Divorce Is Murder

by Elka Ray

  When I tell Josh that I’ll call him back in five minutes he sounds resigned. The second I hang up, Quinn is all over me. I hold up a hand. “Wait,” I say. “I have to call your mom. It’s important.”

  “Fine,” says Quinn. “But could you call her from the food court? I have to sit down.” She points to her Croc-encased feet. “I know it’s the ultimate pregnant lady cliché, but my feet are killing me.”

  Luckily, there’s no lineup at the till. Maybe all the pregnant ladies clogging the aisles are just window shopping. I dump all of Quinn’s boxes on the counter.

  “Let’s go,” I say, when she’s retrieved her ready-to-combust credit card. I grab her bulging bags in one hand, and use the other to dial Jackie’s number. As we stagger toward the food court, I fill Jackie in on Josh and Tonya. “He obviously needs a good defense lawyer, so I thought of you,” I say. “Any chance you could help this guy?”

  Jackie sighs. “You know I’m out of commission,” she says. “I can barely make it down the hall to pee. And the reason it took me so long to answer is that I kept dropping the phone.” She laughs wryly.

  “Don’t you have an assistant?” I ask. “An intern or someone who could run around for you?”

  “I wish,” says Jackie. “I’m starting to get addicted to Dr. Oz.”

  We’ve reached the food court. I dump Quinn’s shopping bags on a table and take a seat. Quinn plods off toward Dairy Queen. I hope she’ll buy me a Blizzard. “How about my partner Lionel?” asks Jackie. “He’s every bit as experienced as I am. Want me to call him for you?”

  “I guess so,” I say. I had, I realize, been counting on Jackie’s acceptance and can’t help but feel that her refusal is bad news for Josh. I fight down a surge of worry. Why do I care so much about this guy? It’s not like I even know him.

  Jackie sounds thoughtful. “Is this man a friend of yours?”

  “Mmm, sort of,” I say. “We met as teenagers, at summer camp. Remember the year Quinn and I went to camp?”

  “Yes,” says Jackie. “And you don’t think he did it?”

  “No,” I say. “I don’t think he did.” At the next table over two teenagers are making out. I’m reminded of me and Josh. The kids beside me look about the same age, fourteen or fifteen, max. Surely, they’re too young for that much tongue-action! I look the other way.

  When Quinn comes back—bearing, hallelujah, two Reese’s Pieces Blizzards—I see her notice the amorous teens too. I wonder if it occurs to her that fourteen years from now the occupant in her belly might be just like them.

  Jackie clears her throat. “Well, you know,” she says. “I guess I could ask Mel and Philippa to loan you to me. If you’re not too busy over there? You could act as second chair.” She laughs. “If you have any interest in being my personal slave, that is. Your first task would be to remove the TV set from my house before what’s left of my brains turn to mush.”

  “Are you serious?” I squeal. “I mean you taking on Josh’s defense? And me helping?”

  “I don’t see why not,” says Jackie. “Mel mentioned you were a tad underutilized over there, so far. She’s worried you’ll get too bored and jump ship, maybe head for one of the bigger firms in Vancouver.”

  This course of action has crossed my mind. But I don’t say anything.

  “So what do you think?” asks Jackie. “Or should I call Lionel? He really is excellent. Your friend Josh would be in great hands.”

  “No way,” I say. “I’d much prefer you being involved.”

  Jackie says she’ll call Mel and get back to me in a few minutes. Before signing off, she asks where I am. “What’s all that noise in the background?”

  Looking around, I see the food court has filled up. I check my watch: 11:45 a.m. I tell her I’m at the mall, baby-shopping with Quinn.

  “Ah,” says Jackie. “Well at least I’m spared that. I guess there’s a silver lining to being laid up after all. Has she managed to decide on anything yet?”

  “I heard that, Mom,” says Quinn.

  I wonder what else she overheard.

  “Oops, gotta go,” says Jackie. “I’ll call you right back, Toby.”

  I turn to see the teen lovers still going at it. They make an odd couple, the girl wearing black and white striped leggings that emphasize her stocky legs, and the boy in the tall, gangly stage. I can feel Quinn staring at me. “So,” she says, when I can’t put off looking at her any longer. “Now you’ve roped my mom into this . . .” She shrugs. “This thing you have with Josh Barton.”

