Killer Coin Page 11

  My mom checks her bright pink Swatch. “We should get going.”

  I fight back a sigh. I planned to spend my day on this couch, moping. But I can’t not drive my mother. Maybe it’s better to get out and about anyway. Otherwise, I’ll just wallow in self-pity. If I stay home alone I’ll spend all day rehashing last night’s scene with Josh, swaying back and forth over whether or not to call him.

  He dumped me. I cannot, will not, call him. It’d be wiser to help my mom and focus on someone else’s problems.

  I haul myself off the couch and run a hand through my tangled hair. “Okay. Do I have time for a quick shower?”

  My mom nods. “Yes. But skip the conditioner.”

  In the shower, with hot water gushing down on me, I feel a little better. I try to breathe deeply. Even if me and Josh are through, I still have a good life. Plenty to eat. A safe, peaceful place to live. Friends and family who love me. A job I’m happy to go to. I should count my blessings. Being single might be a blessing. It’s so much better to be alone than to feel lonely with the wrong person. Maybe I’m better off staying single.

  I raise my face to the rushing water and try to roll my shoulders down and back. Ouch. It’s like they’re carved from hardwood. I dig my fingers in to massage them.

  My mom’s voice penetrates the bathroom door: “Toby? Honey? You almost done yet?”

  “Yes Mom!” I yell. I give up on massaging and turn off the water, only to spin the lever the wrong way. A blast of ice water hits me.

  Still swearing, I reach for a towel. Damn. There aren’t any. That figures. I shake dry like a dog, then dab my damp body with my pajama-top. I drop the lid of the deodorant and can’t find it anywhere. How is this possible? My bathroom is airplane sized. It’s like the lid’s been sucked into another dimension.

  “Toby?” It’s my mom again.

  I grit my teeth and get up off the floor. Peering under the sink has cricked my neck. “Ready in a second,” I yell.

  Pulling jeans up over damp skin is hard work. By the time they’re on, I’m out of breath. My comb must be hiding with the deodorant lid. I rake my fingers through my unconditioned hair and glance in the mirror. I look like some kid’s long-forgotten rag doll.

  As much as I mock my mom’s signs and portents there’s no denying that this feels like a bad day—a day I should hide away in bed. A day that can only get worse.

  “Toby?”

  I open the bathroom door. My mom’s fist is raised, ready to knock. Seeing me, she lowers her hand. “Ready?” she says, briskly.

  I nod. It’s a lie. Whatever’s coming, I’m not ready.

  CHAPTER 14:

  THE BLACK SHEEP

  Yesterday’s rain has continued, although it’s slowed to a drizzle by the time we pull up out front of Daphne’s. I try to stay in the car but my mom won’t have it. My feet drag as I follow her down Daphne’s long stone path. The garden smells of wet earth and cedar. The cool, damp air clears my head, a little.

  When we climb the broad front steps, the pig goes wild, grunting and squealing in the front hall. There’s no need to ring the bell.

  Lukas opens the door. The pig barrels out. My mom jumps out of the way fast, but it almost hits me.

  “Woops,” says Lukas. He squints against the light. Like me, he looks like he just woke up. His eyes are red and his hair resembles a scant haystack. I wonder if he spent the night here.

  He steps onto the porch and calls after the pig. “Kevin! Come Kevin!” The pig disregards him. Seeing me, Lukas blinks. He fights back a yawn. “Oh. Hey, Toby.” I’m surprised he remembered my name. He turns back indoors and calls down the hall. “Hey, Grace. The pig’s out! Sorry.”

  Grace bustles into view. Dressed in a long red skirt, a white blouse, and a red apron, she could pass for Mrs. Claus. Her downy white hair is even styled in a bun. As if to complete this Christmassy look, in one plump hand, she clutches a green feather duster.

  “Hello dears,” she says, brightly, then coos at the retreating pig. “Here boy! Kevin! Kevin Bacon.” When the pig pays no heed she bounds down the steps. Lukas descends more sedately.

  “We’d better help,” says my mom.

  I’d rather not but give in. The lawn is mushy.

  At our approach, the pig eyes us warily. A game of tag ensues. The pig waits until someone gets close before darting off, grunting. When it’s not running, it’s digging. Daphne’s lawn is soon dotted with mole hills. Even Grace starts to look fed up, her round cheeks pink with exertion. She waves her duster.

