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

by Ritu Sethi

  “Small bedroom, isn’t it?” Seymour said. “Still, I bet it gets the job done.” He might as well have winked.

  From time to time, each of them goaded the other — neither expecting the other to be a good man, only an interesting one.

  “Maybe you should request to be officially assigned to the case,” Seymour said.

  “Not during the holidays. It would ruffle Slope, and whatever cooperation I’ve gained from him would disappear. Maybe after Christmas. If the Stitcher’s still at large.”

  “Oh, he will be,” Seymour said. “I’m psychic that way.”

  Gray strode out of the bedroom, but Seymour wasn’t stopping.

  “I know you can shoot a man between the eyes from a hundred yards away. I’ve seen your file. You’d be tried as a professional if you discharged that weapon.”

  Gray laughed. “In the way, a trained boxer would after a bar brawl?”

  “Yes. You can’t use a gun off duty.”

  Gray got his coat and waited by the door. “I don’t plan to.”

  He got behind the driver’s seat. Seymour hadn’t spoken on the way down the elevator, but the narrow space inside the vehicle was thick with tension.

  Once outside the outskirts of town, with the tumultuous water to their left, Seymour finally said:

  “You’re not going to delve into the Stitcher murder fifteen years ago, are you?”

  Gray kept his cards close to his chest. “I don't think it’s relevant.”

  “What about the other recent victim, the babysitter whose body disappeared?”

  Time was tight. Gray could feel it in his bones. “I’ll speak to the family myself.’

  “Let me. You have Slope, Vivienne, and that whipper-snapper of a wife to handle. You slice a Chief Inspector into too many pieces, and nothing gets done.”

  “We don’t know if the babysitter is dead or not. If Slope’s right, she’s traveling abroad and doing fine. If he’s wrong, then how do we find the body?”

  Gray glanced at Seymour’s profile before returning his gaze to the treacherous road.

  The headlights shot oblong beams over the paved, winding highway, catching the wall of rugged rock to the right, and the near-vertical, hundred-foot drop into the ocean to the left.

  Lights twinkled in the distance across the black bay, like candles flickering from the blocks of oceanfront apartments and beach houses — until the car passed well out of town, and only the winding highway and dark, endless ocean stretched out before them.

  Out here, the truck shook alarmingly, enough that the wheels lost their grip of the road once or twice, making Seymour clench the edges of his leather seat for dear life.

  There wasn’t much rain, but the howling wind could dislodge large chunks of rock and send them hurdling onto the truck. That sort of thing happened every year. You accepted it – in the manner of earthquakes and taxes.

  Gray shifted, adjusting his cramped back. The bucket seat held him close while salt-tinged air blasted from the vent onto his face. The treacherous drive wasn’t the only thing bothering him.

  Usually, he felt comfortable around Seymour, but something about the doctor’s manner made the inside of Gray’s mouth prickle. He swallowed.

  “You’re hinting at something,” Gray said. “I don’t know what it is.”

  “Sure you do.”

  For the moment, neither man spoke.

  Gray broke the silence. “I’m not a bad man.”

  “No, I’d say you’re an exceptionally good man.”

  “Life exists in shades of grey. There are people I have to protect.”

  “And you’ve been singled out by the killer in more than one way.”

  Gray’s mouth felt dry. The tips of his fingers itched.

  He felt Seymour’s eyes on him, turned and saw the intensity in the glittering irises.

  “We don’t need to discuss it, James. I’ll visit the first victim’s family tomorrow if you like. And get the email she allegedly sent to Slope.”

  Seymour rested his head back to take a nap, leaving Gray to spend the rest of the drive in pregnant silence.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  B Y THE TIME Seymour and Gray made it back to the cottage, the doctor had taken on a peculiar shade of green. He gripped the rail while ascending the wooden steps of the cabin and brought a hand to his mouth.

  The drive hadn’t been that bad, Gray thought, knowing all the while that it had. Through much of the journey, he’d prayed boulders wouldn’t break off and tumble down the ascending cliff lining the highway, suddenly blocking the winding road or squashing their truck like a bug.

