Divorce Is Murder

by Elka Ray

  Scanning the bright green lawns and immaculate houses that line Beach Drive, it’s hard to believe a murder happened here. Everything is clean and orderly. Perfect. Or too good to be true. I recall the old adage about Victoria being home to the newly wed and nearly dead. Poor Tonya. Both applied.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN:

  PRIME SUSPECT

  What a start to the week. First thing Monday morning, Jackie and I accompanied Josh to the police station for another grilling by Detective Fitzgerald. It went so badly I’m feeling panicky. During the interrogation, the detective gleefully informed us about the lab’s findings. The flashlight is indeed the murder weapon. It was found in a box of tools in a locked cupboard in the yacht’s engine room, bearing traces of Tonya’s blood and tissue.

  “I can’t believe it,” I groan, cutting my raisin snail into quarters. “This looks terrible.” I mean the case, not the pastry. What have I dragged Jackie into?

  Jackie shrugs. She’s sitting in a wheelchair, in a near-empty coffee shop on Government Street. Outside, it’s overcast and blustery, with brown leaves skittering along the sidewalk.

  Josh is currently in the restroom, where, based on the color of his face when we left the police station, I suspect he’s being sick. Jackie, meanwhile, looks perfectly serene. Her tall frame is clad in a navy blue Calvin Klein suit, this polished look only slightly marred by her sling, plaster-encased hand, Sasquatch-sized knee-high plastic boot, and the fluffy red sock covering her broken foot. Her uninjured foot bears a sedate navy pump and is now tapping gently.

  “Plenty of people had access to that yacht,” she says briskly. “Why would a smart man like Josh hide the bloody flashlight he’d just used to bludgeon his wife on his own boat instead of tossing it? It’s not like he couldn’t afford a new one.”

  “So you think he was framed?” I ask hopefully. I like this scenario much better than the one in which the object of my guilty fantasies is a cold-blooded killer. But who could hate Josh that much?

  From the look on Jackie’s face I know he’s out of the bathroom. A minute later Josh takes a seat beside me, his face, beneath his tan, still drained of color. Jackie pushes a cappuccino into his hands and he takes a sip. He looks like he could use some booze in it.

  “Why didn’t they arrest me?” he asks woefully. His voice, like his eyes, lacks its usual sparkle. “I mean, it’s obvious they think I did it. They don’t believe a word I say. And now . . .” He swallows hard. “They found the murder weapon on my boat . . .”

  Jackie places a consoling hand on his arm. I too, would love to touch him, except my motivations are far from professional. “You sure that Maglite wasn’t yours?” she asks. I wait. It’d be bad news if the cops were to find a receipt for it in the papers they’d confiscated, or some CCTV footage of Josh buying it in Canadian Tire.

  Josh shakes his hand. “I’m pretty sure mine was solid black and older-looking.” He sighs, his temporary conviction evaporating. “But who knows? It was just a flashlight. I never really paid attention.”

  “Okay,” says Jackie. “Who else had access to your boat?” She hands him a pen. “Make a list,” she says.

  Josh toys with the pen, considering. While he thinks, I look around. Housed in a former garage, this café lies on the edge of Victoria’s quaint little Chinatown. Glancing out the window I spy an elderly woman going for a stroll. In her black satin trousers and quilted coat she looks like she stepped out of an old Chinese water-color. Watching this woman fondle some pomegranates outside an Asian grocer, I wonder if I’ve missed out on my heritage. The full extent of Ivy’s Chineseness involves a love of playing cards and an addiction to Kung Pao Chicken. I try to picture myself married to a cute Chinese guy with adorable three-quarter-Chinese kids. Would I have more luck if I dated Asian men? Or am I not Asian enough to appeal to most of them?

