Killer Coin Page 15

  We sit in her living room. Like the house’s exterior, it looks plain and uncared for. Vonda and I sit side-by-side on a sagging beige sofa, the two detectives on matching armchairs. We all perch on the edges, like we’d rather not be here.

  Miriam clears her throat and crosses her long legs. As usual, she’s wearing dark, fitted pants. Today, her turtleneck is charcoal. “I’m afraid we have bad news,” she tells Vonda.

  Again, Vonda looks at me, as if she needs me to interpret. I wait and Miriam goes on. “It’s about your husband.”

  Vonda’s grey eyes narrow. “Dennis?” she says, with a frown. “Vhat has he done, this time?”

  Both Colin and Miriam exchange a glance before Miriam continues. Hands clasped, she looks sympathetic and serious, her hair scraped into a tight bun. As usual, her brown skin is luminous and free of makeup. “I’m very sorry, Vonda. But he’s dead. He was murdered.”

  While Vonda doesn’t react, I recoil in shock. Victoria is not a hotbed of violent crime. Two men murdered, in less than a week? It seems unreal. Are the deaths connected?

  Vonda blinks in slow motion. “Dennis, dead? But how?” Then, before they have a chance to answer. “It cannot be him!”

  Colin sighs, his green eyes sympathetic and watchful. I know they’re tracking Vonda’s every move, judging her. Her husband was murdered. The spouse is always a suspect, right? And she wanted a divorce. She said he deceived her.

  Colin withdraws something from his coat pocket and shows it to Vonda: a B.C. driver’s license, sealed inside a little plastic bag.

  Even though the photo’s tiny, I recognize it as the same image Vonda gave me the night I went to L’Escargot D’Or. A neat, trim, rather nondescript middle-aged man with fair hair, wearing a light blue dress shirt. He is not smiling in the photo but looks pleasant, his blue eyes friendly.

  “We found this in his pants’ pocket,” says Colin. “And contacted his dentist.”

  Vonda’s shoulders start to shake. She presses a hand to her mouth, as if to hold back a sob. Today, her nails are painted dark blue, like the background in Van Gogh’s “Starry Night.” The color doesn’t suit her pale skin, the effect macabre. Or maybe it’s just the feeling cast by this dreadful news.

  “I’m sorry,” says Colin. “But the dental records match. The dead man is definitely your husband.”

  I hold my breath. Two deaths, close to home. It hardly seems possible.

  Vonda bows her head. She covers her face with her hands. On her right hand, two long nails have snapped off. How did that happen? When she lowers her hands, I see her lipstick has smudged across her teeth. Blood on snow. My head is full of creepy thoughts. Like how was her husband murdered?

  “Mrs. Butts?” says Colin. “Are you alright?”

  She stares at him, pewter eyes wide and desperate: “Oh, my Denny!” Her other hand finds her heart, the picture of a heartbroken young widow. “Who vould do this?” she cries. “And vhere vas he?”

  Miriam leans closer. “Do you know anyone who lives in Sooke?”

  My mouth unlatches. It can’t be. It just can’t be. But I know it is. First Stephen Buxley. Now, Dennis Butts. Two cheating men. And two women being cheated on. Except that math might be wrong. I never did like geometry. This isn’t a square but a triangle.

  What if Daphne’s unfaithful fiancé is Vonda’s cheating husband?

  CHAPTER 19:

  A STEP BACK

  Colin is poised to walk down Vonda’s front steps when he catches my eye. “Toby?” he says, quietly. He lays a hand on my arm. “Can I have a word, please?”

  I nod, elated by his touch, yet dreading what’s to come. “Of course.” I swallow hard.

  Miriam is already striding toward their car. Vonda is indoors, on the sofa, sobbing. I’ll need to go back to her soon and try to console her.

  Colin studies my face, his scrutiny making my cheeks color. “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “Um. Yeah, just allergies,” I mutter.

  “Oh,” says Colin. He sounds relieved. “That’s good. I was worried it was more serious.”

  Great, I think. That’s how dreadful I look—like I’ve got the flu. Or I’m dying. But, despite my embarrassment, the concern in his eyes sparks a warm glow, deep in my belly.

  “I slept badly, too,” I admit. I flush even brighter. “Look, Colin, I’m really sorry about going out to the Danes’ cabin. I—”

  He cuts me off, his forehead furrowed. “Listen, Tob.”

