Divorce Is Murder

by Elka Ray

  Josh hands me the bowl and turns to look at me. When his eyes catch mine, it’s all I can do not to drop the bowl. His gaze is so intense that I half expect my feet to float off the floor until our lips are level. His mouth opens and he leans closer to me, his eyelids closing. I feel my own eyes close and my chin tilt back. It’s as though I’m a puppet and someone else is pulling the strings. I know this is a terrible idea but can’t stop myself.

  Josh’s phone beeps. Both of our eyes fly open. Josh takes a step back and reaches for his phone. I shake myself.

  When he checks his new message, his forehead creases. “Weird. A blank message,” he says. “And I have no clue who sent it.” He puts the phone back on the window ledge and plunges his hands back into the dishwater. “What were we talking about?” he asks.

  “Psychics and ghosts,” I say. My voice is thin from holding my breath. I can’t believe I almost kissed my client. There are two dots of color on Josh’s cheeks. I swallow hard. “I was asking whether you believe in them.”

  “I’ve never seen one, or anything like that,” he says. “But who knows? There are lots of things we don’t understand. I guess I’m keeping an open mind.” He looks sideways at me. “I take it you’re not a believer?”

  “I’m not,” I say, retrieving the list of questions we’re meant to run through from my briefcase. I ask if he minds if I record his answers. He says no, so I pull out my tiny digital recorder, set it next to his phone, and press Play. We go through a list of Tonya’s friends and associates, and the places she liked to go. It turns out that both he and Tonya held million-dollar life insurance policies on each other. For normal people, that’d be motive enough, but considering what Josh’s worth, it hardly seems to make much difference.

  When I ask whether Tonya told him about being stalked by Cage he nods. “Yeah, she told me about him. She even forwarded some emails he’d sent her.” He shrugs. “He sounded like bad news.”

  I ask if he still has these emails and he says he’ll look. Like Louise, he’d advised Tonya to notify the police. He didn’t know if she had but doubts it.

  I stand on tiptoes to replace a glass bowl on a high shelf. “Weren’t you worried?” I ask.

  Josh grimaces. “I know, it sounds like I’m an uncaring bastard because my estranged wife is getting stalked and I do nothing, right?”

  I shrug. “No, I didn’t—”

  He cuts me off. “It was like this. Tonya loved drama. The whole reason she went out with that loser in the first place was because he seemed exciting. He’s some drug-dealing thug who impressed her with his designer suits and flashy car.”

  I think of the small expensive-looking Porsche parked out front.

  Josh shakes his head angrily. “I was mostly just concerned she’d be dumb enough to get back together with him.”

  “Do you think she did?” I ask. Was Cage the mystery lover Louise was talking about?

  Josh rubs his chin, thereby depositing a soap sud on his face. I fight the urge to wipe it away. He must notice me staring at it because he swipes it off himself. Talking about Cage has clearly upset him. I wonder if he was jealous.

  “Who knows?” he asks. “He hit her a few times when they were together. I don’t know why she’d have gone back to someone like that. But why be with him in the first place?”

  When I tell Josh about Tonya’s scary phone calls, the horror movie soundtrack, and the butchered Barbie doll, he looks alarmed. “She never mentioned that,” he says. “But I doubt Cage is that creative.”

  He passes me a plate and our hands touch, an electric tingle traveling down my arm to the small of my back. I wonder if he felt it too. Out of the corner of my eye I can see him staring at me. Recalling the last time our eyes met, I keep my gaze fixed on my dishtowel, which bears the slogan: Trust me, I’m psychic!

  I ask if he knows Cage’s real name and he snorts. “Yeah. It’s Lewis James Flice. I guess Lewis just didn’t have the right tough-guy ring to it.”

  “There’s something else Louise said.” I watch Josh closely. “She claimed Tonya was having an affair, starting back before you guys separated.”

  I’m expecting some visible reaction but there isn’t one. “I told you that all along,” says Josh. He overturns the washbasin and rinses it, then refills it with clean water.

  “Who with?”

  Josh turns off the tap. “I don’t know. Didn’t Louise tell you?”

  “She claimed not to know either.”

  “And you believed her?”

  I nod. “Yes,” I say. “Can you think of any reason she’d lie?”

  “She’s a little out there,” says Josh.

