Killer Coin Page 12

  Grace blinks. She looks stricken. “But he went to rehab,” she says. Tears have sprung into her eyes. “For alcohol and marijuana.”

  I keep quiet, unwilling to point out the obvious: it didn’t work. The guy’s a stoner.

  Grace is still blinking back tears. “He said he was better,” she laments. “He said he was cured! That he’d stopped!”

  I bend to put everything back into Lukas’s pack. “Well, it could be worse,” I say, trying to cheer her up. “I mean, at least now pot’s legal.” Or is he into harder stuff too? There’s an opioid epidemic. Plus crystal meth. Lukas sure is skinny.

  Grace nods. “Yes,” she says. “I’m sure he’s cut way back!”

  I stuff the loaf of pot back into the pack and stay silent.

  “It’s just recreational,” continues Grace, her voice brighter now. “And you’re right. It is legal! Like tobacco!” She’s clearly trying to convince herself, as well as me. “Lots of young people do it!”

  I nod. So do lots of old ones. I don’t think pot’s worse than booze—it’s just a question of moderation. Lukas, unfortunately, does not seem like the now-and-then type. I close the pack’s lid and set it back against the wall, then straighten.

  Grace’s eyes are now dry. She licks her lips. While some color has returned to her face, she still looks shaky. “Your mom,” she says. “Are her powers real?” Her voice is hushed, almost fearful.

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “But a lot of people think so.”

  Grace shivers, as do her duster’s green feathers. “All that stuff gives me the willies.”

  I smile. We have that in common. “Same,” I admit.

  Grace runs her duster over a picture frame. There’s a thoughtful look on her plump face. Her dark eyes meet mine. “But sometimes, it’d be good to know the future. Wouldn’t it? To get some answers.”

  I think of Josh. And Colin. I nod. Yes, if only we could see the path ahead, and make the right choices. We could get answers to darker questions too: Who killed Stephen? Where’s Daphne?

  She wipes her hands on her apron. “I just want to know he’ll be alright,” she whispers. “That he’ll get through this.”

  It’s like she’s forgotten I’m here and is muttering a prayer. She sounds so sincere and solemn—the archetypal mother praying for a lost child to come home. The Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo.

  She sighs. “Lukas has always been fragile,” she whispers. “Even as a baby. He was a preemie. He was always so sensitive. Not like Izzie.”

  The hall is totally quiet. I want to reassure Grace, to tell her Lukas will be fine. But do I really believe that? I recall Lukas and Isobel as kids: spoiled yet peevish.

  Being born too rich can cause almost as much damage as being born too poor, robbing a kid of motivation. Endless cash. Endless thrills. Until nothing has value or seems thrilling. There’s nothing to strive for and no way to surpass your elders’ shining achievements.

  Lukas was spoiled rotten. I recall him as a fat kid stuffing his face with cake. He must have moved on to booze and pot as a teen. Now, aged thirty-something, he’s still at it. Not working, sponging off his rich mom. Does he actually paint, or just talk about his art? I’ve never seen paint flecks on the guy, or smelled turps. Who knows how much pot he’s smoking?

  Seeing Grace’s fretful frown, I feel bad for her. Again, I want to reassure her. “Well, at least he acknowledges he has a problem,” I say. “And he’s been getting treatment.” Plus it could be worse, I think again. Hopefully he’s not on oxys. Or heroin.

  Grace nods. “You’re right,” she says. “I’m just feeling anxious. With Daphne gone. And the police poking around. That nasty man ending up dead . . . ” She sighs. “It’s been a strange few days. If only Daphne would come home!” Her voice lifts. “Oh, I hope your mom can help find her.”

  I can hear my mom and Lukas coming up the stairs, chatting. I lower my voice: “Me too,” I say. “And you know, Grace, Lukas is lucky to have you.”

  Grace beams. Again, her eyes shine with tears. She looks both thrilled and embarrassed. “I did my best,” she says. “But he was spoiled. They both were.”

  I nod. Poor Grace. She seems a sensible woman, but raising the Dane kids can’t have been easy. She must have had so much of the responsibility and none of the power. The best she could do was mitigate her excessive employer’s excesses.

  Now, smiling like that, I see her as a young woman. A young mother. Clapping her hands at a small boy’s first, faltering steps. Proudly sticking crayon drawings onto the fridge. Cheering when’s he up to bat. Reading good night stories. She blinks. “Thanks for saying that, dear.”

