Divorce Is Murder

by Elka Ray

  Jackie smoothes back her hair. “Alana Mapplebee looks a bit like Tonya,” she says. “Or at least they’re the same type. Maybe Josh was at the motel meeting Alana.”

  I consider this. While both women had big blonde hair, boob jobs, and fake tans, their features aren’t that similar. Alana’s mouth is smaller, while Tonya’s nose was more snubbed. Different face shapes too, with Alana’s being longer than her rival’s. The Seabreeze’s receptionist seemed awfully sure that the woman in my photo was Josh’s lover.

  “Maybe it wasn’t Josh,” says Quinn. I turn my head to see her standing in the doorway, balancing a tray on her belly.

  I sit up and glare at her. “Have you been eavesdropping?” The endless rendition of “Twinkle Twinkle” has gotten to me. I grab the remote and turn off the mobile.

  Quinn shrugs. She doesn’t look remotely contrite. She sets her tray onto a low table and pops an olive into her mouth. Besides the olives, the tray bears corn chips and salsa. At the sight, my stomach growls. It’s almost time for dinner.

  “It’s not like you were keeping your voices down,” says Quinn. She lowers herself into a white rocking chair and starts rocking. She’s wearing a pair of Bruce’s jean cut-offs and a long blue top, which has ridden up to reveal that a pink hair-elastic is holding her shorts shut. Her belly button, which used to be an innie, is sticking out. I can’t help staring at it. “It could have been Mike,” says Quinn.

  “Mike?” asks Jackie.

  I bite back a groan. The thought of Josh and some other woman made me so jealous I missed the obvious. It has to be Mike. I think back to the day I mistook him for Josh at the marina. “Quinn’s right,” I say. Then I shake my head. “Ew. It’s like something off a bad daytime talk show.”

  “Nasty but possible,” says Quinn. “Remember back at Camp Wikwakee? Mike had a huge crush on Tonya.”

  “Every teenage boy had a crush on Tonya,” I say. Just like every teenage girl—besides Quinn, and possibly Louise—had a crush on Josh.

  “It would explain why Tonya wouldn’t even tell her friends who she was seeing on the side,” says Jackie. She sips her beer. “Sleeping with your husband’s brother is not . . .” Words fail her.

  “I guess I’d better go back to the Seabreeze,” I say. “Maybe the receptionist will remember their cars or something.” I lie back on the floor. Along with the lion, the mobile features a zebra, a giraffe, an elephant, an antelope, and a kangaroo. I wonder who thought the kangaroo was a good idea given that it belongs on a different continent.

  Staring up at the mobile, I try to imagine Josh’s taciturn younger brother as Tonya’s well-endowed, ardent lover. It seems so twisted. I recall what Louise Dobson said, about Tonya breaking it off with Package because he’d become too clingy. Could Mike have killed her because she dumped him? Was he planning to divorce Chantelle to be with Tonya? Does Chantelle know? I guess not, given that she and Mike seemed to be getting along fine at Tonya’s funeral.

  “Do you think Josh knows about Tonya and Mike’s affair?” asks Quinn. She’s drinking iced tea and eyeing her mom’s beer enviously.

  “He couldn’t,” I say, shocked at the thought. “Mike’s still working for him. If Josh knew, would they even be speaking?”

  Quinn rubs her belly. “Maybe Josh’s just biding his time before he takes revenge,” she says. “It’s not like he can do anything now, with the cops all over him trying to get him for Tonya’s murder.”

  I blink. Quinn has always had a great imagination. What she’s saying is that Josh bludgeoned Tonya and plans to kill Mike too. When I turn to Jackie, I expect her to look incredulous. Instead, she looks thoughtful. I set down my beer. Is Jackie actually considering Quinn’s crazy revenge theory?

  “You’d better get back to the Seabreeze,” says Jackie. “And for God’s sake, don’t say anything to Josh about any of this. If Tonya was sleeping with Mike, we’d better find out if Josh knew or not, because if he did . . .” She shakes her head. “Well, the cops would be thrilled. Even without all that money at stake, discovering your wife and your brother having an affair is one hell of a good motive for murder.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:

  MOTHS

  Jackie and Quinn talked me into staying for an early dinner. By the time I get back to the Seabreeze, darkness has fallen.

