Kill Me Why?: Gray James Detective Murder Mystery and Suspense (Chief Inspector Gray James Detective Murder Mystery Series Book 2)

by Ritu Sethi

  The woman had already slipped inside – but not before giving Gray a split second to catch her profile. Not before giving Gray a chance to see who she was.

  He froze; the wind whipped across his face and body, fluttering the open ends of his jacket.

  How could she be here of all places?

  What the hell was going on in this town?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  W HAT WOULD A STORM do to her forensic specimens?

  Too many issues vied for Emmy’s attention, attacking her, almost stinging the surface of her skin in countless imagined bites.

  This forensic facility was her life. Looking through her cabin’s kitchen window at the silently threatening clouds overhead, she knew a storm was coming.

  Dread rose within her like floodwater, adding to her shaky nerves.

  The man on the radio reiterated his prediction of the storm being at least two days away, that Searock would miss the brunt of it. Emmy listened, but as an amateur meteorologist, she doubled both claims.

  What should she do with her residents? Leave them to the elements or move the bodies to the secure steel shed constructed for just such a purpose?

  Teddy’s estate manager, Butch, could come over with some of his men and move the specimens, but moving the bodies alone would contaminate the entire project. Not to mention the harm Butch and his brutes would inflict. She’d have to report the displacement in her study conclusions, and any results would become immediately suspect. And she’d have to talk to Butch. She hated talking to Butch.

  A less significant storm could add to the authenticity of the research. Part of her directive involved documenting the effects of incremental weather on human remains.

  But this didn’t extend to having a flood sweep the bodies from their respective sites and lodge them between dense bush and pine for miles around. She couldn’t do that to her residents — people who had entrusted their remains to her research. It would also mean the death of her work, which was her life.

  Would she get funding again from the University of British Columbia if months of data were destroyed? Beyond supporting herself financially, how would she fill her empty days without having specimens to check in with daily, monitor their progress, evaluate the findings? They were her family in a way. God help her, they were.

  She punched in Butch’s number. His grating, low “yeah” made her want to hang up, but she resisted the tug in her chest.

  Speaking with anyone made Emmy uncomfortable, but this man took that friction to an entirely different level. Sometimes, he scared her with his hollow, soulless eyes, watching and calculating in that unique malevolent way.

  “It’s time,” she said, wanting to keep the conversation as impersonal as possible. Teddy had already apprised him of the possibility.

  “Huh.”

  With that elegant retort, he hung up on her. And he and his men would be coming.

  Best to get some of the lighter things done while she awaited their arrival. Some of the isolated limbs and arms were very delicate, and she could manage them on her own.

  Outside, the wind slapped her face, and she brought together the collars of her jacket. The decomposition wafted over stronger than on regular days. With all her nasal and sinus allergies, she could barely smell it — a distinct advantage in her work — or perhaps, she’d merely learned to block it out. People asked her how she could live there, unaware or ignorant of how much they smelled themselves, how much live people stunk.

  Today, it bothered even her, as though another pungent scent had mingled with and supervened the usual order — something far more malignant than mere death.

  Something mutilated and unnatural.

  She strode over to the shed, fists clenched, legs a little wobbly. Chief Inspector Gray James came to mind.

  She yanked the shed door open, got the necessary rope and slammed it shut. Hard.

  What had she done to deserve yesterday’s verbal attack? The loneliness which had compelled her to work all through Christmas had quadrupled since she found the murdered man. Now more people would attack her; more people would hate her.

  She wished Teddy had bought land further up the mountain, deeper in the woods. Maybe then, people would leave her alone. But did she want to be alone now, after yesterday’s murder?

  She wound the rope around one of the bins; secured it to the adjacent maple. The car would survive any gale; still, the rusty lock on the trunk might give way. But the exposed corpses presented a far more significant problem.

  Sounds of a truck braking sounded ahead. So quickly?

