Killer Coin Page 2

Her pretty face falls. She runs her hands through her messy hair. “Oh. With Colin?”

  “No, Josh.”

  Normally, my mom would be full of questions. My love life, or lack thereof, is one of her favorite topics. She must be really worried because she doesn’t even react.

  I chew on my lip. I ought to help. Guilt kicks in, followed by resentment. Why does she need me to accompany her to Daphne’s house? This thought brings more guilt. I take a deep breath. My mom doesn’t ask for much. Even when she was going through cancer treatment last year, she never complained. When I moved home to Victoria she was absurdly grateful. Accompanying her to Daphne’s is the least I can do.

  Another quick look at my watch. “I’ll call Josh,” I say. “And tell him I’ll be late. Does Daphne still live in Rockland?”

  “Yes. The same place.”

  Good news. That’s not far. I can go there first, then continue downtown to meet Josh. As usual, just the thought of him gives me a buzz. We’re going to a fancy French restaurant, the chicest place in town. “Just let me freshen up,” I say. While Victoria is the provincial capital, it’s a casual sort of town: even in a fancy restaurant, my dark work skirt suit will do fine. And I can live without doing my hair. Josh has seen me looking much worse. Sparkly earrings, high heels, and some lipstick will more than suffice.

  For the first time tonight, my mother smiles. “Thank you.” Her look of gratitude intensifies my guilt. She flops onto my small 50s-style couch and reaches for her now-cold tea. “I know you think I’m crazy,” she says. When I don’t deny it, she wiggles a skinny finger at me. “I hope I’m wrong,” she says. “But the cards . . .” The way she’s staring into her cup, I’m scared she’s reading her tea. She sighs. “I have a really bad feeling.”

  CHAPTER 3:

  A BIT OF A MESS

  I pull up behind my mom’s yellow Honda hatchback. It’s a miracle it’s still running. She bought it second-hand back when I was in law school.

  Standing before Daphne’s arched gate, my mother looks small and nervous. Her legs—which I’ve sadly inherited—are so thin that her spandex yoga pants are baggy. It’s late November, and far from warm. I button my wool coat and tuck my scarf in at the neck. My dark tights are flimsy and the wind is biting.

  Surrounded by high laurel hedges, Daphne Dane’s house could pass for a historic hotel, with a black and white Tudor facade, various elaborate, steeply pitched roofs, and dormer windows. There’s even a turret, which naturally reminds me of a madwoman in the attic.

  My mom unlatches the gate. I follow her through it. The front garden is massive, the perfect grass bordered by flower beds and landscaped shrubbery. A well-lit stone walkway leads to broad front steps and an open-fronted porch. Since I’m wearing heels, I tread carefully. In the center of the lawn, an old monkey puzzle tree rises as high as the house.

  We’re climbing the front steps when something squeals.

  I stop and clutch my mom’s arm. “What the—?”

  She keeps climbing. “Oh, that’s Daphne’s potbellied pig, Kevin. He’s like a guard pig. Anyone arrives, he makes a racket.”

  “She has a pig?” I say, aghast. “In Rockland?” Her poor neighbors. Those high-pitched squeals carry.

  “A miniature pig,” says my mom. “Although he’s a bit larger than expected.”

  I peer at the imposing front door, the carved wood inset with stained glass. The pig’s aria continues. It sounds gigantic.

  We’ve now reached the top of the stairs. When I press the doorbell, the pig’s squeals turn to grunts. The front door shakes like some thing heavy has smacked it. As the bell’s chimes fade, I listen for approaching footsteps.

  While we’re both focused on the door, a raspy voice comes from behind. “Hello?”

  We both swing around. A young man is walking our way, slowly, like he’s exhausted. Slung across his thin torso is a saffron cloth bag like those carried by monks. On his back is a massive backpack.

  At the bottom of the steps, he stops and gapes up at us. Despite the cold, he’s dressed in frayed board shorts, flip-flops, and a faded sweatshirt with an image of Ganesh on the front. He rubs his wispy hair from his eyes and squints in recognition. “Mrs. Wong?” he says, slowly. “Hey? How’s it going?”

  My mom smiles. “Hi, Lukas,” she says. “I’m well, thanks. Did you just get back? Daphne said you were traveling.”

  Lukas nods. “Um, yeah. India,” he says, vaguely. He yawns. “I’m beat. Such a long flight. And Mom’s and Grace’s phones were off, so I had to hitch a ride from the airport.” He peers up at the house, disgruntled.