  I nod. There’s more than blood that ties people together. Love is stronger. And Lukas is lucky. Whatever the shortcomings of his childhood, this good lady loves him.

  CHAPTER 15:

  HALF TRUTHS

  My mom decides to do the reading in Daphne’s bedroom. She claims this room has the strongest “essence” of Daphne. I don’t bother to ask what this means. As my mom and Lukas take a seat, I watch from the doorway.

  Perched on a cream loveseat, my mom holds a silk houndstooth scarf that’s a favorite of Daphne’s. Lukas is hunched in a beige armchair. His eyes are still red. Now that I’ve seen his stash, I wonder how I missed the signs earlier.

  “I’ll be out in the car,” I tell my mother. Finally, I can get out of here. I’m going to recline the seat and have a nap while I’m waiting.

  My mom frowns. “Oh honey, no,” she says. “Could you just stay here for the reading?”

  I grit my teeth. Why? My mom knows I hate this stuff. Plus she asked me to snoop around. This would be my chance—not that I’ll use it.

  She tilts her head, like she can hear faint, distant music. Her forehead wrinkles. “It’s strange but I just feel more energy when you’re nearby.”

  My teeth clamp a little tighter. Great. That’s all I need, my mom convinced my presence heightens her imaginary powers. Like I’m a psychic mascot. I’m still hanging in the doorway. “Really?”

  My mom nods. She smoothes down her long violet skirt. Violet, the color of intuition. My head is full of this nonsense. No wonder I can’t recall dates or phone numbers: my brain is jam-packed with New Age bullshit.

  I fight back a sigh and take a tiny step closer. Lukas tugs at his bead necklace. He looks antsy. I wonder when and where he went to rehab. Was that in India? Maybe some alternative kind of place, involving meditation and yoga? I sink onto a chair next to Lukas. I’d like to ask but don’t know how to broach it without sounding too nosy.

  My mom shuts her eyes. She holds Daphne’s scarf to her forehead. The third eye. She bends her head and hums. I cringe. Lukas’s eyes are shut too. He’s rocking gently. I squeeze my eyes shut. Whatever my mom’s up to, it’s better not to watch. The humming grows louder, as does my discomfiture. Jaysus. Enough already. I’m glad no one’s here to witness this, besides Lukas, who’s probably too stoned to care. Or am I being judgmental? Maybe he’s stone-cold sober. He looks more sober than my mother.

  “Daphne?” whispers my mom. “Where are you, Daphne?”

  Hearing her sound so weak, I feel worried. She sounds like she did last year, in the midst of chemo. Thank god we found out early, and her breast cancer is in complete remission, although the fear lingers.

  I open my eyes and study my mom’s heart-shaped face. She looks serene, if somewhat pale. The amethysts (healing) in her ears glisten. If only they really ensured healing.

  I grip the wooden arms of my chair. So far, so good. My mom’s doctors seemed really pleased with her latest test results. But her cancer was a big scare. I’m still worried about her getting physically or emotionally depleted. All this anxiety about Daphne can’t be good for her health. Where is Daphne?

  A tear drips down my mom’s round cheek. Her dark eyes pop open. She shakes herself. I look around for tissues but she motions me to stay seated. She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand and composes herself.
“I’m fine,” she says. But she doesn’t look fine. Seeing her trembling lips, I reach out for her. Again, my mom shakes her head. “Don’t touch me,” she says. “Not yet.” The way she says it, scares me. It’s like she’s contagious.

  Lukas’s eyes are still closed. Has he nodded off? My mom says his name gently. His chin jerks up. His eyes blink open, blue as topaz in his pale face. “I . . . Hey Ivy.” He looks worried. “Is it finished?”

  My mother nods. “I don’t want to alarm you but your mom’s in a bad state,” she says. “I sensed such sadness. And anger.” She shivers again, as if to shake off these feelings. “She’s feeling heartbroken.” My mom drops her chin. “I . . . I saw black mist filling the air.” Her voice quivers like she’s trying not to cry. “It was . . .” She swallows hard. “It was hard to breathe.” Her dark eyes meet mine, and her voice drops to a whisper. “She’s in danger.”

  Lukas pulls at his shaggy bangs. “What?” His eyes bulge. “But . . . but where is she?”

