Killer Coin Page 9

  “Not really.”

  I unpack them anyway and hand him his. We both pick at them. I know we’re both thinking about the dead guy. Who is he? Or rather who was he? And why would someone kill him? How did he get here?

  We can hear the boat before we see it. It rounds the rocky point, moving fast. White water V’s out from its grey prow. As it gets closer, it slows. I can make out the letters RCMP—Royal Canadian Mounted Police—stenciled onto its side. The word POLICE is written across the windshield in bright blue letters.

  We both stand and walk to the rail, watching in silence as it pulls up to the skinny jetty. It’s lower and smaller than the Great Escape. A fit-looking man jumps out and ties it up, followed by two chubby guys in matching square glasses. Bearing boxes and bags of equipment, they must be the crime techs. A thin man in a long dark coat steps carefully onto the dock. He’s clutching a briefcase. Is he the coroner? Next out is a tall, slim woman in tight black pants and a black baseball cap. Her shiny red-brown ponytail swishes behind her.

  Josh shades his eyes. Like me, he’s noticed the woman—and how could he not? She’s got legs like a pantyhose model, legs like . . . I can’t swallow.

  Oh God, no. It can’t be. But it is. Miriam Young. My stomach—still unsettled from finding the dead guy—flips and sinks even lower.

  And lower. It hits my pubis and ricochets. My jaw jolts up.

  Behind Miriam strides Detective Colin Destin. I’d know his walk anywhere. Chin up, shoulders back. Relaxed yet purposeful and watchful.

  I want to run, hide, shrink. But it’s too late. Colin’s eyes slide from the shoreline to the Great Escape, then narrow. After reading the boat’s name he looks up. He frowns when he spies Josh. Spotting me, his jaw tightens.

  After walking closer, he sets down the bag he’s holding and shades his eyes. He cranes his neck to peer up at the bridge. “Toby?” he calls sharply. “What are you doing here?”

  While I never hid the fact that I’m still seeing Josh, faced with both of them, I feel guilty. Colin’s hands find his hips. I start to answer but he cuts me off. “No, wait.” He shakes his head in disgust. Even from way I up here, I can see the reproach in his eyes. “Let me guess,” he says. “You found the body.”

  I nod, blushing.

  “Right,” says Colin. His clipped tone makes me want to cry. “Well, stay put. We’ll come speak to you soon.” He retrieves his bag.

  “Come on,” says Miriam. “We’d better see what we’ve got.” The crime techs and coroner have long since vanished.

  We watch Colin and Miriam walk along the dock and down the rocky beach. After they’ve vanished into the trees, Josh sits back down. He folds his arms. His lip is curled in annoyance. His foot keeps tapping. Is he just on edge after finding a corpse? Or is he upset about seeing Colin?

  He starts to fiddle with his phone. From the way he’s sitting, with his back slightly turned, it’s obvious he doesn’t want to talk. Shaky and miserable, I dig out my thermos. “Hot chocolate?” I offer.

  He just shakes his head, an irritated shake, like a fly landed on him.

  I guzzle lukewarm hot chocolate in a lame attempt to feel better. Talk about a crappy date! It’s hard to imagine how it could get worse. I’ve set a new personal record.

  Waiting for Colin and Miriam to reappear, I feel like a small kid sitting outside the principal’s office. How long will I have to wait? What will Colin say to me? Why oh why did he have to get this case? Will Josh and Colin forgive me? Of all the bad luck. I can hardly believe it. And yet it’s so typical.

  We wait for what feels like eons but is actually closer to twenty minutes. Finally, when I’ve worked myself into a nervous lather, Colin and Miriam reappear. Watching their approach, I feel sick. My anxiety is tinged with jealousy. They look so good together, both so tall and athletic. Why did I have to inherit Ivy’s lack of height? Half my casual wardrobe hails from the Girls’ Department. Compared to Miri, I’m a midget.

  “Hello?” calls Miriam. “Can we come up?”

  Josh looks up from his phone and frowns. “Of course,” he says. He stands. Colin and Miriam climb the boat’s spiral staircase.

  Colin and Josh met last summer, back when Josh was a suspect in his ex-wife’s murder. Now, the two men shake hands. They seem cordial, even friendly, but I can feel their tension. Colin’s polite smile doesn’t reach his eyes, while Josh’s appears frozen.

