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  KILLER COIN

  KILLER COIN

  A TOBY WONG NOVEL

  A VANCOUVER ISLAND MYSTERY

  ELKA RAY

  Published 2020 by Seventh Street Books®

  Killer Coin. Copyright © 2020 by Elka Ray. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover images © iStock

  Cover design by Jennifer Do

  Cover design © Start Science Fiction

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, products, locales, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Inquiries should be addressed to Start Science Fiction

  221 River Street, 9th Floor

  Hoboken, New Jersey 07030

  Phone: 212-431-5455

  www.seventhstreetbooks.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN: 978-1-64506-015-4 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-64506-016-1 (ebook)

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Sol, who makes me laugh like a twelve-year-old boy

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1: The Femme Fatale

  Chapter 2: A Bad Feeling

  Chapter 3: A Bit of a Mess

  Chapter 4: Coming Up Short

  Chapter 5: Who’s Stephen?

  Chapter 6: Unfaithful

  Chapter 7: Dining à Deux

  Chapter 8: Portents

  Chapter 9: Getting Somewhere

  Chapter 10:In Shock

  Chapter 11: Tough Questions

  Chapter 12: A Bad End

  Chapter 13: With Regret

  Chapter 14: The Black Sheep

  Chapter 15: Half Truths

  Chapter 16: Bad News

  Chapter 17: Replaced

  Chapter 18: Connecting the Dots

  Chapter 19: A Step Back

  Chapter 20: The Other Women

  Chapter 21: True Lies

  Chapter 22: Crumbling

  Chapter 23: A Slap in the Face

  Chapter 24: A Sorry State

  Chapter 25: Dark Shape

  Chapter 26: A Bad Aftertaste

  Chapter 27: Eavesdropping

  Chapter 28: First Strike

  Chapter 29: Seeing Double

  Chapter 30: Alone

  Chapter 31: Down and Out

  Chapter 32: Good Medicine

  Chapter 33: On a Knife’s Edge

  Chapter 34: Home Safe

  CHAPTER 1:

  THE FEMME FATALE

  The jeweler beneath my office has been blasting Christmas carols since October in an attempt to inspire us all to spend money. Now, with December looming, he’s tired of the classics and moved on to sellout pop stars’ renditions: Maroon 5’s heinous cover of “Happy Christmas (War Is Over),” Bruce Springsteen’s groaner “Santa Claus is Coming to Town,” and—just when you thought it couldn’t get worse—John Denver’s jaunty classic “Please, Daddy (Don’t Get Drunk on Christmas).” Talk about depressing.

  I’m trying not to moan along in my head when my phone beeps—a reminder of my 4:00 p.m. appointment.

  I straighten the papers on my desk. According to my day-planner, a Mrs. Butts is scheduled to see me. A new client. Anticipation sends a buzz through my belly. After five years spent clawing my way up the career ladder at a big Toronto law firm, it was a hard decision to move home to Victoria last summer. While I love being closer to my mom—and am thrilled to finally have a social life—the slower pace at work is driving me a little crazy.

  In Toronto, I had clients who really needed me—most of them women, unhappily married to Type A assholes determined not to share a red cent. Stopping these women from being beaten to financial and emotional pulp was hard but satisfying. I loved forcing bullies to share. Of course, some of my clients were the jerks, which was interesting too. Every day was a challenge.

  In contrast, here on sleepy Vancouver Island, even estranged couples are chilled out. They’re all about caring and sharing, determined to settle things amicably. Nobody contests anything. While that should make me happy, I’m bored stiff. Any more uncontested divorces and my brain cells might take early retirement.

  As it is, my brain seems to be working on island-time. When someone knocks on my door, it takes me too long to answer. It can’t be the firm’s receptionist, Pamela. She just barges straight in. I smooth down my jacket. “Yes?” My throat sounds rusty.

  Downstairs, mercifully, the John Denver tune warbles to an end. It might be time to buy the jeweler some new tunes as an early Christmas gift. The knock comes again, or rather three knocks: fast but quiet. I get to my feet and head for the door. Some clients are too timid to let themselves in. I cross my fingers—please, please, let Mrs. Butts bring a challenge, before I expire of boredom.

