Divorce Is Murder

by Elka Ray

  Alana takes a seat and signals the waitress. Like Jackie, she recommends the raisin scones.

  I wonder how to approach things. But before I can say a word, Alana apologizes for her earlier outburst. “I know it sounds brutal to call Tonya a bitch after what happened to her,” she says. “But just thinking about her and Josh gets me so upset . . .” She leans back and sighs. “I wish I’d never met him.”

  I’m about to ask what happened, but there’s no need. Alana is off and running. “I didn’t know he was married,” she says. She shakes her head. “I know. How could I not have known, right?”

  I think back to my own relationship with the wine merchant, Jorge, and how shocked I’d been to learn he was married with three kids. “I don’t understand,” I say. “Didn’t you sell Josh and Tonya their house in Uplands?”

  “Yes,” she says. “But Tonya was back in L.A. at the time, and Josh conveniently failed to mention that he had a wife.” She twists the yellow ring on her finger.

  The waitress sets down a teapot, and Alana pours two cups. Her hand is shaking. After taking a sip, she continues. “The crazy thing is I really fell for him. When we first got together I didn’t even know he had so much money.”

  Given that Josh was buying a multimillion-dollar home, this is debatable, but Alana seems to have convinced herself.

  “So how did you find out he was married?”

  Alana studies the floral tablecloth. “He told me,” she says. “He said he couldn’t live with the guilt and felt so horrible that we had to stop seeing each other.” Her mouth tightens. “I was beyond furious.” Looking at this woman I realize my first impression was wrong. She might look fragile, and even sweet, but I bet she’s a tough adversary. Had Alana Mapplebee been with us at camp, she might have usurped Tonya as Camp Wikwakee’s queen bee.

  Without even realizing what I’m doing, I find myself rubbing my mom’s agate beads. I grit my teeth. My mother has brainwashed me. But they do feel comforting, smooth and cool beneath my fingertips. I need to ask Alana about the stalking incidents.

  I describe the bloody Barbie doll and the threatening phone calls that Tonya received. I’m about to bring up the roses on Josh’s SUV when Alana cuts me off. “So what, you think I did that?”

  “I didn’t say that,” I say. “I just . . . well, do you have any ideas?”

  “Well don’t look at me,” says Alana. “Tonya’s the one who was hassling me.”

  “She was?” I ask.

  “Yes. Not long after Josh dumped me I started getting prank calls.” Alana pours some more tea into her cup. “And then someone stuck a dead crow splattered in red paint in my mailbox.” She wrinkles her nose at the memory. “I guess he told Tonya about me and she wanted to get even.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “It was my private life!” she says, then adds, “Would you tell the cops you’d been sleeping with a married man?” She adds some sugar to her tea and stirs angrily. When I look sympathetic she softens a little. “One of my ex-boyfriend’s best friends is a cop,” she explains. “The last thing I want is for news of my affair with Josh to get back to him.”

  I think of what Colin told me about Alana and Dan and lower my eyes. Over the top of her teacup, Alana blinks at me. “I’ve made mistakes,” she says. “But who hasn’t?” She lowers the cup with a jerk, causing some tea to slosh out. “I really loved Josh,” she says. Her voice quivers. “He used me.”

  I smooth out my napkin. “So why did you keep calling him and sending him photos of yourself?”

  Alana’s cheeks flush. She reaches for her tote bag. I think she might leave, but at just that moment, the waitress reappears. Clad in a long skirt, a frilly apron, and a ridiculous bonnet, she lowers two plates bearing massive scones and a pot of cream onto our table. “Can I get you some more hot water?” she asks.

  I hand over the pot. When the waitress is gone, I meet Alana’s eyes. She sets down her purse and sighs. She looks angry and embarrassed.

  “It was stupid,” she says. “I just . . . I couldn’t believe it was over. I’d never been dumped before. I know it sounds crazy, but I thought he’d change his mind. He said he . . .” She breaks off and shrugs. “Who cares what he said, right? We did get together after we broke up. I kept thinking that . . .” Again, she stops talking. There are angry tears in her eyes. “I was so dumb,” she says. “He just saw me as an easy booty call.” She rips a hefty chunk out of her scone.

  I study her. She’s definitely upset, but is she also a stalker? “Did you leave the rose heart on his SUV?” I ask.