  “Josh,” says Colin. He casts a real smile toward Miriam. “This is my new partner, Detective Miriam Young.”

  Josh shakes Miriam’s hand with considerably more enthusiasm than he’d shaken Colin’s. “Hi, Detective.” He flashes her his megawatt smile: white teeth, blue eyes, bronze skin, golden hair. The effect is dazzling. Again, jealousy stabs through me.

  While Miriam doesn’t return Josh’s smile, she doesn’t look unfriendly either—just observant and neutral. Her hair is in a French braid. A dark pink scarf circles her elegant neck. Whoever said redheads should avoid pink has never seen Miriam Young. But then, natural beauty goes with everything.

  When she turns my way, her big brown eyes search my face. “Toby.” A quick smile. “Fancy meeting you here.” It could sound snide but doesn’t.

  I shrug. Believe me, I wish I were just about anyplace else. “Hi, Miriam.”

  Her gaze seems to soften. “Are you okay? It must have been quite a shock, finding that guy.”

  She seems so likable. Or is she just trying to get me to lower my guard? But why? Surely Josh and I aren’t suspects. We don’t even know the dead guy. I hate feeling so suspicious of Miriam, and so envious. If only she weren’t partnered with Colin—and so attractive. If only she were a crusty old man. Or some young kid, just out of the police academy, covered in pimples.

  I nod, warily. “Yes, it was a shock.”

  Josh drags a couple more chairs across the deck.

  “Do you mind if we record this?” asks Colin. He pulls a tiny recorder out of his coat’s pocket.

  I’m surprised but just nod. He sets it onto a nearby table and takes a seat. He looks from me to Josh, like he’s weighing something up.

  I drop my gaze. Sitting here, with both men, I feel guilty and uncomfortable. But why should I? I’m just getting to know them both better. Taking things slowly isn’t a crime. I’m not lying to anyone. I really do like both of them. A lot. I want to blurt this out but bite my lip. A man died. This isn’t about me and my stupid romantic indecision.

  “We’ll do this one at a time,” says Colin. He turns to me, uncharacteristically serious. Normally, his green eyes dance with light. Right now, they’re hard and flat. “Let’s begin with Toby.” He glances at Josh. “Do you mind waiting downstairs?” It’s an order not a question.

  Josh gets up without a word and descends the stairs. I watch Colin’s finger depress the ON button on his tiny tape recorder. He states the time and my name, then turns my way. “So why are you here?” Am I only just imagining the accusation in his voice?

  I remind him about my mom’s concern about Daphne Dane, and how, since she hasn’t shown up, I decided to search her holiday cabin.

  “Did the Danes know you were coming?”

  I shake my head, blushing. My mom knew. But she’s not a Dane. Even though it’s true, saying she and Daphne are like family won’t hold water from a legal standpoint. It’s a scary realization. You can be someone’s best friend for thirty years but, in a crisis, their relatives get to make the key decisions, even if they’re motivated by self-interest. Looking for Daphne was the right thing to do, yet technically, I’m a trespasser. My blush deepens.

  The next questions are easier. What time did we leave Oak Bay Marina? What time did we arrive here? Did I see anyone or have the sense someone might be around the Danes’ cabin?

  “No. It looked abandoned,” I say. I glance toward the woods and shiver.

  “So why did you go inside?”

  I shrug, recalling the dread I felt upon seeing that discarded man’s shoe. “I felt I had to
,” I say. “Just in case Daphne was in there. In trouble . . .” I know it sounds crazy. “My mom’s so worried.”

  “The deceased,” says Colin. “Did you recognize him?”

  “No.” I fight back the image of that awful head wound. And the flies. His empty blue eye. My stomach twists. “Do you know who he is?” I ask Colin.

  He shakes his head. But would he tell me even if he did?

  “Did you find the safe?” I ask him.

  “What safe?” asks Miriam. There are dark hollows beneath her eyes today. Still, it would take a lot more than looking tired to mar her astonishing beauty. With her luminous light brown skin and coppery hair she’s got extraordinary coloring. It’s hard not to stare at her.

  I explain about the coins. Colin and Miriam exchange a meaningful look. “We’ll check on that,” says Colin, tightly.

