Killer Coin Page 17

Vonda nods. “Yes. Me too.” She gives Daphne a sad smile. Either she’s a great actress, or her regret is genuine. But no, it’s not either/ or. She might be regretful and a great actress. Vonda clasps the older woman’s elbows. “It vas good to meet you, Daphne.”

  The three of us watch her sashay down the lit walk. When she’s reached the gate, Daphne turns to go indoors. My mom and I follow.

  “Vow,” says Daphne, approvingly, then realizes her mistake. “I mean wow.” She shuts the door. “That Vonda is quite something.”

  Despite having eaten almost all Grace’s homemade cookies, my stomach is growling. Maybe Daphne actually hears it because she asks us to join her for dinner. I hesitate. Since yesterday’s pity-party didn’t materialize, I’d been planning to go home, watch some tragic movies, and gorge on chips, red wine, and caramel ice cream. I might look at old photos of Josh. Or obsess over Vonda’s Instagram, which is full of photos of Vonda looking glowing yet perfectly groomed while posed on beaches or climbing mountains. Given how urban she seems, I suspect the backgrounds are photoshopped. Her captions are equally suspect, being all about “positivity,”

  “self-love,” and “eternal gratitude.” Does she come up with it herself, or has she hired an Insta-ghost writer?

  Lost in thoughts of eternally grateful, self-loving Vonda, I forget Daphne asked me a question.

  My mom answers for both of us. “Oh Daphne, dinner sounds lovely,” she says. “I’m famished.” She gives me a nudge. “You’re staying too, right, Toby?”

  “Um, yes please,” I say to Daphne. A postbreakup dinner of chips, wine, and melted ice cream is too big a cliché. But then, breaking up is a cliché. The shock, bitterness, and regret . . . The self-loathing . . . It’s like being back in some crappy motel after swearing you’d never, ever stay there again. In my head, an old neon Vacancy sign blinks on.

  I fight back a sigh. Enough self-pity already! Dinner with my mom and Daphne will do me good. Plus I really need to ask Daphne some hard-hitting questions.

  “Great,” says my mom. “Can we help, Daphne?”

  Daphne leads us into the kitchen. Her heels tap on the stone floor. “No need,” she says. “Grace prepared it all in advance. I hoped you’d be staying.”

  I expect to see Grace in the kitchen, but perhaps she’s gone home. Daphne lifts the lid off a pot on the stove. The smells of tomato sauce and oregano seep out. Wow. That Grace can cook! Kevin comes running. Like me, he’s drooling.

  “Pasta,” says Daphne. “Ivy, can you grab the bowls.” She gestures toward the wall only to remember that the cupboards are no longer there. “Dammit,” she mutters. “I think the bowls are in there, somewhere.” She points to a box near the back door. My mom bends to rummage through the box. It takes her some minutes to locate the bowls. I find the cutlery and set the table. Grace has also made a big tomato and fresh mozzarella salad.

  “Wine?” asks Daphne. My mom and I both nod. That will help my mood more than sage.

  Daphne selects a bottle from her wine fridge. She digs in another box and locates three glasses.

  We all take seats. “To closure,” says my mom. She lifts her glass aloft. “And no regrets.” We all clink.

  I’ll drink to that. Although it hardly seems possible. Who can honestly say they regret nothing, besides Edith Piaf? The wine is delicious—not the cheap plonk I usually buy. This reminds me of Josh. I take another gulp, and another.

  During dinner, we keep the conversation light: my mom’s latest attempts to brew the perfect kombucha (god help me); all the “noninvasive” skin rejuvenation treatments on offer at Daphne’s fancy medi-spa; my uniquely smart and beautiful goddaughter, Abby.

  I wait until we’ve all finished eating before raising the question that’s been bothering me. “Daphne,” I say. “Have you told the cops about finding Stephen’s body?”

  Her face tightens. “Not yet,” she admits.

  In the living room, her grandfather clock strikes eight times. It’s later than I thought. I wait for Daphne to explain but she doesn’t. Her face is taut.

  “Well, you’d better tell them,” I tell her.

  Daphne bites the inside of her cheek. She looks at her empty plate and pats at her mouth with a napkin. “I know,” she says. “I just . . .” She shakes her head. “I should have called 911 right away. I shouldn’t have raced off. It looks so bad.” She twists the napkin in her hands. “How could I have been so stupid?”