  I have a sudden, vivid memory of him as a spoiled, chubby kid—ill from gorging on chocolate cake at some fancy hotel buffet. He’s certainly lost the baby weight. Twenty years on, he looks malnourished, as well as scruffy. He’s got a beach bum’s ragged blond hair but the pallor of a teenage gamer.

  He adjusts the straps of his pack. “Is my mom home?”

  “She doesn’t seem to be,” says my mom. “She missed an appointment so I got worried and came over. I couldn’t reach her either.”

  “Oh,” says Lukas. “I thought it was just my phone, ‘cause it’s like, out of cash.” He starts to climb the stairs. “My van’s in the shop. I came over to borrow one of Mom’s cars.”

  My mother nods. “Can we check indoors? It’s not like Daphne to miss a reading.”

  “Sure,” says Lukas, now joining us on the porch. He shrugs off his heavy pack. Like every other Canadian who’s ever backpacked anywhere, he’s sewn a small Maple Leaf flag onto his pack. We wait as he rummages slowly through various pockets. Unlike my mom, he doesn’t look worried.

  I grit my teeth. At this rate, I’ll be here all night. My stomach rumbles. I skipped my usual late afternoon snack to leave more room for tonight’s saucy French dinner.

  Finally, Lukas extracts a set of keys. Behind the door, the pig is still grunting.

  Lukas has just stuck his key in the lock when a woman calls out from behind us. All three of us turn to see a skinny blonde striding our way. She’s trailed by a dumpy man holding a man-bag. They’re both dressed for golf in matching aqua polo shirts and beige and aqua plaid slacks. Even their shoes match. These outfits seem especially absurd on account of their size difference—the woman is a Chihuahua and the guy a well-fed bulldog.

  The woman’s hands clasp her narrow hips: “When did you get back?” she barks at Lukas.

  He doesn’t answer.

  I look from Lukas to the blonde, whom I now recognize as his sister. I struggle to recall her name. Ingrid? Annabel? The last time I saw her she was about fifteen, with a velvet headband and a haughty determination to ignore me at some lame holiday party.

  She’s got Lukas’s sharp nose, slender frame, and narrow face. But despite their physical similarity, they couldn’t look less alike—Lukas in his ratty, beach-tourist garb, and his sister in her preppie golf-wear.

  “Why are you here?” she snaps.

  “Geez. Nice to see you too, Isobel,” says Lukas. His sister’s frown deepens. “I’m here to see Mom. I just got back,” continues Lukas. He shifts from foot to foot. “From, you know, that meditation retreat?”

  Isobel’s blue eyes register me and my mom, then dismiss us. She stomps up the steps toward us. “Just listen to that pig!” Her voice is sharp with indignation. “We need to stop it!”

  “Isobel?” says my mother.

  Isobel’s plucked eyebrows rise in confusion before dipping with annoyance.

  “I’m your mom’s friend, Ivy,” explains my mom. “It’s been a long time since we last met.”

  I’m sure Isobel knows exactly who we are. How many Asian friends does her mom have? Even as a kid she was rude and snobby.

  My mom’s smile never falters. She repeats her story about Daphne’s missed appointment.

  Isobel looks my mom up and down. Her thin upper lip curls. “Oh. You’re the fortune teller?” Based on her tone, these last two words could be substituted wit
h any number of insults.

  My mom nods. “That’s me.” She sounds resolutely cheerful.

  Faced with Isobel Dane’s cold stare, I feel my cheeks redden. I know exactly how this snooty woman views my mom—as a charlatan, out to scam her rich, elderly mother. While I share Isobel’s suspicion of the occult, Daphne Dane is no gullible fool. And my mom’s not dishonest—just delusional. She loves Daphne like a sister.

  I’m tempted to defend my mom’s honor. But how? Isobel is looking straight through me.

  Isobel’s partner has now joined us on the steps. When he removes his cap, I see he’s almost entirely bald. If it weren’t for the golf wear, he’d look exactly like Alfred Hitchcock.

  “Oh, listen to that pig!” he says, in a peevish French accent. “No wonder the neighbors have complained!” He pulls a hankie from his man-bag and mops his brow. “They have telephoned us, saying it is making noises all day! We must shut it up! Where is that woman who works for Daphne? Open the door, Lukas!”

  Lukas shrugs. Maybe he’s jet-lagged, or just really laid back, but he’s moving in slow motion. “Geez, chill, Gerard,” he says.

