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

by Ritu Sethi

  T HE TRUCK’S GALLOPING high beams illuminated the slick roads, but they couldn’t penetrate the storm’s wall of slashing rain and debris beyond twenty feet.

  Gray’s insides felt eaten. An inner voice screamed at him for leaving Noel, Dad, and the others unprotected when Emmy had begged him not to go.

  Had he made another fatal mistake? Was he this untrustworthy? The stench of fear and inadequacy stuck to his nostrils, drifting upward from every pore of his clammy body.

  He had to get back as fast as he could. He had to get back in one piece.

  Vivienne’s eyes met his and softened. She could always read him like a book. She turned towards the two handcuffed men in the back seat, looking happy with her catch, triumphant even.

  “Is Inspector Slope the head of your operation?” she said. They hit a bump, and she gripped the back of her seat.

  Gray glanced into the rear-view mirror.

  The wide-jawed Neanderthal, Stan, pressed his lips together in a line. In the truck’s interior, his gray-pink skin resembled that of a mouse. The other man, Diego, stared out the window long-faced and wide-eyed.

  “Slope couldn’t tell a Monet from a monkey,” Gray said to Vivienne.

  “That’s why thieves have accomplices. He doesn’t need expertise.”

  Gray thought otherwise. He’d sooner bill Slope as the Stitcher than a common smuggler.

  The sergeant craved prestige, wealth, power—not a life forever on the run. He might kill to gain Delilah’s fortune, and yet by all accounts, they weren’t yet married. Or perhaps, Teddy would kill to keep his estate from Slope’s hands. The same applied to Farrah.

  A shard of lightning—suspended and white as opaque glass—lit the road and valley ahead.

  It left a redness on his retina before his vision cleared. Thunder rang through his ears.

  For a moment, he imagined the truck rumbling and rolling in a rapid. Any moment, they might catapult off the cliff’s edge and fly through the water-logged sky—ending Gray’s pain, and the uncertainty of what might happen next.

  The wipers hummed a monotonous tune.

  He forced himself to focus on the case. Art held the central spot in the mystery—figures, and facts circling it like planets around a blazing sun. People could kill for a twenty, forget about a priceless painting—but he risked forging an imaginary link where none existed. Coincidences occurred all the time.

  “Dad might be able to tell us more when he looks at this painting,” Gray said. “The photograph was old and worn.”

  Maybe, maybe not.

  A film of sweat formed within the stubble above his lip. His tongue tasted like a rotting cut of meat in his mouth.

  Just then, an unexpected left turn made him twist the steering.

  He wrestled with the screeching wheels until the vehicle stopped its sideways. Gray breathed heavy before shifting back into gear and moving on.

  “What the hell, man!” Stan looked ashen in the rear-view mirror. “You trying to kill us or something?”

  “Tryin’ to scare us, more likely,” the other crook said.

  Vivienne slammed the seat. “Shut up, you two.”

  Only a mile further to go.

  “No one’s leaving the mansion tonight,” he said. “Not in this weather. I’ll get Teddy to give you a room next to Noel’s.”

  She understood him perfectly. “Oui.”

  They reached Pine Cove Mansion a few minutes later.

  The truck shrieked to a halt. He jumped out and motioned the two prisoners to lead the climb up the mansion steps. The painting was clutched against Vivienne’s chest, beneath the wrapped edges of her coat.

  Once inside, drenched coat off, Gray covered the two thugs. He hated the feel of a gun in his hands, and his gripping the trigger with his right claw hand didn’t go unnoticed by her or the others. Gray could not have fired it if he wanted to. She took the weapon and motioned the two prisoners down the hall.

  “Take these two to the library. I don’t want them near the others.” Meaning, he didn’t want them anywhere near his daughter. “I’ll send Slope to help you.”

  Emmy flew down the hall to greet him, looking entirely different from when he’d left.

  Her dress and hair were soaked. Mascara ran down her cheeks, giving her a raccoon appearance she hadn’t bothered to wipe away—and she held a letter opener in her hand like a dagger.

  What the hell happened in his absence? “Noel! Is she okay?” he shouted.