  We try to herd Kevin toward the side gate but it’s hopeless. Despite its girth and short legs, the pig is nimble, as well as cunning. Its black eyes twinkle as it trots just out of reach. I swear it’s mocking us.

  Finally, Grace has an idea. Reaching into the pocket of her skirt, she withdraws a pack of Mentos. She places a mint on her palm. Kevin is over like a shot. It snuffles the mint off her hand and chews daintily, its tail wagging. Grace pats its hairy head. It leans up against her. When the pig’s not wrecking stuff, it’s endearing. Although it’s a ridiculous house pet.

  It takes three mints to lead Kevin back up the front steps and into the hall. Lukas, my mom, and I follow. When we’re all in, Grace shuts the door firmly. Seeing the pig’s muddy footprints, her smile slips. “Oh dear.” She sighs. “All over the carpet.”

  My mom and I nod in sympathy. Keeping this place clean would be a full time job even without a pet pig. And Grace is no spring chicken. My mom mentioned she’s worked here for over three decades. I hope she’s well paid for her efforts.

  For a moment, gazing at the muddy trotter prints, Grace looks tired. But then her shoulders go back. “Excuse me,” she says. “I need to clean this up.” She trots toward the kitchen.

  I take off my blue raincoat and hang it beside my mom’s purple one. Kevin curls up on the hall rug for a nap and starts snoring.

  My mom looks at Lukas. “Shall we start?”

  He jumps, like he’s just remembered why we’re here. He rubs his hands on his shorts. “Oh yeah,” he says. “Ivy, thanks for coming. I figure with your talent, plus being Mom’s friend, you might figure out where she went.” His prominent Adam’s apple bobs. “I really need to find her.”

  I can’t help but notice how he’s phrased this—so it’s all about him, as usual. Is he worried about Daphne or just out of cash and in need of a top up?

  “The police came by,” he says. “Asking all sorts of questions about the dead guy . . .” He glances at me sideways. “I heard you like, found his body.”

  I nod. My name—and Josh’s—were reported in the local paper.

  Lukas’s throaty voice drops. “That’s, uh, intense. So what’d you like, see out there?” he asks me.

  I suppress a shudder. “He was in one of the bedrooms,” I say. “On the floor . . .” I shrug and stop talking. The police asked me not to discuss details with anyone. I wonder who gave my name to the press. “I just saw him and ran out of there,” I tell Lukas.

  Lukas picks at the beaded necklace circling his skinny neck. “Oh,” he says. Like me, he shivers. “I’m gonna make tea,” he tells my mother.

  We follow him down the long wood-paneled hall toward the back kitchen.

  In the doorway my mom stops in surprise. I stop too. The top cupboards have been taken down and the tiles over the counters and sinks stripped away. The cupboards’ contents are piled in boxes and stacked near the back door. Everything’s dusty.

  “What’s happening? Is your mom renovating?” asks my mother. It seems weird that any planned renovations would proceed in Daphne’s absence but who knows? Good builders are hard to find. Maybe this job was booked way in advance. My mother frowns. “She never told me.”

  Lukas squints up at the walls, like he’s just noticed the ravaged tiles. “Oh, naw, that’s Isobel.” He sounds vague. He runs water into an electric kettle. “Step one of her master plan.” He sets the kettle on its stand and clicks it on.

  I give my mom a qu
estioning look. “What plan is that?” I ask.

  Lukas throws two teabags into a cobalt teapot, then sets three cups on the kitchen table. Thanks to the ongoing renos, the table is grey with dust. Lukas ignores the mess. Despite the cool weather, he’s still wearing board shorts, although he’s got a fleece jacket over his ratty old t-shirt.

  When the tea is made, we all sit at the large table.

  “This is a historic building,” says Lukas. He pours the tea. “It was one of the first houses built in Rockland. Some old coal baron. Or was it timber? He might have been the mayor, or something like that.” He tugs at his bleached fringe, blue eyes more unfocused than usual. “Anyway. It’s heritage-listed. Izzie wants to turn it into a fancy B&B. With a fine-dining restaurant. Gerard is a chef, ya know?” He slides us our teacups.

  Over her cup, my mother blinks. She looks slowly around the kitchen. “This place?” She sounds incredulous. “But Daphne loves this house.”

