Divorce Is Murder

by Elka Ray

  It turns out that Quinn’s still asleep and Bruce is running late for a meeting. He advises me to call Colin Destin. I’m hesitant, but Bruce insists. “Swear you’ll call him,” he says. “I’m not joking, Tob.”

  I cross my fingers and promise.

  I’m heading indoors to fetch scissors when I reconsider. I can’t lie to Bruce. Quinn would never let me forget it. Before calling Colin, I phone my mom to say I’ll be late. “Take your time, Sweetie,” she says. “I’m going to pop over to Thrifty’s to get some groceries. The parking’s not so crazy when it first opens.” She asks if I need anything, and I say no, then change my mind and ask her to pick up granola, cranberry juice, and frozen yogurt.

  Overhead, the first crow has been joined by a colleague. They both sound like they’re laughing at me. I walk around the car, just in case a note is lying around. I peer under the car too, and under the cars parked nearby. Should I really bother Colin? I hope he won’t think I’m crazy.

  He answers on the first ring.

  “Hi Colin,” I say. “This is Toby Wong. Bruce gave me your number. Sorry to call you so early, but I need your help with something.”

  Luckily, Colin sounds both wide awake and pleasantly surprised to hear from me. I recall Quinn’s claim that he wanted to ask me out for lunch tomorrow. The thought that he’s interested in me causes a warm, full feeling in my belly, as though I’ve just eaten a big bowl of tomato soup and drunk a mug of hot chocolate.

  “No problem. I’ve been at work for a while,” says Colin. “How can I help, Toby?”

  I explain about the mysterious parcel and remind him how both Tonya and Josh had received unwanted “gifts.”

  “I’m sure there’s some simple explanation,” I say. “I just wanted to double-check, you know?”

  “Where are you?” he asks.

  I give him my address and he says he’ll be right over. “Don’t touch it,” he says. “Just in case.”

  I retreat from beneath the crows’ lair and take a seat on the low wall that fronts my building. Luckily for me, it’s not raining, although it’s early enough in the morning to be too cold for the light jacket, cropped pants, and flat sandals I’m wearing.

  I’m reluctant to go up to my apartment in case someone removes the parcel from my mirror. If Colin gets here to find it missing, he might decide I’m nuts after all.

  By the time Colin drives up in an unmarked police car, my legs have the mottled, blue-veined look of uncooked sausages. I’ve taken to pacing the length of the wall to keep warm. This has earned me odd looks from various neighbors, who, having been up since daybreak, are heading home following early bird breakfasts down on Oak Bay Avenue.

  Colin pulls into a Loading Only zone and parks, then strides over to me. He’s wearing a dark blue jacket and holding a camera. Again, there’s an awkward moment when we’re figuring out how to greet each other. Perhaps because this visit is professional rather than social, Colin opts for a handshake. While his hand feels reassuring and warm, I wish he’d kissed my cheek instead.

  “Whoa, your hand is freezing!” he says. “Do you want to sit in my car and warm up?”

  I shove my hands back into the pockets of my summer jacket and say I’m fine. Cold as I am, I’d rather see what’s inside that mysterious brown-paper parcel.

  I watch as he photographs it in its current location, then withdraws a pair of scissors from his jacket pocket. He tugs on some plastic gloves. “Has anyone threatened you recently?”

  I shake my head. “No. Never.”

  Frowning, he struggles to snip through the sturdy rope. “Can you think of anyone with a grudge against you? The spouse of one of your clients or former clients, for instance?”

  I shrug. “Back in Toronto I can think of a few people who were fairly bitter about their spouses’ settlements,” I say. “In Victoria, I haven’t been practicing long enough to have upset anyone.”

  Colin deposits the parcel into a plastic bag. I feel a surge of disappointment. “You’re not going to open it?”

  “Well, there’s no real reason to think it’s dangerous,” says Colin. “But we may as well get the guys back at the station to double-check, especially given what happened to Tonya.”

  “Can I come too?” I ask. I want to know what it is. I hope it’s nothing embarrassing. Maybe I should have mentioned it to my mom, just in case she decided to come by and leave me a gift in the middle of the night. Although surely, even someone as offbeat as Ivy would just use my building’s drop box.

  Colin’s holding the plastic bag containing the package from one corner. “Of course.”

  “Great,” I say. “I’ll follow you to the station.”

