Home > Killer Coin(3)

Killer Coin(3)
Author: Elka Ray

I bite my tongue. The Kau Cim are bamboo sticks that you shake from a tube. Each stick has a number associated with a line of obscure and badly translated Chinese verse that, supposedly, offers insight into life’s important questions. About as scientific as a fortune cookie. Like the rest of my mom’s divination methods.

“Is there anyone else you could call?” I ask. “Do her kids live here?” I have vague—and vaguely unhappy—memories of being forced to interact with Daphne’s kids at various parties as a child. What were their names? It doesn’t matter.

“They do,” says my mom. “I tried to look them up in the phone book, but their numbers aren’t listed. I’m going over to her place to check on her.”

I nod. While I’m sure Daphne’s fine, my mom will feel better after she’s checked. “Good idea,” I say.

My mother stops pacing. “Can you come with me?”

“I have a date,” I say.

Her pretty face falls. She runs her hands through her messy hair. “Oh. With Colin?”

“No, Josh.”

Normally, my mom would be full of questions. My love life, or lack thereof, is one of her favorite topics. She must be really worried because she doesn’t even react.

I chew on my lip. I ought to help. Guilt kicks in, followed by resentment. Why does she need me to accompany her to Daphne’s house? This thought brings more guilt. I take a deep breath. My mom doesn’t ask for much. Even when she was going through cancer treatment last year, she never complained. When I moved home to Victoria she was absurdly grateful. Accompanying her to Daphne’s is the least I can do.

Another quick look at my watch. “I’ll call Josh,” I say. “And tell him I’ll be late. Does Daphne still live in Rockland?”

“Yes. The same place.”

Good news. That’s not far. I can go there first, then continue downtown to meet Josh. As usual, just the thought of him gives me a buzz. We’re going to a fancy French restaurant, the chicest place in town. “Just let me freshen up,” I say. While Victoria is the provincial capital, it’s a casual sort of town: even in a fancy restaurant, my dark work skirt suit will do fine. And I can live without doing my hair. Josh has seen me looking much worse. Sparkly earrings, high heels, and some lipstick will more than suffice.

For the first time tonight, my mother smiles. “Thank you.” Her look of gratitude intensifies my guilt. She flops onto my small 50s-style couch and reaches for her now-cold tea. “I know you think I’m crazy,” she says. When I don’t deny it, she wiggles a skinny finger at me. “I hope I’m wrong,” she says. “But the cards . . .” The way she’s staring into her cup, I’m scared she’s reading her tea. She sighs. “I have a really bad feeling.”

 

 

CHAPTER 3:

A BIT OF A MESS

 

I pull up behind my mom’s yellow Honda hatchback. It’s a miracle it’s still running. She bought it second-hand back when I was in law school.

Standing before Daphne’s arched gate, my mother looks small and nervous. Her legs—which I’ve sadly inherited—are so thin that her spandex yoga pants are baggy. It’s late November, and far from warm. I button my wool coat and tuck my scarf in at the neck. My dark tights are flimsy and the wind is biting.

Surrounded by high laurel hedges, Daphne Dane’s house could pass for a historic hotel, with a black and white Tudor facade, various elaborate, steeply pitched roofs, and dormer windows. There’s even a turret, which naturally reminds me of a madwoman in the attic.

My mom unlatches the gate. I follow her through it. The front garden is massive, the perfect grass bordered by flower beds and landscaped shrubbery. A well-lit stone walkway leads to broad front steps and an open-fronted porch. Since I’m wearing heels, I tread carefully. In the center of the lawn, an old monkey puzzle tree rises as high as the house.

We’re climbing the front steps when something squeals.

I stop and clutch my mom’s arm. “What the—?”

She keeps climbing. “Oh, that’s Daphne’s potbellied pig, Kevin. He’s like a guard pig. Anyone arrives, he makes a racket.”

“She has a pig?” I say, aghast. “In Rockland?” Her poor neighbors. Those high-pitched squeals carry.

“A miniature pig,” says my mom. “Although he’s a bit larger than expected.”

I peer at the imposing front door, the carved wood inset with stained glass. The pig’s aria continues. It sounds gigantic.

We’ve now reached the top of the stairs. When I press the doorbell, the pig’s squeals turn to grunts. The front door shakes like some thing heavy has smacked it. As the bell’s chimes fade, I listen for approaching footsteps.

While we’re both focused on the door, a raspy voice comes from behind. “Hello?”

We both swing around. A young man is walking our way, slowly, like he’s exhausted. Slung across his thin torso is a saffron cloth bag like those carried by monks. On his back is a massive backpack.

At the bottom of the steps, he stops and gapes up at us. Despite the cold, he’s dressed in frayed board shorts, flip-flops, and a faded sweatshirt with an image of Ganesh on the front. He rubs his wispy hair from his eyes and squints in recognition. “Mrs. Wong?” he says, slowly. “Hey? How’s it going?”

My mom smiles. “Hi, Lukas,” she says. “I’m well, thanks. Did you just get back? Daphne said you were traveling.”

Lukas nods. “Um, yeah. India,” he says, vaguely. He yawns. “I’m beat. Such a long flight. And Mom’s and Grace’s phones were off, so I had to hitch a ride from the airport.” He peers up at the house, disgruntled.

I have a sudden, vivid memory of him as a spoiled, chubby kid—ill from gorging on chocolate cake at some fancy hotel buffet. He’s certainly lost the baby weight. Twenty years on, he looks malnourished, as well as scruffy. He’s got a beach bum’s ragged blond hair but the pallor of a teenage gamer.

He adjusts the straps of his pack. “Is my mom home?”

“She doesn’t seem to be,” says my mom. “She missed an appointment so I got worried and came over. I couldn’t reach her either.”

“Oh,” says Lukas. “I thought it was just my phone, ‘cause it’s like, out of cash.” He starts to climb the stairs. “My van’s in the shop. I came over to borrow one of Mom’s cars.”

My mother nods. “Can we check indoors? It’s not like Daphne to miss a reading.”

“Sure,” says Lukas, now joining us on the porch. He shrugs off his heavy pack. Like every other Canadian who’s ever backpacked anywhere, he’s sewn a small Maple Leaf flag onto his pack. We wait as he rummages slowly through various pockets. Unlike my mom, he doesn’t look worried.

I grit my teeth. At this rate, I’ll be here all night. My stomach rumbles. I skipped my usual late afternoon snack to leave more room for tonight’s saucy French dinner.

Finally, Lukas extracts a set of keys. Behind the door, the pig is still grunting.

Lukas has just stuck his key in the lock when a woman calls out from behind us. All three of us turn to see a skinny blonde striding our way. She’s trailed by a dumpy man holding a man-bag. They’re both dressed for golf in matching aqua polo shirts and beige and aqua plaid slacks. Even their shoes match. These outfits seem especially absurd on account of their size difference—the woman is a Chihuahua and the guy a well-fed bulldog.

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