by Elka Ray
I stare at the closing door. My stomach is in knots. Is this love? Such intense highs and lows . . . I realize I’m shaking.
Out in the lobby I hear Pamela coo a goodbye. I walk to the window and look into the street, as if this might clear my head. I don’t feel ready to see a client. It’s like I just crawled off a rollercoaster.
The street is empty. No cars. No people. But then a man comes into view. Tall and fit. He has short, dark hair. When he gets closer, I realize it’s Colin Destin. There’s a splash of warmth deep in my gut. Is he coming to see me?
Colin is walking fast. I see him look up at my window. He looks serious and determined.
Then Josh emerges from my building. Colin stops in his tracks. A look of uncertainty crosses his face. Josh turns the opposite way. He strides toward View Street. I don’t think he saw Colin.
I wait for Colin to start walking again. Instead, he just stares at Josh’s retreating back, then studies my window. Can he see me? I feel a bit silly, like I’ve been caught spying on him. I raise a hand and smile. But no, there’s some special clear-coating to stop people from looking in. I am invisible, or a blurry shape at best. I lower my hand. And cross my fingers.
I know he can’t see me, but Colin keeps looking up, like he can sense me. There’s a strange, sad look on his face. Or am I just imagining that? He gazes back down the street toward Josh’s retreating back. Colin’s broad shoulders hunch. He shoves his hands deep into his coat. His chin rises, some decision made. I watch, bewildered, as he spins and walks back the way he came. He is walking away.
Was he planning to come see me and then, seeing Josh, changed his mind? Regret courses through me like cold rain. I uncross my fingers. It didn’t work. I want to call him, ask him to come back but there’s no time. There’s a knock on my door.
I turn away from the window.
I’m unsure what to feel about Josh but have no doubts about Colin. Tonight, I will call him, when I’m done work. The thought warms me. Finally, I’m sure. I need to let him know that I miss him.
CHAPTER 24:
A SORRY STATE
I’m eating a bowl of tomato soup in front of the TV when my phone rings. My first thought is Colin. I’ve tried to call him repeatedly, without success. Or it might be Josh. At the memory of today’s kiss, my stomach spins. I do want to talk to him, yet know I shouldn’t. Maybe, just like Lukas, I need rehab.
There are no mixed feelings about Colin. Colin is good for me. Please let it be him.
“Hello?” I sound hopeful.
“Honey?”
My heart deflates a bit. It’s my mother. Instantly, I feel guilty. My mom is not second best. “Hi, Mom!” I speak with extra good cheer. I pat the couch in an effort to find the remote. It’s under a cushion. I turn down the TV’s volume.
I’m about to ask how she is but don’t get the chance. “It’s Daphne,” she says. She’s talking fast. “There’s something’s wrong. She’s . . .” The line fades and crackles.
“Mom?” I say. I deposit my bowl on the coffee table and jump up, like that might help our connection. My mom’s tone was all wrong. “Mom?” I stare into the receiver.
“Honey?”
I’m relieved she’s back. “Mom? Are you okay?” I’m scared we’ll be cut off again. “Mom? Where are you?”
“I’m at Daphne’s,” says my mom. “She’s in trouble.”
“What? How?” I ask, already imagining the worst. Daphne fallen down the stairs. Or worse. My voice is sharp. “What’s going on? What happened?”
“I . . .” The sound deadens again. I hear my mom say something. Her voice is muffled. Then she’s back. “Hon?” she says. “I need your help. Please come over.”
“Now?” I say. It’s a wild night. You wouldn’t send a dog out in this weather. But given her tone, there’s no choice. She sounds more than worried. She sounds fearful.
“Mom?” My alarm spikes. “What’s going on?” My heart starts to thud. Maybe she should be calling 911 instead of me. What if Stephen’s killer has come after Daphne? I envision some dark, shadowy figure creeping through that huge old house. “Mom!” Why isn’t she answering? “What’s going on there?”
I can hear another voice now, like Daphne’s but slurred. Is she drunk?
“Don’t worry,” says my mom, in a tone that increases my worry. “I’m fine. Really. I swear. Just come over.”
The rain feels apocalyptic, Victoria’s streets even emptier than usual. My windshield wipers can’t keep up. Every street seems extra dark. Through the deluge, the street lights glow as feebly as gas lamps.