  Butch came towards her in a simian stride, his long coat rustling in the wind. She didn’t make eye contact. Those black irises of his reflected a deadness her residents didn’t possess. Another man followed him, lankier, less threatening.

  “What needs doing?” Butch said.

  “The specimens in the car, coffins, and the buried bodies are likely fine. Although we should tie up the car, so the lock doesn’t snap open in the wind. We need to secure the remaining bins against the wind and any flood, and the free-lying bodies need covering.”

  His frown looked angry. “Not movin’?”

  “Only one or two.” She wouldn’t confide her reasons to this man, or her insecurities and the churning fear in her stomach. “For the rest, let’s nail down the special weatherproof covers. You’ll find them stored in the shed for just such an occasion. Any other questions before we proceed?”

  He hesitated, looked towards the dense, swaying pine and Douglas fir, and then at her.

  “Mr. Atkins wants to know if you’ll consider stayin’ at the big house. He’s worried.”

  Emmy nearly tripped over her tongue. “Yes!” she replied.

  She’d spent most of last night drifting in and out of a hazy nightmare where a severed hand hovered over her with a suture – each time with her waking up to a sweat, each time struggling to get back asleep.

  After she’d refused the offer of a motel room, Dr. Seymour had asked her to stay at the Chief Inspector’s cottage, but she’d never share a roof with him. No matter the terror she felt.

  Although, during the night, in between the nightmares, his handsome, masculine face flashed in her dreams — reassuring, yet in a way, lost and in pain. If Emmy could muster pity for anyone, if she could feel or process such emotions, she might feel those for him. Butch continued to shout over the wind.

  “Boss says, you may as well come to the party, too.”

  His tone suggested she ought to refuse, that she shouldn’t be allowed to socialize with Teddy Atkinson and his anorexic companion Farrah Stone. What right did this Neanderthal have to judge Emmy?

  “I’m already invited. I assume you are not.”

  The two men did their work, moving the more fragile bodies to the shed and securing the others.

  Butch surveyed the job and turned to face her. The deep crevices from his nose to his mouth, the pitted skin on his cheeks made him appear congruous to the weather.

  He spat out the words. “Pine Cove Mansion ain’t no place for half-breeds.”

  Emmy stood, dumbfounded.

  How long had it been since someone called her that? But the childhood insult stung a thousand-fold more now – in this place, delivered by this man.

  Emmy felt herself swell, her legs shake and insides ignite—but a nearby rustling and voices interrupted her retort.

  The wind must have drowned the crunching of cars entering the parking lot.

  Now, figures emerged from around the bend

  A dozen or so women carrying banners and sticks, and wearing surgical masks marched in her direction.

  Emmy’s heart jolted. The masks reminded her of suturing, the spread-eagled corpse, and everything dangerous around her.

  She took a step back before stopping, deciding to hold her ground.

  They had no right to be on her turf, whoever they were. And she focused on their blur of faces, their hair, and any identifying features.

  Farrah Ston
e strode front and center, chin down, eyes pinned on Emmy.

  The other women, her ‘Angels’ as some of the town people joked, followed her like rabbits, invariably supporting whichever cause Farrah had torn off with her teeth.

  Unfortunately, her latest mission involved boycotting and shutting down the body farm and convincing her fiancé Teddy to withhold its funding.

  The various banners read: Spook go home; Kill the Body Farm; Stop the Vulture.

  Why were people so mean?

  Blood pounded through Emmy’s ears; she ran towards them.

  “What are you doing here?” God, it took all her restraint not to punch Farrah.

  “We don’t want this place near our town,” Farrah shouted, removing the mask. “Look at those vultures,” she said pointing upward. A single scavenger circled overhead. “They chew up your bodies and spit them on our playgrounds. It stinks here. Mainly, of you.”

  What did they mean by that? The Farm was twenty minutes away. Farrah’s face didn’t look distressed; if anything — Emmy tried…tried hard to read that expression — the horrible woman looked happy.

