Killer Coin

by Elka Ray

  My best friend looks around her kitchen, like it’s all new to her. Finally, her eyes swing back to me. Her top lip curls. “They were making out.”

  “Like a little kiss?”

  She shakes her head and bites on a cuticle. While she’s trying to spare my feelings, I’d rather know. When I tell her this, she shrugs. “Okay. Fine. We’re talking major tongue. And I didn’t even look at their hands.” She makes a face. “Yuck,” she says.

  I grimace. “Maybe it’s a rebound thing,” I say, hopefully. “Like he’s brokenhearted and trying to drown his sorrow.”

  “Right. In another woman’s spit,” says Quinn. Seeing my crestfallen face, she looks contrite. She tugs at her ear. “Sorry.”

  Quinn has never liked Josh. She never forgave him for breaking my heart as a teenager. Talk about holding a grudge. Despite his best efforts to win her over, she’s remained suspicious of his motives. So of course she’d see this incident in the worst possible light. Although it’s hard to cast a good light on it. Slightly more than twelve hours after declaring his need for me, he’s getting down and dirty with another woman in a car, parked by a public beach.

  “Where were they parked?” I ask. I feel a masochistic need to picture the scene.

  “Down by Cattle Point,” says Quinn. “They were in a red convertible.” She makes a face. “I mean talk about tacky. It was like a teenage-boy, midlife-crisis type of convertible.”

  I wince. I can imagine the scene all too well. Except Josh’s Porsche is grey. It must have been her car. I try to picture her: the kind of woman who drives a flashy red convertible. “What’d she look like?” I ask.

  Quinn shakes her head. “Seriously, Tob. Who cares? Just forget about Josh. And her, whoever she is.”

  I nod. This is sound advice. If our roles were reversed I’d say the same thing. As did Daphne’s housekeeper, Grace, only this morning. Forget about the guy. He was bad news. Move on.

  But like Daphne, I need to keep poking this bruise. “Was she blonde?” I ask. Josh’s ex-wife and ex-mistress were both beautiful, buxom blondes. My physical opposites. He has a thing for curvy blondes.

  Quinn gives me a look of disgust. “No. A brunette.”

  “Pretty?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Jesus, Toby. You seriously want to know?”

  I nod.

  “Okay.” She lowers her knees and sits cross-legged on her wooden chair. She’s wearing jeans and an old blue sweater of Bruce’s that’s slightly paler than her eyes. “She was sitting down so I couldn’t tell if she’s tall, short or average,” says Quinn. “Slim but curvy. Hard to tell her age. Maybe late twenties? Early thirties? Very attractive, with long dark brown hair. Stylishly dressed in a black leather jacket. She was wearing a hat—a dark raspberry beret. And it looked good on her.”

  I frown. Now Quinn’s being mean. I look dreadful in hats, like a kid playing dress up.

  Her eyes narrow. “Enough?” she asks. “Can I stop, please?”

  I nod but feel ill, like I’ve just gorged on fast food. I know I asked for the quarter pounder with super-sized fries, but it was a bad, bad idea. Quinn should have kept saying no. I rub my eyes.

  “Do you want a drink?” asks Quinn. She unfolds her legs and stands up. I nod. She pulls a red tin from a high cupboard. “Tea?”

  “Um, no thanks.” After this morning’s tea-a-thon, I want something else. Like a liter or two of scotch. Too bad it’s only midday. Quinn pours herself a glass of milk. “Just more water, please,” I say.

  She refills my glass and reclaims her seat. I take a sip. The cool water feels good going down. Thinking about Josh and this brunette beauty has heaved a boulder onto my chest. I take another calming sip. Quinn is watching me carefully.

  “Toby,” she says. “You might not agree, just yet, but trust me—this is for the best.”

  I scratch my head. How? I’m sure she’ll enlighten me, soon enough.

  “You couldn’t decide,” she says. “Well, the decision’s been made.”

  I nod. That’s true. But what if it’s the wrong decision?

  She leans forward. “You like Colin, right?”

  I nod again. I really do. But I spent so many years wanting Josh.

  “Well, he likes you too. A lot. He’s in love.”

  I wonder how she can be so sure, especially now, with Miriam on the scene. Why would he choose me, with a woman like that by his side? Shared cases. Shared interests. Both of them equally fit and fabulous. Like two perfect peas in a pod.