  “What? What does that have to do with—”

  “My daughter! Has the Stitcher struck again?” How dense was she to not understand his panic at seeing her wielding a weapon? He wouldn’t yell at her again, but it took all his control to shove the rage down. He had to talk to someone human, like Dad or Seymour.”

  He ground out the words. “Where is everyone?”

  “In the salon.” Her voice trailed behind him. “Don’t you want to know what’s happened? Where have you been?”

  He burst across the foyer and into the salon, the atmosphere within entirely different from when he’d left. Tension hung heavy in the air, and Lew and another couple turned as he entered.

  But it was Sita who ran over and clasped both arms around him, trembling. Noel lay asleep on the sofa. Thank God.

  “Where have you been? You can’t fly out of here without telling me. I was worried sick, and you know there’s been another killing.”

  Gray moved to Noel, lifted a strand of hair from her delicate and perfect forehead. “Who?”

  “Farrah.”

  Gray swung around. “You’re kidding.”

  “Afraid not.” Seymour stood at the door, heaving and out of breath. “I need you to come with me, James. Now.”

  Seymour had obviously failed at disarming Emmy who still held the letter opener in her grip.

  “In a minute.” Gray took the painting to Lew. “Dad—”

  “I’ll watch them both, and take a look at the painting. You go with Seymour.”

  Gusts of wind blew at them as they walked the hall. Someone must have left the back French doors to the terrace open.

  Seymour reached the open French doors first, followed by Gray and Emmy.

  He turned to her. “Tell me what happened.”

  Emmy’s succinct explanation—about finding Matisse, the subsequent disappearance of the body—went a long way to changing Gray’s opinion of her. He could use someone this logical and tough on the team, but Seymour was shaking his head and pulling Gray by the arm.

  “I went looking for Emmy after Slope herded us into the salon.” He spoke as they ran to the west side of the house. “And I found Farrah’s body.”

  “You found it?” Emmy said. “Where?”

  Seymour didn’t answer. What awaited them on the next turn stopped Gray in his tracks.

  Emmy gasped beside him. She must be reliving their recent mutual experience of finding the Stitcher’s victims. She must be experiencing what he now felt: acid burning his chest; a fury strong enough to smash through the hall walls.

  Farrah lay on her back, not spread-eagled in a degrading posture—but positioned carefully, as though peacefully asleep.

  Her hands were folded across her abdomen, the overly-large engagement ring twinkling obscenely under the overhead bulb.

  Her blond strands lay in a gentle curve above her head. But she’d still been mutilated.

  Gray couldn’t believe what lay beside the body and turned to Seymour. “The suture and retractor were left again—”

  Emmy’s head shot up. “Again?”

  Gray clammed up. She knew first-hand that no sutures or medical instruments were found beside the victim at the body farm. And he’d reported nothing of finding such items near Delilah’s body.

  Emmy slowly rose. “The only time the Stitcher left his implements behind was fifteen years ago—Mrs. Franklin mentioned it to me.”

  Gray faced Seymour. “When did you find her?”

  “A minute ago. I heard you in the h
all and got you right away. Nothing’s changed—this is how I found her.” He looked up. “The Stitcher’s here, in the house. He could even be one of us.”

  “What do you estimate as the time of death?”

  “Recent. Very recent.” Seymour ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe, thirty minutes. Look at the older bruises on the neck, along with the new strangulation marks.”

  Gray had already seen them. “At least, we can exclude Vivienne’s two sailors from the suspect list. Slope, Teddy, the remaining guests—even Matisse could have done it.”

  With no hope of getting SOCO here tonight, Seymour was taking pictures from every angle with his phone.

  Emmy kneeled before the body, her face intense, her red lips slightly open. Here was an excellent witness—one which Gray couldn’t afford to ignore.

  She said something unexpected. “One point four centimeters.”

  Gray leaned in. “What did you say?”

  “This suturing is coarse, amateurish compared to that of the victim I found at the body farm.” She looked up. “It isn’t neat, and the spacing between stitches if over two-and-a-half centimeters. The man at the body farm had his lips sutured with each stitch one point four centimeters in length.”

