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

by Ritu Sethi

  Teddy spoke with Sergeant Slope at the other side of the crowded room of perfumed bodies and fake smiles; Emmy wracked her brain for a comeback but found none.

  “Ah, thank you for inviting me to your house.”

  “I see we’re ignoring your stupid outbursts at the gallery. Don’t count on my generosity. I’d throw you out of this house, my land, and my town in a minute. Teddy may believe all your science crap now, but he won’t when I’m through with him. Count on it.”

  She pivoted on one hip and slithered to the back of the room to where Sita James stood nursing a glass of red wine.

  At least her green silk dress left something to the imagination. Emmy couldn’t mistake the scowl directed at her direction by the Chief Inspector’s wife. Was he also nearby, ready to renew his attack? She downed the rest of her champagne.

  Rain slid down the expansive paned windows overlooking the acres of manicured lawn beyond.

  Across the green, at the far back under an incline of Douglas fir and pine, a guest house resembling a brown smudged blob jutted out of the ground.

  Farrah used it as a painting studio, Emmy knew, and an adjacent shed held all the torture implements belonging to Butch: shovels, machinery, chemicals — items he used to manage the property.

  The mansion sat perched above Pine Cove. To the left of the lawn, the distant white-tipped peaks of the Pacific thrashed against a shallow cliff of rocks. Dense forest ran inland for miles to the right.

  Emmy had once ventured inside during one of Teddy’s cocktail parties—into the dark and mysterious woods—only to find the roar of the ocean muffled, the air surprisingly thick and still, and her heart had beaten fast; her brow had dripped with sweat. She’d run out of the thicket and across the lawn to the edge of the blowing Pacific, grateful for the misty air in her lungs and the breeze through her hair and wondering if the surf had ever risen high enough to flood the grounds and house.

  Slope stood in the middle of the room and gave her a curt “hey” before proceeding to ignore her. Farrah and Sita plotted in a corner, occasionally giving Emmy a pitying look, interspersed with giggles.

  All in all, a fun-filled way evening—one which made Emmy want to jump into the bubbling, violent waters of the cove.

  No Gray James or Seymour, but Lew sat on the couch speaking to an older couple Emmy didn’t recognize.

  Farrah’s son, Matisse, sat hunched in a check-patterned wing chair, staring down at the Persian at his feet. Every so often, he’d straighten out the carpet’s strings messed up by passing feet.

  She understood his awkward need for action, anything to distract from social awkwardness. Here was a comrade in arms. She moved towards him.

  “Where did you get the cola?” she said.

  Matisse looked up. “On the sideboard, hidden behind all the booze. Mom put it there in case any of her stupid friends want a rum and coke. Here, take my chair, and I’ll get you one.”

  A minute later, he placed a glass before her. It tasted funny, and his eyes—matching his fox-like face—watched as she took the first sip before they glanced down at the taffeta bow.

  “Tastes great,” Emmy lied. He seemed to relax and sat on the chaise opposite.

  Matisse didn’t speak while she finished the drink, but before she could place the glass on the side table, he’d taken it. Within thirty seconds he returned with a refill.

  Such a gracious host. If only his mother had a tenth the warmth.

  “You’re a virgin, aren’t you?” he said.

  Emmy swallowed the wrong way and coughed for a full thirty seconds. Recovering, she said:

  “Excuse me?”

  He raised and lowered his eyebrows. The boy was what? Nineteen? A grown man, by some accounts. Served her right for being kind.

  Emmy tried to stand, but the room tilted. Falling back down, she gripped the edges of the chair and felt his shifty eyes on her once again. How could she ever have mistaken him for a comrade?

  A masculine hand reached towards her, and she pulled back. The tall and dark figure hovered, and sparkling emeralds shot out of his head, shifting between her and Matisse, assessing.

  His lips pressed into a grim line, but the lower lip remained surprisingly full. Meanwhile, Matisse quickly skirted across the room like a frightened deer.

  “I feel nauseous,” Emmy said. The room tilted. She clutched at her chest.

  “You need some food,” the baritone voice replied.