  Seymour’s eyes, wide through most of the two-hour drive, kept skirting to the left, where cliff-side descended into the bubbling stormy sea.

  Now, they were home. Safe and sound. And soon, Seymour would have his salmon-like coloring back.

  Gray unlocked the wooden door with his old cottage key. First, the warmth and light from the fire hit him, followed by a woman running into his arms.

  Vivienne — who always evoked within him an impression of chocolate and spice.

  He needed the hug as much as she did. But she trembled in his arms. Was she holding back tears? Vivienne never cried.

  “I damn near had a heart attack when I saw you,” Gray said, gripping her shoulders. “Why were you on that boat with those two men? You should be back in Montreal.”

  She pulled away from him and smiled. “Chief Inspector,” she said, always addressing him formally when on a case, despite their longstanding friendship. So, she was on a case after all. “It’s so great to see you.”

  Vivienne turned to acknowledge Seymour, who had slumped onto Dad’s chair. He invariably monopolized it when Lew James wasn’t around, and then jumped up innocently when the rightful occupant returned.

  How had Vivienne gotten inside? Lew must have let her in and gone out.

  “Nice to see you, doctor,” Vivienne said in that perfect English, tinged with musical Quebecois intonations that made Gray feel homesick for Montreal.

  She turned back to Gray. “I need a drink before the interrogation. Is it too early in the evening?”

  “Never too early for my favorite detective.”

  “I thought I was your favorite detective,” Seymour said, looking and acting more like himself.

  Gray moved to the drinks trolley. “You’re my favorite butcher.”

  “Ouch. I have never used a cleaver in my life. My incisions, I’ll have you know, are both accurate and precise.”

  Gray poured himself and Seymour the usual scotch. Vivienne, he knew, drank only wine. Grabbing Dad’s open bottle of Chianti in the fridge, he retrieved the largest wine glass in the cottage and filled it to the rim.

  “Whoa,” Vivienne said. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

  “Drunk enough so you won’t return to the yacht, I’m guessing,” Seymour supplied, hazarding a look at Gray.

  “Let’s all sit down,” Gray said. “I need some answers, even though I have no right to ask you. You don’t report to me anymore, but both Seymour and I are your friends. And we’re worried.”

  She gulped the wine faster than he’d expected; apparently, she shared his concerns. He didn’t dare mention her soon-to-be ex-husband — or the incredible turn of events which had marked both the end of their last case in Montreal and her marriage.

  Once, the four of them had been friends: Gray, Sita, Vivienne, and Saleem. Now, both marriages had disintegrated to something unrecognizable.

  “Have you seen Sita?” he asked.

  She nodded and said: “She’s changed,” adding nothing else. Her chocolate brown eyes met Gray's, the irises twinkling in the firelight. Vivienne measured her words always, especially around him — not wanting to hurt, not wanting to rub a raw spot.

  The two women were once inseparable before the accident. For years, Vivienne blamed him for Sita’s disappearance; she’d lost her a best friend, and now, her husband — in part because Gray had solved th
at last case, and produced that shocking link.

  All she had left was Gray — perhaps, not much of a conciliation prize for what she’d lost.

  Vivienne must feel as abandoned as he had by Sita. Would she forgive more easily?

  Vivienne cradled her large glass, sitting on the sofa chair opposite Seymour. Her hands appeared steady; her face serene. The fire lit the tips of her short brown hair.

  Her eyes filled up with tears, which was so unlike her. But perhaps too much had happened all at once.

  “What it is?” Gray said, moving to her side.

  “She’s not the same.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Even as the words left his mouth, he knew he didn’t need to ask. Didn’t he feel the same thing?

  “I’ve only met Sita a couple of times since I’ve been here; Diego keeps a pretty good watch over everything I do. I kept looking for that woman who was more than a sister to me, and she’s not there. The eyes are empty.”