  Alana raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “A heart on his car?” She gives a tight little laugh. “Oh please. I was desperate but not that desperate.”

  “How about a bra stuffed with dead roses?”

  She snorts. “Someone sent Josh a bra full of dead flowers?” She smiles grimly. “I guess I’m not the only girl he pissed off.”

  “It was my bra,” I say. “Someone stole it and sent it back to me, along with a nasty note.” I’m watching Alana closely.

  “That’s freaky.” She studies her plate. “You think the bra is related to what happened to Tonya?”

  “I do.” I take a small bite of scone and chew slowly. Jackie and Alana were right. The scone is delicious and the jam tastes homemade, with entire uncut strawberries in it. For a few minutes we both eat in silence. I consider Alana’s responses. I’m inclined to believe her.

  Alana pats her mouth with a floral napkin. “So you’re Josh’s lawyer?” she asks. She licks her lips. “I’m not surprised.” I ask what she means and she rolls her eyes. “He wouldn’t hire some wizened old man, would he?”

  “I have a lot of experience,” I say, then wish I’d sounded less defensive.

  “I wasn’t implying you don’t,” says Alana dryly. “But it figures that Josh would hire someone young, female, and beautiful.” I blink and Alana laughs. She leans forward. “Has he come onto you yet?”

  I try to keep my face neutral.

  “Let me guess,” she says. “Perhaps an outing on his yacht? A picnic in his garden. Champagne and strawberries.” She pushes her hair behind her ear and smiles bitterly.

  I’m not sure whether to be more shocked by her use of the adjective “beautiful,” or the fact that, as described, Josh has promised me strawberries and champagne on his yacht tomorrow. Is he a rampant womanizer? Or has Alana been keeping tabs on me? How could she know about my date with Josh? I suppress a shudder. “He’s just my client,” I say tightly.

  Alana shrugs. While she doesn’t say “whatever,” it’s written all over her face. She takes another bite of her scone. We sit in silence for a few moments. I wonder if I should cancel my brunch date with Josh tomorrow. But for all I know, it’s just a friendly excursion. I feel unreasonably angry at Alana Mapplebee. She’s tainted something I was really looking forward to.

  I remind myself to focus. “Do you know if Tonya had any enemies?” A quick sip of tea. “Besides you?” I can’t help adding.

  Alana’s eyes narrow. “I only met her a couple times.” She squints out the window. “She seemed like a stuck-up bitch.” That word, again.

  “But you didn’t kill her?”

  Alana wields her butter knife. “Ha!” she says. “If I was going to kill anyone, I’d kill Josh. He’s the one who lied to me.”

  Looking into her eyes, I wonder if she’s telling the truth about how her affair began, or whether she’s just managed to convince herself that she’s not the home-wrecking type.

  She must notice me studying her because her expression turns challenging. “If you want to find someone with a really good reason to hate Tonya, why don’t you look at your client?”

  “Because of the money, her share?” I ask.

  Although the café is practically deserted, Alana lowers her voice. “What would you do if you caught your wife having an affair with your brother?”

  I freeze. “You knew?” I say. “How did you know about them?”
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  Alana looks smug. “Some time after Josh dumped me he asked me to meet him at his boat. Like an idiot I ran over there. Josh and I were in the parking lot and we saw Mike and Tonya on the dock.”

  I freeze. “And?”

  “They were all over each other.”

  I feel cold. Yet again, Josh lied. He told me and Jackie he didn’t know. “What did Josh do?”

  Alana shrugs. “Nothing,” she says. She breaks off another chunk of scone only to set it down again. I wait. “After that we, you know, made love. The sex was really rough.” She shakes her head. “I didn’t like it. Josh was . . .” She shudders. “It was angry sex.” She picks up her napkin and twists it. “That was the last time we were, um, together.”

  When the waitress brings the bill, Alana reaches into her tote and withdraws a black quilted purse. “No, let me,” I say. “I asked you here.”

  “Thanks.” She shuts her purse. She’s putting it back into her tote when I spot the Chanel logo. She must sell a lot of properties in the Uplands. Or was it a gift from Josh? I can’t resist asking.