  When he speaks to Miriam, there’s more warmth in his voice: “We’d better get one of Daphne’s kids out here to open the safe.”

  I shift in my seat. “They don’t know the combo.”

  Colin turns to me with a frown.

  “Only Daphne does,” I explain. “And she’s still missing. Do you think the dead guy, whoever he is . . .” My voice drops. “Maybe he was out here trying to steal Walt’s coin collection?”

  Again, Colin and Miriam lock eyes.

  “Who knew those coins were out here?” asks Colin.

  “Only the family, from what Gerard said.” I explain how Isobel had learned of the coins’ whereabouts and caused a big stink at a family dinner, the night before Daphne went missing.

  “Oh yeah?” says Miriam. She licks her full lips. Colin’s eyes brighten.

  Seeing their avid expressions I know what they’re thinking: Gerard, Isobel, and Lukas Dane are about to get visits from the cops. From what I heard, they’re all short of cash. Did one of them hire this blond guy to come out here and crack the safe? And then what, they argued about how to split the loot and bashed him?

  My far-fetched musings are interrupted by Colin, whose own brain—I can see from his glinting eyes—has been spinning. “That family dinner,” he says. “Where was it?”

  I think back to the conversation I overheard in L’Escargot D’Or. “At Daphne’s house.”

  He nods, as do I, because, just a for a moment, we’re connected again. We’ve both had the same thought: the list of people who knew about the coin collection has expanded, a little. Daphne’s housekeeper, Grace, would likely have been there. And her new boyfriend, Stephen . . . Gerard had whined about him and Daphne acting like teenagers that night. With a start, I remember that Colin and Miriam don’t even know about Daphne’s new man. Isobel failed to tell them.

  “There’s something else,” I say. “Daphne has a new boyfriend. A British guy named Stephen Buxley. He was at that dinner too . . .”

  Miriam rubs her hands. “Oh yeah? Any idea where we could find him?”

  “With Daphne, I guess,” I say. “That’s what Daphne’s housekeeper, Grace, figured. That they’re off on a romantic vacation.”

  Colin tilts his head. “This man, Stephen Buxley. Any idea what he looks like?”

  I shake my head. “No. All I know is he’s younger. Like around fifty.” I struggle to recall what else Grace had said about the man. “Grace said he was ex-military.” Unbidden, an image of the dead man’s head pops into my mind. That short, perfectly trimmed hair . . . His fit torso . . . A dead middle-aged white guy.

  From the stillness that’s descended, I know we’re all wondering the same thing. Could the dead guy be Daphne’s younger lover? And if so, where’s Daphne?

  CHAPTER 12:

  A BAD END

  The first time I went out on Josh’s boat, we almost died. The second time, we found a dead body. Talk about bad luck. While I don’t want to believe in signs and omens, it’s hard not to feel like I’d be better off avoiding the Great Escape. Unless it’s third time lucky.

  It’s close to five by the time we’re allowed to leave. We’re both quiet on the homeward trip. As if to match our mood, it pours the whole way back. Plus it’s gotten rough. We both retreat to the glassed-in cabin. It’s too dark to see the scenery. My lame attempts at conversation are met by one-word answers. I want to scream. Yes, today sucked but there’s no need to make it worse. Why is Josh being so distant?

  Finally, I snap and ask what’s wrong.

  “I’m tired, that’s all.”

  So am I. But that’s not all. The tension between us is as heavy as the rain. I hate it when people are angry but won’t admit it.

  After that, I stop trying to melt the ice. Rain twists down the windows.

  I feel limp with exhaustion when we finally motor into Oak Bay Marina. The docks lie dark and deserted. No pirate jokes as I tie us up. Back we arrrrrrrr, I think sadly, aware that my inner pirate has morphed into Yoda.

  Josh’s car looks lonesome in the huge, empty lot. Even Beach Drive is deserted. We run hunched against the rain, skirting puddles.

  We’re back in Josh’s Porsche when my phone rings. It’s my mom, asking about our trip. I don’t want to tell her about finding a dead man. She’ll freak out. But I can’t lie. She always knows when I do. It’s uncanny.

  “We, er, found something,” I say. “Out at Daphne’s cottage.” I inhale. There’s really no good way to say it. “A strange man died out there,” I say. “We found his body.”