  It felt like seconds before he returned with a plate full of cold shrimp, sushi, and seeded crackers with Brie. Didn’t Farrah serve any real food?

  Emmy shoved it down and felt a fraction better, but a steady pounding began in her head.

  “Don’t get up for a while,” Gray James said, in that smoldering way of his, looking better in his tux than chocolate cheesecake with cream on top. “You’ve had one too many.”

  “Teddy gave me a glass of champagne, and Matisse brought me some soda.”

  Gray picked up her empty glass and sniffed it. “I bet he did.” He scanned the room with a scowl. “Trust me; you’re missing nothing sitting this party out. We’ll go into dinner soon.”

  She hadn’t noticed the dimple on his chin before. The urge to lift a finger and probe it proved irresistible, and she must have done it because he tucked her right hand back safely onto her lap.

  His lightly-tanned face had just the right amount weathering, the fashionably-cut short hair in perfect keeping with the modern tux. Never before had Emmy been so fascinated with a face.

  “I’ll check on you later,” he said, moving away in a smooth gait which highlighted each firm and rounded gluteal muscle in action.

  What the hell was happening to her? She shook her head.

  And what had someone said to her recently? Something she needed to know more about? But the thread kept slipping away.

  Seymour stood next to Lew. He must have arrived with the Chief Inspector.

  Her wobbly feet made it across the slippery tiles. Seymour saw her coming and held out a hand while wearing his customary wry expression.

  “You look fantastic,” he said. “Though, a little—hmmm. How much did you have to drink?”

  “Only a glass of champagne when I got here. And two colas.”

  “Ah, my kind of woman. The kind who can’t hold her liquor.”

  Lew rolled his eyes. “It’s true what they say—youth is wasted on the young. Leave her alone, John, and go look after my son. Who knows what trouble he’s getting himself into.”

  The elder James smelled of oak and musk, reminding Emmy of the last time she’d her grandfather when she was ten. The visceral memory came so strongly, she had to blink away tears.

  “Here, use my handkerchief. Only old farts like me carry them, but that one’s fresh out of the laundry.”

  Emmy dabbed the corner of her eyes and spent the next twenty minutes in surprisingly easy conversation with Lew James. As an academic (albeit in the arts) he shared some of her sensibilities unlike the other Neanderthals occupying this claustrophobic village.

  “Wish we could get some fresh air,” he said. “The gale will blow us both into the ocean.”

  Now, she registered the backdrop of groaning wind. The glass windows jarred in their frames, ready to burst.

  High-pitched voices battled the clinking of crystal and porcelain in the overheated room.

  She must be sobering up, and yet the conglomerate sounds grew increasingly loud, and the synchronous slashing of rain on windowpanes pounded her insides.

  “I have to get out of here. I can’t stay here overnight.”

  “Not safe out there anymore,” Lew said. “I’m staying, and so is Gray. He’s not the social type, but a certain lady is also an overnight guest.” He motioned towards Sita who was engaged in ardent conversation with Gray James.

  She saw Emmy and scowled. It felt like a slap.

  “I have to talk to Teddy,” Emmy said. Her voice sounded surer now, less distant and shaken. She was sobering up.
No more bloody champagne. “That’s why I came to this party—to discuss the future of my work. The University has no other facilities appropriate for this kind of research. And most of what makes my findings unique is the proximity to the Pacific, studying the unique effects this type of weather has on forensic results.”

  Lew nodded. He understood—what a refreshing change. He didn’t argue back, or contradict her, or tell her she was a ghoul.

  “I remember when I was working on my Ph.D.—” he said.

  “I already have my Ph.D., Dr. James.”

  “Of course, you do. I meant that the art world has its share of critics too. If you take my advice, don’t speak with Teddy about the farm tonight. Catch him when he’s alone, maybe during coffee or a walk tomorrow morning.”

  Lew glanced out the large glass windows again; his eyes narrowed, sharp, deep lines running along the sides of his mouth. “If nature cooperates.”