  My mom sets a comforting hand on her friend’s arm. “You were in shock,” she says.

  “I still am,” says Daphne. She hangs her head. “I can barely believe he was married. And now he’s dead. Murdered.” A tear drips down her trembling cheek. Again, I wonder if this is all for show. But her heartbreak looks convincing. Poor Daphne.

  “The longer you wait, the worse it looks,” I say. It already looks awful. I clear my throat. “It might be a good idea to call Jackie.” This comment is directed at my mother.

  Ivy frowns. “Quinn’s mom?”

  Daphne reaches for her wine glass. “You mean Jackie Andriesen?”

  I nod. Quinn’s mom, Jackie, is one of the best criminal lawyers in town, if not the province. At this point, Daphne might need her.

  Daphne swallows hard. “You . . . you think I need a lawyer?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. But she might have some good advice.” I drink the last of my wine. “For you and Isobel.”

  Daphne lowers her glass so hard that some wine splashes out. She starts to protest but stops. Her face is bitter. “So you overheard.”

  My mom stares from me to Daphne. “I don’t understand.” She blots at the spill with a napkin.

  Daphne sighs. “I saw Izzie out at the cabin.” Her voice shakes. “Just before I found Stephen’s body.”

  “Oh.” My mom’s eyes go wide. “Oh,” she says again. “Oh, Daphne.”

  “I’m sure it’s not what you think,” says Daphne. “I mean why would Izzie . . .” She trails off. “What possible motive could she have?” She coughs and reaches for her wine glass.

  I can think of a few. Isobel is jockeying for control of her mom’s finances. Did she know Daphne was planning to remarry? Or if both Isobel and Stephen were out to find Walt’s coins, they might have fought. “Where are Walt’s gold coins?” I ask Daphne.

  She looks surprised. “Uh, in a safety deposit box in the TD Bank.

  Why?”

  I’m surprised too. “So they weren’t in the Sooke cabin, after all?”

  Daphne reddens. “Oh, well, they were. I took them out last week, after finding . . .” She drains the last dregs of wine from her glass. “After finding Stephen’s body.”

  I picture this new scenario. The way she told it before, she found Stephen’s body, went into shock, and ran. Now she’s admitted to sticking around long enough to unlock the safe. How practical. She didn’t race off in a blind panic.

  I try to keep my tone neutral. “The coins were in the safe?” I ask. Daphne nods. I think back to that decrepit cabin. “Where was it?” I ask her.

  “In the bedroom where Stephen was l . . . lying.”

  Daphne reaches for the bottle and tops up her wine glass. She turns to refill Ivy’s glass but my mom puts her hand over it. “No thanks. I have to drive,” she says.

  “Me too,” I say, when Daphne swings the bottle my way.

  After setting the bottle down, Daphne regains her glass. She takes a big swig. She shuts her eyes, like she’s trying to remember the scene in the cottage. “The safe’s on a shelf, hidden behind a painting,” she says. “A seascape.”

  A jolt of recognition makes me nod. I remember that painting—the way it was tilted at an angle. “Did anything look disturbed?” I ask Daphne. “When you got there?”

  “Uh, no,” she says. “Well . . . The safe . . .” She extends both hands to show its approximate size—about as big as a large microwave. “It was a bit twisted, like someone might have been tugging at it.”

  “But it was still locked?�
� I ask.

  “Yes,” says Daphne.

  “And the painting,” I say. “Was it hung straight when you got there?”

  Daphne knuckles her brow, like it’s hard to recall. “I . . . I think so. Everything looked normal, except for Stephen’s b . . .” She swallows hard. “Body.”

  “Okay,” I say. “So you took the coins and then what? Did you rehang the painting?”

  “Y . . . yes,” says Daphne, although she doesn’t sound too sure. “I relocked the safe. There were some old papers in there. And yes. I rehung the picture.” She takes another swig of wine. “Then I got the hell out of there.” Her lip quivers.

  “Why do you think Stephen and Isobel were there?” I ask.

  Tears fill Daphne’s eyes but her voice sounds stubborn. “I don’t know,” she says.

  I think she does but is in denial. Who wants to think that both your fiancé and your kid were trying to rip you off? Were they colluding?

  “Please,” says Daphne. Her tone is beseeching. She looks from me to my mom. “You can tell the police about me being there. Let’s call them now. But please don’t say anything about Izzie. I mean, maybe I was wrong.” She swallows hard. “I . . . Please,” she begs.

