In each new room we enter, Colin asks if anything is missing or out of place. Library. Living room. Dining room. TV room. Office. Everything is neat and tidy.
Isobel keeps shaking her head. “No, it seems fine. No, it looks okay. No, nothing.”
We all plod upstairs. Isobel’s in the lead. We enter a bedroom with faded surfing posters on the walls. A shelf of model airplanes lines one wall. The narrow bed is covered by a bedspread in rasta colors. “Lukas’s room,” says Isobel, curtly. It’s got a weird smell: like old, musty spices.
“Oh,” I say, surprised. “Does Lukas live here?”
“He moved out last year,” says Isobel—the finally there but unsaid. From the look on my mom’s face, I sense there’s a story.
Next up come two guest rooms, both decorated like five-star hotel rooms. Latte-toned quilts and cream pillows. Heather accents. Matching towels.
“And this is my mom’s room,” says Isobel.
It’s not a room but a suite—a sitting room with pretty floral wallpaper, a cream and antique-gold bedroom, and a fancy, white, spa-style bathroom. An Instagrammer’s dream. I’m reminded of my new client, Vonda. Can so-called Influencers earn a real living? What does Vonda actually model?
Colin peers into Daphne’s walk-in closet. He repeats his standard question: “Is anything missing or out of place?”
Isobel starts to say no, then stops. She squints into her mother’s vast closet. “One of her suitcases is gone,” she says. “The medium-sized LV one. Not the big one or the carry-on. It’s about . . .” She holds out her hands. “This big.”
Gerard looks up from his cellphone. “Are you sure, chéri?”
Isobel nods. “Mais oui,” she says.
Miriam studies some shelves lined with expensive shoes. “How about her clothes and shoes?” she asks. “Is everything here?”
“Her green raincoat is gone,” says Isobel. “And her black patent heels.” She opens another drawer. “Plus her favorite robe, the cream velvet one.”
Gerard shoves his phone into the pocket of his golf-slacks. “Well, that settles it,” he says. “She’s gone on a little vacation. Maybe Vancouver, or up island, for a few nights.” He smiles at his wife. “All this worrying for nothing.”
Miriam nods. “That does seem likely.”
While Colin and Miriam seem convinced, I know my mom isn’t. And Isobel? She still looks anxious, although that might be her normal expression.
Colin hands Isobel his card and smiles kindly at her. “Keep us posted,” he says. “But from what we’ve seen, I’d say she’s gone on a trip. Have you called her other friends? Is there anyone she might have gone on holiday with?”
Isobel’s eyes slide to her husband. He doesn’t meet them. “The housekeeper might know,” she says. She frowns, crossly. “She should be here! Her phone’s off. I’ll try her later.”
Colin nods. My mom offers to call her and Daphne’s mutual friends.
We all troop downstairs.
We’re on the front porch when Colin’s phone rings. He answers it and looks grave, his high forehead creasing. “Just a second.” He covers the mouthpiece with his hand. A meaningful look at Miriam, followed by a quick jerk of his chin. “We’d better go, Miri.”
Miri? They’ve been partners for what, twenty minutes, and she’s already got a pet name?
Miriam nods. I can see the excitement in her brown eyes. They have a real case. She says goodbye to everyone.
“Ivy, Toby—see you soon?” says Colin. He gives me a twinkly smile. I nod, suddenly breathless. He resumes his phone conversation.
Watching him and Miriam—Miri—walk away, I have a strange, tight feeling in my chest. Is that heartburn? But no, it’s jealousy, stirred by the sight of two smart and beautiful people heading off to do what they do best. Together. Why couldn’t his new partner be old, ugly, and male? Ew. I hate that I’m jealous. It’s a nasty, petty feeling. I’m too old for this insecurity. Either I’m right for Colin as I am—short, scrawny legs and all—or he’s not the one for me. End of story.
CHAPTER 5:
WHO’S STEPHEN?
We are on Daphne’s front porch. My mother is bidding the Danes farewell. “Please let me know if you have news!” she begs Isobel. “And if I hear anything, I’ll call you.”
Lukas has joined us again. He takes a seat on the front steps, still clutching his box of crackers. “Sure thing,” he says, then grins. “But seeing as you’re psychic, can’t you just tell us where she’s gone?” He bites into a cracker.
While I’d snap out a reply, my mother responds with good grace. “I wish,” she says. “Unfortunately, it’s rarely that clear. I just have a bad feeling about Daphne. And the signs are worrying.” She revives her tale about doing Daphne’s tarot cards. And the I Ching. And the Kau Cim sticks.
While Lukas keeps nodding, his eyes look glazed. I don’t blame him.
“Mom,” I say, freshly embarrassed. Although my mom has been telling fortunes for almost twenty years, I’m still not cool with it. How could I be? It’s humiliating to admit that your own mother has fallen for a load of crock—hook, line, and sinker. And she doesn’t just buy it, she sells the stuff. It’s worse than Amway. At least she’s toned down her clothes. Back when I was a teen, she dressed like a fairground fortuneteller, her head, neck, and hips swathed in colorful scarves. An Arab bazaar’s worth of beads hung off her small Asian body. These days, she looks almost normal. Or at least normal for Victoria, where most folk dress like affluent beatniks out hiking. I make a show of checking my watch. “Mom? Let’s get going,” I tell her.
We’re walking toward the road, when a plump woman in her sixties opens the gate, carrying two bulging cloth shopping bags. At the sight of us, her steps quicken. Dressed in a long, quilted, rust-colored coat she reminds me of a gingerbread lady—all round and cheery. Despite her age, she exudes energy, her face ruddy beneath a pink woolen hat with a pom-pom. Gazing at my mom, her wide face cracks into a merry grin. “Why hello Ivy,” she calls. “What a nice surprise! Is Daphne back then?”
“Hi, Grace,” says my mom. “No. Where is she?”
Grace walks closer. We all stop. Her dark eyes twinkle. “I’m not sure,” she says. “I’m terribly late. I was meant to feed the pig hours ago . . .” She sets down the bags. “But I had a wee emergency. My washing machine broke. It flooded my entire place! Water everywhere!” While most people would describe this as a catastrophe, this woman makes it sound like a great adventure. “I got so caught up I forgot about the pig.” She smiles up at the house. “Has anyone fed him?” she asks my mother.
My mom waves a hand. “Oh don’t worry. The pig’s fine,” she says. “He’s out back.” She peers at Grace. “But I’m worried about Daphne. When did you last see her?”
Grace rubs her mittened hands together. “Last night,” she says. “But she texted me earlier today, said was going away for a few days . . . I was meant to fix Kevin’s lunch.”