by Elka Ray
“No,” says Jackie. She lays a hand on his arm. “You will not discuss this with Mike until after the police have questioned him.”
Josh starts to respond but Jackie cuts him off. “This is important,” she says firmly. “You hired me to ensure you won’t be charged, tried, and convicted of your wife’s murder. Let me do my job and let the police do theirs. You do want to know who killed Tonya, don’t you?”
Josh’s shoulders slump. “Yes,” he says.
But looking at his tight lips, I’m not sure I believe him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN:
NAME GAME
One of the places I’ve been asking people if they recognize photos of Josh and Tonya is the Oak Bay Marina. Maybe someone will recall seeing her here with somebody besides Josh on the night she died. Or confirm Josh’s story that he jumped off his boat and headed straight to the parking lot.
Since Quinn is already on maternity leave and the weather is brilliant, I invited her to join me this morning. After poking around, we can have an early lunch in the café.
While I’m dressed for work, I have left my heels in the car and am wearing flip-flops. Quinn is clad in shorts, one of Bruce’s massive t-shirts, and a bucket hat. Although it’s a Wednesday, the docks are busy, with fishermen lugging coolers to and from shore, and pedestrians, like us, out enjoying the Indian summer. It’s warm, with no clouds, bright sunshine, and a fresh breeze blowing in off the water.
I have a stack of photocopied color prints in one hand and a paper coffee cup in the other. Due to he/she who cannot be named, Quinn’s coffee is decaf, but I’ve gone all out and ordered a double espresso.
I’ve just told Quinn about the fashion advice I got at the Seabreeze Inn.
“Ha! She told you to wear tighter clothes?” Quinn laughs. Her eyes glint beneath her green hat. With her tan, plus all that extra blood, she looks bronzed and luminous. Pregnancy, like everything else, suits her.
“Yup,” I say. “And high heels.”
Glancing back at the ramp, I see a young guy laden with rods and tackle checking out Quinn’s toned legs, only to do a guilty double take when he spots her belly. Ogling pregnant ladies isn’t kosher. I feel the urge to laugh at him.
Quinn looks me up and down. “Oh please. You dress fine,” she says. “This is Victoria. Everyone dresses casually. You wear tight clothes and high heels in the daytime and people will think you’re a hooker.”
Given that most of Quinn’s wardrobe hails from the Mountain Equipment Coop, it’s not like she’s about to be hired by Vogue as a guest stylist. Maybe Anastasia was onto something. If I want Josh to fall for me—after his name’s been cleared and I’m no longer on his payroll, of course—I might want to up my style quotient.
“This receptionist . . .”
“Anastasia.”
“She’s called Anastasia?” asks Quinn. I can see her brain ticking over. Anastasia is clearly one baby name she’s failed to consider yet.
“Yes,” I say. “But she goes by Stacy.”
“I don’t like either of those names,” says Quinn. She pouts. “Still no name . . .”
“Wait until the baby’s born,” I say. “I’m sure as soon as you see . . . it, the perfect name will pop into your head.”
“I don’t see how,” says Quinn glumly. “I’ve already thought of everything.”
I bite my tongue. I’m sick to death of this topic. “Why don’t you ask my mom?” I ask, in desperation. “Maybe she could, like, consult the cards to find you a name. Or her Ouija board.”
“Hmmm, maybe,” says Quinn. Then she sees my face and realizes I was joking. She looks indignant. “Ye of little faith!” she says. “Mocking your own mother!”
I roll my eyes. “She makes it so easy.”
Quinn puts her hands on her hips. “Come on, you have to admit that séance was creepy! That knocking against the window!” She shivers happily. “And that weird text message when Ivy asked for help to find Tonya’s killer! What was it? Cloud Color?” Quinn looks around. “Hey, what if it’s the name of a boat? It sounds like a boat’s name—the Cloud Color.”
I shrug. There’s no point in even answering. Quinn knows what I think about that dumb text message. If some part of her (clearly not the part that got a PhD) wants to believe it was a missive from beyond the grave, I can’t stop her.
“Let’s go this way,” she says, and I sigh. She’s now scanning the name of every boat we pass. I show my photocopies to a couple of ancient mariners, who, after finally locating their reading glasses, say they don’t recall either of them. Quinn and I walk on in silence for some minutes.