  “I’m raising my daughter here,” another woman said. “We don’t want corpses rotting in our backyards.”

  Despite the mask, Emmy recognized her as Sita – - the owner of My Alibi, a bistro in the village. Seymour had mentioned something about her and Chief Inspector James being estranged husband and wife.

  “You shouldn’t be doing this kind of work,” Sita said. “It’s indecent.”

  Emmy’s temper soared. How much more remote could she get than two hours away from Vancouver? These uneducated Barbies didn’t understand medical work, research, the need to be within commuting distance of the university. Why or why were women always so harsh and unfair towards her? No wonder Emmy didn’t have a single female friend in the world.

  She didn’t know how to respond. “Get out, all of you. I’m calling the police.”

  Farrah answered. “Go ahead, Spook. Slope’s in the palm of my hand, and everyone knows it. He won’t arrest us, won’t stop us if we set your body farm on fire. That’s what these poor corpses need, by the way, a good cremation. You should pray you don’t burn with them.”

  Emmy’s mouth fell open. So much hostility, and directed towards her. Shocking. Sita now seemed uncomfortable behind her, although through the masks they wore, it was hard to tell. Still, she’d moved a little away before strengthening her resolve and joining again in the battle.

  “Teddy owns this land,” Emmy said, “Not you.”

  “When we’re married,” Farrah replied, “all of this will be mine. You’ll be out.”

  Where was Butch in all this? Emmy scanned the area and saw their receding figures in the distance. He apparently didn’t wish to alienate his boss’s future wife. Meanwhile, a couple of the women moved towards the specimens. One kicked a limb encased in plastic.

  “Get away from there.” Emmy ran towards her full force; the woman jumped back, but Emmy slammed her into ground anyway.

  She had to get to the cottage. She must call the police before they destroyed her work.

  She scrambled up to her feet and made for the cabin. A couple of people jumped in her way, but she zig-zagged around them. The situation was getting out of control. God knew what the bitches would do next.

  Yelling followed her from behind. They were at her heels, but she made it to the door first, swung it open, and ducked inside – closing it just in time to shut the closest woman out. But that look of hatred on her anonymous face – even though Emmy had never done her any harm, even though Emmy had never even met her before today – would stay in memory.

  She turned the bolt. Pounding sounded on the door. Hell, would they break it down? What were they doing to her specimens outside this very moment?

  After punching 911, she spoke fast, telling dispatch to send the police to the body farm. Impatiently jutting out the words because she must get back quickly before they do more damage.

  Emmy grabbed an ax leaning inside the front door. They were just trying to scare her. No one would be stupid enough to actually attack, would they? Over her harmless body farm?

  The door opened with its characteristic squeak. Wind whipped through her hair as she confronted the semicircle of glaring Searock residents determined to drive her out of town.

  Farrah wasn’t among them. She must still be with at the forensic sites.

  Their eyes collectively widened when they saw Emmy with the ax, firmly held in both fists, her feet wide apart.

  “Move back,” Emmy said.

  She jumped forward, and they ran to the others.

  One of them swore out loud and warned the others.

  Good, warn them.

  Emmy reached the dispersed group within a minute, ax still positioned high and ready.

  “Anyone who touches a specimen,” she yelled, “is going to become part of this farm. Do you understand?”

  These women would find out who she was.

  The showdown began.

  CHAPTER SIX

  R ECOGNITION STRUCK GRAY first, followed by surprise and dread.

  She was here, of all places? Not in Montreal where he’d last seen her. Something must have gone terribly wrong.

  The thirty-foot yacht rocked to and fro, docked in the water on Blow Hole Cove, “The Isabelle” printed across the side.

  Smoothed pebbles rolled and crunched under Gray’s feet, and the tangy sea-scent skirted into his nostrils as he watched Slope approach the man who had left the boat. The other man, burly and hirsute, leaned against the rail, staring.

  Slope looked his way, just as the woman on the boat disappeared inside — but not before she’d allowed Gray to recognize her.