  “You noticed that?”

  “Of course, I noticed it.”

  Seymour chided in. “Something else is different—this red and black stuff over her mouth and cheeks. She wore pale pink lipstick tonight, I’m sure of it. Why would the Stitcher apply makeup to his victim?” He shook his head. “I don’t understand the change in modus operandi.” He slapped his head. “God, James, do we have two copycats now?”

  “Not in the way you think.”

  Gray stood. “We can’t leave her here—not with others roaming the mansion. Take a look around, Doctor. See what else you can find in the vicinity, and after that, get back to the salon as soon as possible. The situation is perilous. We have more than one killer with us tonight.”

  Seymour and Emmy stared, unblinking.

  With one or two more facts garnered with Dad’s help, Gray hoped to pinpoint the killer, tonight.

  “I’ll lock the body in one of the upstairs bedrooms,” he said. “Where are Slope and Teddy, not to mention Butch?”

  Emmy had gone dead white. Her silk hair stuck to her neck and shoulders.

  “Butch went to my cottage,” she said. “I don’t know if he made it back. I haven’t seen the other two, but last I noticed, they were searching the grounds outside for Farrah’s body.”

  “In the storm?” Gray couldn’t believe it. “With women and children left alone in the house?”

  “In all fairness, Slope told me to stay in the salon.” Seymour looked contrite. “I had to go out and find Emmy, though. That’s when the shit hit the fan.”

  Gray lifted Farrah’s bony, lifeless form easily, cradling the head with his shoulder. However she conducted her life, however she treated others, Farrah didn’t deserve this.

  “Don’t go near Butch, either of you. Do you understand?”

  “Butch?” Emmy said. “I don’t believe it. He’s too thick to orchestrate these complicated murders. If you suspect him, that means…that means Teddy is the brains behind this. He’s the killer, isn’t he?”

  “The other bodies—” Gray stopped mid-step. “They’re here, in the mansion. Butch brought them back. Don’t go near him, either of you and don’t let him into the salon. Lock the door from the inside when you get there. I have to check in with Dad and then Vivienne.”

  Seymour had reached his side. “There’s nothing more I can do here. I’ll go with you.”

  “No.”

  “What about Slope and Teddy. They can help.”

  “I can’t trust either of them. Not before I tie up the last few details.”

  “You’re juggling too many balls, and you know it,” Seymour said. “They’re all going to come crashing down.”

  Gray carried Farrah upstairs, pausing half-way. “I can live with that, so long as nothing happens to my family. Do you understand? I need you, John.”

  Seymour nodded, his face dark, his shoulders tight. He lingered a second longer. Gray had never seen him look so worried.

  After they entered the salon, Gray moved up to the first bedroom. He placed Farrah on the bed and pulled the door shut.

  While he made his way back downstairs, a crash sounded from below, followed by a shot.

  Vivienne.

  The sound of thudding feet made him fly downstairs. A blur of wet coats and dark hair passed between the recesses of the steps; a gust of howling wind spun upward; the front door slammed shut.

  Stumbling, Vivienne tried to follow, but a cut on her forehead bled profusely.

  Goddammit, he’d left her too long. Too many balls in the air, Seymour had said.

  “How badly are you hurt?”

  Taking her by the waist, he half-carried her to the others and banged on the door. “It’s Gray. Open up.”

  Vivienne caught her breath. “I’m okay. One of them smashed a lamp, and when I looked, the other swung his handcuffed fists at my face. I feel okay. Don’t worry.”

  “A couple of minutes and I would have been with you. They won’t go far in this storm.” The salon door opened.

  “Where can they hide?” Vivienne said.

  “The guest house out back, or else, the cellars if they can re-enter the house undetected.”

  Seymour didn’t bother with questions, reading Vivienne’s injury and the lack of two thugs accurately.

  Together, they helped her onto a settee, and without anyone noticing, Vivienne’s gun was moved to Seymour’s jacket pocket.

  Gray turned to find Teddy and Slope coming in, but he had no time for questions. He faced Slope.

