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

by Ritu Sethi

  “Cheers,” Gray said, lifting his tumbler of Scotch. The burn going down his throat was welcome, almost needed. Was there anything to cheer about?

  Seymour brought the single malt to his lips, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and pushed back the recliner.

  After searching the grounds and Gray unsuccessfully chasing the killer, they’d returned to the cabin. And Emmy had told them she remembered something else.

  The doctor stretched out his lanky form. “Whether the killer intended leaving that bit of evidence, I can’t say. More likely, it’s an artifact of the struggle.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions. Why didn’t Emmy mention the mark right away? A linear cut she noticed on the left side of the dead man’s neck at the body farm.”

  “She didn’t realize it was important. Finding a body can be a shock. She registered all the details and needed time to process them.”

  Privately, Gray wondered how much any corpse could shock a body farm researcher.

  “Too bad the body disappeared, and we can’t confirm. What could have made that cut?”

  Seymour twirled the crystal tumbler, seemingly mesmerized by flashes from the fire which ran upon the square-cut surface.

  “Assuming the victim was choked from behind – a big assumption since I have neither ligature nor body – a watch could have made that cut, or a ring, a bracelet? Or maybe a pink healing crystal since this is the West Coast? My guess is, if the killer is right-handed, he’d wear, say, the ring on his left hand, and if he’s left-handed, he’d still be wearing the ring on his left hand.”

  “What’s more likely?” Gray asked.

  “The latter. The dominant hand is more likely to be on top during the choke hold and thereby more likely to leave a cut. But nothing’s carved in stone. We’re making a ton of assumptions. I’d never swear to any of this in court.”

  “The ligature wasn’t there.”

  Seymour’s eyes narrowed. “Should it have been?” my Dear James? Don’t killers take the murder weapon with them?”

  Seymour was playing Watson to his Holmes again. “Not all killers, Doctor.”

  Another log shifted and crackled, burning red and orange and blue. The rhythmic surf crashed outside the thick cedar walls.

  Gray sunk further into the sofa, grateful for the warmth emanating from the hearth. He’d changed into dry sweatpants and a well-worn sweater and sat with feet inside wool-lined slippers.

  How had he stayed away from his childhood home for this long? Away from this rustic, cedar-scented sanctuary: the humming, circling palms of the overhead fan; furniture oozing decades of ridged and marked memories; two kilometers of beach, flanked on one side by pine, birch, and tamarack between him and downtown Searock.

  Gray downed the rest of the scotch in one gulp. “Why does the killer need to suture the lips?”

  He hoped the mutilation came after the killing; the alternative was unthinkable.

  “Serial killers sometimes leave trophies. They want to brag about the crime, want it recognized. They also crave media coverage so they can boast to themselves, alone if not in public. Fifteen years ago, did that killer suture the victim before or after death? Forensics would have known.”

  “After. I don’t know if we’re dealing with the same killer; I don’t know if this is a copycat.”

  For a solid minute, neither of them spoke. Gray needed another drink. He rose and poured two fingers of single malt into each of their glasses.

  Suddenly, the air felt hot and heavy. Taking the scotch to the window overlooking the Pacific, he pushed opened the casement.

  Outside, the rain may have ceased, but the rhythmic crashing of black, unseen waves thundered into the room, bringing with it the requisite saltiness.

  Gray turned to face Seymour. Gusts of wind pushed against his back. “The killer made an error in judgment,” Gray said. He or she didn’t expect their chosen witness to be so observant.”

  Seymour leaned forward. “Chosen witness?”

  “Someone left the body at the farm for Emmy to find. Then they removed it. Why? If the victim died at forensic site 144, why not move the body right away?”

  “There wasn’t time?”

  “Or?”

  “Or... the killer wanted the crime discovered, but didn’t want the body examined too closely.”

  “Exactly.”

  Seymour shook his head and rose. He began pacing the room.