  A protective urge leaped inside him, but had no intention of sharing this fact with the likes of Slope.

  The sergeant glanced from Gray to the deck, a question in his eyes, before resuming his discussion with the boat’s captain.

  “You gotta move from here,” Slope said.

  “No can do. We have trouble with the engine, see. And even without that, there’s no way my crew can handle these waters. We’re stuck here, Sergeant. Face it.”

  The wind blew back the captain’s wiry hair, revealing a robust and horizontal brow. His crackled red lips formed a snarl.

  A tumultuous wave jerked the yacht up and down and nearly crashed it onto the rocks. What the hell was she doing on the thing? She had to get off, now.

  A purple horizon separated the rocky sea from the sky. An experienced sailor could navigate the boat to safety, even in this weather. Gray himself could manage it — if he ever planned on boarding a yacht again in his life – which he didn’t.

  He ran a rough hand through his hair and moved towards the towering wall of granitic rock at the edge of the cove.

  After about fifteen feet, Gray passed the narrow entrance to one of the caves on his left. The putrid scent of bat droppings coming from the inside made him turn the other way, and head back to the others.

  She didn’t want him to identify her, or else she wouldn’t have left the deck.

  That brief afforded glimpse of her profile — it must have been to give him time to understand, to withhold any reaction. How often had she held his life in her hands and vice versa? Trust reined between them, as did friendship.

  “I’ll get my engineer out here,” the captain bellowed. She’ll tell you; the yacht needs repairs.”

  He yelled for someone named Chloe.

  Gray covered the remaining distance back to the boat in a sprint. Anxiety bubbled within him, as well as the instinct to drag these unsavory characters, two men you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley, away from her.

  He suspected that soon, he’d be walking away, leaving her with them, not knowing why. He hated it. Even as a figure stepped out of the cabin – a dark, feminine head with short brown hair – he disciplined himself not to speak, not to act.

  Detective Vivienne Caron, his second-in-command du
ring his years in Montreal, didn’t look at him. She rubbed grease off her long-fingered hands with a dirty cloth and addressed the captain.

  “Yes?”

  Her musical French intonation, characteristic of certain Quebecois suddenly made him feel homesick.

  “Tell him about the engine,” the captain said.

  “I’m having some trouble with the generator,” she said. Her eyes flicked Gray’s way, so briefly only he must have noticed.

  Her face was serene; no bruises, no anxiety. Although Vivienne was more than capable of taking care of herself. Still — out at sea with these ruffians? She’s had personal troubles at home; he’d contributed to them in a way, but this? What would make her leave her job and come here?

  “I can’t guarantee we won’t break down somewhere in the water,” she said to Slope. The captain lifted his chin, satisfied his story was suitably collaborated.

  With the yacht disabled, Vivienne would at least remain near shore and not sail away with these characters. The second man silently chewed his gum, the horizontal lines running deep across his forehead.

  Slope instructed them to make the repairs quickly while Vivienne returned below deck.

  Any explanation would have to wait until she contacted him — but he wouldn’t like it. Whatever she’d been through back home, this wasn’t the answer.

  Slope kept pace beside him on the walk back to the truck. Once inside, he examined the dashboard. The engine hummed on.

  “Why are they here?” he said. “No way do those guys look inexperienced, and the storm won’t come for a while. They want to stay in the cove, come hell or high water.” He backed up and pulled out with a jerk. “Something ain’t right.”

  Gray examined the rugged sky. If Slope had his way and the crew set sail, Vivienne would be out there alone at sea, possibly battling a storm. He shifted and let his head fall back on the neck rest.

  “Let them stay,” he said. “But insist they check into a motel instead of staying on board. The weather is unpredictable, and I disagree with you. As an experienced sailor, I can spot amateurs a mile away. Those two men can’t handle rough weather. Besides, think of all the paperwork you’ll have to do, should they go missing.”