  I put down my Blizzard. “What thing?” I ask. “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, come on,” says Quinn. “I know you’re still totally attracted to him.”

  I don’t know whether it’s outrage or embarrassment or both that cause my face to go red, but it does. “So what,” I say, trying to deflect attention from Quinn’s latest insight. “You really think he killed Tonya?”

  Before she can answer, Jackie calls me back. “Mel and Philippa are all aboard,” she says. “We’ll talk about fees and how Greene & Olliartee will be paid for your time later.”

  “Money’s not a problem,” I say. “Josh has plenty of it.”

  “Fine, then you’d better get down to his boat and see what the police are up to.”

  I promise to keep Jackie informed and to bring Josh over to meet her as soon as possible. Before hanging up she tells me to give her love to Quinn.

  “I have to go,” I tell Quinn. “Your mom has agreed to take Josh on as a client, and the police are searching his boat.” I stand up. “I’ll help you carry this stuff to your car.”

  Quinn hauls herself to her feet. My blush has subsided, but I’m still mad at her. We enter the parkade in silence. The elevator is small, old, and smelly. I hold my breath and feel claustrophobic.

  Before she gets into her Mini, Quinn lays a hand on my arm. “Thanks for coming today,” she says.

  I nod. To say it was fun would be too great of a lie. “It was . . . no problem,” I say. I wait for her to lower herself into her car, but she just stands there. It’s obvious that she wants to say more, but I need to get going. I haven’t even called Josh back yet. “Look, I have to go,” I say. “I’ll call you later.”

  Quinn tightens her grip on my arm. “Wait, Tob,” she says. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but just be careful with Josh. Okay?”

  “Careful how?” I ask, wondering if she knows something I don’t. Has Bruce let something slip? Do the cops have new evidence that Josh did it?

  Quinn looks hesitant. “Well, I know you were only a kid, but he did mess you around. And it’s not like you’ve been with a lot of other guys.”

  This causes my chin to go up. I haven’t, as Quinn just pointed out, had many relationships. Only three, for the record, none of which amounted to much—a couple of months with a hard-partying engineering major back in university; a holiday fling with a windsurfing instructor one summer in France; and about a year’s worth of dates with a wine merchant who traveled a lot and turned out to be married with three children. Luckily, I never told Quinn about the wine merchant.

  She releases her grip on my arm. “What do you know about Josh? Almost nothing, right? Except his bitchy wife was murdered and he was fooling around with Alana Mapplebee.” She snorts. “It doesn’t make him look good, does it?”

  I shove my hands into my pockets. I know Quinn’s right. The fact that I harbor any romantic hopes about Josh says something really sad about me. A: I am not his type. B: I should be glad of that.

  “Quinn,” I say, using my best lawyer’s voice. “My interest in Josh is purely professional. That’s it. You’re totally wrong about this.”

  She eyes me suspiciously but is forced to nod. What can she do if I deny everything? “Good,” she says. “Because I don’t trust him.”

  I walk the one level up to my white VW Golf, a car that’s plain but reliable. I’m approaching my car when, out of the corner of my eye, I see a man who, from
behind, looks like my father. It isn’t him, of course, because my dad is now completely bald, while this guy is much younger, with thick, sandy hair. He looks like my dad did when he left—tall, blond, confident, and good-looking. I’m shocked to realize he also looks similar to Josh Barton.

  As I drive in tight circles down the parkade’s exit ramp, Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” comes on the radio. I wonder if my dad’s desertion messed me up more than I think. Why else would I be attracted to a guy who’s not just unobtainable, but possibly dangerous?

  CHAPTER TEN:

  THE BROTHER’S GRIM

  In the bright light of midday, Oak Bay Marina is beautiful, the boats shining white against the dark blue ocean. I pull in past the killer whale statue and park. When I step out of my car, the wind pushes my hair into my face.

  I walk past the gift shop and stop, shading my eyes against the sun as I stare down at the docks. Tonya’s body was found under a section of the furthest dock, which is still blocked off by yellow police tape. Seeing it fluttering in the breeze gives me a strange feeling. How could someplace so pristine be the setting for a murder?

  Descending the ramp, I spy the harbor seals that hang around begging for scraps. Two Asian tourists in matching orange hats are filming them, the creatures gazing up hopefully with their anime-character eyes. Resigned that no treats are forthcoming, one sinks to the bottom, where it lies, slug-like. Even here in the marina the water is clear enough to see the sea floor.

