Divorce Is Murder

by Elka Ray

  “She thought it might be her ex-boyfriend, a man named Cage. They dated for a while in Los Angeles, before she married Joshua.”

  Joshua. Is that his full name? “So why would he stalk her now?” I ask. “Did he come to Victoria?”

  “He got out of prison a few months ago and sent her an email,” says Louise. “Tonya didn’t want to see him, but he tracked her down and flew out here. He showed up at her house about a month ago. It really scared her.”

  Louise’s eager tone intensifies my dislike for her. She sounds too excited, as though she’s discussing a movie plot instead of the events leading up to her friend’s death.

  “I don’t know why she was with him in the first place,” continues Louise, breathlessly. “She said he was like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Really sweet one minute and then . . . psycho.”

  I perk up. This guy sounds like a great suspect. “Why was he in jail?”

  “Cocaine,” whispers Louise. “He was a drug dealer. He should have been in for way longer, but his lawyers worked out some deal.” She says this last bit accusingly, as though, being a lawyer, I’m personally responsible for this scumbag’s reduced sentence. “From what Tonya told me, he had a violent past. He used to hit her.” She bites her pallid lip. “She was petrified of him.”

  I ask what Tonya’s stalking entailed and Louise shudders. “Late-night phone calls with nobody on the line. The theme song from Halloween on her answering machine. And someone put a Barbie doll covered with fake blood in her letter box.”

  I nod grimly. Tonya had borne more than a slight resemblance to Barbie. “Did Tonya tell the police?” I ask.

  “I told her to,” says Louise. “I don’t understand why she didn’t. Maybe she was worried about making Cage even crazier. She said the police couldn’t protect her anyway. Or else . . .” She shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Or else what?” I ask, doing my best to sound calm and patient. By now, I’m thoroughly tired of Louise’s coy mannerisms. She seems to view Tonya’s death as the most exciting thing that’s happened in years. I bet Detective Fitzgerald wrote her off as a drama queen.

  “Well, maybe Tonya didn’t want the cops poking around in her business.”

  “What business was that?”

  “Oh, nothing really.” She plucks another tissue from her white snakeskin purse, which, if the discreet nameplate is to be believed, must have cost a fortune. Or is it a fake Chinese copy? “Tonya respected people’s privacy.” She smiles sadly and snaps the purse shut. “She was a very private person, you know.”

  I nod as though I’m buying this. I’d bet a kidney that Tonya was a huge gossip, and that Louise is too. Tonya would have loved describing her racy transgressions, while Louise would have lapped her tales up, eager to live vicariously and thrilled to be Tonya’s trusted confidante. “So she didn’t kiss and tell?” I ask.

  Behind her designer glasses, she looks thrilled but indignant. “No! Of course not!”

  I wait a few beats. “I know she was having an affair,” I say. I know nothing of the sort, but figure Louise might bite.

  Sure enough, her eyes widen. I can see the conflict in her face. Does she say nothing and leave me to think that Tonya left her in the dark? Or does she tell all, thereby proving that she and Tonya were inseparable, after all?

  “Tonya got hit on all the time, and it’s not like Josh was there for her,” says Louise. “She didn’t want to move back here, remember? And he was always out on that stupid boat. She felt neglected, right?”

  I nod like this makes sense. “Was it serious?”

  “It wasn’t like she was planning to leave Josh for him,” says Louise. Interesting. So this relationship, like Josh’s affair with Alana, must have preceded Josh and Tonya’s separation. “She just needed someone to . . . you know . . . give her some attention,” continues Louise. “She said he was sexy. And I guess it was exciting, keeping it secret, and all.” She licks her lips. “He was devoted to her, buying her all sorts of presents.”

  I wonder how much of this is true and how much is Louise Dobson’s fantasy. I bet she could use some romantic attention. Then I remember that, not having had sex in two years, I’m in no position to judge.

  Louise looks wistful. I bet she’s imagining herself in and out of Tonya’s shoes (and clothes), while conveniently forgetting that Tonya’s romantic tryst might have killed her.

  “So who was it?” I ask, and Louise looks up sharply. For the first time since we’ve met, her eyes actually focus on me. “I . . . I thought you said you knew.” She sounds petulant.