  Gray slumped onto the floor beside her. “She did what she had to do to survive. It isn’t her fault, is mine.”

  Vivienne didn’t correct him. Sugar coating wasn’t her way. But there was no blame either, and that seemed new. Only acceptance— maybe because she’d finally forgiven him, or because he was all she had left of the old days.

  “Noel,” Vivienne said. “She is all you, Mon Cheri.”

  Seymour jumped up. “Yes, yes, but what about the yacht? Tell us about that.”

  “The look on your face at the cove,” Vivienne said to Gray, taking a gulp of wine and smiling.

  “Glad you find me amusing. What’s it all about?”

  She took her time, obviously enjoying dragging it out – as the doctor often did – at Gray’s expense. He took a seat beside her and put his feet on the coffee table. Might as well enjoy the single malt.

  Never chase a woman, Dad had taught him. Never chase a witness, he’d learned from his work. Let both come to you. He applied this to Vivienne now (although he knew she was more his boss than he was ever hers), if only to stop himself from leaping over the table and shaking her.

  “Art,” Vivienne said.

  Gray straightened. “What?”

  “Art. You have a smuggler in this idyllic town of yours, Chief Inspector. And I have the unpalatable job of finding him, or her.”

  “The smuggler lives here, in Searock?” Seymour asked. His tone suggested that any successful criminal should choose a more cosmopolitan residence.

  “Absolutely. And it’s someone with power.”

  Seymour slammed his glass on the table. “Now isn’t that something. This idyllic, homely village: loving, neighborly, safe – all the things the big wicked city isn’t — and guess what lurks under the quaint surface? Homicidal maniacs wielding needle and thread rubbing elbows with international art thieves.

  “John,” Gray said.

  “No, you can’t rob me of this fun.”

  “Let’s hear what Vivienne has to say.” He turned towards his former detective, already halfway through her wine. “How did you end up here?”

  Her dark brown eyes moistened. “I couldn't stay in Montreal,” she said. “Not after both you and Saleem left. An undercover job seemed the best alternative, and it’s only coincidence that brings me to your door.”

  “Those two men on the yacht look dangerous, Vivienne. I presume from what you’ve said, they’re smugglers.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You were out, on the water, alone with them?”

  “Oui. They needed an engineer, and I know almost as much about boats as you do. I volunteered for this operation.”

  “I’d never send one of my officers out alone like that. I don’t like it.”

  “Neither do I,” she said. “But they’re moving priceless stolen works out of the country. Searock is the last stop before they head east. The Far East. And as their engineer, I can poke around the boat as much as I want without suspicion.”

  And be thrown overboard at any time, but he kept that thought to himself.

  “Who are they?”

  “Stan and Diego. Stan wears that captain’s hat, but he’s no captain. I’m thinking the yachts stolen, and not reported because they ditched the owner overboard. Diego’s the less emotional one; stares at you when you’re not looking.

  Gray rubbed his tired eyes, needing a reprieve from the two people counting on him for answers. He let his palms linger on his face while he decided how to handle the situation.

  The log in the hearth crackled, dispersing sparks and a sandalwood-like aroma into the room.

  He wasn’t her superior officer anymore and couldn’t order Vivienne to stop, and she wouldn’t listen to him anyway.

  “You can go back home to Montreal,” he said. “Leave this smuggling operation to me.”

  Vivienne didn’t reply. Whatever trauma she’d suffered in her personal life, whatever isolation, he wasn’t blameless in it.

  If he hadn’t caught that last murderer and exposed Saleem’s involvement...if Gray hadn’t destroyed his family and driven Sita away...Vivienne would still be in Montreal, working in the safe cocoon of a supervised investigative team.

  Instead of being out on the water alone with smugglers and killers.

  Who was she trying to punish by taking on this dangerous mission? He knew from experience the specter which egged her on, the guilt which hounded them both, wouldn’t recede without some form of danger or sacrifice. Absolution was never that easy.

  “His brain is computing the options,” Seymour said over his drink. “And calculating how to best save this thrashing ship from hitting an iceberg.”