  “There’s another possibility. Emmy might have shown up before the killer had time to move the body. She discovers it and runs to call the police. They take the body away –”

  “How do we know the crime was committed on site 144 in the first place? Think of her description, Doctor. The sprawled out hair, the legs at an obscene angle. The scene was staged. The murderer wanted the body found, but did they notice that cut? Timing is tight during a murder, and a killer runs on adrenaline. An inadvertent nick on the side of the neck might be missed.”

  “Not by Emmy,” Seymour threw in. “Choosing her as witness reeks of carelessness or an over-inflated ego. The killer may see himself as invulnerable.”

  Gray indicated with his glass. “You two have a lot in common.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Neither of you can stand to see a patient alive.”

  “That hurts.”

  Lew James entered the room with his cane, and reclined in the chair Seymour hastily gave up. Dad’s white hair was still tinged with the occasional blond, sticking upward, the relaxed and hanging lines on his face in contented repose as he lit and puffed an expensive cigar.

  “Nice present, these are, Son. Thanks. Have one; you too, Doctor.” His translucent eyes narrowed. “You boys discussing the murder?”

  “You heard about it, Dad?”

  “I have my ear to the ground.”

  “But how? Slope doesn’t believe there’s been a murder.”

  “Emmy phoned Teddy Atkinson since he owns the land, and Teddy called me.”

  Lew resumed puffing his cigar as though this explained everything before adding: “Of course, Teddy only confided in me because my boy’s a famous detective.”

  Gray doubted that. As a renowned art expert, everyone held Lew James in high regard, including the town Squire who probably wanted Lew’s advice. Dad was the calm, steady pulse of the small community of Searock.

  “I need to speak with Teddy,” Gray said.

  “Naw, you don’t,” Lew replied.

  Gray stood and filled three tumblers with whiskey. He silently handed the other two men theirs.

  “What makes you take the case on, Son?” Dad spoke casually, as though they were discussing the merits and shortcomings of a new local shop.

  “Why would anyone leave a corpse at the body farm?” Gray said. “Only to remove it minutes later?”

  “Sounds like a mystery,” Lew responded. “Guaranteed to cover up holiday boredom, I bet.”

  Tension entered the air; words unspoken but guessed. Did Dad disapprove of his addiction to solving murders? He likely knew more about the corpse than he’d said. Was he aware of the sutured lips?

  “I know about the mutilation,” Lew said. Silence hung in the air until he spoke again. “And what it means.”

  “Then you’re two steps ahead of me.”

  “Not likely.” Lew placed the cigar on the ashtray and straightened his chair. “Don’t take on this case. It has nothing to do with you, Son. You’d do better to go back to Vancouver early.”

  Seymour never could hold his tongue.

  “James should stay and see the case through. Solve it with the most damage control. Otherwise, Slope gets unleashed like a bull in a china shop.”

  Rumor had it that the sergeant was more or less engaged to Teddy Atkinson’s daughter. Maybe, he decided to save his future father-in-law from any hassles regarding the body farm.

  Lew downed his scotch in one swift gulp. He reached for his cane.

  “You got other responsibilities now, Noel for one.
Things to figure out; healin’ to do.”

  “And whoever sutured that poor man’s lips together?” Gray said. “They just get away with it?”

  “If it means a man taking care of his family, then yes. Kids come before chasin’ criminals; when you gonna learn that?”

  Dad gave him a look. Seymour didn’t dare interfere.

  “You want me to leave my wife and daughter while a crazed killer roams Searock?”

  Lew sighed. “I still think this is a bad idea,” he said pushing up with the cane, just as the phone rang.

  Gray answered it. “Who is this?” he said, before moving the receiver away from his ear. “Unknown number and too short a call. They hung up.”

  Seymour stepped forward. “Well? What did they say?”

  “The voice was disguised, but it sounded like a man – possibly over a cell phone. The reception went in and out.”

  Lew stood before his bedroom door, his shoulders stiff, his head held high. “And?”

  “They threatened to hurt you, Dad.” Gray slammed down the phone. “They threatened to hurt you unless I abandon the case.”

  Neither man spoke. A dog barked outside.

  Gray closed the window and moved to the front door. “Stay here with Dad,” he told Seymour.