Finally, we reach the last dock, where the Great Escape is usually moored. I’m surprised it’s not here. Having impounded it for ten days, the police released it yesterday, which means Forensics found nothing suspicious. Tonya wasn’t killed on the boat. At least some good news for Josh. I gaze along the dock. Down where Tonya’s body was found, the yellow police tape has been cleared away.
Quinn takes my arm as if to steer me away from these grim thoughts. To our right lies the Sweet Maria, a white and green sailboat with a small American flag at its rear.
“How about Maria for a girl?” asks Quinn.
“I don’t love it,” I admit.
Her face falls. “Yeah, me neither.”
I’m wondering what I’d call my kid, if I were pregnant. Will I ever get the chance to have a family? All those years I was studying and working sixteen-hour days I never thought about kids, and now, nearing my mid-thirties, I’m back in a place where most of the single guys are either students or retired widowers. I doubt I’d be brave enough to be a single mother.
Maybe Quinn senses a cloud of gloom hovering over me, or maybe, like usual, she’s got great timing, because she turns and asks if I’ll be her baby’s godmother.
“Me?” I ask, genuinely surprised and flattered. “Are you sure? I mean, I know nothing about kids.”
“And I do?” asks Quinn.
We both laugh. I tell her I’d be honored.
“Great, your first job is to help me to think of a name,” she says. “Something that isn’t too popular so there won’t be three or four of them in the kid’s class.”
I nod. Quinn has outlined her baby-name manifesto at least as many times as my mom’s asked if I’m seeing someone.
“But it can’t be too out-there either,” continues Quinn. “Like no made-up names or Pixie-Apple-Tigerlily kind of thing. And definitely no bizarre spellings.”
“Like Smyth with a Y,” I say.
“Exactly.” She readjusts the strap of her maternity bra, which is about as wide as the Trans-Canada. “My mom knows someone who named her kid D-apostrophe-A-R-C-I-E-E.”
I shudder. Call me anal—and Quinn does regularly—but people who stick signs outside of their homes reading THE BROWN’S are slowly driving me toward vandalism. Misplaced apostrophes are bad enough, but that unnecessary apostrophe in what ought to be DARCY makes me want to slap someone. “Shouldn’t be allowed,” I say.
A stereo is playing on one of the boats, Bob Marley telling us not to worry. I inhale the cold sea air and sing along in my head. It’s a nice thought. But then I remember how Bob ended up dying of some obscure cancer. Immediately, I think of my mother, then try to divert my attention back to the scenery.
We pass the Dora, the Saltspring Gal, and the Esmeraldo. Even Quinn fails to consider this last name for her offspring, although she gives “Dora” some serious thought. Despite myself, I’m on the lookout for a Cloud Color, too. I spot a loud on the side of a large catamaran and my heart jumps, another step revealing it to be the Laugh Aloud. I feel freshly annoyed at my ridiculous mother.
Quinn’s eyes slide along the hull of a sailboat with brass portholes only to stop at its moniker, the Abby Lucas. “Those are both cool names.” She stops walking and repeats them to herself.
It’s hot in the sun, and bright. Even with sunglasses, I’m squinting. Shielding my eyes from the glare I recognize
the large black poodle ambling toward us. A long piece of broken kelp trails from its mouth, leaving a squiggly wet line on the dock. “Hey, that was Tonya’s dog,” I tell Quinn.
“Cute,” says Quinn, who loves dogs. She bends down and extends a hand. “Here boy,” she says. “What’s his name?”
“Claude,” I say. “His last owner was French.” The dog’s ears jerk forward and its puffy tail thumps. It ambles closer.
“Here Claude,” says Quinn, bending to scratch its throat. Claude leans up against her, clearly thrilled. Quinn’s great with animals and babies.
Watching Quinn pet the dog, I know she’ll be a wonderful mother. I can’t believe how fast time’s going. My oldest and best friend will soon have a baby. And part of me, I’m ashamed to admit, is jealous—and scared of losing her. Will our lives become too different when she’s a mom, until we have nothing in common?
I’m standing there, pondering this huge shift in Quinn’s life and how it’ll affect me, when a stray thought flits through my head. I shut my eyes but the thought’s gone. The dog’s tail thumps against the dock. I gaze out toward Cattle Point, a half dozen sailboats in view, pristine against the navy blue water. Straight ahead I can make out the ghostly shape of Mount Baker. Claude’s collar jangles. And then I catch it.