  At the station, I call my mom’s number again but nobody answers. She must still be at the grocery store.

  After it’s been ascertained that my parcel is neither a bomb nor full of anthrax, Colin fetches me from the lobby and leads me to one of the interview rooms. While this space is as claustrophobic as it was when I was here with Josh, at least it’s heated today. I take a seat and Colin smiles at me. “You ready?” he asks. I watch as he snaps on a pair of rubber gloves and opens the Ziploc bag.

  It’s only when Colin is peeling back the brown paper that it occurs to me: I may have made a bad decision. What if the parcel contains evidence relating to Tonya’s murder, evidence that someone wishing to remain anonymous wanted Josh’s defense, rather than the cops, to have? What if the contents hurt Josh’s case? Maybe I should have taken the parcel to Jackie.

  Colin tears a hole in the paper wrapping and something falls out and lands on the table. I go to reach for it, then freeze. Colin picks it up and shows it to me.

  Lying in his hand is the head of a dead rose. It’s been spray-painted black, then splattered with bright red paint. I recall the black floral heart left on Josh’s SUV. Is Alana Mapplebee behind this creepy offering?

  Colin peers inside the package and frowns. I hold my breath. He tilts the parcel and its contents slide out, a dozen dried black and red roses spilling out of a pink lace bra.

  I feel my cheeks turn hot. Spread out on the interview table, under harsh fluorescent lights, my bra looks elf-sized. I bet Colin has never seen a bra that small. I consider pretending it’s not mine, then tell myself to stop being pathetic.

  Colin peers into the empty parcel, then sticks two fingers inside. He pulls out an envelope-sized slip of paper and lays it onto the table. Although the words are facing the wrong way, I have no trouble reading it. Fashioned from letters cut out of newspaper, the note reads: LEAVE VICTORIA, BITCH.

  Tonya had received a similar note with her red-paint-flecked Barbie doll.

  A muscle in Colin’s jaw jumps. He looks angry. “Who could have sent this?” he asks. “Do you have any bitter ex-boyfriends? Guys you might have rejected? Anyone who came on too strong?”

  I shake my head. I’d rather not tell Colin that it’s been nineteen months since my last date, with a guy I met in a Toronto doctor’s office who spent our entire date describing—in vivid detail—his recent hernia surgery.

  “How about social media?” asks Colin. “Are you active on dating sites? Have you gotten any similar sorts of messages? Anyone seem obsessive? This kind of stuff can start online and then escalate.”

  Again, I say no. My few attempts at internet dating were so lame I swore never again. The real world is weird enough. “There’s nothing like that.” I survey the bra, wishing the label weren’t sticking out, those AAs on full display. “But it’s my bra,” I admit. I explain how, just last night, it vanished from my building’s communal laundry room.

  Colin’s frown deepens. “Last night? That means whoever sent this was in your building.” He tugs at his collar, clearly agitated. “This isn’t good, Toby. How could they have gotten in?”

  I think of all the times the front door is propped open to allow Mrs. Von Dortmund’s incontinent cat to go in and out, and how often senile and half-blind visitors are granted access to the building after pushi
ng the wrong button. “It’s not exactly high security,” I say. “But we could ask around. Maybe one of my neighbors saw someone.”

  Colin promises to send someone over to question my neighbors. “Any chance you’d consider staying with a friend until we figure this out?” he asks.

  I cross my arms. “No way,” I say. I could go and stay at my mom’s, of course, or at Quinn’s. But it seems unnecessary. I like my own space. It’s not like I was attacked, after all.

  I say this to Colin and he shakes his head. “I still don’t like it. Given that Tonya received a similar message, we have to assume it’s related. Something you’re doing is upsetting someone, and they’re trying to scare you.”

  I push my hair from my eyes. It’s hard to equate a dead-flower-stuffed bra and a nasty note with murder. “You really think Tonya’s killer sent this?”

  “I don’t know,” says Colin. He pinches the skin between his eyebrows. “Your questions are obviously rubbing someone the wrong way.” He gives me a pointed look. “I know you went to the Seabreeze, by the way. Remember how I told you that Cage was dangerous?”

  I start to defend myself but Colin cuts me off. “I know,” he says. “You were just doing your job.” He lays a hand on my arm. “My job is to protect you. We think this guy Cage is in town, and from everything we’ve found out, he’s real trouble.” His voice softens. “Please Toby, let me handle this.”