  The bigger yachts lie toward the back. As I walk, I dial Josh Barton’s number. “I’m here, at the marina,” I say. “Where’s your boat?”

  His voice sounds strained as he gives directions.

  The sun warms my face. It’s a gorgeous autumn day, and being down on the docks takes me back to my childhood. As kids, Quinn and I spent a lot of time here, lying face-down on the bleached wood and peering through the cracks to watch the fish, crabs, and feathery tube worms that cling to the docks’ undersides. I love the gentle sway beneath my feet, the tinkling of the yachts’ lines, and the smells of salt and creosote.

  I’m passing the Customs Station when I catch sight of Josh. He’s standing midway down the last dock, staring at a large motor yacht, which bears the name Great Escape in gold letters. A few feet away sprawls a large black poodle, its coat sculpted like topiary. Is that Tonya’s dog? I’d forgotten all about it. Near the end of this same dock hangs a web of yellow police tape.

  While I know nothing about boats, the Great Escape looks newer, sleeker, and much more expensive than the surrounding craft. White with dark blue trim, I’d guess it to be about seventy feet long. A uniformed cop is standing on the bridge, which is very high up indeed, watching my approach. Josh looks back my way. I wave to him but he doesn’t respond, his expression grim. My stomach sinks. He usually seems pleased to see me.

  When I get closer, I realize my mistake. It’s not Josh but his younger brother, Mike, whom I haven’t seen since that summer at camp. Over the years, they’ve grown more alike, except that Mike now looks older, instead of younger, with deeper lines around his eyes and mouth. I watch as he withdraws a pack of Marlboros from his jacket and lights one, his shoulders hunched against the wind.

  “Mike?” I ask, and he looks up and scowls. He must not recognize me, or maybe he’s mistaken me for a cop, or God forbid, a reporter.

  “Hi,” I say, and extend a hand. “I’m Josh’s lawyer, Toby Wong. He asked me to meet him here. We went to camp together, way back when. Remember? Camp Wikwakee?”

  “Oh, right,” says Mike, with zero enthusiasm. He taps his cigarette’s ash into an empty Coke can. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or offended that he didn’t recognize me from that wretched camp. While I’d like to think I’m better looking than I was as a teen, I haven’t changed that much. “Josh said you were coming by,” he says, already squinting back up at the boat. He nods toward the policemen. “Can you stop these guys?”

  “Not if they have a search warrant.”

  Staring up at the boat, I don’t notice the approaching poodle. It now thrusts its pointy nose into my crotch. I try to side-step, but the dog is quick. I back up. “Hey! Down!” It ignores me, its puffball tail thumping happily. I say a silent curse. It’s impossible to look dignified with a giant poodle sniffing your crotch.

  “Claude! Lie down!” says Mike.

  Claude. So it must be Tonya’s standard poodle—the one that was with her the night she vanished. If only it could talk.

  Mike points at the dog. “Claude! I said lie down!” Beneath its glam-rock hairdo, the dog blinks. Casting a last longing look at my crotch, it flops onto the deck, then embarks on some vigorous flea-scratching. With its close-cropped legs and puffy ankles, it looks utterly ridiculous.

  “Er, nice dog,” I say, trying to establish some rapport with Mike. “He was Tonya’s, right?”

  Mike nods. “Yeah, he’s a good dog.” He glances sideways at the poodle, as though embarrassed. “She got his hair cut like that,” he says gruffly. I figured that. “I haven’t gotten around to fixing it,” he adds.

  I wait for him to say more, but he just stamps out his cigarette and stuffs the butt into his Coke can. Moments later, he lights another one, his eyes never leaving the boat. I guess he’s worried about his brother.

  Following Mike’s gaze, I see Detective Fitzgerald, who looks even less impressed by my arrival than Mike had. He summons me over to the boat’s metal stairs and hands me the search warrant. It’s bright out here and I forgot to bring my sunglasses. I squint at it, the judge’s name a tangled scrawl. As expected, the paperwork seems in order.

  “Where’s Josh?” I ask, after refolding the warrant.

  Detective Fitzgerald shrugs. Once again, he resembles an aging basset hound, slow-moving and doleful. “I think he went to the toilet.” He gestures vaguely toward the public washrooms up by the coffee shop. I scan the entrance to the dock and, sure enough, there’s Josh, descending behind a gaggle of selfie-stick-wielding Japanese tourists. He’s got a coffee cup in each hand and a worried frown on his tanned face.