  Maybe Quinn sees the doubt in my eyes because she intensifies her efforts. “He’s crazy about you, Tob. You guys are so good together. A really good fit.”

  I stay silent. Colin is one of Bruce’s best friends. Of course Quinn wants me and him to be together. It’d be like a happy sitcom, the four of us best buddies. Cue the cheery theme song. She has Bruce and Abby and wants the same things for me. And she wants a best friend for Abby, as soon as possible.

  “So maybe this is a sign,” says Quinn. “And you can focus on being happy with Colin.” She tilts her head and stops talking. Her eyes narrow. “What are you thinking?”

  “I think you’re right,” I say. It couldn’t be clearer. Before the dust from my fight with Josh even settled he was all over another woman. He’s not sitting around missing me. He’s not broken-hearted.

  I think of Daphne’s housekeeper and how she’d described Stephen Buxley as a “cad.” Is Josh a cad? It’s such an old-fashioned term. What’s the modern equivalent? A jerk? An asshole? A love-rat? Yes, anyone who can move on that fast is a love-rat.

  I should forget Josh. If Quinn is right about Colin, I’m a very lucky woman. Colin is awesome. Except I don’t feel lucky.

  I feel kicked to the curb and deflated. Like a cheap discarded toy. A trinket—briefly admired, then forgotten. Worse still, this feeling is so familiar. I felt this way aged fourteen when Josh dumped me for a sexy mean-girl. I’m thirty-three but have learned nothing. And poor Daphne’s seventy-something. Brains, beauty, and wealth couldn’t protect her. It might be safer to stay single.

  I don’t say this to Quinn. “I guess I just need some time,” I say. “To feel better. It just came out of the blue.”

  Quinn nods. “Maybe you should do something fun with Colin.”

  The way I’m feeling right now, I don’t think I’m capable of having—or being—fun. “He’s really busy these days,” I say. “With Stephen Buxley’s murder still unsolved.”

  “He still needs to eat,” says Quinn. “You could stop by his place with Chinese takeaway sometime soon.”

  I nod. Thoughts of Colin and the case lead to thoughts of Miriam. I feel even lousier. Colin’s never been this busy before. Despite Quinn’s claims otherwise, has he lost interest in me too? Will I be single forever? With each passing year there are fewer available—let alone desirable—men in my age bracket. Already, a high percentage of the guys giving me second glances are old enough to get seniors’ discounts. At the same time, my standards keep rising. I’m too old—and too settled—to settle. Let’s face it: no one is perfect. We all have bad habits and worse moments. Perhaps I’m too old to compromise and that’s why I couldn’t decide between Josh and Colin.

  At this sobering thought, Abby starts to bawl, her cries magnified through the baby monitor. Quinn climbs tiredly to her feet. I carry our dirty glasses and dishes to the sink. All this thinking is wearing me out. What a never-ending day. And according to the clock on Quinn’s stove it’s only 1:42 p.m. I should just go home, have a long bath, binge-watch trashy TV, and hide away until this weekend’s officially over. How sad is that? I’m actually wishing it were Monday.

  I’ve just explained my plan to Quinn, who’s busy breastfeeding, when my cell phone rings. I’m tempted not to answer, but it’s my client, Vonda Butts.

  I try to keep the sigh from my voice as I greet her.

  “Toby Vong?” Her voice is breathless. “I need your help, right away.”

  I’m surprised to h
ear her sounding so upset. “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “The police vant to see me.”

  “The police?” I exit Abby’s room so as not to disturb Quinn and the baby. “Why? What’s happened?” I’m confused and concerned. What has Vonda failed to tell me?

  “Vhere are you?”

  I walk out of Quinn’s front door and take a seat on her front steps. The front yard is pretty basic: a square of lawn that could use some more watering and three spindly maple trees. I guess gardening hasn’t been Bruce and Quinn’s top priority since they bought the place three years ago.

  “Toby Vong?” barks Vonda.

  I force my attention back to my client. “I’m at a friend’s place in Gordon Head.” She never answered my question. “Why do the police want to see you?”

  “Gordon Head,” she says, again ignoring my question. “That’s vhere I am! Vhat address? I vill come get you.”

  I rub my forehead, which hurts. Vonda is not one to take no for an answer.