Tonya couldn’t spell for shit, even in the afterlife.
I crouch down and peer at the dog’s collar. Quinn gives me a weird look. She’s still rubbing the white patch at Claude’s throat. I see a dark, crusty spot on the stainless steel dog tag.
“What are you looking at?” asks Quinn.
I shake my head. It’s probably not dried blood. And if it is, it’s just an incredible coincidence. Luck. Chance. A total fluke. I bite my lip. This is too crazy.
“Toby?”
I hear a male voice and firm footsteps. Detective Colin Destin is striding toward us, dressed in grey pants and a white shirt. Although he’s squinting against the sun he looks good. I wish I’d followed Anastasia’s advice and applied some makeup, instead of just clear chapstick.
Colin smiles and I smile back. In his office clothes he looks out of place on the docks. As do I. He cocks his head, shyly. “Hi,” he says. “What are you guys doing here?”
I hold up a photocopy of Tonya’s face. “Asking around,” I say.
For a second, Colin’s face tightens. Quinn says she’s just out for a walk and Colin nods. “Perfect day for it.” He sounds wistful.
“You working?” asks Quinn.
“I am.” He sounds resigned. “I’m looking for Josh’s brother, Michael Barton. Have you guys seen him?” Then he notices the poodle and bends down. “Hey big fella. Do you remember me?” Claude gazes up at him adoringly. “Too bad he couldn’t tell us what happened to Tonya, eh?” he says, patting the dog’s wooly rump. He ruffles Claude’s ears. “You could be the star witness.”
Maybe I’ve gotten too much sun, or too much caffeine, because all of a sudden, I feel dizzy. I feel guilty too, like I’m privy to a secret I’d rather not know. I blink. Quinn is looking at me strangely.
If there’s anyone I know who’s psychic, it’s my best friend. At least she can read my mind. “Claude’s collar,” she says. She gives me a hard look and lowers herself carefully to a crouch. She peers at the dog’s collar.
“Look!” she says excitedly. “There’s blood on it!” She points at some dark crusty flecks on the metal dog tag. Colin looks perplexed. The poodle rolls onto its back and stretches, clearly hinting at a belly rub. “I can’t believe it!” says Quinn.
Colin starts to ask what she means when she grabs his arm, hard, and tugs on it. From the startled look on Colin’s face, it’s obvious he thinks she’s in labor. “Claude’s collar!” she says again. “The dog was with Tonya the night she died! That’s Tonya’s blood! There might be fingerprints!” She waves her hat. “You have to test it!”
Colin has known Quinn for years. He and Bruce did their basic police training together. He knows Quinn is smart, sane, and sensible, yet I can see him wondering. Is she suffering from some sort of pregnancy-induced mania? Is it sunstroke? She waves her hands like a crazy person.
Unimpressed by Colin’s failure to grasp the situation, Quinn turns to me. “Ha!” she says, as though she’s just won a bet. “It worked! Your mom’s séance worked! She really did contact Tonya. Cloud Color. You knew the dog’s name. I can’t believe it took you so long!”
Now Colin is staring at me. Meeting his doubtful gaze, my face colors. I wish I’d gone to the office. Or come here without Quinn. “Toby?” asks Colin.
I want to tell him this is a misunderstanding but where would I start? How can I explain without mentioning my mom’s purported gift? I wonder how, even when she’s not physically present, she still manages to embarrass me. My blush has spread. I study my feet. Even my toes appear scalded.
When it’s obvious that no response is forthcoming, Colin turns back to Quinn. “What are you guys talking about?”
I resent his use of the plural. “It’s nothing,” I mumble.
Quinn throws me an incredulous look. “What do you mean—nothing?”
I use the photocopies to fan myself. Quinn won’t let this rest. I look toward the marina’s coffee shop and long for a cold drink, preferably a strong alcoholic one. Then I try, despite the blush, to adopt the measured, sane persona I employ in court. “Colin?” I ask. “Could you do us a favor and test the dog’s collar for blood, DNA, and fingerprints?”
Colin bends to look at Claude’s collar. “I guess it could be blood.” He straightens up and shrugs. “Or it might just be crud, you know, old dog food, dirt, grease . . .” He gives me a tentative smile. “But what the hell. We’ll test it.” He looks back at the dog. “But I need to find his owner.”