I perch on the edge of my seat, trying to peer through the torrent. The heat’s on high but I’m freezing. The radio whines. Every station except Golden Oldies 101 has bad reception. They’re counting down the Eagles.
My mom’s car looks forlorn out front of Daphne’s place. I park behind it.
Seen from the street, Daphne’s house belongs in a Victorian ghost story, all dark, pointy roofs, wrought iron trim, and flailing shrubbery. I eye the creepy turret. Most of the many windows are dark. On cue, lightning flashes. I grab my purse and my umbrella. Thunder crashes.
When I step out of my car, rain splashes up from the pavement. My feet slosh through deep puddles.
It’s a mad scurry to Daphne’s front porch. I knock. The pig squeals. I collapse my umbrella and shake it out. I toss it down, kick off my squelching shoes. My socks are wet.
The door opens to a fresh roll of thunder.
“Toby!” My mom looks relieved. “Come in.” I slip inside. The door clicks behind me. After sniffing me, the pig retreats toward the kitchen. “What a night!” exclaims my mother. She’s dressed in a long, sedate charcoal knit dress with pink tights underneath. From her neck hangs a long leather cord and a smooth, heavy, rose quartz pendant—a stone to relieve stress and resentful feelings.
I study her face, note the strain in her jaw. “What happened?”
She doesn’t answer but motions upstairs. I shrug off my raincoat—wet, despite the umbrella—and hang it from the coat rack. “She’s up there,” says my mother.
I follow her upstairs, down the long hall, into Daphne’s room. While the sitting room looks pristine, Daphne’s bedroom is in disarray. A nightstand has been knocked over. A lamp—still lit—lies on its side, its shade tilted. Light spills across the floor to illuminate a small Persian carpet, its intricate cream and gold pattern stained with some dark liquid.
Is that blood? I bite back a gasp. But then I see a mug. A larger stain spreads around it.
My mom ignores the mess and walks to Daphne’s bed. I follow.
Surrounded by ornate pillows Daphne’s face looks as small and pale as a sick child’s. Only her face and hands peek over the sheet. Eyes shut, she is almost as white as the Egyptian cotton. I clutch my purse. Is she—? I don’t even dare think it.
“Daphne?” says my mom. “Toby’s here.”
Daphne’s eyes flutter open. She blinks in confusion. “Ivy?” she says. “I feel sho shtrange . . .” Her head shakes, feebly before it flops down. It’s like her neck lacks the strength to hold her head up.
“I . . . What happened?” I ask. Has she had a stroke? Is she drunk? Or drugged? This looks serious. “I think we should call an ambulance!”
Daphne’s eyes and mouth gape in horror. “No!” she exclaims. “Ishobel will find out! Pleashe! No!” She struggles to sit up but can’t manage.
The violence of her reaction makes me pause. “Find out what?” I ask.
“My medsh,” says Daphne. “I . . . I shink I took too many pillsh. A double doshe. Ishie shays I’m forgetting shtuff.” Her face crumples. She starts to cry, quietly.
“There, there,” says my mom, gently. “Please, Daphne, don’t worry.”
“What pills are those?” I ask.
My mom retrieves a jar off the floor. It must have fallen off the toppled nightstand. She hands me the jar. I squint at the tiny print. A long name that means nothing to me. “Wha
t’s it for?” I ask Daphne.
“My blood presshure . . .” says Daphne.
I look around. On Daphne’s other nightstand rests a wine glass. Maybe she mixed the pills with booze. “Daphne?” I say. “Did you drink anything alcoholic?”
Daphne’s forehead tugs against the Botox. “A glash of wine,” she says. “And shome cocoa.”
Cocoa. That might explain the stain on the rug.
“Pleashe,” croaks Daphne. “I’m sho thirshy.”
While I fail to understand her, my mom does. “She’s thirsty,” she tells me. I look around for a glass. That mug will do just fine.
I bend to retrieve it and carry it into the en suite bathroom.
I’m about to rinse it out when I notice some residue in the bottom. Along with a brown sludge of undissolved cocoa there’s a gritty white powder. It’s not sugar.
Was Daphne drugged?
I can still hear her crying.
There’s a bottle of Evian and two upturned glasses in the bathroom, just like you’d find in a fancy hotel. I grab a glass and the Evian.