  Already red, the Frenchman’s scalp purples. Isobel shoots Lukas a poisonous look and lays a soothing hand on Gerard’s arm. “The neighbors called us,” she tells Lukas, haughtily. “While you’ve been off . . . wherever . . .” She waves a hand. “I’ve been dealing with Mom’s issues.”

  The pig emits a particularly piercing squeal. Isobel flinches. “We have to convince Mom to get rid of it. It’s absurd! Just because George Clooney had one!”

  While I doubt Isobel and I would agree on much, she has a point. That pig seems like a crazy rich person’s pet, like Michael Jackson’s chimpanzee or Mike Tyson’s tiger.

  No sooner has Lukas opened the door when the pig comes barreling out. Miniature, my ass—or rather ten times bigger. Black, white, and hairy, it’s shaped like a barrel on elf legs. It pounds down the front steps, squealing.

  On the lawn, its squeals cede to happy oinks. After running in circles, it shoves its snout under the pristine green. Clods of dirt and grass fly. Before Gerard can yell “Merde! Arrete!” it has gauged out a meteor-strike-sized crater.

  Isobel shrieks. Gerard tuts. Lukas can’t stop giggling.

  While everyone else watches the pig, my mother sticks her head around the front door. “Daphne?” she calls. “Hello? Daphne?” She gasps. “Oh my gosh! Look at this mess!”

  I follow my mom into Daphne’s wood-paneled hall. High overhead, an old crystal chandelier glints in the gloom. Beside a coat cupboard, an ornate side-table has been knocked over. An antique brass telephone rests in a puddle on the wooden floor. Nearby, lie a broken vase and a scattering of squished purple chrysanthemums. Soggy magazines litter the hall.

  My mom bends to pick up a pink satin shoe, its high heel scoured with tooth marks. She looks around, wide-eyed. “Good gracious. What happened?”

  Lukas steps inside and stops. He frowns down the dark hall. “Hey Mom?” he calls. “Hellooooo Moooooom?” He sounds put out. “Hey, it’s me! I’m home, Mom!”

  Nobody answers.

  Gerard and Isobel step inside too. Isobel gasps. “Grace?” she screeches up the stairs. “Grace?” Again, there’s no reply. “She should be working today,” says Isobel, crossly. Her voice rises: “Grace? Mommy?”

  Gerard pouts. “That cochon!” he says. He lowers himself to an uncomfortable-looking squat and runs a finger along a scratched floorboard. “This is mahogany.” He sounds outraged. “You cannot even buy this kind of wood anymore! It is endangered!”

  Isobel ventures further down the hall. “Mommy?” Unlike her brother or her husband, she sounds genuinely worried. She turns: “Gerard?” He’s still examining the wooden floor. She returns and tugs at his elbow. “Do . . . do you think the pig made this mess?” she asks him.

  “But of course!” says Gerard. He rises, shakily, to his feet. “It is destroying the garden! And now this!” He points at the scratched floor. “I told her. A pig—it is not a suitable pet. She should get a little poodle. Or a cat . . . A Siamese.” When he shakes his head in disgust, multiple chins quiver. “Look at those scratches!” He throws up his hands in the French gesture of outraged surrender.

  Peering into the dark house, I’m not sure Kevin is to blame. Yes, he chewed the shoe. But did he knock over that heavy table?

  My mom’s already hurrying down the hall, calling for Daphne. Lukas and I follow.

  Daphne’s house has a lot of rooms. We search everywhere: main floor, upstairs, and even the basement. Everything is in order.

  When it’s clear Daphne’s not here, we follow Lukas into the kitchen. Isobel and Gerard are already there, making tea. They don’t offer us any. A trail of muddy trotter-prints leads to the back door, which contains what looks like a giant cat-flap.

  “For the pig,” says my mom, when she sees me examining it. I push on the flap but it won’t budge. “The pig has a microchip that signals it to open,” explains my mother. “Otherwise, burglars could get in.”

  “Wow,” I say, wondering how much this contraption must have cost. “Daphne must really love that pig.”

  “Oh, she does,” says my mom. “He was just a wee little piglet when she got him.” She raises her hands to show me Kevin’s then size, like a small rabbit. “A teacup pig. It’s just bad luck he got so big.” She shrugs philosophically. “That’s the mystery of genetics.”

  Right, I think. And unscrupulous breeders. Kevin is to a teacup as a blue whale is to a bathtub.