  The chain-smoking receptionist looks neither surprised nor pleased to see me again. “Did you send the cops?” she asks. She’s now wearing a hooded sweatshirt over her tank top and has applied what must be her evening makeup: metallic blue eyeshadow up to her brows and even more mascara. The odor of fast food has joined the smells of old cigarette smoke and hairspray. There’s a crumpled McDonald’s bag in the trash, while a hall-empty box of fries lies open on the desk near an old-fashioned dial telephone.

  I shake my head. “No,” I say, alarmed. “Why? Were they here?”

  The woman nods.

  I bite back a groan. Do they know about Mike? “What did they want?”

  She shrugs, like it’s not worth getting into. Faced with her hard blue stare I feel nervous. It looks as though her patience has worn thin. I expect her to tell me to get out of here.

  Instead, she offers me a smoke. I guess my company must be better than nothing. “Same as you,” she says, handing me her lighter. “They wanted to know about that blond couple.”

  I manage to light the cigarette and start coughing. The last time I smoked was in high school.

  The receptionist picks out a crispy fry. There’s a ring with a row of colored stones on her ring finger. I’ve seen similar ones advertised in the backs of magazines. You can select your birthstone and those of your loved ones. I study hers: Peridot—August. Garnet—January. Aquamarine—March. Opal—October. I wonder who the stones are for. Her mom and dad? Or her kids, perhaps?

  Outside, a car honks. The woman flicks back the lace curtains. Satisfied that nothing of interest is happening within sight, she turns back to me and stifles a yawn. “Where you from?” She wipes her hands on her jeans and taps out a fresh cigarette.

  I stub mine out, gratefully. “Here,” I say. “Born and raised in Victoria.”

  Beneath frazzled bangs, she frowns. Even before she says it, I know what’s coming: “No, where are you really from?”

  How many times, over the years, have I heard this question, or worse? The first half of the hateful rhyme Tonya invented at camp floats into my ears: Me Chinese, me a slut. . .

  I bite down, hard, to block my ears and to stop myself from shooting back an answer the receptionist won’t like. I can’t afford to offend her. I want her to keep talking to me. Plus she doesn’t mean to be rude or ignorant. I just look different from her—so can’t really belong.

  “My great grandparents came from China,” I say. “On my mom’s side.”

  She nods. “I got nothing against immigrants myself,” she says. “Most of the chamber maids we got here are Mexican. We got one from El Salvador too. She’s only got one hand but works really fast.” She lights her smoke. “I don’t know how she does it.”

  “I’m Toby,” I say, since I don’t know how else to respond.

  The woman nods. “I’m Anastasia,” she says. “Not that I’m Russian. My mom was a bit of a dreamer, thought it sounded romantic.” She gives a tight smile. “Most people call me Stacy.”

  “Nice to meet you, Stacy,” I say. Once again, she’s peering out of the lace curtains. I wonder what time her shift ends. She must get really bored in here.

  I’m wondering how to turn the conversation back to Tonya and Mike when Stacy does it for me. “The cops got really excited when I ID’d Cage’s ex,” she says.

  I nod. “Do you remember what kinds of cars they drove?”

  Stacy looks incredulous. “The cops?” she asks. “Unmarked but you can always tell.” She snorts. “I can spot a cop a mile off.”

  I shake my head. “No, what cars were Cage’s ex and the guy she was with driving?”

  “Oh them.” She picks up anot
her French fry. “She drove a little gold Mercedes convertible. Hard to forget. And the guy had a Ford truck, same model as Mitchell’s, which is why I remember it. Except Mitch’s is black and his was blue.” She eyes me curiously. “Why? The cops think that hot guy she was doing here might have killed her?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. I feel both exhilarated about having unearthed some new info and mildly sick. Mike drives a blue Ford truck. How will I tell Josh that his wife was sleeping with his brother?

  My alarmed expression must register because Stacy gives a knowing nod. “That hot guy, Mr. Smyth, he’s your old man, isn’t he?” She exhales a cloud of white smoke. “I knew he was cheating on someone.” She looks me up and down. “That uppity blonde bitch stole him from you, didn’t she?” She purses her lips. “And now the cops think you offed her?”

  I shake my head and laugh. I bet she watches a lot of soaps. “No,” I say. “I’m single. Smith? Is that what they called themselves?”