The bedroom is just as I left it. I hand the water to my mom, who guides it to Daphne’s shaking lips. I watch her drink. I think we should call 911. But when I say this, Daphne grows hysterical. She keeps repeating the same thing: “No! Pleashe, no! Don’t tell Ishie! She’sh convished I’ve got Alsheimersh!”
It’s heartbreaking to see Daphne like this—so unwell but even worse, so afraid of Isobel’s condemnation.
I’m still trying to decide what to do when I hear a door shut downstairs. I freeze, freshly reminded of the gruesome scene in Daphne’s cottage. Did my mom lock the front door after letting me in? Stephen’s killer is still out there, somewhere. My ears strain. It’s hard to swallow.
I tiptoe back through Daphne’s suite and out into the hall. Is that just the pig or are those footsteps down below?
Outside, there’s a fresh bang of thunder. Maybe I’m paranoid. Ever since finding Stephen’s corpse, I’ve been on edge. I take a deep breath and call out: “Hello? Who’s there?” My voice has a wobbly echo.
Something scuffles. My unease balloons into dread. My knees go shaky.
I’m pressed against the wall, considering my options, when a voice replies: “It’s me. Grace.” She sounds suspicious. “Who’s up there?”
An exhale of relief propels me to the top of the stairs. I find the light switch and peer over the landing.
The antique chandelier blazes to life. I blink. It’s like something off the Titanic.
In the sudden glare, Grace squints up at me. Clad in a green rain poncho, she’s got a shopping bag in each hand. Beneath her shiny green hood, her round cheeks look like apples. “Oh Toby!” She sounds equally relieved. “Gracious! You scared me!” She deposits the bags with two clunks. “What are you doing here, in this weather?”
“Daphne’s sick.” I gulp. “My mom found her.”
Grace’s mouth gapes in alarm. Without bothering to remove her wet poncho she races up the stairs, two at a time. “What’s wrong?” she cries. Calling Daphne’s name, she rushes past me before I can answer.
“Grashe?” croaks Daphne, as Grace enters the room.
My mom’s sitting on the bed, clasping Daphne’s hand. There’s more color in Daphne’s cheeks, although her gaze remains vacant.
Seeing them, Grace stops, aghast. “Goodness gracious!” She yanks down her hood. “Oh Daphne! What is it?”
My mom fills her in. Grace strides closer. She pushes some wet hair from her eyes and turns to my mom. “We should call Dr. Wagner!”
“No! No!” whimpers Daphne. “Ishie wansh to put me in a home!” Again, she starts sobbing.
I feel helpless. It’s so hard to reconcile this pitiful, trembling old lady with the strong woman I’ve always known. Her fear of Isobel is sad. No, it’s more than sad. It’s scary. If Daphne were incapacitated, her fate would be in her kids’ hands. They’d have the power to order her resuscitated or not. Or to turn off her life support. This thought is chilling.
“Daphne, hush,” orders Grace. “No one’s calling Izzie. But I am calling Doctor Wagner.”
We all watch her dial. She puts the call on speakerphone. “Dr. Wagner? It’s Grace Hornichuck here. Daphne Dane’s housekeeper. Sorry to wake you but it’s urgent . . .” I listen as Grace explains. “No. I don’t think she requires an ambulance. Good,” she says. “Thank you.”
After hanging up, Grace looks relieved. “He’s on his way.” She peels off her rain poncho and carries it into the adjoining bathroom.
I recall the mug sitting on the bathroom counter. That white residue troubles me. I don’t want Grace to wash it.
I follow her in. As she turns to hang her wet raincoat in the shower stall, I grab the mug. Grace looks surprised. “Excuse me,” I say, already retreating.
I carry the mug downstairs to the kitchen. It takes a while to find what I need: a box of cling film. I wrap the mug carefully and hide it in the depths of my purse.
In the living room, Daphne’s grandfather clock strikes once. I check my watch: 9:30 p.m.
I set my bag on the stairs. I should pass that mug on to Colin Destin.
The pig starts to squeal. Footsteps shudder up the front steps. The bell rings.
“Hello?” I call out. I walk to the door.
“Hello,” says a deep male voice. “I’m Doctor Wagner.”
Through the peephole, I see a round, pink nose and a round, bald pink head. Beneath this, lies a round belly, shiny in a wet yellow raincoat. One tiny hand holds an old-style black briefcase.