  I squint out at the street, lined with seventies bungalows a lot like Quinn’s. Flat roofs. Faux Tudor. Faux Spanish. Seventies style was like a Boston Terrier—so ugly it’s endearing. “It’s Sunday,” I tell Vonda. “Can this wait till tomorrow?”

  “Vait?” She sounds outraged. “The police are on their vay! You are my lawyer! I need you there vhen I talk to them.” A click of her tongue. “I thought that’s vhat lawyers do!” she adds.

  I start to formulate an excuse but stop. My hot bath and Netflix binge vill have to vait. Argh—my Ws have gone again. It happens whenever I talk to Vonda. She’s right. She is my client. It’s my job to help her. Plus I’m curious. What has she done to interest the police? Possibilities flash through my tired brain. Immigration violation? Unpaid parking tickets? Shoplifting? Does she actually earn a living from modeling and “influencing”? What the hell does that even mean? I’ve checked out her Instagram. She seems to spend a lot of time drinking detox teas and flouncing around in yoga clothes.

  I tell her Quinn’s address.

  “So close!” She sounds pleased. “Vait two minutes.”

  I go indoors to say goodbye to Quinn only to find both her and Abby asleep. I write a short note and stick it on the fridge, then toss the empty ice cream container in the garbage.

  After tiptoeing back down the hall, I shut the front door quietly behind me. Sitting on Quinn’s front steps, I’m tempted to call Vonda back. My car’s right out front. I could just drive over to meet her. I’m so tired I wasn’t thinking straight.

  Sitting with my head in my hands, I shut my eyes. I hope whatever Vonda’s done, it can be cleared up fast. Does she need a criminal lawyer? If so, I’ll have to call Quinn’s mom, Jackie. Geez, Jackie should give me a finder’s fee. Who else in my life needs a good criminal lawyer?

  I wrap my arms around myself to stay warm. All I want is to go home and wallow in peace. What a day. Not only did I get dumped, I found out Josh’s already moved on. All this time and angst for nothing: I meant nothing to him. The thought of him pashing some other woman is like a squirt of lemon juice in my eyes. My nose starts to stuff up, leaving me furious. I need to stop dwelling on this. Any second now, Vonda will show up. Do I want her to find me sniveling on the curb, like a kicked puppy?

  Hearing an approaching engine, I look up to see a shiny red car. It turns into Quinn’s cul-de-sac and slows.

  I rub my eyes. It’s a convertible. Despite the cool day, the top is down to reveal a woman with long, glossy brown hair. She’s wearing a raspberry beret. Seeing me, she smiles. She looks fabulous.

  The wrecking ball that was in my gut goes into free-fall. What are the chances? It can’t be. And yet, it must be . . . Josh Barton and my sexy client . . . This can’t be happening.

  I want to turn and bolt, but it’s too late. Vonda has seen me. She pulls up and waves. When I don’t move, she calls out. “Hello?” A toss of her head. “Vhat are you vaiting for, Toby?”

  My knees shake as I rise. There’s no choice. I must face her. Could today get any vorse? She might be Josh’s new voman, but she’s still my client.

  CHAPTER 18:

  CONNECTING THE DOTS

  Eyeing my red-rimmed eyes, Vonda frowns. “Vhat is wrong vith you?” she asks. I climb into her flashy little car. “Allergies,” I mumble, unable to meet her eyes. I fumble through my purse to find my sunglasses.

  Once we start moving, I understand why Vonda’s wearing a hat. With the top down, my hair keeps blowing up my nose. In the depths of my purse I manage to find a hair-elastic and fashion a messy pony-tail.

  Vonda turns onto Arbutus Road. While she sounded distraught over the phone, in person, she looks cool and collected, her eyeliner perfectly drawn into sexy cat eyes. It takes a steady hand to get that look right. Was her distress just an act, so I’d agree to meet her?

  I wonder if Vonda knew that I was seeing Josh. Is that why she hired me? There are women who don’t want a man unless they can lure him away from someone else, women whose whole reason for being is to compete with other women. It’s hard not to feel like I’ve been drawn into some twisted Machiavellian plot. Or is it just a coincidence? I’m probably being paranoid. Both Josh and Vonda are supernaturally good looking. Like attracts like, by and large. Victoria is not that big of a town. They probably just saw each other someplace, and it was lust at first sight. She is Josh’s type, after all, with boobs like cantaloupes and a butt like a newly discovered, sexy planet. His ex-wife and ex-girlfriend were similar. I was the anomaly. The one not like the others.

