I nod. It’s always vonderful, at the outset. “So how did he betray you?” I ask. Surely, he couldn’t be cheating on her yet. Look at the woman! And they’ve only been married for three months. Although who knows? Maybe he’s a sex addict. I wonder what he’s like, this Dennis Butts. He must be quite something to have landed Vonda.
Vonda’s eyelashes dip, then flip open. Her eyes narrow. “He said he vas rich. Very rich.” She tosses her head. “But he vasn’t!”
Without meaning to, I start clicking my pen, trying to sort this out. Soooo. My new client is a gold digger who wants out because the mine’s a dud. “Is he a gambler?” I say. “Has he mismanaged your money?”
Vonda waves a hand, her bejeweled fingers flashing. “Money? There is no money. It vas all for show. All this time and energy I put into him. All this!” She waves a hand toward her chest, showcasing her enviable assets. “All for nothing!” Her lip quivers and her voice drops. “I even posted about him! On Insta and Tumblr!”
“Uh, that’s not really grounds for a Fault divorce,” I say. “Is he cheating on you? Is he cruel to you?”
“Cruel!” cries Vonda. “Yes, so so cruel!” She sticks out her hand to show me her diamond engagement ring—the stone the size of an igloo. Her chest heaves with indignation. “I vent to the jeweler to get it assessed and it is fake!” she cries. “Cubic zirconia. Vorthless!” Fresh tears fill her eyes. “That is fraud! Such betrayal! Can you imagine?”
Seeing her so upset, I’m unsure how to respond. “Er, does he agree to a divorce?” I ask, once she’s calmed down.
Vonda shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.” For a moment, she looks genuinely sad. “Perhaps he is also disappointed.”
“Why?”
A tiny embarrassed pout. “Oh, vell, maybe he thought I had money too.”
My pen clicks. What? This is a first. Mr. versus Mrs. Gold Digger. “So he married you for your money?”
“Perhaps,” says Vonda. She clasps her hands primly. “But in truth I am broke. It is very difficult, being an Influencer. Instagram has changed its algorithm.” She pronounces this last word with extra care. Her doleful gaze turns steely. “But not for long, don’t vorry.”
Seeing my questioning look she gives me a game smile. “I vill find a rich husband,” she says. “I just need a divorce.” She clicks her fingers. “A-SAP.”
“One year,” I say. “And No Fault. Unless there’s adultery or physical or mental cruelty.” Seeing her look of hope, I head her off. “I mean real cruelty. And it’s hard to prove. I recommend you separate immediately and file for No Fault. It’s the cheapest . . .”
She breaks in. “No vay. He must pay. I am humiliated. He has harmed my brand image.” Another toss of her glossy dark head. “I vill vait. Sooner or later, he vill cheat on me.”
“How do you know?”
Again, she looks at me like I’m thick.
“Because he has the same plan,” she says. “To find a new vife and marry for money.”
CHAPTER 2:
A BAD FEELING
From the way my mom says my name, I know she’s upset. “Toby? Can I come up?” The intercom crackles.
I stab at the button. “It’s open.”
I live on the fourth floor of a 1950s building in Oak Bay. There’s no elevator. Not that that’s a problem for my mom. Although she’s turning sixty next month—and underwent chemo last year, she’s in better shape than most women half her age, myself included.
I step into the hall just in time to see her sprint up the final stairs. Back before the chemo my mom’s hair was long and black. It now swirls around her face like a storm cloud. Dressed in black leggings and a purple sweatshirt, she’s carrying a tote bag and a yoga mat. Her pretty face is flushed. She must have come straight from hot yoga.
I hold the door open. “Hey Mom. How’s it going?”
“Put the kettle on. I’m parched,” she says. She deposits her mat and giant tote in my nonexistent front hall. “I need your help.” She kicks off her pink Birkenstocks and leans in for a kiss. Even sweaty, my mom smells good, like cinnamon and a warm kitchen. Her toenails flash sparkly turquoise as she heads for my postage-stamp living room.
I put the kettle on and surreptitiously check my watch. I have a date with Josh Barton and still need to shower, dry my hair, and do my makeup. What’s brought my mother to my door on a Wednesday night? Isn’t this her regular Mystical Book Club evening down at the Metaphysical Bookstore?
My mom is pacing the room. “What’s up?” I ask, carefully setting two cups—chamomile for her, English breakfast for me—onto coasters on the coffee table. Not that my mom will use hers. She has no regard for fine furniture.
She throws herself into an armchair. “Something’s happened,” she says. “I can’t find Daphne.”
Daphne Dane is one of my mom’s closest friends, as well as a long-term client. “What’d you mean?” I say. “Did she miss an appointment?”
My mom nods. “Yes, her three p.m. reading. I’ve been trying to call her ever since but there’s no answer.”
I fight back a sigh. So Daphne missed a reading. So what? People forget stuff.
But my mother looks agitated. She pushes a wisp of hair from her eyes and rewraps the brightly colored scarf around her neck. “It’s not like her. The only time Daphne’s ever missed a reading was the day Walt died,” she says. “Remember Daphne’s late husband, Walter?”
“Um, yeah,” I say, although I barely knew Walter Dane. I know his face, though, off the cookie boxes. Walter and Daphne founded the biggest cookie brand in Western Canada. When I was a kid, Daphne seemed straight off Dynasty—a large, big-haired glamor queen who’d sweep into my mom’s tiny kitchen once a week to get her cards done. It was Daphne who’d encouraged my mother to read fortunes for a living. I didn’t know it at the time, but without her financial help, my mom might have lost our house after my dad stopped paying alimony and child support.
“Her phone is off,” continues my mom. “It’s never off.”
I check my watch. I’m meant to meet Josh in forty-five minutes.
My mother wrings her hands. “And her home phone’s always busy. It must be off the hook.”
I blow on my tea. My mother and Daphne Dane are unlikely friends—Daphne a mega-rich, mega-blonde socialite, and my mom a tarot-reading, Chinese-Canadian hippie. I know why Daphne’s important to my mom. What I don’t get is why she’s freaking out. People miss appointments. They turn off their phones. Maybe Daphne is having a long nap. It’s only been a few hours. I say this to my mom and she waves her hands. She hasn’t even touched her tea.
“You don’t understand!” she says. “I read her cards anyway and . . .” She chews on her lip. “They were horrifying! So then I consulted the I Ching. Even worse.” She jumps up and starts to pace around the boxy room. From the couch to the fish tank and back. “I also did the Kau Cim.” Her voice quivers.