  I freeze, unable to breathe. Given my day, it’s obvious where this is heading. Any moment now, he’ll tell me it’s over. He can’t go out with someone who disregards property law. Who’s so terminally nosy. And indecisive. And short. Plus allergy-ridden.

  Colin looks stern. “I should be lecturing you about the legal side of things, arguably breaking and entering.” I hang my head, waiting. “Except I won’t,” he says. “Because that’s not what upset me.” I hold my breath. “Toby?” He lays his big hands gently on my shoulders.

  “Yeah?” I still can’t look at him. I’m too embarrassed and remorseful and sad. If only I hadn’t gone to Daphne’s stupid cottage. I wouldn’t have found Stephen’s body, or rubbed Colin and Josh in each other’s noses. Josh wouldn’t suspect me of playing games. Colin wouldn’t think I’m a natural-born meddler.

  “Toby? Look at me.” I do as he asks. Colin looks like I feel: tired and stricken. “I’m sorry I got angry,” he says. “But I worry about you. I see awful things at work, things I can’t fix. There are real dangers out there . . . Even here, on the island . . .” His Adam’s apple bobs. “I don’t want you anywhere near that.”

  I blink. So he’s not ending it? I can hardly believe it. Relief has left me dizzy. “I . . . I’m sorry,” I say, again. “I feel like an idiot for having gone out there uninvited. I should have called you. And as for Josh—”

  He raises a fingertip to my lips. “It’s okay,” he says. “We don’t have to discuss that right now.” Deep in his green eyes, there’s a flash of something—maybe anger, or anxiety—but then his gaze softens. “We will discuss it soon though. Right?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “Good,” he says. “When you’re feeling better.”

  Without thinking I lean forward and press my forehead to his broad chest. I squeeze my arms around him. He smells of chocolate and mint, a warm, Christmassy smell, fresh but cozy.

  His arms close around me and his lips find the top of my head. He inhales. “I’ve missed you so much, Toby.”

  “Same,” I mumble, although it comes out as “shame,” because my nose is squished up against his chest. Pressed against him, I can’t remember when I last felt this good, like the clouds filling my heart have suddenly parted. This very grey day has a silver lining.

  Vonda is still on her couch. She looks somber but dry-eyed. Were the sobs just an act to impress the cops? She is hard to read, fragile as a Fabergé egg one minute, hard as nails the next.

  I sit beside her. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

  She shakes her head. “I am fine.” She rises smoothly to her feet. “I vill drive you back to your friend’s now.”

  I’m worried she’s in no state to drive, but she assures me otherwise. “I am not a divorcee but a vidow,” she says. “It is easier, no?” She retrieves her purse and gives me a tight little smile. “Not so much paperwork . . .”

  I’m unsure whether to be appalled by her callousness or impressed she’s already seen the bright side. She tosses her hair and strides toward the front door: “You coming?”

  As we walk to her car, I watch her carefully. It’s like her earlier breakdown never happened. She betrays no sign of shock or grief—chest out, shoulders back, like she’s strutting down a catwalk. Her makeup has been retouched to its former perfection. Even that damn beret is back in place, tilted jauntily. I’m torn between dislike and admiration. What must it be like to be Vonda? She reminds me of a lion or a tiger, utterly intent on her own desire
s, utterly immoral. Utterly capable of murder.

  She turns the radio until she finds an upbeat pop song. Her head bops to the beat. I grit my teeth. Her husband is dead! Is she in shock and denial? Or is she really this cold-blooded?

  “You sure you’ll be okay?” I ask, as we pull up out front of Quinn’s. Abby’s stroller is no longer in the yard. Quinn must be out for a walk. I’m relieved. I wouldn’t want to introduce them to Vonda, whose ability to suppress—or manufacture—emotions scares me.

  “I am fine,” says Vonda. Her clipped tone makes it clear the topic’s closed, although, just for an instant, her lower lip quivers. Then she regains control of herself. Or is she acting? Her grey eyes are steely. “He vas not a good husband,” she says tightly. “Remember? He deceived me.”

  “Still,” I say. I unclick my seatbelt. “He was your husband. It’s a big shock . . .”

  “Yes, shock,” agrees Vonda. She pronounces it with a “ch.” She’s still nodding to the beat. “Vhat a shock!” she says.