  “Are you worried about your cottage in the storm? It’s next to the beach, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but Gray took care of all that, locked it down for a couple of days. The whole coastline’s on guard, even though we’re only catching the bottom edge of Hurricane Mabel. Vancouver’s supposed to get the worst of it.”

  They named it Mabel? An old-fashioned storm, then. And one that would miss them by a hair.

  “I’m surprised you’re at a party,” Emmy said. “After your son discovered Delilah’s body on the beach. News of the Stitcher returning is all over town.”

  “The Stitcher,” Lew said, eyes shooting out at hers. “What do you know about that?”

  “Nothing, other than what Teddy told me. The old case is unsolved. It makes my blood boil that Slope didn’t take me seriously when I found a body. He let all that evidence wash away.”

  “Slope’s no fool. Whatever he is, he ain’t stupid. Gray came here tonight because I received a death threat, probably from the killer.”

  “What?” The thought of this sweet man ending up spread-eagled and sutured made Emmy’s heart race. “What did the killer say?”

  “Oh, the usual. He’d stitch me up, blah, blah, blah. I’m not too fast on my feet these days. Can’t outrun a killer.” He thumped his nearby cane for effect. “Gray will take care of me, and keep his wife and daughter safe, too.”

  Here, he gave Emmy a meaningful look she couldn’t comprehend.

  “Where is your granddaughter?” she asked.

  “Noel’s upstairs, asleep, tended by one of Teddy’s staff. She’s no trouble. Unlike –”

  He stopped himself and pressed his lips together. His eyes shined.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Emmy said. “I often do.”

  “No, My Dear. Come, everyone’s heading into dinner.”

  They left together.

  A long, mission-style table dominated the formal dining room. The setting reminded Emmy of black and white mysteries she’d stay up late to watch on TV.

  William Powell from The Thin Man movie could be sitting at the head of the table of suspects, ready to divulge the identity of the murderer...

  She shook her head as a server placed artichoke hearts and a slice of lamb on her dinner plate.

  The multitude of courses made Emmy’s head spin, with Farrah touching none of them, and instead, finding any excuse to paw Gray James—in contrast to Seymour, on Emmy’s left, who enthusiastically ate every speck of food placed before him.

  Gray sat on Emmy’s right. Once or twice, his hand grazed hers, and the resultant electrical shock made her face flame a bright red.

  He’d invited her to call him, Gray. Of course, that meant he could call her Emmy. Well, la dee da. Thanks a million, Inspector, for that kind gesture at informality.

  “How are you?” Gray asked.

  “I should be asking you that since you found Delilah’s body.”

  He cut his steak and took a bite, washing it down with a red. “The Stitcher killings have everyone tense.”

  “Not everyone. I went to see Mrs. Franklin regarding her husband’s murder, fifteen years ago.”

  His classically handsome profile remained serene.

  She fiddled with her sautéed vegetables, aiming for a similar casualness. “Mrs. Franklin spoke of her husband’s murder, almost implied that he deserved it. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Before my time.”

  “You’d joined the force by then. It was only fifteen years ago.’

  Gray put down his cutlery with a clang. “I hadn’t made detective yet. It wasn’t my case.”

  And then Emmy remembered what had been nagging at her all evening. Something Teddy had said.

  “Your family knew the Franklins,” she said.

  “Everyone knows Dad around here. We were pretty close to every local family in those days.”

  Across the table, Sita watched and twisted her cloth napkin. The black kajal outlining her large eyes seemed to jump off her face, the ruby-red lips bloodthirsty.

  She turned to Slope, sitting immediately to her right. Nearby, Lew was discussing something with the town’s mayor and his wife.

  The waiter refilled Emmy’s water glass. She sipped it before replying. “How well did you know them?”

  Gray’s hand paused before the wine glass reached his lips.

  “I’ll speak to Teddy again,” Emmy said. “And find out everything.”

  “You’re certainly being thorough.” He toasted her glass with his before turning his attention to the lady on his right.

  Across the table, Matisse glanced from Emmy to Farrah. He exuded a mixture of hostility and admiration for his mother. Catching the boy’s unguarded look, Emmy realized he saw her with equal contempt.