  Gray wished he’d shut up and let him think.

  Vivienne caught his eye. “I’m seeing this through.”

  “What can I do to change your mind?”

  To stop you from punishing yourself, he left unsaid. To keep you safe.

  “Nothing,” she replied, shaking her head.

  Art smugglers living in his town, and a picture of a painting in the murder victim’s house—a murder victim who was also an art critic. Was that coincidence? Not likely.

  Only one path stood before Gray. Everyone and everything depended on navigating that path successfully, even if he left tire marks on Slope’s head, even if it burned bridges between him and Sita.

  He must solve the Stitcher murders and the art thefts — presuming they were connected — and soon. Before Vivienne left for sea with those awful men.

  He didn’t want to consider the ramifications of the return of The Stitcher to Searock; didn’t want to think where else that might lead. Too many things were suddenly at stake, but the solution was obvious.

  Everything rested this side of the storm.

  Gray must solve both mysteries before the weather cleared, before the yacht left, with Vivienne.

  Outside, the ocean and wind howled. And Gray suddenly felt grateful to the weather – a storm of all things – which had taken so much in his life away, his happiness, and his soul.

  But now, it would keep Vivienne temporarily on land.

  Seymour once again reclined in Dad’s chair, crossing his large feet, just as the front door opened letting in a gust of wind and rain.

  The fire flickered; a chill tore at Gray. Dad stepped in with his cane looking like an elderly, drowned rat.

  “Don’t ever make me drive that death trap of yours again,” Lew James said to his son. “Exige, my ass.”

  Seymour practically jumped out of the older man’s recliner.

  “Why did you go out in this weather? Gray said. “You’re seventy.”

  “So what? I’m not old.” Lew moved to Vivienne, and the two exchanged a hug.

  Gray reached into his jacket and pulled out the photograph.

  “Dad, take a look at this.” He held the picture in front of the other man’s face. “Do you recognize this painting? Please, it’s important.”

  Vivienne joined them and examined the old worn photograph over Lew’s shoulder.


  “Alright, Son, if you insist.” Donning glasses, he moved to the recliner and took his time examining the photo.

  “I don’t recognize it,” Vivienne said.

  Lew removed his specs. “I’ve never seen this painting, but I’ll tell you one thing – it’s very, very good.”

  “Worth a lot?”

  “The style is clearly reminiscent of Picasso, but the photograph is too worn and blurry for me to be certain.” He handed the snapshot back to Gray. “I could determine a great deal more from the original by examining the composition, and brush strokes.”

  Gray’s heart beat fast. Despite having no corpse, a tenuous connection now existed between Vivienne’s thugs and the Stitcher killing at the body farm—and it was art. Specifically, the photograph he currently held.

  “Are you going back to the boat tonight?” he asked Vivienne.

  “Non. Given the weather, I have a room at the local motel.”

  Thank God Slope had managed to follow one of Gray’s instructions.

  “Stay here with us,” Lew said.

  “Thank you, Mr. James, but I can’t.” She turned back to Gray. “They’ll suspect something if I’m not back soon. Certainement, I can’t be seen with a chief inspector.”

  “Do you have a weapon?” he said.

  “Yes, a gun.”

  Why did that make him feel worse?

  They said their goodbyes, but his night wasn’t over. Far from it. Gray finished his drink.

  Another challenge awaited.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  G RAY SAT AT the bar while Sita rinsed a few glasses. She’d closed the restaurant and locked the front door.

  Her perpetual need for distraction while discussing an unpleasant topic had always frustrated him. How strange to be experiencing this once again.

  He liked people to look him in the eye while talking, but that was not her way. Or else, she wouldn’t have run away.

  “You and Noel have to leave town,” Gray said. “I received a call, threatening Dad.”

  “Dad, not us,” she said, looking up from the steel sink. She scrubbed it ruthlessly, as though trying to wipe out Gray’s face. “We’re fine.”

  “You’re my family. The killer knows that.”