  I unlock the back door and step onto the back deck. My mom walks out behind me. It might be trendy, but it still seems insane to keep a potbellied pig in the house. Although Kevin must spend a lot of time outdoors. Surrounded by a high fence, Daphne’s large back yard is crisscrossed by long furrows and giant craters. It’s like a World War I battlefield, post-typhoon. That pig’s been engaging in trench warfare.

  In a far corner stands a small wooden shed with a red-tiled roof, like a rich kid’s cubby house. “Kevin’s cottage,” explains my mother.

  Gerard steps out behind us. His round cheeks puff in disgust. “This house, it is heritage-listed,” he says. “Built in 1901. It’s disgraceful to keep a farm animal in such a fine building!”

  I make a sympathetic noise and introduce myself. “I’m Toby, by the way. And this is my mom, Ivy, an old friend of Daphne’s.”

  “The lady clairvoyant?” enquires Gerard. Maybe I’m just imagining it, but I think I see mockery in his watery green eyes. But then he surprises me and grasps my mom’s hand. “Enchanteé” he tells her. “Daphne says you’re very good. I should consult you.”

  Is he serious? While I wouldn’t have pegged Gerard as a believer, I’m constantly surprised that seemingly smart and sane people will pay a stranger to make random guesses about their lives.

  “I am planning a new business venture,” explains Gerard. “And want to get off on the right foot.”

  My mom smiles. “I’m often hired to help choose an auspicious day,” she says. “Timing is everything.”

  I try to conceal my skepticism. “What do you do?” I ask Gerard.

  He looks surprised. Like I should know. “I’m a chef,” he says, proudly. “And Isobel is a hôtelier”. He pronounces this last word the French way. “We met years ago, at the Cordon Bleu institute in Paris.”

  Paree. This reminds me of Vonda Butt’s romantic honeymoon and brief marriage.

  The door cracks open. “Gerard?” Isobel’s voice is sharp. Maybe she thinks he’s out here flirting, or maybe she’s just upset about her mother. She runs a hand through her thin bob. “Mommy’s phone is still off. What should we do?” she asks Gerard.

  Despite my many attempts to make eye contact, Isobel still hasn’t acknowledged my existence.

  Lukas steps outside too. In one hand he’s holding a bag of Dane jumbo chocolate chip cookies. He must have found them in his mom’s kitchen. His other hand contains half a cookie. “I’m sure Mom�
��s fine,” he says, then shoves the rest in his mouth. He chews contentedly. “Wow, these are good,” he says. “So chocolatey!”

  My mom swallows hard. “I . . . I’m not so sure,” she says. She fiddles with the scarf at her neck. “I’m scared something has happened.” She tugs at her scarf’s tassels. “I’ve got this bad feeling . . .”

  While I doubt Isobel has any faith in psychics, my mom’s misgivings must mirror her own. She wrings her skinny hands. “Chéri, should we call the police?” she asks her husband.

  Lukas looks up sharply. He stops chewing. “For real? The police? It’s only been a few hours. Mom’s probably out getting a massage, or something.”

  “Of course you’re not worried about a few hours,” snaps Isobel. “You’ve been away for what—two, three weeks? Did you even call her?”

  Looking at Isobel’s creased face, I recall the mess in the front hall. Maybe the pig knocked that table over, or maybe it was the scene of a struggle. Daphne’s not just a little bit rich. She’s scary rich, like rich enough to get kidnapped.

  I think of Colin Destin. He’d be happy to check things out. Getting his professional opinion would reassure my mom. More likely than not, Lukas is right: Daphne will walk in any minute now, fresh and shiny from some expensive facial.

  “I have a friend who’s a police detective,” I say. “Colin,” I tell my mom, who loves the guy. “I could call him?”

  Lukas rolls his eyes. “You’d be wasting his time.”

  “I think you should call him,” says my mother. “Please, call him, hon.”

  I reach into my purse and find my cellphone.

  Lukas shrugs. “Whatever.” He turns to his sister. “D’you know where Mom keeps the keys to her Audi?” He digs a hand in the bag and extracts another huge cookie.

  Isobel’s eyes narrow. “Why? You’re not borrowing it.”

  “Says who?” He takes a big bite, his words muffled because his mouth is so full. “My van’s leaking oil. Mmmmm . . .” He tilts the bag toward his sister. “You ever tried these? They’re amazing.”

  She swats the bag away. “You can’t just take Mom’s car without permission!”