  Lukas peers at the pocked walls. “Yeah, last I heard Mom wasn’t too keen. But I’ve been away . . . I guess she agreed. Iz and Gerard think it’s too much for her and Grace—I mean looking after this place. It’s a lot of work. They want to build Mom a separate granny flat.” He scratches his stubbly jaw and frowns. “I offered to move into the basement,” he says. “To help out. That seems like a way better idea than turning this place into a hotel.”

  My mom sets down her cup with a thoughtful look on her face. I remember her saying how relieved Daphne was when Lukas finally flew the nest. She’s probably none too eager to have him move back in. How much “help” would he actually be, after all?

  I take a sip of tea. Has Daphne really agreed to her daughter’s B&B plans? It seems outrageous that Isobel would take advantage of Daphne’s absence to defy her mom’s wishes.

  Armed with a giant basket of cleaning supplies, Grace reappears in the kitchen. She’s been down in the basement. Seeing the dusty table, she retrieves a wet cloth to wipe it. We raise our cups and the teapot.

  “These workmen are so messy!” says Grace. She scrubs at the grime. “I don’t have time to supervise them! I didn’t even know they were starting!”

  My mother tilts her head. “Daphne didn’t mention this?”

  I look around. I don’t know what style’s coming, but the kitchen looks fine, with oak cupboards, a brass range hood, and a stone-topped island.

  “No,” says Grace. “I guess it slipped her mind.” Her placid face clouds. “Oh, where could she be? It’s just not like her not to call! And now, the police have been here, asking all sorts of questions . . .”

  She turns and rinses the dusty cloth, then points at the missing cupboards. “This is Isobel’s doing. Her silly talk of a hotel . . .” She tuts. “She’s constantly hassling Daphne about it. Heritage-listed this. Historic that. Who cares? Why doesn’t she rent some other old pile?” She wags a finger at my mom. “I’ll tell you why, Ivy. It’s because she wants this place for free! She wants to drive her own mother out of her home! Into a granny flat. Soon, she’ll be talking about a rest home! Assisted living! Maybe that’s why Daphne left—to escape the endless nagging!” Cloth hung to dry, she retrieves her duster and starts dabbing at the plaster-flecked counters.

  Lukas gives her a goofy smile. “Poor Grace,” he says. “What would we do without you?”

  Faced with his smile, the housekeeper laughs. “Oh, don’t mind me,” she says. “I’m just wound up after those police officers poking around, making awful insinuations.” She snorts, then smiles at Lukas. “You’re a good boy,” she says. She shakes her fluffy head. “But sometimes, your sister drives me crazy.”

  Lukas’s smile widens. There’s obvious love between them. But I guess there would be. Having spent thirty years here, Grace has known Lukas since he was a baby. They’re family.

  When the counters are spotless, Grace heads toward the front hall. She’s halfway across the room when Lukas calls out to her. “Grace?” She stops and turns. He clears his throat. “What did the cops ask about that dead guy?”

  Grace’s cheeks flush. “Stephen.” Her round nose wrinkles in distaste. “They asked what I thought of him and I told them, flat out. Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

  Her vehemence leaves me shocked. Her reaction seems harsh, given that he was brutally murdered.

  Perhaps she notices my stunned expression because she looks contrite. “I know that sounds mean,” she says. “But that man!” She pats at her puffy bun. “I’m sorry he’s dead, of course.” She doesn’t sound sorry. “Just thank goodness he’s out of Daphne’s life! He was no good. No good at all.” Her duster shakes with indignation.

  “How so?” I ask.

  They say the best way to solve a murder is to know the victim. But what do we know about Stephen? Next to nothing. If only my mom had had the chance to meet him. For all her flakiness, she’s a good judge of character. Would she have liked him, as Daphne did? Or loathed him like Grace here?

  Grace looks torn. She studies her red slippers. “One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead and all that.”

  My mother snorts. “Really, Grace. The man’s been murdered. And Daphne’s missing. Now’s not the time to hold back.”

  Grace nods. “No, you’re right, Ivy. It’s obvious I couldn’t stand him.” She sets down her basket. “I didn’t trust him one bit! He had this BBC accent and these fancy Saville Row suits. Like he was really posh!” She waves her duster. “But he wasn’t.” Her eyes narrow. “I saw him licking his knife!” She shudders.

  I wait. There must be more—beyond bad table manners—to have made Grace hate him.