  My mom straightens. “That’s the good news. I feel she’s close. And getting closer.” She clasps her hands. “I believe she’ll soon be ho—.”

  She’s interrupted by a knock on the bedroom door. Lukas jumps. “What is it?” he calls. His voice is even thinner than usual.

  Grace peeps around the door. Lit by a grin, her dark eyes are bright. “Daphne’s back! She’s just getting out of a taxi!”

  We all spring to our feet and follow Grace. Four sets of feet clatter down the long staircase. High overhead, the chandelier twinkles.

  In the hall, Kevin is going nuts, squealing and running in circles. The pig keeps pressing its flat nose up against the door like it wants to dig through it.

  I’m about four steps from the bottom when the front door swings open. Daphne steps inside, a set of keys in one hand. Her face is impossibly smooth and tanned nutmeg brown, framed by fresh-from-the-salon platinum highlights. She is dressed in an elegant dark green raincoat. An orange Hermes bag hangs from one arm. Behind her rests a bulging brown LV suitcase.

  At the sight of us, her plumped mouth falls open. She sweeps a hand over her silky blonde mane. “Oh,” she says. “Hello there.”

  All four of us stand fanned out on the stairs, open-mouthed. After all this worry, here she is, alive and well in her own front hall, redolent of Poison perfume and hairspray. If she’s changed since I was a kid it’s impossible to say how. All the usual signs of aging—the dips, puffs, and wrinkles are absent on her high-cheekboned face. Yet weirdly, she doesn’t look young—just artificial.

  I turn to my mom, who’s got deep crinkles around her eyes, her eyebrows and mouth in constant motion. While there’s none of Daphne’s smooth perfection, my mom’s face is dynamic. Daphne’s is frozen. All the work she’s had done makes it hard to read her emotions.

  Daphne steps into the light cast by the chandelier. She slowly sets down her handbag. I see what the tan, makeup, and surgical touch-ups can’t hide. Her eyes—as blue as Lukas’s—are full of sadness.

  My mom was right about one thing: she looks heartbroken. Thank god she was wrong about her being in danger.

  CHAPTER 16:

  BAD NEWS

  Daphne shrugs off her coat and hangs it next to my mother’s. She bends to pet Kevin. The pig snuffles happily around her feet. “Hello Kevi,” she coos. “Hello my little piggy. Hello my baby. I missed you.”

  “Where have you been?” demands my mom. She descends the final steps. “We’ve been so worried! When you didn’t show up at my place on Wednesday . . .”

  Daphne straightens, a hint of confusion on her smooth face.

  “The police are looking for you,” says Lukas.

  Daphne’s pink-painted mouth falls open. One perfectly arched eyebrow attempts—but fails—to lift. She loosens the cream scarf around her neck. “The police?” She looks past Lukas and my mother to a small table, where an antique telephone rests. She turns to Grace. “Didn’t you read my note?” she asks her.

  Quiet until now, when Grace starts talking, the words gush out: “What note? All I got was that text message, which said nothing! Where have you been? All these days! We’ve had the police here . . . and . . .” She rings her hands. “Isobel and Gerard have been in and out. And those builders, making a racket! Poor Lukas here has been worried sick! Haven’t you, honey?”

  “Well,” says Daphne, huffily. “I left a note right there.” She jabs a shiny red fingernail toward the telephone table. “I said I was going away for a few days, to the Sanctuary Spa in Colorado. I left a contact number and everything.”

  She strides over to the table and lifts the phone to look under it. “And I asked you to call Ivy and cancel my appointment!”

  Grace puts her hands on her wide hips. “There was no note,” she insists.

  “Wait,” I say. “Remember how the hall table was knocked over?” I look at the pig. “The note must have fallen on the floor.”

  “So where is it?” asks Daphne. “The whole notepad’s missing!”

  Looking at Kevin’s soft pink snout, I remember Daphne’s chewed satin shoes—and the mangled flowers. A notepad would be a tasty snack. “Do you think Kevin ate it?” I ask.

  A thorough search of the hall reveals some scraps of yellow paper, wedged down between a giant vase and the skirting boards. I hold these crinkly shreds aloft. “Was your notepad yellow?” I ask Daphne.

  “Hmmph,” says Grace. She wags a finger at the pig. “Naughty beast!” She laughs. “He missed you! Did you see the front garden?” She shakes her head. “But thank goodness you’re alright! We’ve been going crazy!”