  “I know she was having an affair,” I say evenly. “But not the guy’s identity.”

  Louise scowls. I realize that, like me, she has no idea who Tonya was sleeping with. She looks at her desk. “She called him, um, Package. Because he had a big, you know . . .”

  “Package?”

  Louise nods. She looks both annoyed at my failure to enlighten her and embarrassed that Tonya hadn’t divulged all. I guess Tonya didn’t trust her to keep her mouth shut, after all.

  “Any idea how long they were together?”

  “It started a couple weeks after she moved here,” says Louise. “And she broke it off after Josh filed for divorce.”

  Having learned that I don’t know the identity of Tonya’s mystery lover, Louise seems less eager to talk. At any moment I expect her to look at her watch and claim another appointment.

  “Why’d she end it?” I ask. Sure enough, Louise checks her watch. “This could be really important,” I say, doing my best to sound as dramatic as possible. “Jilted lovers can turn violent.”

  Louise purses her pale lips. “You think Package might have killed her?”

  I nod. I’m seriously hoping Package killed her. Or Alana Map-plebee. Or Cage. Or just about anybody, except Josh Barton.

  Louise runs a hand through her cropped ’do. “Tonya felt he was getting possessive. She still hoped she and Josh could work it out and didn’t want Pack, er . . .” She waves a hand. “This other guy to get his hopes up.”

  “So he wanted to, what, marry her?” I try not to sound too skeptical.

  Louise nods sadly. “Yes. He was obsessed with her. When she broke it off, he was devastated.”

  I grit my teeth. While Josh and Tonya hadn’t had much in common, apparently they’d both loved and left people who couldn’t live without them. “Obsessed?” I ask.

  Louise nods vigorously. “He couldn’t understand why, now that her marriage was over, she couldn’t be with him,” she whispers.

  I finish up my notes and close my notebook. It could be a motive. After I’ve picked up my purse and stood up, I turn back and ask if there’s anything, anything at all, that might shed light on Package’s identity.

  Louise studies her fancy fountain pen and shrugs. For once, this gesture looks genuine. “She said he was almost as good in bed as Josh.”

  “Great,” I say. “So we’re looking for a handsome, generous, well-endowed man who’s good in the sack and wants to commit.”

  For the first time, Louise actually smiles, which shaves a good decade off her face. “Ha! That should narrow it down,” she says. “From what I hear, they’re not so common.”

  I smile too. “But Tonya seemed pretty good at finding them.”

  There’s a flash of something behind Louise’s white frames. Anger? Contempt? She’s not smiling anymore. I bet she was jealous of her friend. Listening to Tonya brag would drive anyone nuts. But crazy enough to bash her pal with a heavy-duty flashlight?

  I thank Louise for her help, then hand her my business card. “If you do think of anything else, please call me.”

  Louise squints down at me. “Wait.” She cocks her head. “Haven’t we met before?”

  I smooth down my jacket. “I don’t think so.”

  “That’s odd,” says Louise. “Because I went to summer camp with this Chinese girl who looked just like you. She got expelled for—”

  I walk out before she can fin
ish.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN:

  PARANORMAL ENERGY

  After leaving Island Deco, I spend the rest of the afternoon in court for a child custody and support hearing. It’s a relief when it’s over, with both parents agreeing on shared custody.

  I’ve been too busy to think about Josh, and am stunned to discover that it’s 5:43 p.m. I’m supposed to meet him at my mom’s place in seventeen minutes.

  Luckily, I always stash my toiletries bag in my briefcase. After brushing my teeth and combing my hair in the courthouse’s echoing washroom, I’m faced with a dilemma. Despite my just-for-court lipstick, I look washed out in the long bathroom mirror. Since I’ll be seeing Josh, I’d like to apply some makeup but don’t want to arouse my mother’s suspicions. She’s convinced that all cosmetics— no matter what the label says—are tested on animals, and won’t put anything on her skin that she hasn’t cooked up using herbs and berries.

  After settling on blush and a little more lipstick, I study my face in the mirror: wide cheeks, small nose, plump lips, narrow eyes, heavy eyebrows. It’s what my mom calls a “strong face,” and while she means it as a compliment, I’d rather be described as “pretty.” Rechecking my watch, I’m dismayed to see it’s already five fifty-four. I stuff my cosmetics bag into my briefcase, give my hair one last, desperate fluff, and race for the staircase.