  I am reaching for the doorknob when the door opens, forcing me to step back. A glossy red high-heeled shoe strides through the gap, followed by another. The buzz in my gut flares into a spine-straightening jolt. I take another step backward.

  The woman smiles. I do too. One look at Mrs. Butts and I know my wish has been granted: She is the femme fatale in every noir movie ever made. There’s no way she’s here to end anything amicably. All she needs is a pearl-handled pistol.

  From her cascade of dark curls to her luminous skin, Mrs. Butts is a vision in high gloss. I blink, dazzled.

  She stops to survey me too. “Ms. Vong?”

  I extend a hand. “Yes, hello. I’m Toby Wong.”

  “I am Vonda.” Her voice is husky with an Eastern European edge, the kind of voice that would make men melt. Even my knees have softened. She’s definitely not local.

  We shake, her hand so cool and soft I’m surprised by the strength of her grip. Beneath lashes like palm fronds her cool grey eyes take me in.

  I point her toward my desk. We both cross the small room and sit. Vonda sets her purse on her lap. She leans forward. “I vant a divorce. As quickly as possible.”

  I nod. No surprise there, divorce being my specialty, although most new clients start with small talk. “Okay. How long have you been married?” I ask, pen in hand.

  “Three months.” Her candy-apple lips contort. “He is a liar,” she hisses.

  Before she gets into it, I extract the basics. Name: Vonda Butts nee Sokolov. Age: thirty-three. My age, although that’s where the similarity ends: me petite, attractive-enough, and Vonda like the cover girl of a men’s magazine, only prettier. Citizenship: Russian. Occupation: this elicits a blank look and a pause, followed by a shrug that says it should be obvious: Model and Influencer. She’s got 782,000 Instagram followers. Spouse’s name and job: This gets her going again.

  “Dennis Butts.” She spits the name angrily. Her shiny red talons grip my desk. “Vine-dealer,” she says. “If that’s even true. He is a liar. A professional liar. He misleaded me.”

  As a grammar nerd, I almost blurt “misled,” but manage to stop myself: English is her second language, for god’s sake. Plus there’s no time. Insults are flying like shrapnel from a homemade incendiary device: lazy-good-for-nothing-no-good-lying-scum . . .

  I manage to break in. “Are you separated?”

  “Not yet.”

  This surprises me. She’s so angry. How could she still be living with the guy? “Why not?” I ask.

  She crosses her shapely arms. “Financial reasons.”

  I fish out my usual fo
rms detailing the divorce process in Canada and slide them across my desk. “What’s called a No Fault Divorce is by far the easiest and cheapest way to get divorced in Canada. You can apply as soon as you and your spouse separate. Your divorce will go through after you live apart for one year.”

  One of Vonda’s perfectly groomed eyebrows gives a horrified twitch. “One year? I cannot vait one year!”

  “Um, why not?” I ask.

  Again, her look says I’ve missed the obvious. “Vhat if I vant to remarry?”

  “Ah,” I say, trying to hide my dismay. “So there’s someone else?” Adultery is grounds for Fault divorce. But since she’s my client I’d prefer she’s not the one doing the dirty.

  “Not yet,” says Vonda, coyly.

  She glances at my brochures, her frown deepening, then waves a slender, ring-bedecked hand. “I do not vant a No Fault divorce,” she says, through gritted teeth. “This is all his fault. I leaved my home, come all the vay here and . . .” Strong emotion has weakened her English. A single tear rolls down her smooth pink cheek. “He deceived me,” she whispers.

  I hand her my trusty tissue box. It’s time to delve into her marriage. “How?” I ask.

  “I meet him online,” says Vonda. “Vhen I vas living in my homeland, Vladivostok. He vas so charming and . . .” Her eyelashes dip. “I trusted him.”

  Without meaning to, I click the pen in my hand. “So, did you meet in person before you got married?”

  Vonda’s slims nostrils flare. She sounds affronted. “But of course. Ve met in Paris. During Fashion Veek. I vas there on business.”

