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

by Ritu Sethi

  “I’d like to know who owns The Isabelle, Slope said. “Not those two, that’s for sure.”

  Gray wondered the same thing. He didn’t dare phone Vivienne’s cell. She would contact him when she could.

  Within a day, his relaxed and boring vacation had transformed into something complicated and dangerous. It just went to show you: be careful what you wish for.

  Slope’s cell burred within his jacket. “What?” he shouted, breaking the hands-free driving law he gave out so many tickets enforcing. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me? No! I’ll be right there.”

  He hit the accelerator, hard enough to slam Gray’s seatbelt into his chest, turned on his whaling sirens, and shouted:

  “I’m not gettin’ two minutes to rest today. Didn’t even get to finish my breakfast. Your girlfriend has gone crazy.”

  “What? I don’t have a girlfriend, Slope. Who are you talking about?”

  “Dr. Emerald Kaur, who else? She’s threatening to chop residents up with an ax.”

  Gray turned and took a last look at the yacht receding in the distance. With the truck now atop the winding cliff, he could just make out Vivienne moving on the deck. Whatever she was up to, it would have to wait — but that scared him, felt dangerous.

  Thirty feet from the boat, the cove’s namesake blow hole bubbled and spurted out its jet of streaming water, up and out, into the sky.

  A similar torrent surged inside Gray’s chest. Something was about to go very wrong, he knew it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  W ASN’T THIS JUST perfect?

  So much for keeping the scene of the alleged crime relatively uncontaminated while Gray tried to elicit Slope’s cooperation.

  They swung past the open gate in the SUV, and immediately a mob of women swarmed the vehicle, pointing back towards the farm, one of them yelling: “She has an ax! Crazy woman has an ax.”

  Scavengers circled overhead. Whipping past the protesters, Gray ran with Slope at his heels, passing the cabin, smelling the rotting before the sites came into view, and suddenly stopping before Emmy’s drenched and stiff figure, poised to strike.

  She looked as surprised at the ax in her hands as the women around her. With a sinking stomach, Gray noticed the familiar face to one right. How had she gotten here so fast, and who was running the bistro?

  Not his wife; not here.

  For once, he was relieved this wasn’t his official case. But hiding behind civilian armor wasn’t an option either.

  “Put the ax down, Dr. Kaur,” Slope yelled. He’d pulled out his gun and pointed it at Emmy.

  “Slope,” Gray said. “That isn’t necessary.” But the weapon remained fixed in the sergeant’s hands.

  “I’ll put it down when these women get off my land,” Emmy yelled.

  “This isn’t your land, Spook.” Farrah moved closer to Emmy.

  Slope ordered her to stay back.

  Time to step in. Gray grabbed Farrah’s arm. “You’re leaving, now.”

  She yanked it back while giving him a disturbing smile he didn’t want to interpret.

  “No.”

  “Unless you want someone to get shot today, you’re leaving.”

  “Oh, I’d very gladly watch her get shot, Chief Inspector,” Farrah said, pointing to Emmy.

  “Slope, tell the other women to back off,” Gray said.

  But the sergeant kept his weapon aimed at Emmy, who in turn stood in the middle of an ever-growing circle forming around her. Some of the protestors had remained, and other had returned.

  The situation threatened to explode at any second. And all for what? A bunch of rotting corpses and bruised egos. Or was Gray wrong about that?

  Even Sita shook her head and refused to back down.

  “Slope,” he yelled.

  “The second I lower this gun,” the sergeant said, “she’ll go nuts.”

  “No, she won’t.”

  The circle was narrowing.

  Emmy slashed the air in warning. The women screamed and moved back, including Sita – except Farrah who plunged forward.

  Just as Emmy threw down the ax – just as Slope and his stupid deputy began to fire.

  Gray jumped between Emmy and the shots, slamming her into the ground and narrowly dodging a bullet. She yelled out in pain but didn’t look hurt.

  “Are you out of your goddamn mind, Slope?”

  The Sergeant ran over and faced Emmy. “You’re under arrest.”

  “She was protecting her farm.” Gray pointed to the dispersing crowd, following Farrah. “They’re trespassing.”

  Inside Gray, a storm brewed. Nothing at the body farm would now be admissible evidence. Farrah’s minions had trampled over everything he and Seymour wanted preserved for SOCO. Anything they found might give them information, but the opposing counsel would argue that a stampede had charged through it, and they’d be right.

  A more insidious thought struck him. His eyes narrowed over the women’s supple receding figures.