“That’s me,” says a clipped voice. We all turn to see Mike Barton, dressed in cargo shorts, a faded green t-shirt, and a Canucks cap. He whistles and Claude jumps up. The dog looks guilty, like it’s been caught cheating.
“Michael, I’ve been looking for you,” says Colin Destin. He reaches into his jacket pocket for his badge and Mike frowns.
“I know who you are.” He looks unimpressed. “What do you want?”
“I have some questions,” says Colin. “And I’d like to take your dog’s collar.”
For an instant, Mike looks surprised. But then he just shrugs. “Sure, whatever.” He passes the fishing rod he’s holding from hand to hand. “Is this about Josh?” he asks.
Colin looks from me to Quinn. He wipes his hands on his pants. I guess Claude slobbered all over them. “It’d be better if we talked alone,” he tells Mike. “Will you walk up to my car?” Seeing Mike’s look of alarm, Colin raises a hand. “You don’t need to come to the station. I just have a few questions. And there are evidence bags in my car.” He nods toward Claude. “For the collar.”
“Fine,” says Mike. He squints at Quinn and me. “You two into boating?” he asks.
I’m fairly sure that’s sarcasm in his voice. While I don’t bother answering, Quinn says we’re out for a walk, enjoying the perfect weather.
“Yeah, it’s a nice day,” says Mike, looking straight at me. “But if you’re looking for my brother, he’s not here. He’s out with some girl.” He pretends to smile. “Who can keep track?” he asks.
Faced with Mike’s mocking stare, I feel my eyes water. Did he mention that other girl just to see how I’d react? I glare back at him. Does everyone know about my crush?
Colin smiles at me. “So, um, see you soon?” he asks.
I nod. I hope Colin didn’t understand that Mike’s last comment was directed at me. Or am I just paranoid? “Uh yeah, bye Colin,” I say. “Have a good day.” Ew, how lame did that sound? It’s like I work at McDonald’s.
“Don’t forget about the collar,” says Quinn.
They’re about twenty feet away when Quinn smacks me with her bucket hat. “What’s going on between you two?” she whispers.
“What?” I ask. I have no i
dea what she’s talking about.
“You and Colin.” She tilts her head. “All those lingering looks you exchanged.”
“We didn’t exchange any lingering looks!” I say. “You really are crazy!”
“Ha! And this is coming from you?” asks Quinn. She bends to tie her shoe but can’t manage it. I offer to do it for her.
When I’ve straightened up, Quinn picks up where we left off. “I know Colin’s had a thing for you for a while, but I didn’t realize he stood a chance.” She smoothes her shirt over her belly and smiles. “I like it,” she says. “You’d be great together.”
“Quinn,” I say. “You’re insane. This baby has done something to your head. I mean, first that thing with my mom being able to talk to spirits and now this . . .” I turn toward the ramp and see Colin and Mike walking up the stairs. The dog has stopped to sniff at a garbage can. I watch a seagull dive bomb it. Claude starts barking.
“What?” asks Quinn. “You think Cloud Color was just a coincidence?” She snorts. “Oh please, Toby! Even for someone as . . .” She stomps on Claude’s abandoned piece of kelp. “As in denial as you, that’s too much.”
“Denial?” I ask. “What am I in denial about?” By now I’m hot, thirsty, and genuinely fed up with Quinn.
“Everything!” she says. “Starting with your dad leaving and you never, ever wanting to date anyone who’s actually available!” She throws up her hands. “Just because your mom’s sometimes wrong doesn’t mean she’s never right! And just because your parents’ marriage didn’t work out doesn’t mean every relationship’s doomed. There are no guarantees, you know!”
There are real tears in her eyes. All those pregnancy hormones, I guess. I’m tempted to yell at her, or storm off, but also afraid to. Plus I’m stunned. I can’t believe she sees me this way. My best friend thinks I’m a coward.
I start tearing up, too. I try to step back, but Quinn is too fast and her arms are too long. Before I know it, I’m crushed against her big round belly. “I’m sorry,” she says. “That sounded harsh, but you’re not a kid anymore. I know you want a partner.” She squeezes me tighter. “You just have to give guys a chance. Real guys, I mean.”