  I recall my suspicion that Louise was jealous of Tonya. Does she have a crush on Josh too? I imagine her meticulously applying roses to the hood of his SUV. She’s definitely creative. “Has she ever seemed interested in you?” I ask. “Romantically?”

  “Louise Dobson?” He smiles as he hands me the last pan. I wonder what’s so funny.

  Seeing my expression, Josh shakes his head. “Louise is a lesbian,” he says. “If she had a thing for anyone, it would have been Tonya.”

  By the time my mom, Quinn, Josh, and I convene in the living room, it’s dark outside. My mother lights candles and incense and turns off all the lights. Outside, the streetlights have come on. Looking out the window, I can see an older man walking a black dog that reminds me of Tonya’s giant poodle. When it gets closer to my mom’s, the dog lunges into her yard, the old guy staggering as he drags it back. I see my mother’s fat cat, Pudding, shoot up a tree, eyes blazing green in the glow of the streetlight.

  I’d decided not to join my mom’s “session,” but curiosity won out. Plus we have to hold hands—a good excuse to touch Josh.

  Quinn and I are sitting on the sofa. Josh is on a hard chair to my right, and my mom is on an ottoman to Quinn’s left. Holding hands, we form a squashed circle.

  “Shut your eyes,” says my mother. She starts to chant, a weird droning noise that makes me cringe with annoyance and embarrassment. She sounds like a cross between a Tibetan monk and a vacuum cleaner. This goes on for a few minutes. I’m tempted to stand up and walk out. What is my mother doing? I can’t believe people fall for this shit.

  What keeps me from leaving is the feel of Josh’s hand. He has a firm grip. My mother’s chanting rises to a climax and Josh squeezes my hand. I open my eyes to find him looking at me. Quinn, whose hand I’m also holding, has her eyes shut. She looks so peaceful I wonder if she’s napping.

  “Close your eyes,” says my mother. Both Josh and I smile guiltily. As far as I can tell, my mom’s eyes have stayed shut the whole time. I wonder how she knew. When I look back at Josh his eyes are shut again.

  “I’m looking for a woman who has crossed over,” says my mother in a hushed voice. “Her name is Tonya Dawn Barton.”

  We all wait. I worry that my palms are sweaty. “If Tonya’s there, please send us a sign,” says my mom. I hold my breath. In a weird, crazy way I almost want something to happen, because if nothing does, my mom will look even loonier than she already does. We all wait. There’s dead silence.

  “Tonya?” asks my mother. Her voice has changed. She sounds much older now, and terribly tired. “It’s all right. I can feel you. We want to help find your killer. Can you help us?”

  Despite myself, I shiver. I’m tempted to open my eyes, but something holds me back. There’s a loud thump outside in the front yard. Quinn clutches my hand. I open my eyes. Like me, Josh and Quinn are staring out the window. I look up and down the road. The yard and the street appear empty.

  I clear my throat. “Was that the cat?” I ask. There’s no sign of Pudding in the tree where I’d spotted her earlier. Quinn has released my hand and placed it on her belly.

  “Let’s try again,” says my mother. We all dutifully clasp hands and close our eyes. Even though I don’t believe in any of this, I worry it’s bad for my mom’s health. She sounds so drained. For a moment, she hums, only to b
reak off and say Tonya’s name. “Yes, it’s all right. We’re here,” says my mother soothingly. “Can you tell us who attacked you?”

  We all wait.

  “I . . . I missed that,” says my mom. “We should look where? Where should we look? Tonya?”

  At that moment, Josh’s cell phone beeps. I open my eyes. He releases my hand and removes his phone from his pocket. “Oh God, sorry,” he says. “I forgot to turn it off.”

  “It’s alright,” says my mother, her voice flat. Looking at her, I feel freshly alarmed. There’s no shine to her eyes and her skin appears equally dull, like all the sparkle has been sucked out of her. Quinn looks tired too. I know she’s been going to bed early of late. She stands up and stretches, then sits down and rubs her belly. I guess the baby’s been kicking a lot.

  When Josh opens his text message his forehead furrows. “Any idea what this means?” He extends the small screen my way. I lean closer to read it.

  “CLOuD CoLOr,” I read. I shrug. “Means nothing to me. Who sent it?”

  Josh brushes a curl off his forehead. “That’s what’s really weird,” he says. “Check this out.” He hands me back the phone. The From line is blank. I click on Message details and a box pops up. Empty.