  “What? This?” Alana looks at her purse in surprise. “No, that wasn’t Josh’s style at all. He knew nothing about brands. I bought this second-hand from a girl I know through work.” She slides it back into her oversized tote bag.

  After the waitress brings my change and we’ve both stood up, Alana turns to me. There’s a little half smile on her face. She toys with a strand of shiny hair. “So . . .” She bites her glossy lip. “Is Josh seeing anyone?”

  I tell her I don’t know. Her smile hardens. Maybe she doesn’t believe me. Or else she thinks I’m lying. Does she think I’m with him? Maybe I’m just imagining the hostility in her pale blue eyes.

  I thank her for coming to meet me.

  “Right. Good luck,” she says. I’m not sure if she’s being sarcastic or not.

  At the door, she stops to allow a group of Japanese tourists to enter. Seeing Alana, they all look impressed. I guess she meets their vision of a Western babe: tall, slender, blonde, and busty. Nobody seems to notice me, except for Alana.

  Before she slips through the door, she casts one last backward glance my way—a cool appraising look, like I’m a run-down house in a less-than-desirable neighborhood. Am I a fixer-upper? Or a tear-down? She spins and strides away from me, her golden hair swaying.

  Watching her walk up Oak Bay Avenue, I feel uneasy. Talk about mixed emotions. No matter how much she claims to hate Josh, I think she’d kill for the chance to get back together with him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE:

  THE GREAT ESCAPE

  I pass through the ivy-clad gateposts of Uplands, the most desirable neighborhood in Victoria. Massive Gary oaks spread over the small lanes, which are lined with giant rhododendrons and bright flower beds. The closer I get to the water, the bigger the estates, many of the waterfront properties built by timber and coal barons at the turn of the twentieth century. I pass a house that looks like a castle.

  A brass plaque marks Josh’s driveway. Compared to some nearby manors, his house is almost modest—with maybe four or five bedrooms. Fashioned from dark stone, it has a black tiled roof, a centered front porch, and two rows of front windows. Ivy covers most of the stone. The lawn looks like a golf course.

  I drive down a driveway flanked with hydrangeas, more blue than pink, and thick rosebushes. Their scent wafts through my open windows.

  Faded white lines indicate where visitors should park. I pull up, resist the urge to check my appearance in the rearview mirror, and collect the box of zeppole I’d brought off the passenger seat. On the way over I stopped at the Italian bakery. Smoked salmon, strawberries, and champagne sound great, but there’s no beating fat and sugar.

  Through the trees and bushes, I can see blue glints of the ocean. I smell salt and kelp. It’s cool in the shade. I zip up my jacket. While there’s barely a cloud in the sky it’ll be cold on the water.

  The stone path leading to the front porch lies in sunlight. When I press the doorbell the resulting ring sounds very far away. Since I don’t want to look like the nervous, preening women who linger outside of my neighbor Mr. Garlowski’s place, I resist the urge to fix my hair and just stand there. Nothing happens. I press the bell again and check my watch. Josh did say ten, right? I wonder if he’s popped out for a minute. But no, he’s probably out back, preparing the boat. I follow the path toward the ocean.

  Behind the house, the lawn is rimmed by a slim, pebbled beach. The tide is high. In the bay, the Great Escape is moored to a narrow dock, like a big Christmas bauble hanging off a skinny twig. The yacht shines white in the sunlight.

  Admiring this idyllic view, I think of Tonya. How could she not have loved this place? Is Josh right that she hated it here, and was bored with small town life? It’s hard to imagine being unhappy in this house, but who knows? Maybe her life only looked perfect seen from the outside.

  Still balancing my box of zeppole, I descend the wooden stairs to the beach. More rosebushes border the stairs, their sweet scent cloying. I find myself comparing their scarlet blooms to the dead flowers I saw at the police station yesterday. But no, I’m being paranoid. Practically every yard in Victoria has some rosebushes. After all, it’s dubbed “The Garden City.”

  I step onto the dock, the wood bleached blond-grey. I can just make out a fading trail of wet paw prints. Are they Claude’s? Is Mike joining us? My spirits sink a little.

  Halfway along the dock, I turn back to admire Josh’s garden and those of the neighboring houses. The weather is perfect, the sky as blue as a cornflower. A cool breeze lifts my hair. I shiver.