  Instead of climbing out, I stay put. Knowing that Stephen was a liar and a conman makes it easier to not feel his death, to think he had it coming. But even if he wasn’t a saint, he didn’t deserve that end, bludgeoned to death, and left to rot in that horrible cabin.

  What was he like, this man, to have attracted two strong women like Daphne and Vonda?

  “Tell me about Stephen, I mean Dennis,” I say to Vonda.

  She sighs. “He vas . . .” She bites her lip. “He vas funny. He loved cats. Not dogs, no he did not like dogs at all. But cats, they always came to him, always vanted a cuddle.” Her smile widens a little. “As a little boy in Texas he had a big brown cat named Leia, you know, like the princess in Star Vars?”

  “Texas?” I say. “I thought he was British.”

  Vonda looks surprised. “He vas American, grew up in Houston. His parents died vhen he vas six. So tragic . . .” Her voice tightens with emotion. “A train hit them.” She wipes a tear from one eye. “Poor little Denny.”

  “Huh,” I say. “So how’d he get a British accent?” Vonda frowns. “He spoke like George Bush,” she says. “The younger von. He vas definitely not British.”

  “But I heard . . .” I begin, then stop.

  “You heard vhat?” She balls her hands into tight fists.

  I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Vonda pounds the steering wheel with one fist. Her perfect teeth clench together. “My god. He lied about everything, didn’t he?” she says, quietly. “Even the orphan bit.” More tears have appeared in her grey eyes. I’m not sure if they’re from sorrow or frustration. She bends her head, her shoulders heaving.

  I pat her back. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m really sorry.”

  Vonda nods. “Is okay.” She dabs at her eyes. It’s obviously not. When she speaks again, her voice is softer than it’s ever been, her accent less clipped. “The vorst thing,” she says, “is that I don’t even know who he vas. And now . . .” She hiccups. “Now I never vill. I vill never, ever get to know him.” A tear slips down her cheek. “Who vas he?”

  What can I say? I stroke her back. I guess it’s healthy that she’s crying. But is this for real? I fight back a sigh. God, I hate this: seeing everyone as a suspect. Poor Vonda—people respond to loss in different ways. Grief has no map. The bereaved go up and down and around in circles. Her emotions must be tugging her in every direction.

  I rub my forehead. Poor Colin—this is how he must live, all the time, seeing the worst of human nature, questioning everyone’s motives. It’s a miracle he’s not jaded.

  I dig a pack of Kleenex out of my bag and hand it to Vonda. She thanks me, blows her nose daintily, and stops crying.

  “The police,” she says, watching me out of the corner of her eye. “Do you think they believed me?” She daubs at her mascara.

  “About what?”

  She looks surprised. “About everything.”

  I shrug. “I guess so.” Let’s hope she has a great alibi for whatever day the coroner decides Stephen died.

  When I ask if she’s ever been to Sooke, Vonda looks vague. “Vhat for? It is countryside, no? I am city girl.” She blinks, like some fresh mascara has flaked into her eyes. “Vhen you found him,” she says. She blinks even harder. “Vhat did he look like?”

  While there aren’t many sentimental bones in Vonda’s body, despite her tough act, and her fury at Dennis Butts, I suspect she loved him. That being so, I don’t want to tell her about the flies, or the missing shoe, or the crusty head wound.

  “He looked, er, peaceful,” I say. A blatant lie. “Like he was sleeping.”

  Vonda tilts her head. Her smile is sad. I don’t know what bad things have happened to Vonda to make her so hard, but I do know she doesn’t believe in fairy tales. “This other voman,” she says, softly. “The von who owned this cottage. Do you know her?”

  “Yes,” I admit. “She’s a friend of my mom’s.”

  Vonda’s jaw clenches. “Oh? Is she old?”

  “Ah, older.” They say fifty is the new thirty, which makes seventy the new fifty. By this scale, “old” starts at ninety. “Rich?” says Vonda, still smiling sadly.

  “Kind of.” Another lie. Daphne’s beyond loaded.

  She shakes herself. Her blue fingernails tap on the steering wheel. “Vell.” She pats at her hair. “I vant to meet her.”

  “Meet Daphne?” Surprise makes me blurt out her name, then regret it.