  “What is it?” asks Quinn. I hand her Josh’s phone and she squints at it. “Cloud color,” she says.

  “There’s no record of the phone that sent it,” I say. “I guess it’s some network error.”

  A loud thump causes Quinn to gasp. Something hit the window directly behind us.

  “Was that a bird?” I ask. We all stare into the dark yard. Some thick cedar bushes lie directly below the window. I peer down but can’t see anything.

  “Creepy,” says Quinn. She hands Josh his phone and shakes herself. “This is going to sound crazy,” she says. “But that message . . . you don’t think it could’ve come from Tonya, do you?”

  My first thought is that pregnancy has zapped her intellect. But then I recall how Josh’s phone beeped back in the kitchen, just when it seemed he might kiss me . . . That message, like this one, had no sender details. Was that Tonya too, trying to stop Josh from kissing me?

  It’s such a crazy idea that it makes me mad, firstly with myself, and then at my mother. This is what happens when people go along with her stupid paranormal delusions. Everyone ends up scared and totally irrational. It’s like Salem. One minute, a couple of preteens are having fits, the next, nineteen “witches” have been hanged. Next thing you know, we’ll convince ourselves that Tonya is tapping out messages with her phantom acrylic nails or cruising around the yard in a spectral Mercedes.

  My mom and Josh are now rereading the text message together. My mom runs a hand over her eyes. “I don’t know anything about text messaging,” she says. “But spirits have been known to communicate in all sorts of ways, like via photographs or recordings, or flashing lights and ringing phones, even turning the TV on and off.” She reaches for her mug of by now cold tea. “So it’s possible.” She studies Josh’s face. “Cloud color. Does it mean anything to you?”

  “Maybe it’s the name of a boat,” says Quinn. She too is holding her mug of cold tea as though she’s trying to warm her hands on it.

  I stand up. “I’m making fresh tea.” I say. If I have to listen to this lunacy for another second I’ll end up yelling at my mother, my best friend, and the man of my warped dreams.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN:

  DEARLY DEPARTED

  Tonya’s memorial service is being held at the Horizon Chapel, a soulless flat-roofed building down on Fort Street. Listening to a guy who sounds like a TV evangelist and looks like a ventriloquist’s dummy describe Tonya as a modern-day saint, I’m finding it hard not to roll my eyes. Clearly, he never met the woman.

  Jackie, Quinn, and I are sitting midway back, near the side aisle, where we can escape if needed. This seat also gives us a good view of the crowd. I figure there’s a high chance that Package might show up. Quinn nudges me in the ribs. “Is that Louise Dobson?”

  I nod. Louise is in the front row, dressed in a black pantsuit and sobbing into what looks like a Versace hankie that matches her yellow hair. I told Quinn about our weird discussion down at Island Deco. Louise is sitting next to Tonya’s mom, who’s an older version of her daughter: a heavily made-up woman with a bleached blonde perm, an Indian wedding’s worth of gold jewelry, and a trout pout. Despite the good weather, she’s wearing a fake fur coat and knee-high boots. Giant black sunglasses cover her eyes, giving her the look of a mafia widow. Beside her sits Tonya’s brother, Ryan, whom I remember from camp, except he’s now stockier and jowlier. A year older than us, he was the kind of kid who squished snails for fun. Even now, at his sister’s funeral, he looks like a cocky creep, dressed in a too shiny suit with a mobile phone glued to his ear.

  From Ryan, I turn my attention to Josh, who’s sitting beside his brother, Mike, across the aisle from Tonya’s family. Dressed in dark suits, both brothers look stiff and uncomfortable, their curls combed flat and their arms crossed tight against their chests. They’re neither talking nor looking at each other, both staring at the spiky floral arrangements.

  Quinn jabs me again. “Oh my God. Is that Chantelle Orker?”

  I follow Quinn’s gaze to see the latecomers: Chantelle herding a scowling preteen boy down the aisle, her muscular body packed into a tight black dress and a black hat covering half of her face. Painted bright red, her downturned lips scream of discontent. “Yup. That’s her,” I say, recalling our run-in in Safeway. Chantelle looks slightly less tacky today, but only because black’s more forgiving. Did Tonya still dress like that, or had money improved her sense of style? Somehow, I highly doubt it.

  Quinn’s eyebrows are scaling new heights. “Look! I don’t believe it! Who’s that guy? Oh my God, it’s Josh’s brother!”