  She shrugs. “He was a cad,” she says. “A chancer. I think he was after Daphne’s money.”

  As Lukas and my mom finish their tea, I excuse myself. That scary smoothie, and/or the “healthy” muffin, seem to have gone right through me.

  “Sorry, dear. The downstairs bathroom is also under renovation,” Grace informs me.

  I follow her instructions and ascend the polished staircase.

  Second door on the right. I push it open.

  Painted a pretty shade of plum, the bathroom smells of lemons. There’s a watercolor of a forest that I’m pretty sure is an Emily Carr, one of Canada’s most revered (and expensive) artists.

  As I wash my hands, I study myself in the mirror. A wrinkle seems to have formed in my forehead overnight, etched by insufficient sleep and chagrin. Rubbing it has no effect. I recall Josh’s closed-down face, staring straight ahead, in his fancy car. Why did I wreck things with him? For twenty years he was my vision of male perfection. My dream guy.

  Should I call him?

  My fingers are crab-walking toward my purse when I stop, attention caught by the toiletries pouch beside it. Brown and rectangular, it looks manly, totally plain but for two embroidered cream letters: SB. Son of a Bitch. Or Stephen Buxley.

  Josh momentarily forgotten, I lift the pouch off the shelf and set it on the sink, then unzip it. Part away along, the zip catches. I curse under my breath, and tug. It’s stuck on a piece of paper. After a lot of wiggling, I free the zip and pinch out the offending scrap. It’s been ripped from a yellow notepad.

  I turn the square over. It’s written in heavy black block-printed letters:

  GRACE

  STOP GOING THROUGH MY BELONGINGS! I KNOW IT’S YOU AND WILL TELL DAPHNE THEN YOU’LL BE SORRY.

  SB

  The word STOP has been underlined twice, while SORRY is extra thick and a bit jagged.

  Hmmm. I slide this note into my handbag.

  The pouch holds nothing of further interest, just the sort of toiletries I’d expect from a posh, middle-aged, British man: a toothbrush and whitening toothpaste, hair wax, Burberry cologne, Molton Brown black pepper deodorant—a sniff of which starts me sneezing.

  But that note. I recall Grace’s obvious glee that the man met a sticky end. Not surprising if he threatened to get her fired. Thirty years of service down the drain. Did she take matters into her own competent hands? N
o wonder she disliked him.

  I head back down the hall. Mind brimming with my recent discovery, I don’t watch where I’m going. My foot hits something soft. I stumble, but steady myself on the wall. I’ve tripped over an old, army-green backpack, the lid of which has flapped open. Some contents have spilled out: a Swiss army knife, a cheap cigarette lighter, a pack of rolling papers, a plastic bag, about as big as a loaf of bread, full of what could be tea leaves, but isn’t.

  I bend and sniff. This must belong to Lukas. No wonder he seems so out of it, so much of the time. I poke the bag with a finger. That’s a lot of pot for just personal use! Does he deal it? Or just smoke nonstop? Addiction would explain his need for cash. Might his problem extend to harder drugs too? Could that be a motive for killing his mom’s lover?

  I straighten up. I’m being judgmental. Just because the guy’s a pothead doesn’t make him a killer. And it’s hard to imagine a weedy little guy like Lukas attacking the big, strong man I saw dead in his mom’s cabin.

  I’m about to stuff everything back in the pack when there’s a sound behind me. I turn to see Grace at the top of the staircase.

  Seeing the spilled items at my feet, her eyes widen. “What are you doing?” she cries. She sounds accusing.

  I flush. It looks like I’m in the midst of snooping. “I tripped,” I say. “And the bag spilled open.”

  Grace marches closer. She’s still wielding her duster.

  Her usually smiley face looks grim. I recall the note I just found—and Grace’s resentment of Stephen. Were his threats the final straw that made her snap? For a moment, I imagine the duster transformed into an iron poker, smashing down on Stephen’s fair head. I gulp. Beneath her grandmotherly padding, Grace looks strong as a wrestler.

  Her footsteps slow. She examines the items at my feet. The anger in her eyes has turned to shocked disappointment. “Oh dear,” she says, softly. She stops walking, one hand pressed to her ample bosom. “Is that . . .” She swallows hard. Her voice trembles. “Is that the weed?” she asks me.

  “Er, yes,” I say.