  I study the threatening note. LEAVE VICTORIA, BITCH sounds like something a woman-beating thug would write. I recall Cage and Tonya’s misspelled email exchange. Would Cage have inserted that comma?

  Glancing up from the note, I meet Colin’s eyes, clear celadon green, rimmed by those thick—almost feminine—lashes. He looks so serious I feel uneasy. I promise not to try to find Cage.

  “Good,” says Colin. “But he’s not the only suspect. You really need to watch your back, Toby. Pay extra attention to what’s going on around you. Get someone to walk you to your car after dark.” He searches my eyes. “And if you feel uneasy about anything, anything at all, even if it’s in the middle of the night, promise you’ll call me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO:

  THE OTHER WOMAN

  Iwalk from the police station to Capital Iron, where my car is parked. The Chinese grocers’ and tourist shops are just opening up. I pass shopkeepers arranging boxes of fruits and veggies on the sidewalk. The more I think about the parcel, the humiliation of seeing my bra laid out on the interview bench, and the nasty message, the madder I feel. Josh seems convinced that his stalker is Alana Mapplebee. I think it’s time I came face to face with this woman.

  The hot dog stand across from Value Village isn’t open yet. I sit on an empty bench and fish my phone out of my purse. Having copied her number off the realtor ad next door to Quinn’s place, I don’t have to call directory assistance. After two rings a woman picks up, her perky “Hello, this is Alana Mapplebee speaking” sounding more than a little forced. Although it’s past 10:00 a.m., it’s as if she just woke up. I highly doubt she’ll agree to see me.

  I explain that I’m Josh’s lawyer and that I’m trying to learn more about Tonya’s death. Sure enough, Alana’s reaction is far from friendly. “So why are you calling me?” she asks.

  I take a deep breath. “Well, I heard you knew Josh,” I say cautiously. “And that you sold him and Tonya their house. I figured you might have some insight into their relationship.”

  “Look, the cops already came by,” says Alana. “And I told them exactly what I’m going to tell you. Tonya was a bitch, and Josh is a lying bastard.” Her emphasis on the word “bitch” sends a shiver down my spine. Following a pause she asks me to repeat my name again.

  “Toby Wong,” I say.

  For some reason, Alana seems to have a change of heart because her next words come out sounding more tired than angry. “I don’t know anything about Tonya’s death, but if you want to meet me, why not? Can you come to Ye Olde Tea Shoppe around three?”

  “Sure,” I say. “That’d be great. Thank you.”

  I’m as surprised by Alana’s choice of venue as I am by her agreeing to meet me. Decorated in a dim, faux-Tudor style, Ye Olde Tea Shoppe plays off Victoria’s reputation for Olde England charm, an image kept up by the city’s red double-decker buses, copious antique and curio shops, and boutiques peddling Irish lace and Scottish tartans. I wouldn’t have pictured Alana as a big fan of crumpets, chintz curtains, and tea cozies. But Ye Olde Tea Shoppe is a convenient choice for me, lying just a few blocks’ from my mom’s place.

  A bum from the nearby homeless shelter shuffles past, then decides to join me on my bench. Despite the early hour, he’s staggering drunk. “Washyouzname?” he says, in a blast of beer breath. This query is quickly followed by: “Yagottanychange?” Time to go. I find my keys and hurry to my car. It’s parked near a large mural of some bears that the artist dedicated to his little sister, who succumbed to cancer. As always, reading the inscription brings a lump to my throat.

  En route to my mom’s, I stop at Harry’s Flowers and pick up a pot of red cyclamens, Ivy’s favorite flower. Before getting out of the car, I call Jackie and fill her in on this morning’s events. “That note’s a clear threat,” says Jackie, sounding worried. “Are you sure you should be meeting this Mapplebee woman? Josh suspects she might be involved.” I can hear Fleetwood Mac playing in the background and Jackie’s husband, Alistair, singing along. Jackie asks him to turn the music down, then gets back on the line. “I really don’t like the sound of this, Toby.”

  “It’ll be fine,” I tell Jackie. “We’re meeting at Ye Olde Tea Shoppe.” I try to lighten the mood. “What’s she going to do, smother me with a Royal Wedding tea towel?”

