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

by Ritu Sethi

  “Take him—if only to get him the hell away from my granddaughter. And take Seymour, too. Emmy and I got it all covered.”

  “Watch Teddy,” Gray said. Lew nodded before taking a seat beside a quiet and reflective Emmy. She no longer had the letter opener in her hand, but something told him it was nearby.

  Seymour came up behind him, alongside Slope and Vivienne.

  They moved upstairs to where he’d left Farrah’s body. She lay undisturbed on the mattress in what must, coincidentally, be her bedroom since another set of house keys was on the vanity, surrounded by perfumes, lotions and discarded jewelry. Gray stuck the extra set in his pants pocket of the oversized pants and further tightened the belt.

  It took only a minute to locate Matisse. His weeping echoed down the hall. Whatever the boy was, he wasn’t a natural killer—and his violence towards Farrah, not to mention Gray in the guest house, must have caught up with him.

  Slope held them back with one hand and turned the knob.

  Inch by inch, the door opened to reveal the sobbing, huddled form inside. Gray kneeled beside him.

  “Where’s Delilah?” he asked. “Did you leave her body in the guest house?”

  The boy nodded. His red hair matched the bloodshot eyes; his face appeared raw and ruddy, as though garnered from a lifetime of drinking and high blood pressure. And yet, he might have been a teenager with that haunted look—as though he could scarcely believe what had happened in the last few hours.

  They split up. The remainder of the search upstairs revealed nothing.

  Downstairs, the library and other rooms were empty. Gray even rechecked the basement, in case the two sailors had chosen that as a hiding place.

  He and Seymour, towing a broken Matisse, returned to the back terrace and the French doors.

  Outside, the storm raged, but the water level hadn’t risen further.

  Finding Delilah’s body was imperative. They needed it as evidence to prove what might otherwise be impossible.

  He turned to Seymour. “The suture we found belonged to Farrah.”

  “Farrah?”

  “She was the Stitcher.”

  “But—” The doctor pointed to Matisse. “He locked you in the cellar; he killed his mother, you said.”

  “The suturing on Farrah’s mouth was rough and unevenly spaced. Emmy noticed, and so did I. We’d both witnessed Farrah’s handiwork first hand with the first two victims, remember? She sutured precisely, almost professionally. Except, she didn’t leave the unused suture and needle behind with either of those victims. After Matisse killed her, he didn’t know to take it with him.” He turned to the boy. “You strangled her first. Do you remember doing it?”

  “I don’t know. I was mad.” His wide eyes nearly popped out of his head. “She was going to leave me with that Picasso Grandfather left her. She loved that painting more than me.”

  His whole body shook.

  Gray preferred to leave him indoors, but he wasn’t about to let a man guilty of murder and attempted murder—all in one night—out of his sight. No matter how sorry he felt.

  “No, wait a minute.” Seymour clutched Gray’s shoulder. “Teddy and Matisse found Farrah on the terrace together.”

  “The makeup, Doctor. Remember Farrah’s face had makeup on it when you found her dead in the hall. One of the guests mentioned something tonight in passing: Farrah was a makeup artist in Vancouver, years ago. That’s not just model, magazine eyeshadow we’re talking about—it’s special effects makeup. She made herself convincing as a victim; at least, convincing enough to compel Teddy and Matisse to run off and get help.”

  “I saw her after,” Matisse cried. “I found her getting ready to leave. She was alive. She told me everything when I caught her in the act.”

  “And the suture?” Gray asked.

  “She had it with her. Couldn’t leave it behind, could she? The evidence had to go with her.”

  Slope came down the hall to join them, followed by Vivienne.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Stan and Diego aren’t anywhere in the house.”

  Slope shook his head. “Impossible to say in a place this size. I guess you’ve been working undercover on my turf, Detective Caron. You might have told me.”

  Vivienne knew better than to take the bait. She clearly didn’t trust Slope farther than she could throw him.

  Grabbing Matisse’s arm, Gray opened the terrace doors, squinted against the rain and wind. “I’ll bet we find more than Delilah’s body in that guest house. Stan and Diego, not to mention Butch, must be there. We’ve searched everywhere else.”