  “Yeah, with a ‘y,’” says Stacy. “Tricky, huh? ’Course I knew it was a fake name.” She twists at her ring, studying my black pants and cream sweater. From the pitying look in her eyes, I think she’s still convinced I’m a scorned woman. “If you want that guy back, ya might want to dress a little sexier,” she says. “Like, tighter clothes. Guys are visual, ya know?”

  I’m too amazed to respond. I bet she got that straight out of Cosmo.

  “And heels. Guys love a woman in heels.” She pulls a powder compact from her purse and swipes on a fresh orangey layer. “You can do a lot with makeup.”

  I bite my tongue. A woman who makes Chantelle look classy is giving me fashion advice. But she seems sincere. I sigh. That’s why it’s so sad. She’s just trying to help me.

  A few units down some drunk guy starts to yell. A door slams. Stacy rolls her glittery eyes. “Jesus, I got to go tell that asshole to keep it down.” She snaps her compact shut. Before preceding me out the door, she turns to give me one last bit of advice. “That guy, Smyth or whatever he’s called, forget about him. Find someone else. He’s not worth it.”

  I start to say she’s got it wrong, that I don’t want him, but his brother. Then I shut my mouth and nod. It’s pathetic, either way, and the truth is, Quinn might be right. Maybe I’ve spent all this time wanting Josh because I know I’ll never get him. What if I’m one of those people who’s just happier on my own?

  I follow Stacy outdoors. Outside of the office hangs a light. A moth is banging against the bulb as though hoping to burrow inside it. I consider flicking it away. Maybe it’ll go someplace else. But I know it’s a lost cause. That moth and that light bulb are fated.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:

  OH BROTHER

  Jackie and I are sitting in her kitchen, which offers a view of their hilly yard, rooftops, and Cadboro Bay, in the distance. It’s raining, the ocean like dull pewter. I get up and help myself to another cup of coffee. Jackie’s house is warm, and despite, or maybe because of, the gloomy day, the kitchen feels bright and cozy. From the living room I can hear the sound of a vacuum cleaner. Jackie’s twice-a-week cleaning lady, Mary, is in today. Over the top of the vacuum Mary is singing a Beatles song.

  Jackie pries another slice of date square out of the pan sitting between us. “Another slice?” she asks.

  I hold out my plate. Ever since Jackie’s accident, friends have been dropping off cakes and casseroles. Her extra-wide freezer is packed. I take a bite. The date square is still warm from the oven.

  Jackie glances at the wall clock. “Josh should be here soon,” she says. “Are you going to tell him?”

  I shrug. We need to tell him about his brother’s affair, but the thought leaves a bad taste in my mouth. How betrayed will he feel? I take another sip of coffee. “I guess so,” I say, reluctantly.

  With the vacuum still going, we didn’t hear Josh’s car. Mary must have let him in, because all of a sudden, he’s standing in the kitchen doorway. “Sorry, I’m late,” he says. Dressed in a red raincoat, a navy sweater, and jeans, he looks like he just hopped out of a Ralph Lauren ad. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I catch a whiff of the ocean. He heads for Jackie first, kissing her on both cheeks, then turns to me and says, “So what’s the bad news?”

  I look at Jackie, willing her to fill him in, but she just asks if he wants some coffee and a date square. Josh eyes the pan and smiles. “Please. It smells fantastic.” I jump up to fetch him a mug and a plate. He hangs his raincoat on an empty chair and takes a seat next to Jackie.

  After he’s got his coffee and cake, I can’t put it off any longer. I take a deep breath. Josh looks from me to Jackie, then back at me. As usual, I feel self-conscious in his presence. Is my top too tight?

  “We know who Tonya was sleeping with,” I say.

  Josh runs a hand through his damp hair and frowns. “Okay. Who?”

  I tell him about my visit to the Seabreeze Inn. “The receptionist recognized a photo of Tonya,” I say. “And your brother. They were meeting there.”

  Josh’s face hardens. “Mike?”

  I nod, trying to analyze his reaction. Did he already know? While he looks genuinely upset, I’m not sure he’s surprised. His eyes, normally aquamarine, appear almost as dark as his sweater. I wait for him to question me, but he doesn’t.

  “She ID’d their cars too,” I say. “Sorry.”