  What if Vonda’s the vindictive type, who’ll blame Daphne for her husband’s transgressions? Daphne’s a tough old bird but Vonda’s no pushover. In a fight, I don’t know who I’d put my money on. It wouldn’t be pretty.

  “Vhat is she like, this Daphne?” asks Vonda. To my surprise, she doesn’t sound bitter, merely curious and a little wistful.

  “She’s smart,” I say. “And successful.” I bite my lip. “She didn’t know he was married.”

  “Of course not,” says Vonda. “That vas Dennis’s vay.” She sighs. “This voman is a victim too . . . And she’s not the first. Denny vas a . . .” She pauses, as if unsure of the right word. “A svindler. A professional svindler.”

  She lays a hand on my arm, eyes wide and beseeching. “Please Toby. Please tell this voman, Daphne, that I vant to meet her. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I say. I’ll tell Daphne and see what she says. Maybe it’d be good for them to compare notes and sort the truth from the lies—if that’s even possible. As it is, they’re stuck with aching hearts and unanswered questions.

  “Take care of yourself, Vonda,” I say. I unlock the car’s door. “Call me, if you need me.”

  Vonda raises a hand in farewell. “Oh don’t vorry about me,” she says breezily. “At least I am saved the hassle of getting divorced. And I have met a new man . . .” She winks. “He is rich and handsome.”

  I fight back the ensuing image: Josh in the very seat where I’m now sitting, all over Vonda. How did I forget? Vonda doesn’t need my sympathy: she’s got Josh to console her.

  Feeling freshly punched in the gut, I stagger out of her car. What a day. It’s felt endless, and full of awful surprises.

  I pause on the curb. My headache has gotten worse, like there’s not enough space in my skull for all these jumbled thoughts and feelings. There are so many overlaps, so many layers blocking my vision. It’s like a kaleidoscope—confusing patterns everywhere I look, depending on how I twist things. Is Stephen’s death even related to the Danes? It seems so because he was found in their cabin. But maybe someone else followed him out there, someone else he scammed or lied to. Another victim. Or his wronged wife.

  She pulls away from the curb and turns up her car’s radio.

  Half-drunk with fatigue, I stumble toward my car. Vonda’s little red convertible rounds the corner. The cul-de-sac lies empty. A dog barks in the distance.

  I unlock my car and sink into the driver’s seat.

  My car smells ever so faintly of my mom’s perfume—a mix of vani
lla and sandalwood she brews herself. I shut my eyes and inhale. It feels like years since this morning at the Danes’ place.

  Finally, I can go home and hide—and leave Josh, this endless day, and Stephen’s murder far behind me.

  Daphne is home, safe and sound. And Vonda’s right: she no longer needs a divorce. Which means she’s no longer my client, or my problem.

  CHAPTER 20:

  THE OTHER WOMEN

  Before I forget about Vonda forever, there’s one last thing I must do. As promised, going via my mom, I approach Daphne Dane about a possible meeting. Daphne is surprisingly keen to meet her romantic rival. I guess they’re both curious about the other woman.

  While I’d rather just leave them to it, both Vonda and my mom beg me to introduce them in person. Why they want me there is unclear. Am I supposed to referee? I have no desire to watch the fur flying.

  Perhaps fearing I’ll bail, Vonda shows up at my office just before closing, then follows my car out to Rockland. My mom promised to join us too, although when we pull up out front of Daphne’s front gate, there’s no sign of Ivy’s beater. I hope it hasn’t broken down again. I try to call her, but her phone rings out. She’s probably on her way over.

  It’s now dark well before I leave work. It’s also freezing. As I step out of my car, a blast of frigid wind makes me shiver.

  Not surprisingly, Vonda’s got the top up on her red convertible. Looking back, I see she’s still in her seat, applying one last layer of war paint. At my approach, she gives her hair another fluff, opens the door, and steps out. She’s wearing a short red skirt. In my mind, the paparazzi go wild. She looks even sexier than usual.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  Vonda grits her teeth. She nods. “Ready.”

  How she can walk in those red snakeskin boots is a mystery. Everything about her—boobs, butt, bouncy hair—seems to defy the laws of gravity.

  Walking beside her in my sedate navy suit I feel short, bony, and dowdy. No wonder Josh moved on. I bat this thought away. This is not the time for self-pity. Plus let’s face it: Josh likes ‘em trashy. I was never his type and never could be.