  Guilt makes me look down. I misjudged her, and succumbed to prejudice—the poor, Russian mail-order bride, with nothing going for her but good looks and a killer set of onion domes. Having spent my whole life battling racist assumptions, I should know better. Just because she looks like a caricature doesn’t mean she’s not a person of substance. Plenty of savvy women—models, actresses, the Kardashians—have leveraged their looks into business empires.

  Lost in memories of Paris, Vonda’s gaze turns misty. “Ve stayed at the George V. Strolled on Les Champs Elysees. It vas vonderful, very romantic.”

  I nod. It’s always vonderful, at the outset. “So how did he betray you?” I ask. Surely, he couldn’t be cheating on her yet. Look at the woman! And they’ve only been married for three months. Although who knows? Maybe he’s a sex addict. I wonder what he’s like, this Dennis Butts. He must be quite something to have landed Vonda.

  Vonda’s eyelashes dip, then flip open. Her eyes narrow. “He said he vas rich. Very rich.” She tosses her head. “But he vasn’t!”

  Without meaning to, I start clicking my pen, trying to sort this out. Soooo. My new client is a gold digger who wants out because the mine’s a dud. “Is he a gambler?” I say. “Has he mismanaged your money?”

  Vonda waves a hand, her bejeweled fingers flashing. “Money? There is no money. It vas all for show. All this time and energy I put into him. All this!” She waves a hand toward her chest, showcasing her enviable assets. “All for nothing!” Her lip quivers and her voice drops. “I even posted about him! On Insta and Tumblr!”

  “Uh, that’s not really grounds for a Fault divorce,” I say. “Is he cheating on you? Is he cruel to you?”

  “Cruel!” cries Vonda. “Yes, so so cruel!” She sticks out her hand to show me her diamond engagement ring—the stone the size of an igloo. Her chest heaves with indignation. “I vent to the jeweler to get it assessed and it is fake!” she cries. “Cubic zirconia. Vorthless!” Fresh tears fill her eyes. “That is fraud! Such betrayal! Can you imagine?”

  Seeing her so upset, I’m unsure how to respond. “Er, does he agree to a divorce?” I ask, once she’s calmed down.

  Vonda shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.” For a moment, she looks genuinely sad. “Perhaps he is also disappointed.”

  “Why?”

  A tiny embarrassed pout. “Oh, vell, maybe he thought I had money too.”

  My pen clicks. What? This is a first. Mr. versus Mrs. Gold Digger. “So he married you for your money?”

  “Perhaps,” says Vonda. She clasps her hands primly. “But in truth I am broke. It is very difficult, being an Influencer. Instagram has changed its algorithm.” She pronounces this last word with extra care. Her doleful gaze turns steely. “But not for long, don’t vorry.”

  Seeing my questioning look she gives me a game smile. “I vill find a rich husband,” she says. “I just need a divorce.” She clicks her fingers. “A-SAP.”

  “One year,” I say. “And No Fault. Unless there’s adultery or physical or mental cruelty.” Seeing her look of hope, I head her off. “I mean real cruelty. And it’s hard to prove. I recommend you separate immediately and file for No Fault. It’s the cheapest . . .”

  She breaks in. “No vay. He must pay. I am humiliated. He has harmed my brand image.” Another toss of her glossy dark head. “I vill vait. Sooner or later, he vill cheat on me.”

  “How do you know?”

  Again, she looks at me like I’m thick.

  “Because he has the same plan,” she says. “To find a new vife and marry for money.”

  CHAPTER 2:

  A BAD FEELING

  From the way my mom says my name, I know she’s upset. “Toby? Can I come up?” The intercom crackles.

  I stab at the button. “It’s open.”

  I live on the fourth floor of a 1950s building in Oak Bay. There’s no elevator. Not that that’s a problem for my mom. Although she’s turning sixty next month—and underwent chemo last year, she’s in better shape than most women half her age, myself included.