  Josh stares out of Jackie’s picture window. A red squirrel saunters across the lawn, freezing when it catches sight of us, only to dart off, chirping loudly. Jackie folds her arms. Like me, she’s waiting for some reaction.

  Josh turns back to us. “I wish I could say that’s impossible, but unfortunately it sounds . . .” He massages his forehead. “Plausible.”

  “Really?” I say, shocked that he could even imagine his brother sleeping with his wife. White trash overload.

  “You don’t know Mike,” he says. He meets my eyes, then looks away. “We’ve never gotten along that well.”

  “But he’s married,” I say. “And he works for you!”

  “Yeah,” says Josh. He grimaces. “Ever since we were little he’s resented me, and I’ve always felt guilty about it. Whenever I try to help him he accuses me of showing off or interfering. But then he’s always asking for money, and if I say no, I’m a selfish bastard.” He clenches his jaw. “I can’t win, basically.”

  “Did you suspect them?” I ask. The police will be eager to prove that Josh knew about Mike and Tonya.

  Josh takes a deep breath. “I knew Tonya was being unfaithful before we split,” he says carefully. “But no, like I said, I didn’t know it was with . . .” He swallows hard. “My brother.”

  “How did you know she was having an affair?” asks Jackie. Like me, she’s watching Josh intently.

  “Louise Dobson told me.”

  I can’t hide my surprise. “Why would she do that?” I ask. “I thought Louise was Tonya’s friend.”

  Josh shrugs. “I’m not sure Tonya had any real girlfriends.”

  I think back to my meeting with Louise and how she’d struck me as a drama queen. Was telling Josh a way to get back at Tonya for years of being bullied and belittled? How deep did Louise’s dislike of her so-called friend go?

  “I thought she was making it up,” continues Josh, “but then I started paying attention.” He looks thoughtful. “Tonya seemed different, more secretive and excited.”

  “Did you confront her about it?” asks Jackie.

  “No.” Josh studies his plate. “At the time I was seeing Alana, and it made me feel less guilty to find out Tonya was cheating on me, too.” When he meets my eyes, he looks embarrassed. “That’s when I knew our marriage was unfixable.”

  “According to Louise, Tonya broke it off with Mike,” I say. “And he didn’t take it well.”

  At this fresh mention of Mike, Josh’s face darkens. “Well, he wouldn’t,” he says. He stands up and starts pacing around the kitchen. “He was sleeping with her to get back at me,” he says. “This wasn’t ab
out Tonya. Mike didn’t even like Tonya. He was always complaining about her, saying what a ditz she was. He thought Tonya was a bad influence on Chantelle too, always taking her shopping.”

  “Apparently Tonya told Louise he was in love with her,” I say.

  Josh rolls his eyes. “Tonya would think that,” he says sourly. “She thought everyone was in love with her.”

  He looks so disdainful that I can’t help but wonder why he’d married her in the first place. “Did you love her?” I ask.

  Josh looks surprised. I’m surprised I voiced the question too. Is it any of my business?

  “I . . . God, I don’t know.” He sighs. “When we met up in L.A., I was working all the time. I was stressed and lonely, and Tonya was a familiar face, someone from home. We had fun together and . . .” He looks wistful. “I’m not sure it was love,” he says. “But I wanted it to be.” He meets my eyes, then turns to gaze out the window. It’s raining harder now, the lawn sodden.

  For a few minutes, nobody speaks. Then Jackie clears her throat. “Josh,” she says. “Right now, we don’t know if the police know about Mike and Tonya’s affair. But if we figured it out, so will they, and at that point they’re going to ask whether you knew, or not.” Jackie’s voice is solemn. “If you did, they’ll see it as yet another motive for killing her.”

  Josh spins toward her. “I already told you I didn’t do it.” His eyes narrow. “Do you think Mike could have . . .” He swallows hard and stops talking.

  “Do you?” I ask.

  Josh makes a fist, and for a second I think he’ll hit something. But he just takes a deep breath. “I’m going to kill him,” he says. He looks angry enough to be serious.

  In the living room there’s a loud clattering noise. Mary must have dropped something. The vacuum is turned off. Seeing my expression, Josh exhales. “I don’t mean that literally,” he says. “But I need to talk to him . . .” He reaches for his mobile.