermath marked the end of my childhood and dented my faith—in others but, worst of all, in myself. I resent her for that.

  Out on Beach Drive, a bus honks. I open my eyes. Why am I sitting here thinking about that stupid girl? What a waste of time. It all happened so long ago. I sigh. The truth is, coming back to the island has brought some bad memories back. I thought I was over this stuff.

  I get out of the car and stretch. The breeze feels good. I realize I’m thirsty. I’ll go down to the marina and grab a drink. Maybe an ice cream, if they’ve got the kind I like. Nothing to do with Tonya. Or Josh. I lock the car and shove the keys into my purse.

  I descend the steps behind the coffee shop, where it’s shady. Josh Barton is sitting alone at an outdoor table. He’s got his head in his hands.

  “Josh?” I ask it like I’m surprised to find him here, except I’m not, if I’m honest with myself. I was looking for him, and for the divers, except now that I’m here I don’t want to see them, black and menacing in their wet suits. I don’t want to see . . . her. I feel like a rubbernecker at the scene of a car crash. I’m not like this. What am I doing here?

  I avert my gaze from the water and the docks and the boats, all lined up, shining white in the late afternoon sun. It’s easier to look at Josh, anyway. “Josh?” I ask again.

  When he looks around, his face is blank. He’s in shock, I guess. Or maybe he’s just tired. Have the police been hassling him? Upon recognizing me he smiles, some life coming back into his drawn face. “Toby. You heard about the divers?” I know he doesn’t smoke but his voice has that rasp.