  How awful to inadvertently witness what lay inside a stranger’s heart, what they held apart from the outside world.

  The filet mignon might have been excellent or made of rubber, Emmy couldn’t tell.

  All she wanted was to go to her assigned room, sleep through the night, muster through breakfast, and return to her isolated cabin.

  There, she’d lock the doors, shut the windows, and crawl into bed and relax.

  Dinner finally ended. After-dinner drinks in the library proved even less comfortable and carried an air of expectant strain.

  Gray and Seymour were elsewhere in the mansion. Only a few of the guests, the ones who planned to stay overnight, remained in the house — including Sita, Slope, and a couple of others Emmy didn’t recognize.

  One of the women, Sophie, addressed Farrah: “Darling, that dress is fabulous. And the makeup—” She arched a brow. “Weren’t you a makeup artist in the old days, before Teddy and all this?”

  Farrah smiled and waved a hand in disinterest. She caressed her pearl choker and indicated towards Emmy.

  “At least, I know how to make myself presentable.”

  “Farrah—” Teddy’s jowls seemed to hang down lower than ever.

  Lew joined Emmy on the sofa, and together they helplessly witnessed Farrah’s assault on Matisse.

  “Why are you still here, instead of upstairs in your room?” she said. “Honestly, Darling – you can’t follow me around like an adoring puppy forever. Go, make friends. Live your own life.” She said to Sita, “Grown children are such a bore; trust me, you’ll find out.”

  Matisse turned a combination of orange and red. The color reminded Emmy of a vibrant sunrise, although in this case, an explosion might be more accurate. He shifted his hands, now trembling under the table.

  “I—I can go if you want, Mother.”

  “Leave him alone,” Teddy said.

  Farrah brought a hand to her face. “Leave him alone? I’m the one suffocating. How many years is he going to leach onto me? By nineteen, shouldn’t he be out of my hair? You don’t think of this when you adopt a small child, don’t expect it. Kids are supposed to grow up and leave.”

  “Farrah!”

  “Do I look like the maternal type to you? Honestly, I adopt him as a favor to a dead, faithful cook, a
nd the child expects the world of me.”

  Emmy had heard of Matisse’s humble beginnings, but she couldn’t believe any mother would refer to them in public.

  What did Farrah expect to accomplish by this display? She had a well-deserved reputation for strategy, and this ill-advised outburst must have a purpose. To alienate Matisse? Keep him at a distance? But why?

  Farrah made several additional comments causing Matisse to color, hold a hand to his mouth, and run out of the room.

  The library door slammed behind him—with Gray entering almost immediately thereafter. A slim and pretty woman with short brown hair followed but remained by the door.

  Gray strode over and leaned into Lew. “It’s the yacht on the cove. Vivienne’s arrived, and she says the boat crew is planning to leave tonight. I’m going there now.”

  “But the storm, Son. You can’t risk traveling in this weather.”

  “I know. The ferries have stopped, and the roads are filling up. Soon, they’ll be impassible—which is why I have to leave now. I’ll be careful, I promise.”

  “Most of the guests got out after dinner,” Lew said. “That was a half hour ago; I don’t think any of the rest of us are goin’ anywhere tonight.”

  Gray shook his head. “But how safe are we here, this close to the cove? Look outside.”

  The three of them moved to the library window overlooking the cliff side of the house where an angry ocean churned and thrashed. The water level had risen. Previously exposed boulders and rocks now lay underwater.

  Oh, God. Had her earlier fear come true? Would the ocean flood the grounds and the house? How strong were the foundations, or did they risk being pulled into the inky depths of the bubbling sea?

  Her instincts flared—violently—instincts she’d learned never to ignore.

  Emmy turned suddenly to Gray and grabbed his sleeve. “Don’t go.”

  “What?” He frowned and glanced down at her hand.

  “I mean it, Chief Inspector. My instincts are rarely wrong, but please don’t ask me to explain. I can’t explain. I just know…I mean, I have a strong feeling the unimaginable is about to happen. And you should be here when it does. Not chasing the crew of a yacht, but here instead, where you’re needed.”