  He switched off the porch lights and stepped outside.

  Nature hummed, expectant and waiting, coating everything in a low-lying, grey mist. A gentle howl accompanied the steady surf. With the cloud cover, no one could see him, and he could see no one.

  Keeping to the shadows meant staying close to the edges of the house. Ears attuned, Gray listened, but with all the collateral noise, he wasn’t sure. Was someone running on the asphalt?

  He swung around and looked down the road. A faint shadow in the distance moved before an engine roared. Headlights hit against dense fog.

  Gray ran to his car and jumped behind the wheel.

  Someone had called from a cell as he’d suspected. Except, they’d been standing before his house, looking at him through the window at the time.

  The Lotus purred to life.

  Just as Dad stepped out the front door and called out for him to stop.

  But Gray had already swung the car around and now he sped up their road fifty meters behind the fleeing culprit.

  He could barely keep sight of the vehicle with layers of mist getting in the way, obscuring the view. The steering wheel vibrated under his cold hands. Blood pumped through his ears.

  And he knew what lay ahead, and why Dad had tried to stop him.

  The other vehicle took a right and climbed the inclining road. With so few cottages around, no rails had been placed between them and the rapidly lengthening descent down the edge to the beach below.

  He was losing sight of the other car.

  Gray stepped on the pedal. The wheels slid on the slick, wet surface. Two rights, then a left.

  And now, they were on a dirt road again, surrounded by darkness and trees. Foliage enclosed him from both sides, shrouding the sky above and closing him in.

  The fog was thicker here, and he couldn’t see more than a couple of meters ahead. Not to his front. Not to his back.

  Until he saw it.

  And slammed the brakes and swerved. Sliding in a tortuous twist before the wheels gained traction, and he finally got control of the car.

  Gray had come to a stop after a full hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. And he faced the deer who looked back at him unblinking before it leaped into the endless forest.

  His heart hammered in his chest. Sweat beaded his upper lip. The narrow road, sandwiched by fir, maple, and pine swam in a dense fog.

  All very claustrophobic.

  And completely out of Gray’s control.

  CHAPTER NINE

  T HE NEXT MORNING was a gray and spitting as the last. But Gray had managed a few hours of light sleep, and he felt a bit better. Theodore Atkinson’s cove-side mansion resembled a pile of grey-brown cement blocks stacked together and decked with far too much tinsel. The ugliest houses required the most decorating to appear festive. Although once inside, Gray had to admit, the open central hall and rooms off on either side possessed rustic charm and even a certain proportional grace.

  Stepping into the library after his esteemed host only reaffirmed this impression. Gray understood the older man’s attachment to the mansion. The sense of home felt palpable, but it was intermixed with an undercurrent of mystery afforded by the cove’s checkered past.

  Pine Cove had a dubious reputation back in the time when the vibrantly papered walls and genuine antique furnishings added a gentle contrast to the roughness of the adjacent ocean and the lawlessness of the day.

  Gray faced his host across the drinks trolley. The window to the left overlooked the cove and framed its current squire in his native setting. What would Teddy do to retain the power and prestige that position entailed?

  Teddy’s sixty-year-old jowls jostled as he spoke, the loose flesh an unfortunate genetic trait sent down the generations of Atkinsons — a fact confirmed by the nearby hanging portrait of Teddy’s grandfather.

  The jovial yet suspicious man also wore a class ring on the third finger of his right hand, one that came to a sharp point in the middle.

  “Too early for a drink, but I’m having Mrs. Benoit make us a kale and dandelion smoothie,” Teddy said, chuckling. “She refused to make ‘em when I first brought her here from Paris. But this is the West Coast, I told her. We have our lawn clippings before our coffee in the morning.”

  As a BC native, Gray couldn’t disagree. In Vancouver, you hiked “The Grind” or swam the cold English Bay after such a drink. But the evenings were different. After dark, people drank — sometimes a lot — though Gray never had more than one or two, and his penchant was for single malt scotch, not the usual beer.