  In response, Slope pulled out his service revolver from his inside jacket pocket. “If they are, I’m prepared.”

  Vivienne caught Gray’s eye, apparently sharing his trepidation. If Slope was part of the smuggling gang, would he silence the men before they could point any fingers? Or else silence Vivienne, Seymour, and Gray?

  Together, they ran across the terrace and drowned lawn to the chalet beyond—where a light shined through two square windows, giving it the smudged and incandescent appearance of watchful eyes.

  Seymour was obviously anxious to get more answers. He yelled over the wind. “Why did Farrah kill that art critic?”

  They were half-way to the cabin. Gray’s legs cried out in pain, and he shouted back.

  “He had that old snapshot of the Picasso because he knew Farrah’s father had bought the painting—probably illegally, after the war. So much art went missing back then. And Donovan Price was commissioned to find it, I’m guessing. Only he wanted it for himself. If he’d been an honest man instead of a crook, he’d be alive today.”

  “So, he met Farrah and told her he wanted the painting.”

  “No. I believe Price met with her and later tried to kill her for the Picasso—where, I don’t know—either in this guest house, or perhaps she has another place. Didn’t you notice, Farrah has worn either pearls or turtle necks to conceal the bruises on her neck?”

  Seymour looked confused.

  “Remember, the old and new strangulation marks on her corpse?” Gray said “She must have overpowered Donovan Price when he tried to kill her and strangled him instead.”

  “The cut on his neck!”

  “From her diamond engagement ring. Yes.”

  Gray didn’t bother to say the rest since Seymour was always fast on his feet—about Farrah copying the Stitcher’s modus operand to divert suspicion towards a serial killer; about the poor babysitter who had died to solidify that pattern; and about Farrah’s inherent need to implicate both Emmy and the body farm. Not to mention get rid of Delilah so that her fortune would revert back to Teddy.

  They reached the guest house. Water filled the sunken entrance, and the front door lay off its hinges.

  Slope took the lead, with Vivienne a foot behind him, ready to leap and grab the gun from his hand. Seymour held on to Matisse behind Gray.

  Wading through the chest-deep water, they entered the house and immediately heard arguing coming from above—the kitchen, most likely. To the left, the cellar door was broken. It had lasted long enough for Gray to escape.

  In a corner, Delilah’s bloated and soaked corpse bobbed against the wall. Shaking his head, Seymour helped him carry her up to the studio, where they gently placed her on the ground before quietly joining the others.

  The storm’s howling had concealed their footsteps.

  Slope reached the kitchen entrance first, motioned those inside with his gun, and Stan, Diego, and Butch came out with their hands up. Getting them back to the house would be a treat.

  Slope met Gray’s eyes, looking like the cat who got the cream while Vivienne tied the men’s hands behind their backs with rope she must have found in the house.

  Ever resourceful Vivienne—she never let him down.

  “I don’t get one thing.” Seymour kept his voice low. “Okay—two. Who headed the smuggling? Tell me it wasn’t Slope, or we’re in deep shit.”

  “Farrah l
ed the gang,” Vivienne said, tugging on the tied ropes harder than she needed to. “They all planned to sail away with the Picasso tonight. Isn’t that so, boys? You had a big freak out after her dead body was found. I have the bruises to prove it.”

  Gray tried to pick up Delilah but swayed. With Vivienne covering the thugs, Slope and Seymour moved him aside and carried Delilah back to the house.

  “Why did the victims have to disappear?” Seymour spat out the words, panting while wading through the water.

  The world blurred and tilted. After all the night’s strain, Gray couldn’t collapse this short of seeing it all through. He found the energy to answer.

  “So that no one would ask any questions when her body, too, disappeared. She set this up long ago, when the babysitter disappeared. Teddy must have told her about the Stitcher killing fifteen years ago. Butch helped her with the bodies. I suspect he was more loyal to Farrah than to Teddy.”

  Once back at the house, everyone had more questions and Gray answered them.