  I shake my head. “We’re not going to tell them,” I say. “You are.”

  Daphne shakes her head even harder. “I . . . I can’t. What if they get the wrong idea? What if—”

  I interrupt. “Daphne,” I say. “Do you think Isobel killed Stephen?”

  “No!” she looks aghast. “Never! Well, maybe in self-defense . . . If she surprised him out there and he jumped her.” She bows her head. “Oh God. It’s so awful.”

  “Toby’s right,” says my mom. “The police are bound to find out. If it was self-defense, Iz has no reason to worry. She’s never been in trouble in her life. The man was a fraudster. And a bigamist. He was breaking and entering, by the sound of it, trying to rob you.”

  Daphne nods. She blinks back tears. “Okay,” she takes a deep breath. “I’ll call the police—and Jackie—in the morning.”

  “Why not now?” I ask.

  Daphne shakes her head even more vehemently. “I’m tired. And I’ve had too much to drink,” she says. “I need my wits about me when I talk to the police. In the morning. I promise.”

  I study her strained face. Do I believe her? But what’s she going to do—head back to the airport and flee the country? Even if she killed Stephen, I think she’d stick around to defend Izzie.

  I rise to clear the table. “I’ve got some more sage smudge sticks in my bag,” my mom tells Daphne. “We should smudge the upstairs. Drive out all this negativity! Then you’ll be in a good place to talk to the police and get this all sorted out in the morning!”

  Daphne rises shakily to her feet. “Okay,” she says.

  I keep quiet. It’s going to take a lot more than sage and positivity to stop this train wreck. The cops are going to zero in on the Dane women. Daphne had better call Jackie.

  While they’re busy smudging, I load the dishwasher. Pretty soon, the whole house smells like the inside of a stuffed turkey.

  It’s close to nine when my mom and I exit the house. The temperature has dropped, the lawn sparkly with frost. We walk up Daphne’s long path. The wind whips right through my thin pantsuit. My mom pulls up her jacket’s hood and ties it under her chin, the effect elfin. “What a mess,” she says. I latch Daphne’s gate behind us.

  Turning, I can see my mom’s Honda, Easter egg yellow under a street lamp. I’ve hugged her and am turning to go when she stops me. “Honey?” She grasps my cold hand. “Wait.”

  “Yes Mom?”

  Beneath her peaked hood, her face looks tiny and anxious. “You don’t think she did it, do you?”

  “Who?” I say. “Daphne or her daughter?”

  My mom swallows hard. She jiggles her car keys. “I . . . Either, I guess.”

  I shrug. “I have no idea. Do you?” Why couldn’t my mom be psychic, just this once? It’d make everything so much simpler.

  “I think Daphne would confess if she had,” says my mom. “If they’d fought. If it was a crime of passion.” She chews on her lip. “She’d have gone straight to the cops and owned up.”

  I don’t respond. We all want to think the best of those we love. “Yeah, maybe,” I say. “Good night, Mom.”

  With a final squeeze, she releases my hand. “Get some sleep, hon.” She peers into my face. “You look tired. Your aura, it’s really squashed and dark tonight.”

  I just nod. While I don’t believe in auras, squashed and dark pretty much describes how I feel. I square my shoulders and trudge to my car. All I want is a long hot shower and a good night’s sleep, with no dreams about Josh and Vonda, or her and Daphne’s mysterious, murdered lover.

  CHAPTER 22:

  CRUMBLING

  It’s the kind of gloomy day that give West Coast winters a bad name. The glass in my office’s window seems to have been replaced by a sheet of rain. At ten to eleven, it feels like dusk, like the sun took one look at the clouds and refused to get up today.

  I wish I could have stayed in bed too. All night long I dreamt of Josh and Vonda and Colin and Miri. It was like watching a kissing scene on TV as a kid, through splayed fingers: gross yet riveting. I didn’t want to watch but had to.

  I yawn. A double espresso barely dented my fatigue, its effects worn off, long ago. I wish I could hibernate until April.

  Rather than sit and mope, with a lull between clients, I call Colin. Five rings. Six. I’m about to hang up when he picks up. “Toby!” This word is spoken with surprised joy. But his next words sound cautious. “Hey. How’s it going? Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes, thanks,” I say. “Any chance you’re free tonight? Maybe dinner and a movie?”