  When I pull up in front of my mom’s house Quinn’s Mini is already there, as is a small black Porsche. It must be Josh’s. Alarmed that he beat me here, I race up the steps. I ought to have been here to introduce him to my mother.

  I needn’t have worried, because when I push open the front door, I can hear Josh and Ivy laughing in the kitchen. “Oh hi honey,” says my mother, when she notices me. “We were just talking about you.”

  The way she says it makes me cringe. What, exactly, has she been telling Josh?

  “We were talking about Camp Wikwakee,” says Josh smoothly. “How you and I met there.”

  I freeze. Doesn’t Josh remember how I left camp in disgrace? Why would he mention Camp Wikwakee to my mom? She and I never talk about it. I’m sure it’s something we’d both rather forget.

  But now, rather than looking ill at ease or disapproving, my mom has a happy smile on her face. “I can’t believe you’ve known Josh for so many years and never brought him home before,” says my mother in mock outrage. My blush deepens. I go to the sink and help myself to a glass of water.

  “We only met again recently,” I say, just to fill the ensuing silence. “Josh is my client.”

  “Oh, you’re getting divorced?” asks my mother cheerily. I cringe again. But Josh doesn’t look remotely put out. He starts to say yes and realizes his mistake. Since I’d rather not discuss Tonya’s death with my mom, I interrupt and ask where Quinn is.

  “I sent her to the store for lemons,” says my mom. “She wanted a walk.” She checks a pot on the stove, allowing the smells of seafood and white wine to escape. Dressed in a blue tunic and denim shorts, my mother is lightly tanned, no doubt from working in her garden. I’m relieved to see how well she looks. Over the top of her tunic is a red apron that bears the words: Only boring women have immaculate homes. A quick scan of the kitchen confirms how interesting she must be.

  “Can I help with anything?” offers Josh. In a long-sleeved white t-shirt and loose pants he looks summery and relaxed, like he’s spent the day surfing instead of meeting with cops, investors, and lawyers.

  I say no but my mom says sure. She hands him a bowl of romaine and instructs him to break it into small pieces.

  “How about me?” I ask. Being near Josh leaves me unsure what to do with my hands. I may as well chop or mix something.

  “You can spoon the blackberries in the fridge into four cups,” says my mother. “Use the glass ones from Grannie Mei Li’s cabinet.”

  Ivy’s kitchen is tiny, so there’s not much space, especially after Quinn gets back. At the sight of Josh, her eyes widen. “Oh hello,” she says. “I’m—”

  “Quinn,” says Josh. “You haven’t changed a bit.” He gestures toward her belly and laughs. “Well, maybe a little.”

  “Toby told me you’d moved back here,” says Quinn. She hands my mom the lemons. Dressed in a clingy yellow dress she looks a bit lemon-like herself. In the few days since I last saw her, her belly has had a major growth spurt. She turns back to Josh. “I was sorry to hear about Tonya.”

  “Thanks,” says Josh. “It’s rough, not knowing why she died.” He looks at me when he says this. There are tears in his blue eyes.

  Quinn, I know, isn’t convinced, but my mom looks concerned. “Oh dear,” she says. “Are you recently bereaved?”

  “It was on the news,” says Josh. “The woman who died in the marina? That was my wife . . .” His voice falters. “Well, ex-wife.”

  “I’m so sorry,” says my mother. I watch her lead him onto the back deck, nodding in sympathy and patting Josh on the shoulder. I envy their easy rapport. People find my mom easy to talk to. I guess being a good listener is essential in her line of work. But why couldn’t she have become a shrink or a counselor instead of a fortune teller?

  Quinn hands me a glass of white wine. She peers at the label. “Did Josh bring this?” she asks.

  I take a sip. I’m no sommelier, but it tastes a lot better than the plonk we usually buy. “Mmmm. He must have,” I say. After we’re both seated, I pass Quinn my glass. “You have to try it.” She starts to protest but I cut her off. “One sip won’t hurt the baby.”

  “Wow, that is good,” says Quinn. She takes another sip. I pour out a quarter of a glass and hand it to her, then clink my glass against hers.