  This inane train of thought is interrupted by Josh’s answer. He’s come up with quite a list. “My brother Mike and Aden Macdonald crew for me,” he says. “Aden’s studying fisheries up at UVic. Young guy, but really solid. Ivan Jenkins—he’s a mechanic—and his assistant were on board for a few hours the day after Tonya vanished. We were having engine trouble. And the next day, Louise Dobson came by to measure the front cabin. She’s a designer friend of Tonya’s I hired to redo the boat’s interiors. Plus some guy—Phil or Bill?— installed a new depth-sounder on August 31st. And there are my clients, of course. This time of year the Escape’s booked most days. There were three guys from L.A. from August 26th to 30th, two retirees from the prairies from September 1st to 4th . . .” He continues down the list, then rubs his eyes. “I’ll have to double-check about the 7th, that’s the day before the cops searched my boat. I didn’t go out that day.” He attempts a smile. “Any idea how long my boat will be impounded? Canceling people’s charters has been a nightmare. But that’s the least of my problems, right?”

  Jackie smiles sympathetically. “It depends what they find,” she says. “The forensic team is there now. If it’s clean, your boat should be released in a few days.” She bends to sip at her latte via a straw, since holding the cup is problematic. I guess Alistair must have helped her to apply mascara and lipstick this morning.

  Josh clears his throat. “And if they, you know . . . find something?”

  Jackie frowns. “If it’s a crime scene, the boat will be impounded for months.”

  I reflect on the implications. Was Tonya murdered on the boat? Or was she killed elsewhere? I can’t imagine her killer carrying her body into the marina. Even at night, he might have been seen. Oak Bay is full of insomniac old people.

  When Jackie lets go of her straw, her cast clunks against the table. When I meet Josh’s eyes he gives me a wan smile. I fight the urge to reach out and squeeze his hand. Even now, in this grim situation, I feel a magnetic pull between us. I wonder if it’s all in my head. Has two straight years without sex mushroom-clouded my judgment?

  Outside the café, the elderly Chinese lady has been joined by an equally ancient man and a small boy on a tricycle. The child, who must be their grandson, is dressed like Superman. Watching his chubby peddling legs, I feel oddly wistful. Is Quinn’s pregnancy behind this sudden awareness that everyone else my age is married with children? Thirty-three isn’t old, but it’s not young either.

  Tearing my eyes off the little Superman, I scan my notes. I have the feeling I’ve missed something. At the name Louise Dobson I stop reading. Why does that name ring a bell? Then I remember: a pale freckly sickly girl from Camp Wikwakee. She had killer hay fever and was bullied relentlessly by Chantelle and Tonya, who dumped her week’s supply of Claritin into the latrine. Was Louise really now part of Tonya’s entourage? Talk about a sucker for punishment. And why did Tonya stay in touch with everyone from that shitty camp, like that summer was the pinnacle of her lame-o existence?

  I rub my forehead. How ironic that I’ve spent going on twenty years trying to forget everything that happened at Camp Wikwakee only to end up with this case!

  Thinking about Louise brings back my final evening at camp, her whine ringing in my ears. “Where are you going, Tobeeeee?”

  “Nowhere,” I said, just desperate to get away from the everyone, to escape the other kids’ knowing glances and that last sight of Josh stepping off the dock into the dark, hand-in-hand with Tonya, her ass as shiny as a candy in its skintight wrapping.

  “It’s almost curfew!” squealed Louise. We were standing outside the latrines, Louise wearing a long frilly nightie and an expression of self-righteous horror. With that Victorian nightdress and her scant hair in a long skinny French braid, she looked like an extra on Little House on the Prairie. I cursed my bad luck at running into her. She was our group’s self-appointed monitor, the one who’d be sure to tattle. I blinked the tears out of my eyes. Louise stuck her hands on her straight hips. “If you don’t come up now, you’ll get in big trouble.”

  “I’ll be there soon!” I lied, already stumbling toward the bushes. My eyes felt hot a
nd heavy with yet more unshed tears. I needed to run. Who knew where? It didn’t matter. I couldn’t go to bed, not yet. I’d just lie there and replay Josh’s betrayal in my head and Tonya’s victorious sneer, over and over and over again.

  Louise was still calling after me. I spun around. “If Thelma asks, you didn’t see me!” I yelled. I backed into the trees. “Go to bed! It’s not your problem, Louise!”

  While my thoughts are on Louise Dobson, I must be staring at Josh because Jackie throws me a questioning look. I force my gaze to my notes only to feel my eyes like an empty gas gauge determined to swing back his way. Jackie frowns. Does she suspect how I feel about him? Just the thought makes me blush, my face as red as the tacky lanterns the city has hung around Chinatown. “Toby?” she says.