  “Where have you been? We arrested the two seamen by the cove. They’re art smugglers.”

  “Are they?” The sergeant’s inscrutable expression gave nothing away.

  “They attacked Vivienne, and now they’ve escaped. Stay here and protect the others, in case Stan and Diego return.” Gray took Teddy aside. “I need you with me. Do you have your set of all the keys to the grounds?”

  Teddy looked around and shrugged. “I got ‘em in my pocket. What’re we lookin’ for? And where’s Matisse?” His eyes widened. “You don’t think—”

  “That the Stitcher will strike again? Possibly.”

  “You know who it is?”

  “Yes—and where the killer left your daughter’s body. I have to retrieve it as evidence.”

  He expected Teddy to demand more answers before handing over the keys, but he didn’t. Could Gray be wrong? Had he made the most catastrophic of mistakes confiding in Teddy?

  He moved towards Dad next.

  Lew stood up, gripped the painting in one hand and the cane in the other. He wasn’t about to let either go.

  “What do you think?” Gray made certain no one could hear them.

  “A genuine Picasso. I’d bet my life on it.” His legs wobbled, and he sat back down. “Son, I can’t tell you how nervous I am about having this thing with us. It’s priceless, and many a thief would go through us all to get it.”

  “I know. We have to make it through the night. By the morning, the weather will let up, and we can get out of here.”

  “You’re staying here.” Lew didn’t state it as a question.

  “I can’t, Dad. We need those two first bodies as evidence to convict the killer.”

  “That isn’t your problem—it’s Slope’s.”

  He met Lew’s eyes, leaving the rest unspoken. They both knew what had to be done. The Stitcher had to be caught and put to rest. For everyone’s sake.

  Lew hugged him and turned away. “Go, but make damn sure you come back. I can’t lose another boy.” His voice trailed away. “I won’t survive it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  W HEN HE WAS in the hall alone, Gray stopped and listened—for any sounds other than the thrashing storm outside and the wild beating of his heart.


  A few days ago, Teddy had mentioned that Butch kept furniture and other items stored in the cellar and nearby shed. It seemed the best place to temporarily conceal bodies never meant to be found—amidst the discarded residue of a hundred.

  If Butch had already buried the victims somewhere in the thousand miles of BC wilderness, he would have had to travel long and far, and they were lost forever. Gray didn’t think the property manager had yet had time for proper disposal and kept his fingers crossed.

  The steps leading to the basement stood on an offshoot from the foyer.

  Inside the damp cellar, Gray moved around blindly before finding the switch. The three consecutive low-ceilinged rooms only revealed dusty portraits, trunks, and generations of detritus encased in spider webs.

  If Butch kept the evidence on the property, it wasn’t here where all the household might look.

  That left the guest house and attached shed.

  Gray ran back upstairs, swung open the French doors leading to the back terrace and lawn, keys and torch in hand.

  The wind and rain smashed his skin. To his left, waves crashed in the cove, pounding against the rocks, the water level alarmingly high. Much of the lawn lay flooded by the sea.

  He stomped across the ankle-deep water, about fifty meters before reaching the guest house and shed.

  Directly behind, pines creaked and swayed, their thick branches threatening to snap and plummet thirty feet to the ground.

  The first key in Teddy’s chain didn’t fit the shed lock. It took three tries before one did—but the eight by ten-foot structure contained little more than a lawn mower and multiple other tools and implements. No bodies. No clues to where they might be.

  He covered the few steps down to the sunken guest house entrance where Farrah had her painting studio. He found the right key and turned the lock.

  Inside, the familiar scent of paint and turpentine assailed his nostrils. Was it only two days ago that he climbed these steps with Teddy?

  But this time, the view out the windows didn’t reveal the beautiful Pacific and trees: instead, rain slashed the glass, giving Farrah’s studio an underwater feel.

  Every instinct made him want to bolt out of there, but he disciplined himself to stay. If this cabin had a cellar as well—that might be what Teddy had referred to when he said only Butch went into the cellar—beneath of the guest house, not Pine Cove mansion.