  As expected, she’s shocked. “Holy moley!” she says. “Someone died out there? Who was he?”

  “The cops don’t know yet.”

  There’s music playing at my mom’s—the sort of soft, chiming tune they favor in fancy spas. It sets my teeth on edge, the musical equivalent of cheesy social media affirmations: If you love something, set it free etcetera. Does anyone find these tunes relaxing?

  “Oh how dreadful. What’d he look like?” asks my mother.

  I describe the John Doe as best I can—a tall, well-built white guy with short, neat, fair hair, dressed in a white button-down shirt and navy slacks. I clear my throat. “What does Daphne’s boyfriend look like?”

  “Stephen Buxley?” says my mom. She sounds alarmed. “I don’t know. I haven’t met him yet.”

  I fight back a sigh. That’s the thing about people my mom’s age: they don’t share photos documenting every moment of their lives. Daphne’s not even on Facebook, which is popular with older folk.

  “Why?” asks my mom. Her voice is breathy. “Do the police think it’s—”

  I cut her off. “They don’t know. Or aren’t saying.”

  Josh speeds up to catch a yellow light. I wish he wouldn’t, especially in this weather.

  “I knew it,” says my mother. Her voice thickens. “I just knew something awful had happened. The cards . . .”

  I cut in, fast, suddenly, absurdly hopeful. “Any word from Daphne yet?”

  There’s a pause, filled only by tinkly music. A fake bird twitters. “No.” Her voice is fearful.

  “Well, at least now the police are looking for her,” I tell my mother.

  There’s a pause as she takes this in. “Do they think she’s been . . .” She gulps for air. “Injured? Did they search the cabin?”

  “They did,” I say. “They’re trying to find her, Mom. Try not to worry. There might be no connection. For all we know, the dead guy could have been a squatter, killed by some other squatter.”

  It sounds plausible, except even as I say this, I recall those shiny brown shoes. Since when do squatters wear dress shoes? Or navy trousers with perfect creases?

  We turn onto my street. “Mom,” I say. “Can I call you back? Give me ten, fifteen minutes?”

  She says sure. I stash my phone in my coat pocket.

  Josh pulls up in front of my building. In the gloom, various tenants have turned on their lights. The old place looks warm and inviting. As usual, head-busybody, Mrs. Daggett, is staring down from her second-floor window, half obscured by a lace curtain. She’s got a lisp, hair like something pulled out o
f a shower drain, and one facial expression: pinched disapproval.

  One floor up sits Mrs. Van Dortmund’s cat, kept indoors by the rain. It’s got one foot in the air and is licking its butt, like it’s doing cat yoga.

  I undo my seatbelt and turn to Josh. In the dashboard light, his face is taut and slicked sickly green. I take a deep breath. Everything about today has felt off, but then it would. We found a dead man.

  Or did the uncomfortable feeling precede our grim discovery? I don’t think so. We were having such fun . . . I’m not sure what to say. Another deep breath. “Are you okay?” I ask him.

  Josh zips up his red jacket. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” I shudder, trying to repress the memory of that shiny shoe. The empty navy sock. The unnaturally pale foot. “It was just . . . shocking.”

  While his head is twisted my way, his body isn’t. Both his hands are still on the wheel. He’s not looking at me, but out the window behind my head.

  Is he mad that I got him involved in another murder investigation? Did the police interview rattle him? Or is it something else? I bite my lip. There’s a cold, empty feeling in my belly.

  The windshield wipers sweep back and forth. “Okay. Well, see you soon?” I hate that I sound so plaintive. Why’s he being so cold? We just found a dead body—a grim experience but a shared one. Shouldn’t this visceral reminder of death make us feel even more alive, more determined to live to the fullest? Shouldn’t it bring us closer?

  My head throbs. I don’t understand his reaction. We should be taking comfort in each other. I want to hold him and be held, to feel his warm, living body.

  Finally, he meets my gaze. I see a flash of resentment in his deep blue eyes. I freeze. “Toby, I want to be with you,” he says. “All the time. I need you.”

  I blink. He’s saying stuff I’ve always longed to hear, stuff I spent years imagining. So why do I feel like I’m being chastised instead of cherished? And why are his eyes so angry?

  His chin juts out. “This has been going on too long,” he says. “When are you going to decide if you’re my girlfriend or not?”