  “Almost thirty-seven weeks,” I say, because I’ve learned to talk in weeks instead of months. Quinn seems to know how many minutes there are between any given moment and her due date. “You’re in the home stretch.”

  “Right,” says Quinn. She stares glumly at her belly. “And we still haven’t agreed on any baby names.”

  I take a larger swig. Is there no way to avoid this topic?

  In recent months, Quinn has grown addicted to various baby name websites. She has spent weeks scrolling through name lists, her suggestions growing more and more desperate. I’ve received text messages at 3:00 a.m. featuring queries like: Thomasina for a girl?or How about Igor? I doubt there are any names she hasn’t considered yet.

  “If it’s a girl Bruce likes the name ‘Aurora,’” says Quinn. She makes a face. “I think it sounds like a hooker.”

  I nod. “Yup. Stripper name. What do you like?”

  “I think it’s a boy,” she says sullenly.

  I take another gulp of wine. We’ve had this discussion before. And before that. “Why don’t you just get an ultrasound and find out for sure?” I ask. “At least that way you’d only have to trawl through half as many baby names.”

  “We want it to be a surprise,” says Quinn. I roll my eyes. She takes another small sip of wine and scowls at me. “It’s more fun that way.”

  I’m saved from answering by the return of Josh and my mom. “Who’s hungry?” she asks. She lifts the lid off a pot on the stove. Josh carries a bowl of salad to the table.

  “I’m starving,” says Quinn.

  “Same,” says Josh. “It smells delicious.”

  My mother places a large pot of seafood paella on the table, then directs Josh toward the seat next to mine. After we’re all seated, Josh proposes a toast to new and old friends.

  “And to justice for poor Tonya,” says my mother. We all sip from my mom’s random assortment of wine glasses.

  I hold out my plate and my mom spoons some paella onto it. “After dinner I’m going to try to contact her,” she says cheerily. I fail to catch on. Quinn, too, is confused, because she asks my mom whom she’s talking about.

  Ivy looks up from the paella. “Tonya,” she says matter-of-factly.

  Something catches in my throat. “What?” I croak.

  “I’m going to try to conta
ct Tonya’s spirit,” says my mother. She talks slowly yet cheerfully, as though I’m a small child.

  “You can’t be serious,” I say.

  “Why not?” asks Josh. I turn to stare at him. “What could it hurt?” he asks.

  My reputation, I think.

  Quinn nods. “Yeah, I guess it’s worth a try.”

  I look from Quinn to Josh to my mother, unsure whom I’m most disappointed with. Not my mother. I expect this from her. But isn’t Josh supposed to be some savvy entrepreneur? I didn’t think he’d go along with such idiocy. And Quinn should be backing me up. She knows how I feel about my mom’s pseudo-psychicness.

  “What?” asks my mother. She waves her fork, which has a prawn skewered on it. “No, no, don’t say it. I know you’re skeptical about the spirit world but . . .” She waves her other hand. “Ever since Josh came in I have sensed strong paranormal energy.”

  How can I argue with strong paranormal energy? It’s like talking to someone who thinks they were abducted by a UFO.

  I spear a chunk of squid and chew. I can’t help but feel annoyed about the upcoming séance. What’s my mom planning to do, haul out the Ouija board? I wonder if Josh’s acquiescence means anything. If he truly believes in this crap, I guess it’s good news, since if he’d actually murdered Tonya he’d hardly be eager to contact her enraged spirit. But maybe he thinks it’s total bullshit and is just pretending to give it a try so he’ll look like he has nothing to hide. The thought makes my head hurt.

  Josh volunteers to wash the dishes while I dry. Since we have some questions to run through, the séance will have to wait.

  While we clean up, my mom takes Quinn on a tour of her garden. The days are starting to get shorter, but there’s still a lot of light. When they open the screen door, the smell of petunias wafts in. Josh turns off the tap. “Your mom’s so cool,” he says.

  I wonder if he’s just being polite. “Do you really believe in psychics and ghosts?” I ask.

  Josh raises a bowl out of the suds and wipes it. There’s something sensual about this simple act, the fragile glass bowl cradled in one of his large, tanned hands while the other hand rubs it, carefully. I swallow hard. It was warm today and the kitchen feels stuffy. Even in a thin silk blouse I’m sweating.