  It seemed forever before they settled down and voluntarily withdrew to their assigned rooms.

  Gray, meanwhile, he took refuge in Teddy’s library.

  He sunk into the wingback chair, aching, exhausted and watched Noel sleeping in his lap. Her hair felt soft; the tiny chest rose and fell, a look of complete peace on her face.

  All the loose ends—the smugglers, that bloody painting which had cost so many lives—were Vivienne’s and Slope’s problem. All Gray wanted was to be with his daughter, and hang on to the wisps of Craig’s imagined presence.

  But even this precious moment was burdened. He would need to decide about Sita and whether he could be a better husband than he was before.

  A twist in his gut provided the answer. They had both changed so much.

  Shuffling from the hall interrupted his reverie.

  Seymour and Emmy entered, with Seymour frowning at the glass of scotch beside Gray.

  “You didn’t pour me one?”

  Gray put a finger to his lips. “She’s asleep.”

  Seymour moved towards a drinks trolley and nodded at Emmy, but she declined.

  “I have something to ask you,” she said to Gray. “I know, it isn’t the best time. Maybe it can wait, but I have to know now.”

  Gray’s heart didn’t skip a beat. He felt no panic—only a numbness, inside and out.

  Noel didn’t stir as he gently lifted and placed her in the nearby portable crib.

  He watched her for a moment before sitting back down and rested his face in his hands.

  Ice cubes rattled in the doctor’s glass. “Emmy,” he said. “Let it go.”

  Gray had done it—miraculously, he thought he’d solved the Stitcher murders without anyone digging up the past.

  “You dated Mrs. Franklin’s daughter, didn’t you?” Emmy said.

  He looked up. Emmy was wiping her damp hands on her dress and shaking.

  In that drenched and stained taffeta dress, she looked like a girl who had missed her prom. Why hadn’t someone offered her something else to wear? She must be cold and uncomfortable.

  Whatever this was, it wasn’t revenge for his initial rudeness towards her.

  No—she wanted an answer to a paramount question which plagued her, and she wanted it now. She’d pegged him as one of the good guys, and now she wasn’t sure.

  “Mrs. Franklin didn’t tell me you dated her daughter, Stacey; she must have been protecting you. But when we found Farrah’s body, and you knew about the sutures being left at the crime scene fifteen years ago, I wondered how you knew.”

  Emmy paused a moment before continuing.

  “Mrs. Franklin let that fact slip, but no one else seems to know about it—not Teddy, not your Dad, not even Slope. Slope was part of the tail end of that old investigation, even let me look at the police report, just to humor me. There’s no mention of suture or instruments left at the site anywhere on those pages. You weren’t part of the investigating team either.”

  “Doesn’t mean James couldn’t have found out,” Seymour said. “Cops talk amongst themselves.”

  Gray held up a hand to stop Seymour. He’d made it so far without the whole thing unraveling.

  But Emmy wasn’t finished.

  “I asked Teddy, tonight if you knew the Franklin’s. He told me you dated Stacey for a year, loved her even. How did you know the suture was left beside her father’s body all those years ago, Chief Inspector? Unless you were at the original crime scene yourself.”

  Silence fell upon the room.

  Gray hadn’t been himself since returning to Searock, but the last few days a door had opened up.

  That inner serenity that he’d worked so hard for and had been his lifeline after Craig’s accident seemed almost accessible again.

  He could let go the need to control things – Noel breathed deeply, still asleep nearby – and know that what was authentically his, would remain.

  Even the storm outside had eased. The sea now rose and fell more smoothly; its cobalt depths a little less lonely, dawn peeking through over the horizon in emerging layers of white, blue, orange, and pink.

  Seymour grew redder by the second, but his face registered no questions or surprise. He moved to Emmy, lowering his voice but enough of it traveled across the room.

  “Don’t do this. You don’t know–”

  “I know enough. And why do you always protect him? Didn’t he kill his son; wasn’t he at least partly responsible for that?”

  “What happened fifteen years ago isn’t the same as what occurred with his son. His son’s tragedy might have been prevented.”