  I feel a rush of sympathy. Whether he loved Tonya or not, her death must be a huge shock. And now the cops are searching his boat. How did they get a warrant that fast? The sooner Jackie and I can question Josh, the better.

  When he spots me, his face lights up. My own smile is equally huge. I’m absurdly happy that he’s pleased to see me.

  I’m trying to stop grinning at Josh, when I notice a flurry of activity on board the Great Escape. I look up to see a uniformed cop hand something to Detective Fitzgerald. Various officers are gathered around, everyone looking grave yet eager. Over the regular sounds of clanking lines, sloshing water, and seagulls, I can hear low, urgent voices.

  Craning my neck, I struggle to see what’s aroused so much excitement. Mike is staring too, as is the dog, its tongue like a big, droopy slice of baloney. Being taller than me, I suspect Mike can see. There’s a weird look on his face, a mixture of horror and vindication.

  Fitzgerald appears at the top of the stairs, looking dour yet triumphant. In his hand, encased in a clear plastic bag, is a large black flashlight. A large and heavy black flashlight. I recall the photo of Tonya’s head wound and feel ill. It would make an excellent murder weapon.

  This thought has barely registered when I hear footsteps behind me. Turning, I see Josh storming toward us. He looks furious.

  Two policemen step off the boat bearing a box full of stuff. I can see stacks of files and a laptop balanced on top. Staring at this box, the veins in Josh’s neck stand out. He deposits his coffee cups on an overturned rowboat, rushes past us, and leaps onto the Great Escape. “Fitzgerald?” he calls out. “What does my paperwork have to do with Tonya’s death?”

  The detective materializes at the top of the stairs. “Probably nothing,” he says, quietly. “But we’re entitled to review it all.”

  Josh looks ready to answer back when he catches sight of the plastic-wrapped flashlight in the detectiv
e’s hand. He trips on the metal stair and then catches himself. “Is that . . .? What is . . .?”

  Detective Fitzgerald holds up the bagged flashlight. About thirty centimeters long and made of black-painted aluminum, it looks like the sort of thing a night watchman would carry. “Is this yours?”

  Josh swallows hard. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Then how’d it get on your boat?”

  Josh looks from me to the cop. He shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe someone else bought it.”

  Mike hops on board too, pushing past his brother. Seeing the mess the police have made on the back deck, he shakes his head angrily. “Jesus, you’d better not have broken anything.” He glares at Fitzgerald. “Are you guys finished yet?”

  Squinting against the sun, I see the detective smile, his sad hound-dog face transformed by a sly crocodile grin. “Almost. I think we got what we needed,” he says smugly. Again, he raises the flashlight to show Mike. “Do you recognize this?” he asks him.

  Mike’s eyes skate to Josh, then down to his red sneakers. “No. I mean, I’m not sure. We had a big Maglite on board but who knows if it’s that one?” His nervous tone makes it sound like he’s lying.

  Mike’s about to say more but Josh cuts him off. “I’m sure that’s not ours. The flashlight we had onboard was all black. That one’s got a silver button.”

  Detective Fitzgerald licks his lips. “I see.” Could he possibly sound more ironic?

  Despite the warm day I feel cold all over. Josh, on the other hand, is sweating, his handsome features so transformed by anger that, for once, he looks ugly.

  We watch the police haul various boxes away. Even the dog seems subdued, its tail thumping feebly, like it wants to remain upbeat but knows it’s a losing battle. I give its crinkly ears a rub. The breeze has picked up, the yachts’ lines humming eerily. My stomach growls, despite the recent Blizzard. Checking my watch, I’m surprised it’s past 1:00 p.m. Is that flashlight the murder weapon? The smug look on Fitzgerald’s face worries me.

  Without thinking, I find my eyes sliding toward the yellow police tape, flapping in the wind. Except for a large wooden crate, the boards beyond the tape lie bare. While there’s no visible sign of what happened, I know Tonya’s body was found wedged under the dock. Did she die the Monday night she vanished? Thanks to Google, I’ve gleaned it’s not unusual for a body in frigid water to take days or even weeks to surface. I walk to the tape and stop, then look back at the boat. Was she pushed off the Great Escape? I turn to look at the shore.