  Daphne hangs up her scarf. “Well . . .” she says. She peels off her gloves and looks at each of us in turn. “This sounds like a story! You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

  “You look tired,” says Grace. “Go and sit down. I’ll put the tea on.”

  The mystery of the missing note solved, we migrate into Daphne’s living room—a large formal room with gleaming rosewood floors, cream and blue silk rugs, bay windows overlooking the front yard, and oversized floral sofas.

  Lukas sprawls into an armchair printed with irises and butterflies. My mom and Daphne take the matching couch. The pig follows us in. It requires three comical attempts to scrabble up beside Daphne. I perch on a jade-cushioned Rococo chair. The room smells of orange-blossom-scented candles.

  Soon, we should call Colin Destin to tell him that Daphne has shown up, safe and sound, fresh from the medi-spa.

  Daphne crosses her legs. “Well, what a big fuss for no reason!”

  It’s hard to tell if she’s in a huff, or finds it funny. She shakes her head. Her glossy lips twitch into a smile. “You really called the police?” she asks, laughing.

  My mom explains how the front hall was in disarray, which left everyone worried. “And I did a reading,” she says. “A few, actually.” She tugs off her bright turban and runs a hand through her steel-grey hair. “It was awful,” she says. Her eyes are big and bright as an owl’s. “Someone’s been lying to you. I saw deceit and a lot of pain.” My mom leans closer to her friend, her voice urgent. “Even danger, Daphne!”

  Daphne’s wide shoulders slump. All of a sudden, she looks old and tired. Her lower lip quivers. A tear trickles out of one heavily mascara’d eye. Soon, a wiggly trail runs through her peachy foundation.

  “You were right,” she whispers. “I’ve been such a fool. He lied to me . . . My new boyfriend, Stephen.” Just saying the name seems to hurt, and yet she says it again, like poking a bruise to confirm it’s still painful. “Stephen Buxley.” She winces.

  She looks from my mom to Lukas, whose eyes are heavy-lidded. Beneath the blush, Daphne’s cheeks flush. She turns back to my mother. “I didn’t tell you more about him, Ivy, because I didn’t want to jinx things. It was going so well.” She twists her hands as if to scrub off something sticky. “I was so happy, so excited.” Her pouffed blonde head droops. More tears overflow her blue eyes.

  My mom pats her fri
end’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry Daphne. What happened?”

  Daphne looks up. Her eyes harden.

  I recall her in the eighties or early nineties, a larger-than-life billboard of a woman. All shoulder pads and teased hair. Colorful power suits. Earrings like hard candies.

  Now, she looks equally arresting. Her back straightens and her chin lifts. “He asked me to marry him.” She stares angrily into her front yard. “And like a fool, I said yes.”

  Lukas gapes at her, suddenly roused from his haze. “M . . . married?”

  Daphne tosses back her Barbara Walters hair. Her eyes mist over. “That’s right.” She smiles sadly at her son. “I was going to ask you to give me away and . . .” She turns to my mom. “You’d have been my maid of honor. I had it all planned. The reception at the yacht club. Honeymoon in the Seychelles.” Her rueful smile turns upside down, and her eyes glitter dangerously. “There was just one little problem.” She snorts. “The lying bastard was with another woman!”

  My mom’s mouth pops open. “Oh! Who?” she asks.

  “I don’t know her name,” says Daphne. Her shiny lips purse with distaste. “But he called her ‘Hotsauce.’” She glares at the carpet. “He sent a text message meant for her to me by mistake. It was . . . graphic.”

  My mom’s mouth opens even wider.

  Lukas leans forward. “Whoa. What a jerk. So what did you do?”

  “I confronted him,” says Daphne. “Of course he tried to deny it, said it was some telecommunications glitch and he’d never sent that message. But please.” She rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t born yesterday. Or in the 1800s.”

  “When was this?” asks my mom.

  “Last Wednesday. Just before I left for my reading.” At the memory, fresh tears fill Daphne’s eyes. “After I threw him out, I just fell apart. I was so shocked and humiliated. I decided to get out of town, go somewhere quiet to think.” She reaches for my mom’s hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t call but you’d have known something was wrong. I couldn’t face talking about it yet. I was in such a state! I just packed a few things and headed straight for the airport, got the first plane off the island.” She bites her lip. “How could I have let myself get sucked in by that cheating scumbag?”