  “Ah, I’d love to,” he says. His tone is heavy with regret. “But I, uh, sorry. Just a sec.” There’s a squishy sound, no doubt from his hand covering his phone. “Hey, Toby?” He sounds frazzled. “You still there? Yeah, sorry about that. Um . . .” There’s another pause. He sounds totally distracted. “Hey, about tonight. I’m really sorry but I’m snowed under and have to . . .” A thud, like he just dropped the phone. In the background, some new noise starts up. Hectic music. Is that cartoons? Where is he?

  “Er, Toby?” He’s talking really fast. “I’m really sorry but I have to go. I, um, I’ll call you soon.”

  I can barely say “bye” before he’s hung up.

  I set down my phone. That kind of sucked. Him being free tonight was a long shot—it’s late notice. But why didn’t he make future plans? It’s been ages since our last date. I hope he’ll call back soon. It’s hard not to feel like Colin’s lost interest in me too. Has my lucky romantic star sputtered out? It barely had time to shine.

  I imagine a gloomy little cartoon cloud hovering over my head, dispersing grey raindrops.

  Feeling glum, I watch the rain glaze my window. It’ll soon be Christmas. Another year over. I’d better make plans soon. Quinn is going to Bruce’s family this year, in Calgary. And my mom always hosts half her yoga class for a big vegan Christmas dinner. They’re all nice enough, just a little weird—plus about forty years my senior. And after dinner, when I just want to chill, they all sing interfaith folk songs. Kumbayfuckingya. Lord help me. I can’t face it.

  I sigh. The holidays. They’re meant to be fun. Time for glamorous parties in metallic sweaters, cuddles beside a twinkling tree, and champagne-soaked kisses. It’s not the greatest season to be single.

  When my phone rings I’m on it in a flash. I’m so sure it’s Colin I almost say his name. But it’s my mom. “Hey hon,” she says. “Want to come over for dinner tonight? Quinn’s coming.”

  Before Abby was born, once a week, Quinn and I had dinner at my mom’s. I’m pleasantly surprised that Quinn’s coming tonight, leaving Bruce with the baby. “I’m making eggplant parmigiana,” says my mom. My mouth is already watering. “Are you free?”

  With Colin unavail
able, I have no plans. “Sure, what time?” I ask. I was planning to call her soon anyway, for an update on Daphne’s police interview. I wonder how it went. This is perfect: I can quiz my mom in person.

  “Oh, Jackie should be here by six-thirty,” says my mom. “Alistair’s at a conference in Toronto.”

  “Oh, Jackie’s coming too?” I say, surprised. I hope Daphne took my advice and called her.

  “Yes,” says my mom. “She’s bringing her famous cheesecake. And Quinn’s making a salad.”

  I fight back a groan. Bad luck. It’s potluck. I did not inherit my mom’s skills in the kitchen. My culinary talents max out at assembling a sandwich or making a salad—with store-bought dressing. And Quinn’s stolen the salad option. Damn her.

  I switch my phone to my other ear. Downstairs, “Last Christmas” is blasting from the jewelry shop. “This year, to save me from tears . . .” It’s hard not to warble along in my head. “Er, what can I bring?” I ask my mother.

  “Wine,” says my mom, who’s fully aware I can’t cook. “Red, I think.”

  I nod, gratefully. “Okay. Sure thing. Thanks, Mom.” I’ll stop by the liquor store on the way over. Out in the lobby, the secretary is singing along to Wham! with gusto.

  I’m about to ask whether Daphne has already spoken with the police when there’s a knock on my door. I check my watch. My eleven o’clock: a new client. Slowly, I’m starting to get busier. “Mom,” I say. “I have to go. I’ve got a client.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Bye hon. Tonight will be so much fun.” She sounds excited.

  I force my lips into a smile so she won’t hear a frown in my voice. My mom’s right. I should cheer up. I love Jackie and Quinn and my mom. Tonight will be fun. And yet I still feel sad and rejected. First Josh, now Colin . . . I shake my head. I’ve got to stop being self-defeating. I should take a lesson from Insta-Vonda and embrace positivity and self-love. As they say, fake it until you make it. But ew, that sounds exhausting.

  “See you soon, Mom.” I set down my phone.

  There’s another knock, louder this time. I run a hand through my hair and sit up straighter. “Come in,” I say. Time to get back to work and focus on my clients’ woes, instead of my sadly flagging love life.