“Thank goodness,” I say and unlock the door. I’m relieved the doctor’s here. I just hope I’m wrong about Daphne.
CHAPTER 25:
DARK SHAPE
My mom, Grace, and the doctor are in with Daphne. I shut the door to her suite and walk down the hall, then sit at the top of the staircase. Down below me, the chandelier twinkles. It has five tiers of sparkly, faceted crystals.
I dial Colin’s number. It rings and rings. I can’t help but count: Six, Seven. I hang up with a sigh and check my call log: I’ve called him four times tonight with no answer. A few weeks back, he never missed my calls. Ever. Is he trying to avoid me, hoping I’ll take the hint and stop calling? Surely not—this isn’t high school.
Moments later, he calls back. “Hi, Toby?” His voice is strained, like he’s anxious or exhausted.
Despite his tone, I’m relieved he called—for both romantic and practical reasons. He’s finally returned my missed calls. And as a policeman, he’ll know what to do. “Colin,” I say. “Sorry to call so late.” It must be close to ten. “I’m at Daphne Dane’s place.”
I describe the night’s events, and Daphne’s condition. “Before she fell ill she drank a little wine,” I say. “And some cocoa.”
Just when I’m getting to the white grit in the bottom of the mug, Colin cuts me off. “Er, ‘scuse me,” he says. The line goes quiet. I peer at my screen. Have we been cut off?
The storm might be to blame. From here, I can see down the stairs to Daphne’s front door. A flash of lightning illuminates the stained glass window. The line crackles.
Colin’s back. He sounds impatient. “Hey Toby? Sorry, what were you saying?”
I backtrack a little.
“White powder?” says Colin. “Um. Okay, ah . . .” There’s a loud crash on his end. Colin swears under his breath. I wonder what he’s doing while he’s talking to me.
Whenever he calls I give him my full attention. What’s so important that he can’t focus on me for three minutes?
He sounds so distracted I decide to spell it out. “This white residue,” I say. “I’m worried she’s been drugged. Or poisoned.” I explain about Isobel’s claim that Daphne’s mind is deteriorating. “Can you test the mug?” I ask Colin.
“Um . . .” Again, the pause is so long I fear we’ve been cut off. “Test?” He sounds vague. I grit my teeth. Has he even been listening?
I sta
rt to explain again but he interrupts. “Toby, I, ah . . . Can I call you back?”
I’m ready to snap and tell him not to bother but the line is already disconnected.
Maybe five minutes later my phone rings. Should I answer? I take a deep breath. I need to calm down. Who knows what crisis he’s facing? Maybe he’s been chasing down some crook. Or tracking a ransom demand on the other line.
I pick up. “Hello, Colin?”
Down the line, I hear a woman laugh. Every muscle in my body goes rigid. It was such a teasing, delighted laugh. The laugh of a woman in love. Now she’s talking, a low murmur, equally loving.
What she’s saying is unclear but her identity isn’t: Miri, her voice low and sexy. My vision swims. He’s with Miri. They sure don’t sound like they’re working.
I clamp my eyes shut. My heart follows.
“Toby?” says Colin. “Can you hear me, Toby? Sorry, we got cut off.”
“It’s fine.” My voice is as tight as my heart, a grey, curled-up armadillo. “Can you test that mug or not?” I say, stiffly.
“Okay, I think so,” he says. Maybe he sounds a touch hurt, as well as confused and distracted. “I’m sorry but I’m, ah, occupied right now.”
I fight back the ensuing image of Miri, stifling a giggle as she nuzzles his ear. “I’ll send an officer over to bag it. You’re at Daphne Dane’s, right? Near my place?”
I don’t answer. I’ve never been to Colin’s place.
“In Rockland?” he continues.
“Right.”
“Okay, right . . .” His voice goes quiet then loud. “Oh no, baby,” he exclaims, like he’s talking to someone else.
When the line goes dead I’m not sure whether I hung up or he beat me to it.
My mom and the doctor have both left. I’m still stuck here, waiting for the policeman to come and collect Daphne’s mug. When a half hour has passed, I call Colin. It goes straight to voicemail. I call again. And again. He doesn’t answer.
The longer I wait, the more aggravated I feel. He said he lived nearby. Should I drop the damn thing off? All I want is to go home and get a good night’s sleep. It seems Colin forgot all about this.