  Beside me, Vonda shifts gears. Her voice is ominous. “They are coming to my house.”

  Because my mind was sunk deep in self-pity, it takes a moment to resurface. She means the cops. I need to wake up. “What’s going on?” I ask her.

  Vonda slows to take a corner. “I don’t know,” she admits. “A detective called. A voman.”

  “A detective?” So it’s not just some traffic violation.

  “What’d she say? Exactly?”

  Vonda chews on her pillowy bottom lip, painted the same raspberry red as her artfully tilted beret. I sit on my hands, lest I’m too tempted to rip it off her head.

  “She asked if I vas home and said she vanted to see me.”

  “That’s it?” I say. I note the little crease of worry in Vonda’s flawless forehead. “Why are you so worried?”

  Vonda’s eyes flick my way in surprise. “It is the police!” she cries, like this explains everything. “That is never good!” When she brushes back a stray curl, I see her fingers are shaking.

  Looking at Vonda Butts, I realize how little I know about her. Maybe this is a cultural thing. The police do more harm than good in many parts of the world. Suspects get bundled into vans and never seen again. She did grow up in the KGB era. Or maybe she’s been up to no good.

  I speak gently in an attempt not to sound accusing. “So there’s nothing you’ve done?” I shrug. “Nothing illegal?”

  Vonda shoots me a dark look. “Vhat? You think I am some criminal? Is this vhat you think of Russians? Ve are all mafia or selling drugs! Or I am vhat—a prostitute?”

  Her reaction is so extreme I can’t help but laugh in shock. “No!” I say. “I didn’t say that! I’m your lawyer, Vonda. I’m just trying to figure out why the police want to see you. So we can be prepared when we meet them.”

  Her furious pout recedes a little. “I see,” she says, then, with a tiny shrug. “Then no, I am in the dark.” She looks at me when she says this, one glossy eyebrows rising as if to check she’s used this idiom correctly.

  “Okay.” I check my watch. “Did the police say what time to expect them?”

  With a flick of her wrist, Vonda also checks her watch. We’ve been turning onto smaller and smaller streets, and now pull into a road that dead-ends at a small park. The car slows, then stops in front of a nondescript single-story house. It looks a lot like Quinn’s. Painted green, it appears mildly unkempt, like a rental.

  “My ho
use,” says Vonda. She kills the engine. Given her ultra-groomed appearance, I’m surprised. I pictured her living in some sleek, uber-modern condo, full of touch screens and metallics.

  We’ve just stepped out of her car when another car turns into her street. A dark sedan, unmarked, but obviously a police car. Colin drives one just like it.

  Beside me, Vonda’s breathing quickens. My head pounds as I watch the car pull closer.

  When Colin steps out, he looks as shocked to see me as I am to see him. Miriam looks surprised too, but handles it better.

  “Hi, Toby,” she says. She strides our way. “What are you doing here?”

  I shut my gaping mouth. What is this, the Day of Coincidences? Of all the cops who could come to see Vonda, why is it Colin and Miri? Aren’t they busy enough trying to track Stephen Buxley’s killer?

  I go to run a hand through my hair, only to remember that it’s still piled in a snaggly ponytail. Great. So as well as looking exhausted, old, and like I’ve been bawling, I’m homeless-lady disheveled. Especially next to Vonda, who looks airbrushed.

  “Er, hi, Miriam. Colin.” My voice sounds sticky. “This is Vonda Butts.” I motion her way. “My client.”

  Against his pale skin, Colin’s dark eyebrows dip. His expression says that-figures. He turns to Vonda. “Mrs. Butts?”

  Vonda inhales, like she’s scared of what’s coming next. “Yes. Vhat do you vant?”

  “You called your lawyer?” says Colin. He sounds more disappointed than anything, his tone and manner somber. “We’re not accusing you of anything, Mrs. Butts.” He motions toward Miriam. “This is my partner, Detective Miriam Young. I’m Detective Colin Destin.” He glances up at her house. “Could we just come in and talk to you, briefly?”

  Vonda looks at me, unsure. I nod. “Of course.”

  We all troop up Vonda’s front path and climb her peeling steps, then wait as she unlocks the front door. I know the detectives have noticed: her hands are shaking harder than ever.