  I look up at Chantelle in time to see her press those red lips to Mike’s ear. “Whoa,” I say, trying to take this in. What are the chances that both Barton brothers would end up with the nastiest girls from that nasty camp? Bad taste must run in the family.

  Quinn’s eyes are almost as round as her belly. “D’you think that’s their kid?” she asks.

  I study the blond boy, now slumped into Mike and Chantelle’s pew, a set of jumbo-cinnamon-roll-sized headphones clamped over his ears. The kid has Mike’s piercing blue eyes and Chantelle’s big chin. He’s got her snarling lips too, minus the lipstick.

  “Yeah, must be,” I whisper.

  “Holy crap,” says Quinn. “Mike has a kid with Chantelle Orker?” She shakes her head. “Jeez, I hated that girl. Remember when she mixed blue Kool-Aid crystals into your sunscreen and the color wouldn’t come off?”

  I nod grimly. My nickname was “Baby Smurf” for a couple of days. Before it became something far worse . . . This memory brings a jab of actual physical pain under my ribs. I grip the edge of the wooden pew and try to breathe slowly. Quinn shoots me a worried look. “You okay?” she mouths.

  I nod, except I’m not. Being around these people stresses me out to the point that I’m scared I’ll have a panic attack. The last one I had was in a hotel bathroom, in a basement, when the power went out. It was the sudden darkness and lack of space and air that triggered it. Quinn hands me her water bottle. “Thanks,” I say, gratefully, and take a swig.

  She drinks some too, before recapping the bottle and stuffing it back into her giant bag. “I wish it were booze,” she mutters.

  “Same!” She’s made me smile.

  At a sign from the funeral director, Josh rises from his seat and walks toward the closed coffin. Chantelle stops whispering in Mike’s ear and throws Josh a poisonous look. As he passes, Tonya’s brother glares and mutters under his breath. Tonya’s mom raises her dark shades and gives Josh the evil eye, like she’s cursing him. Interesting. Do they all think he killed her?

  Josh walks across the stage and stops. Gazing down at his extended family, he sways a little, then pulls himself together and adjusts the micro
phone. He looks pale and haggard, his slicked-back hair making him seem older and unfamiliar. He clears his throat and the room falls silent. “Thank you for coming,” he says, being careful not to look down at Tonya’s family. “It means a lot to me.” He looks at his hands and blinks, then continues. “We’re here today to remember Tonya, who brought so much happiness to so many of us.” At this, Louise Dobson emits a strangled wail. Quinn nudges my foot. “One of the things I’ll never forget about Tonya is how much she loved to dance,” says Josh. Until now, he’s been reading from a small page, but he folds it and keeps talking. “When I met Tonya, I was very young. I liked her for what were probably the wrong reasons, because she was attractive and pretty.” He lowers his eyes and then raises them. It feels like he’s looking straight at me. “There was a lot more to Tonya than that.” He gazes over our heads, as though looking out to sea. “But some people never got to see it. When she danced, it wasn’t about how she looked, but how she made people feel. I fell in love with her dancing.” He twists the paper in his hands. “She was free when she danced.” His voice breaks and he hangs his head. “I hope wherever she is, she’s dancing.”

  As Josh talks about Tonya, my mind wanders. I think of the last time I saw all these people together—Josh, Mike, Chantelle, Louise, Quinn, and Ryan. And Tonya, of course. It’s weird to think she’s gone, only enduring in people’s memories. The room is stuffy. I feel tired. I close my eyes, remembering my last night at camp, how I’d crept up to my bunk, depressed and exhausted, and found the note on my pillow:

  Toby—I’m sorry. I made a mistake. I don’t want Tonya. I want you. Please meet me at midnight in the Nature Hut.

  I’d held it inside my sleeping bag and turned on my flashlight, the batteries so feeble I was scared I’d misread it. The printed letters seemed to quiver, the handwriting shaky, like it had been scrawled in a hurry on a soft surface. Heart pounding, I grabbed my jacket and climbed down the bunk’s ladder again. I could hear the counselor’s snores and Louise’s loud allergic wheezing. Below me, Quinn’s hair was spread gold on her pillow, like a kid’s drawing of the sun. I found my shoes—still wet—and tiptoed to the door. Not even Louise stirred. I opened it as slowly and as quietly as possible.