  “Hmmm, I guess you’re right,” concedes Jackie. She wishes me luck and tells me to keep her posted.

  “I will,” I say, then repeat Colin’s warning about being extra cautious. If someone thinks I’m a threat, they might see Jackie the same way.

  “Good point,” says Jackie. “I’ll get Ali to turn on the alarm system. Be sure to order one of the raisin scones,” she adds. “They’re really good. With clotted cream. And jam!” I wouldn’t have picked Jackie as a Tea Shoppe regular either.

  Just as I’m hanging up, I see my mother pull up. She’s had the same yellow Honda hatchback since I was in law school. I retrieve the potted cyclamen from my passenger-side foot-well and wave at my mom.

  She collects two paper bags of groceries out of the back and lowers the car’s hatch. “Hey honey. Perfect timing.”

  “Hi Mom. Let me help with that.” I take the bigger bag off her and follow her up the front steps. We both set our bags on the kitchen table. There are fresh flowers in the center: a terra-cotta jar full of sunflowers today.

  My mother turns, her bright dark eyes upon me. I hand her the potted cyclamen and she smiles. “Oh. Pretty! Red. My favorite. Thank you!” Then her smile falters. “I’m getting bad vibes,” she says.

  I can’t hide my skepticism. “Off the cyclamen?”

  She shakes her head and sets down the plant. “No. Off you.” Her dark eyes narrow. “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing!” I say, more emphatically than I intended. “Nothing at all! Everything’s fine, Mom! I’m just busy with work and . . . Quinn’s baby shower.” I busy myself putting groceries into her fridge, then prattle on and on about the quilt I bought for Quinn’s baby. “It’s cream with yellow embroidery,” I say. “And super soft and squishy.”

  From the concerned frown on my mom’s face, I know she’s not listening to a word I’m saying. She nods and smiles, like a troubling question’s been answered. “Agate and carnelian,” she says. “Let me go find my crystal box.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but she’s already gone. I put a tub of organic ice cream into her freezer. Moments later, she’s back with a giant lacquered jewelry box. It’s bigger than some microwave ovens. She sets this massive box on the kitchen counter and starts pulling out strings of beads: shiny, dul
l, faceted, cabochon, in every color of the rainbow. The sunlight catches them, sending multicolored sparks around the room. Draped in beads, my mom looks like a vendor in an Arab bazaar. More strands clatter onto the counter. “There,” she says, when she’s finally found what she wanted. She stands on tiptoes and hangs one brown and one red strand around my neck. “Perfect. That’s just what you need. Protection from the evil eye.” She rearranges the beads against my chest. The stones feel cool and heavy against my skin.

  I look down: lumpy opaque red and brown rocks, each bead the size of an acorn. They are so not my style.

  I start to protest, then stop. The beads clash with my top but so what? Wearing them is a small price to pay if it will ease my mom’s worries.

  On a Saturday afternoon, Ye Olde Tea Shoppe is almost empty, with just three tables of grey-haired women and a couple of loud American tourists. One elderly man is sitting alone in the far corner. Compared to Mr. Garlowski, he’s George Clooney. The old ladies can’t stop gawping and giggling behind their veiny hands. I’m freshly reminded how, with each passing year, my odds of finding romantic fulfillment slip lower.

  I take a seat at a table for two near the window, facing the doorway. At three on the dot Alana steps inside. It’s a windy day and her hair has been blown into her face. I watch as she smoothes it back and checks her watch to be sure she’s on time. I’d expected her to be late. Yet again, she’s surprised me.

  Alana removes her sunglasses and looks around. At the sight of me she gives a tentative smile. I nod and she heads my way. Dressed in jeans, tan suede boots, and a pale pink sweater, she looks softer and prettier than on her real estate signboard. Her hair has been trimmed to shoulder length, and she’s toned down the blonde streaks. A big cream tote bag hangs from one slender arm. She looks much classier than the way I envisage Tonya. Maybe Josh doesn’t have such dreadful taste after all.

  Alana sticks out her hand and we shake. “Thanks for coming,” I say. I see that her nails are painted the same shade of pink as her sweater, and she’s got one ring on each hand, one with a bright blue topaz and the other with a pretty lemon quartz. Thanks to my mom’s obsession with crystal energy, I can’t help but notice gemstones. I’m still wearing the chunky beads she insisted on this morning.