  I step into the hall just in time to see her sprint up the final stairs. Back before the chemo my mom’s hair was long and black. It now swirls around her face like a storm cloud. Dressed in black leggings and a purple sweatshirt, she’s carrying a tote bag and a yoga mat. Her pretty face is flushed. She must have come straight from hot yoga.

  I hold the door open. “Hey Mom. How’s it going?”

  “Put the kettle on. I’m parched,” she says. She deposits her mat and giant tote in my nonexistent front hall. “I need your help.” She kicks off her pink Birkenstocks and leans in for a kiss. Even sweaty, my mom smells good, like cinnamon and a warm kitchen. Her toenails flash sparkly turquoise as she heads for my postage-stamp living room.

  I put the kettle on and surreptitiously check my watch. I have a date with Josh Barton and still need to shower, dry my hair, and do my makeup. What’s brought my mother to my door on a Wednesday night? Isn’t this her regular Mystical Book Club evening down at the Metaphysical Bookstore?

  My mom is pacing the room. “What’s up?” I ask, carefully setting two cups—chamomile for her, English breakfast for me—onto coasters on the coffee table. Not that my mom will use hers. She has no regard for fine furniture.

  She throws herself into an armchair. “Something’s happened,” she says. “I can’t find Daphne.”

  Daphne Dane is one of my mom’s closest friends, as well as a long-term client. “What’d you mean?” I say. “Did she miss an appointment?”

  My mom nods. “Yes, her three p.m. reading. I’ve been trying to call her ever since but there’s no answer.”

  I fight back a sigh. So Daphne missed a reading. So what? People forget stuff.

  But my mother looks agitated. She pushes a wisp of hair from her eyes and rewraps the brightly colored scarf around her neck. “It’s not like her. The only time Daphne’s ever missed a reading was the day Walt died,” she says. “Remember Daphne’s late husband, Walter?”

  “Um, yeah,” I say, although I barely knew Walter Dane. I know his face, though, off the cookie boxes. Walter and Daphne founded the biggest cookie brand in Western Canada. When I was a kid, Daphne seemed straight off Dynasty—a large, big-haired glamor queen who’d sweep into my mom’s tiny kitchen once a week to get her cards done. It was Daphne who’d encouraged my mother to read fortunes for a living. I didn’
t know it at the time, but without her financial help, my mom might have lost our house after my dad stopped paying alimony and child support.

  “Her phone is off,” continues my mom. “It’s never off.”

  I check my watch. I’m meant to meet Josh in forty-five minutes.

  My mother wrings her hands. “And her home phone’s always busy. It must be off the hook.”

  I blow on my tea. My mother and Daphne Dane are unlikely friends—Daphne a mega-rich, mega-blonde socialite, and my mom a tarot-reading, Chinese-Canadian hippie. I know why Daphne’s important to my mom. What I don’t get is why she’s freaking out. People miss appointments. They turn off their phones. Maybe Daphne is having a long nap. It’s only been a few hours. I say this to my mom and she waves her hands. She hasn’t even touched her tea.

  “You don’t understand!” she says. “I read her cards anyway and . . .” She chews on her lip. “They were horrifying! So then I consulted the I Ching. Even worse.” She jumps up and starts to pace around the boxy room. From the couch to the fish tank and back. “I also did the Kau Cim.” Her voice quivers.

  I bite my tongue. The Kau Cim are bamboo sticks that you shake from a tube. Each stick has a number associated with a line of obscure and badly translated Chinese verse that, supposedly, offers insight into life’s important questions. About as scientific as a fortune cookie. Like the rest of my mom’s divination methods.

  “Is there anyone else you could call?” I ask. “Do her kids live here?” I have vague—and vaguely unhappy—memories of being forced to interact with Daphne’s kids at various parties as a child. What were their names? It doesn’t matter.

  “They do,” says my mom. “I tried to look them up in the phone book, but their numbers aren’t listed. I’m going over to her place to check on her.”

  I nod. While I’m sure Daphne’s fine, my mom will feel better after she’s checked. “Good idea,” I say.

  My mother stops pacing. “Can you come with me?”

  “I have a date,” I say.