  “I agree.”

  “But listen to me. I know the details of the old Stitcher case. I made it my business to know and find out from the highest quarter. James isn’t the guilty party. He’s not the culprit, he’s not a victim – he’s the hero.”

  “A hero? Are you joking?”

  Seymour moved towards the trembling woman who had reached her limit. “He’s one of the good guys—believe me.”

  Gray breathed in and out. He had a choice and could be himself again. But first, the protective hand had to be removed from the wound. Exposing it to the onslaught.

  “Why should I believe you?” Emmy said. “You follow him around like puppy.”

  Seymour stiffened. “A puppy with some wit and charm, I should hope.”

  She held herself tight and glared at Gray as he approached.

  “Enough,” Gray said. “You’re right.”

  Seymour opened his mouth to speak.

  Gray shook his head. “It’s time, my friend.”

  A dense and perpetual knot within Gray’s chest unravelled as the words formed on his bruised lips, words finally said, finally out in the open.

  “I’m the original Stitcher from fifteen years ago, Emmy. I killed Ronald Franklin. And I take full responsibility.”

  Her eyes grew wet and sharp. Seymour looked past Gray with pressed lips and a desperate hand shot up in warning.

  Emmy’s head turned first at the sound of a firm, closing click—towards where Slope stood at the doorway with his hand on the knob. How long had he been there?

  “That’s mighty interesting,” Slope said. “Mighty interesting, indeed.”

  His entrance woke Noel, and seeing the sergeant, her sleep-moistened face grew fiercely red, the round mouth opened to form a circle, and following a pregnant pause—her ear-piercing wail shot across the room.

  THE END OF BOOK 2

  BOOK 3~THE DEADLY 3’S

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  MORE NUMBING PAIN.

  At precisely five-thirty am on April the first, Chief Inspector Gray James tucked his cold hands into his p
ockets, straightened his spine, and looked up.

  He breathed out through his nose, warm breath fogging the air as if jettisoning out of a dragon and tried to dispel the mingled hints of flesh, cherry blossoms, and the raw, living scent of the river.

  The drumming of his heart rang deep in his chest – brought on more by intellectual excitement than any visceral reaction to murder. Because of this, Gray accepted an atavistic personal truth.

  He needed this case like he’d needed the one prior, and the one before that. That someone had to die to facilitate this objectionable fix bothered him, but he’d give audience to that later. Much later.

  A car backfired on le Chemin Bord Ouest, running east-west along Montreal’s urban beach park. A second later, silence ensued, save the grievous howling of a keen eastwardly wind, and the pendulating creak of nylon against wood, back and forth, and back and forth.

  Heavy boots tromping through the snow and slush came up from behind. A man approached. Tall, but not as tall as Gray, his cord pants and rumpled tweed conveyed the aura of an absent-minded professor, yet the shrewd eyes – not malicious, but not categorically beneficent either – corrected that impression.

  Forensic Pathologist John Seymour looked up at the body hanging from the branch of a grand oak, gave it the eye and said, “Well, I can tell you one thing right off.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You wouldn’t be caught dead in that suit.”

  Gray sighed. “What do you suggest? That I refer the victim to my tailor?” To which Seymour shrugged and got to work.

  With every creak of the rope biting into the tree’s bough, Gray half-expected the swinging shoes to brush the snow-laden grass; each time the cap-toed oxfords narrowly missed. A grease stain marked the bony protrusion of the left white sock (with a corresponding scuff on the heel – from being dragged?) above which the crumpled brown wool-blend fabric of the pants and ill-fitting jacket rippled in the wind – like the white-tipped surface of the river beyond.

  Dawn cast a blue light on the water and snow. A damp cold sank through his coat and into his bones. Amazing how the usually peaceful beach park took on a menacing air: the St. Lawrence choppier than usual, swirls of sand and snow rolling like tumbleweeds, the sky heavy and low. But a children’s playground lay behind the hanging body, and its red swings, bright yellow slide, and empty wading pool offered a marked contrast to the swaying corpse.