  I nod. “Yes?” I’m afraid of what she’s about to say to me.

  Jackie’s deep blue eyes study me, then Josh. Maybe it’s my guilty conscience, or maybe there’s a warning in her gaze: I can’t do my job if I’m emotionally entangled with this guy. “We need to get in touch with everyone who was on board recently,” she says, this comment directed at me. I nod. She turns back toward Josh, who looks slightly brighter than a few minutes ago. I guess Jackie’s calm, confident manner has reassured him a bit. “Is the boat guarded at night? Who has keys to the cabins? And the engine room?”

  “The marina is locked at night, but everyone with a boat knows the code,” says Josh. “As for the cabin and locker, well, me, Mike and Aden have keys. And Tonya had one.”

  Jackie perks up. “Tonya had a key? Do you know where she kept it?”

  “On her Chanel keychain,” says Josh. “It has a little Eiffel tower charm on it. The keychain also holds the keys to the house and her Mercedes. But she never went near the boat. She gets . . .” He studies his hands. “She got seasick. She hated being out on the water. That was one more thing we disagreed about.”

  I make a note to check on the whereabouts of the keys. I don’t recall seeing them in the police photos of Tonya’s purse contents. Jackie slurps up the remains of her latte. Josh checks his watch and looks shocked. “I have to go,” he says. “I’m meant to be doing a Skype conference that started ten minutes ago. About my old company.”

  “Fine. Toby and I will stay and go over some things,” says Jackie. “Can you two meet up later today? There are some issues we need to clear up as soon as possible.” She shifts her booted foot and looks from me to Josh. “Routine questions about your finances, Tonya’s associates, etcetera.”

  Josh and I nod. “I’m free after three thirty,” he tells me. “What time works for you?” I check my phone’s day planner. I’m due in court this afternoon. It’ll have to be after work.

  “It’d have to be after six,” I say. “Maybe dinner?” My heart has picked up speed. I know it’s just work but can’t help thinking of it as a dinner date. I start mentally flicking through my closet.

  “Sure. Call me,” says Josh.

  He’s gathering his things when my cell phone rings. It’s my mother. I feel guilty. It’s been days since I last called to check on her. “Have I caught you at a bad time?” asks my mom. When I say no, she asks if we’re still on for dinner tonight. “Quinn said she’d be over around six,” she says cheerily, and I curse my forgetfulness. Because my mom spent the weekend at a yoga retreat, we’d postponed our regular Friday dinner to today. “I thought I’d make paella,” she continues.

  When I say I can’t make it tonight my mom sounds disappointed. I feel terrible. “I’m so sorry, Mom,” I say. “But I’m with a client so can I call you later?”

  “Why don’t you just take Josh to your mom’s?” asks Jackie, after I’ve stashed my phone in my purse. “Running through those questions should take an hour at the most.” She turns to Josh. “Toby’s mother is hilarious and a great cook.” She bends to readjust the sock on her bad foot. “If Alistair hadn’t booked us tickets to the symphony I’d invite myself over too.” She winks at me. “It’s been way too long since my last reading.”

  I ignore this last comment. Josh looks confused. “Reading?” he asks.

  “It’s a long story,” I say. “You’d better get going.”

  “Right,” he says. “So is that okay if I come for dinner at your mom’s?”

  I nod. Josh makes meeting my mom sound like no big deal, which it isn’t, of course, except that I’ve never, ever brought a date home. Not that he’s a date, I remind myself. He’s a client. We’re meeting for work. But I still feel thrilled. And nervous. I’m taking Josh Barton home to meet my eccentric mother. I hope she won’t embarrass me too much.

  When Josh has left, Jackie sighs. “This isn’t good,” she says. For a horrible, guilty moment I think she’s referring to my crush and my face flushes again. But she’s just talking about the evidence. “Access to the murder weapon. No alibi. And a great motive.”

  I nod glumly. “You don’t think he did it, do you?”