  “Thanks, Mrs. B,” Teddy said, wetting his mustache over the wide rimmed glass. Green liquid stuck to the hairs before he wiped them away with a napkin.

  It did taste of yogurt-drowned lawn clippings. Gray obediently gulped it down. During his family-man days, he’d make three glasses of some such concoction before anyone else awoke, take his outside to the beach to drink with the rising dawn. He still did that when he was at one with life, except now he did it alone.

  “Your dad’s a bigwig in the community,” Teddy said. “He’s a leading art historian in BC. As his son, I offer you the same welcome in this house. In fact, why don’t you come to our Christmas party, my boy? Your dad’s invited, and bring that doctor fella of yours along.”

  Fortunately, Gray had Seymour to help keep a careful eye on Dad after last night’s threats.

  “I’m here on a semi-official capacity. As you know, Emmy found a body on the forensic site, which subsequently disappeared.”

  “Yeah.” Teddy put his glass down. “She called me, and I’ve gotten an earful from Farrah about that body farm, I can tell ya.”

  “Farrah Stone is against loaning out your land for forensic research. Many of the residents are. Do you regret doing it?”

  “Nah. I do what I want, and no girl gets to tell me different.

  The real Teddy was showing, beyond the formal host. Gray wouldn’t precisely describe Farrah as a girl — not because of her age, but more because of her general demeanor.

  He recalled when they’d first met, many years ago. She reminded him of lemon and ice.

  He’d accompanied Dad to her father’s gallery and seen her leaning against a wall in 5-inch red stilettos. Her ivory skin and platinum hair, not to mention her absolute stillness and focus, gave her an uncanny resemblance to the whitewashed stone statue positioned to her left. Two figures in stone.

  He’d tripped over his untied shoes and maybe even drooled a little. Her answering half-smile hurt more than if she’d scorned his boyish interest.

  “Do you believe Emmy?” Gray asked.

  Teddy arched his back and stretched his broad form. His belly jostled in sync with his jowls and jutted out under t
he green plaid shirt. Gray decided he liked him. He admired any man who was his authentic self.

  “Let’s stretch our legs, Chief Inspector.”

  “Have you done much work to the house since the old days?”

  “Sure. It’s all updated–all except the cellar. That’s my property manager, Butch’s terrain. We got a lot of old stuff that can’t be thrown out.”

  They exited the library’s French doors leading to the back garden. Teddy must have twenty acres of land, all of which rimmed the Pacific on one side, including Pine Cove, and a small hill leading up towards Mount Eva on the other.

  They walked along the open stretch of grass to a log cabin nestled at the far end.

  “You’re searching for suspects?” Teddy said.

  “Anyone connected to the body farm. It wasn’t a random place to dump a corpse. Plus, whoever made that body disappear was messing with Dr. Kaur’s mind.”

  “You don’t know that, Inspector. Seems like you’re jumping to conclusions there. And without any evidence, a body even.”

  Gray kept step with Teddy. “You’re probably right. But I have to ask you–”

  “What I was doing at that time? You want an alibi? Hell, sure. What time was it?”

  “Without a corpse, we can’t determine when the murder occurred.”

  “If there was a murder.”

  “Yes,” Gray said. “If. But the killer removed the body at 2 pm yesterday.”

  Teddy stopped mid-step. “Oh. I was nappin’.” He met Gray’s eyes. “Some people hike during the day; I nap. Need my beauty sleep, you know?”

  They resumed their walk. Clumps of blueberry and raspberry bushes planted along the edges added a sweet smell to the air. It was a wonder Teddy didn’t have brown bears as neighbors.

  “Do you know who’d want to sabotage the body farm?” Gray asked. “Besides your fiancé and her entourage.”

  “Those women follow my Farrah around like she’s some Messiah. You know, Dad served in the war, and he had a name for that kind of hard thinkin’–fascism, he called it. Couldn’t say that out loud now without getting my head clubbed in. Those idiots think because they’re hanging on the left side of the tree, they can’t be fascists. Hah! Bunch of weaklings who can’t think for themselves.”