  On the dock near the boat lies a cooler. I’m tempted to peek inside but it seems presumptuous. Instead, I call out to Josh, expecting his head to pop up at any moment. All is silent. When repeated yells fail to rouse him, I decide to phone him. Maybe he ran out to get something, after all.

  His mobile is off. I check my watch. It’s now ten past ten. I consider going back to wait on his porch, but decide to sit on the dock, in the sun, admiring this unfamiliar view of Uplands’ coast. The landscaping must require an army of staff and yet it’s dead empty. Do the gardeners work at night? And where are the homeowners? Probably in London, or Beijing, or the Cayman Islands.

  As pleasant as this setting is, I feel uncomfortable. I can’t shake the sense that I’m being watched. But that’s crazy. I look around, then check my watch. It’s quarter past. What’s keeping Josh?

  I wait another five minutes. What if he doesn’t show? Maybe he’s forgotten about our plans, or simply changed his mind. Maybe something came up and he forgot to cancel. Maybe this outing wasn’t important to him. What started as a tiny tremor gains momentum, my doubts gaining strength until I’m shaking with self-righteous fury. Who does Josh think he is? Why would he go out of his way to invite me only to bail? It makes no sense, and yet I can’t dismiss the idea or the ensuing tsunami of self-blame. Mr. Garlowski and his carpe diems be damned. I should have listened to Alana Mapplebee.

  As if on cue, a cloud has slunk overhead. Without the sun, I’m chilly. My legs have cramped up from sitting cross-legged. Perhaps it’s the cold, or this position, or the act of waiting, but one moment, I’m on Josh’s dock, and the next, I’m pulled back in time. I was waiting for Josh that time too, a note clutched in my hand. It was too dark to read it, but I knew what it said: I’m sorry. I made a mistake. I don’t want Tonya. I want you. Please meet me at midnight in the Nature Hut.

  I fumbled my way past tables and shelves, hoping I wouldn’t touch anything too gross, feeling the dust coat my fingertips. In the back corner, I crouched down and hugged my knees to wait, my breathing loud in that cramped space. While it wasn’t that cold, I imagined puffs of water vapor coming out of my mouth. After some minutes of sitting still I could make out shapes and shadows in the dark: the pale glimmer of old animal bones and skulls, the grinning teeth of the taxidermied wolf and the equally mangy lynx, displays made by campers who were now middle-
aged, monuments of chipped paint and moldering papier-mâché, everything dusty and decrepit. Even by day the Nature Hut was a creepy place. At night, it would have made a great setting for a horror movie. Just the smell freaked me out, mildew and dusty fur and rot, mixed with wood chips, roach spray, and mothballs. It made my nose itch and my throat dry. It made me long for my bunk and my warm sleeping bag, with my best friend sleeping down below.

  My ears strained but heard nothing but my own scraping breaths. How long had I been waiting? I had no watch. I shifted and tried to wiggle my cold toes, stuffed, in the dark, into freezing wet shoes. Where was he?

  People think black is black, but it’s not. There are endless shades of black. Charcoal. Raven. Dog’s nose. Shiny and matte. Deep and shallow blacks. I stared around the small room, killing time, but my eyes always went back to the door, willing it to crack open. It remained shut.

  A noise, somewhere outside, the sharp snap of a twig, then another. I held my breath and hugged my knees tighter, torn between elation and fear. Finally! He was coming! Except what if it wasn’t him?

  Curled up, with my back against that rough wooden wall, I made myself even smaller and more inconspicuous. Bit my lip. Another sound, closer now, followed by more shuffling and scuffling—the unmistakable sounds of footsteps on the trail. Someone was walking this way, quickly and softly. My heart surged. It had to be him. He was almost here!

  That noise? Had I imagined the soft tremor of the door, the handle just starting to turn? I must have because the door stayed tight shut, no light around the edges, no eager whisper of my name. I tried to slow my breathing, to be even quieter than I was already, to force my ears to be even sharper.

  The floor was cold and hard. My butt hurt, and my knees felt welded in place. It was painful to stretch out my legs. I held onto a table and stood, as stiff and rickety as my Grannie Mei Li, in the hospital, a few days before she’d died. I forced myself to straighten up, forced myself to face the cold hard truth: I’d been waiting a long time. Too long. It was very late. My eyes felt gritty.