  “Beats me,” says Jackie. “But it won’t be easy finding a better suspect.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE:

  MYSTERY PACKAGE

  After helping Jackie into a cab I walk to Island Deco, the interior design company where Louise Dobson works, on Johnson Street. While the building’s worn brick façade advertises its year of construction as 1927, the lobby is starkly modern, with curved white walls, a white desk, and white sofas. In the center of the lobby hangs a spiky red chandelier, and beneath this lies a round carpet printed with red and white swirls, as if blood were dripping off the crystals. It feels like the site of a recent seal kill.

  Behind the desk sits a young, dark-haired man who regards me with as much joy as he’d view a stain on his white cashmere sweater. I say I’m here to see Louise and he performs a languid head-roll toward a white sofa.

  When Louise steps into the room, I barely recognize her. Back at camp, she was bone-thin, with long, stringy dirty-blonde hair and an even longer list of food allergies. The woman now standing before me is about five-eight and shaped like a barrel, her hair cropped close to her skull and dyed the yellow of instant noodles. What hasn’t changed is her coloring—her skin so pale she could pass for an albino were it not for her close-set eyes, which are hazel. Through yellow lashes, she slowly looks me up and down. “Yes?” she enquires. I remember her voice, now surprisingly high for such a large woman.

  I stand. “Hi Louise. I’m Toby Wong. I called earlier.”

  She shows no sign of recognition but extends a cool, floppy hand. I supply the momentum required for a shake. “Oh. Right. This way.” I follow her down a long white hall toward her office.

  Not surprisingly, Louise is dressed in white, her white pantsuit—combined with her natural pallor—making her body all but invisible in this icy setting. Oddly, her shoes don’t match, but are cheap, nasty-looking vinyl loafers the color of old mustard, which slap on the white tiles as she walks. I hurry after her, amazed that, like Mike, she didn’t remember me from summer camp.

  I step into her office and look around. More white on white. The lack of color is making me nervous. I’m sure to spill something.

  “How can I help?” she asks, once we’re both seated. She dons a pair of thick white-framed Lanvin glasses and blinks down at me. I wonder if she’s near-sighted, far-sighted, or neither. Her expensive glasses might be for effect. She picks up a white and gold pen and twirls it around.

  Since I haven’t changed that much, I’m freshly amazed by her failure to remember me. After all, even though she’s tripled in size, I’d still know her if we passed on the street. Is she just too self-absorbed to have really looked at me?

  I explain that I’m Josh’s lawyer, and that I’m looking into Tonya’s murder. Louise’s pale-lashed eyes fill with tears. “I . . . I’m finding it so hard to accept,” she whispers. “It’s so shocking. Who could hurt Tonya? She was such a sweet person.” She sets down her pen and removes her glasses to pat the tears from her eyes.

  I try to hide my incredulity. Tonya, sweet? Right, like s
trychnine. “I was hoping you might have some ideas,” I say. “Josh mentioned you were friends. Were you close to her?”

  Louise replaces her glasses. “We were very close,” she says quietly. “After Tonya moved back here she didn’t know many people. She missed Los Angeles.” She grabs a tissue. “We spent a lot of time together.”

  “So she confided in you?”

  “Oh yes.” She gives me a sly smile, obviously proud of having been Tonya’s confidante. I wait. Louise waits too. I wonder when she’ll decide that enough suspense has built up. She twists the tissue around her big fingers.

  Normally, I wouldn’t take notes, but I get the feeling Louise would appreciate some props straight out of a TV drama. I pull my notepad from my purse and grab a pen. “Was there anything strange going on with Tonya recently?” I ask. “Anything that might be connected to her death?”

  Louise gives a dramatic sigh. After making me wait a few more moments she leans forward, her voice like a stage whisper. “Someone was stalking her!”

  Immediately, I think of Alana Mapplebee. “Did Tonya know who it was?”

  Louise laces her fingers together. I note that her left hand, like mine, is bare of rings. So she’s not married yet. Meanwhile, her other hand features a ring on every digit, including her thumb. There are two chunky silver bands, one ring with a giant turquoise stone, another with an even larger chunk of malachite, a diamond eternity band, and a cushion-cut citrine on her pinkie. What a weird mix! I wonder why she hasn’t balanced her hands out a little.