  Was the timing of this protest a coincidence, or a deliberate attempt to sabotage evidence? He must find out who incited this protest – Farrah Stone? That seemed too obvious. Any of the women, or some third party for that matter, could have egged her on. This group had a local reputation for reacting before thinking things through or finding common grounds or solutions.

  He made certain Emmy was okay and then moved to the parking lot. Other damage control awaited.

  Catching up with Sita at her car, he said, “Why did you get involved in this? Farrah Stone is a malicious –”

  “Farrah’s my friend. The only one I had when Noel and I came here.”

  She threw the sign into her Jetta’s trunk. “That was quite a touching and heroic act I just witnessed. I see you’d risk your life for hers.”

  He placed his right hand on her arm. All the warmth of their earlier meeting at the cafe had vanished. She looked down at his scarred, damaged hand with unexpected hostility.

  “Why don’t you get that fixed? Maybe it would be of some use then.”

  He could tell her that he’d never get it fixed. That it remained the only tangible connection to his son — a talisman of that precise time; that exact place. But Gray didn’t bother.

  “Whose side are you on?” she said.

  She glared at him, awaiting a response.

  Slope had escorted Farrah and the other women to their cars. He’d said nothing to Sita, almost conspicuously avoiding a confrontation which might make him look bad. Instead, he’d left that pleasure to Gray.

  “I’m not on anyone’s side,” Gray said. “In a murder case –”

  “But this isn’t your case. You’re not the professional in charge, so for once, you can’t hide behind that, can you?”

  Her tone sounded different from what he remembered when they’d been a family. She wouldn’t have said that about his work then. But had she thought it?

  He suddenly felt hot and pulled the jacket collar away from his skin. Losing his temper meant weeks of trying to glue together the pieces of their relationship.

  When you went to hell and back with someone, saw the worst of them and yourself, you might make the return journey alone. Not all trauma was binding. Some of it killed.

  “I’m your wife. I live here, not her. I have a business and livelihood to protect and a daughter to feed. I’m not some single antisocial doctor who complains when all she has to worry about is deciding what to order for takeout.”

  “No one’s taking sides.”

  She crossed her arms. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? We’re your family. Who is she to you? Does it occur to you what having a body farm can do to my business, to the economics of this town?”

  The thought had never entered his mind. He saw a possible murder, he saw the imperative of protecting the town from the Stitcher but not from any economic consequences.

  “Last week, a family of tourists had something fall on them, Gray. What do you think it was?”

  He shook his head. The
re was no winning this, he could tell.

  “A finger. An overhead vulture dropped the tip of a rotted, decomposed finger, and it fell right in front of the mom’s face onto the baby’s crib. She started screaming. She made a fuss you wouldn’t believe – ask Slope – threatening to sue. The story spread to Vancouver, as a human interest piece. What do you say to that?”

  Seymour’s car pulled into the lot. Where the hell had he been all this time?

  “I have to go,” Gray said. “This is still a crime scene, and all of you share the blame in contaminating it.” Her nostrils flared; her eyes narrowed. Way to go, Gray. Dig a deeper hole with your estranged wife. But he couldn’t temper his words. Gray had to catch the Stitcher before he killed again. Otherwise, what kind of detective was he?

  They’d rarely argued in the old days. Mainly, Sita had accepted things. And that had cost her the world.

  He should say something, make it better. Across the lot, Seymour stood by the cabin, speaking to Emmy. The two of them went inside.

  Sita’s eyes moved from Gray to the cabin. She’d mistaken his gaze as one of jealousy, which bordered a level of absurdity he wouldn’t lower himself to defend.

  “Let’s talk later after we’ve cooled off,” he said. “I’ll come by the bistro.”

  “What am I other than a means to your daughter? You took away my life; you know that?”

  “We could have dealt with the pain together.”

  “No. I couldn’t look at you without seeing Craig. It’s those bloody emerald eyes that both your kids inherited. But after two years of looking into Noel’s—” She swallowed. “Has someone else taken my place in your heart, or something else? Tell me.”

  How could he tell her he felt numb? It seemed the ultimate betrayal. How could he hurt her like that?”

  “Not now, Sita.”

  His tone could have been — should have been — warmer, he knew. Ego had always been his trouble, otherwise, wouldn’t his son still be alive? His flaws had pushed them this far off their chosen path. It seemed to him; the same thought might be flashing through her mind. But he had work to do, and he couldn’t talk about this anymore.

  “Of course, not now. You have a case to solve; an addiction to appease.”

  She slammed the door. Her car puttered away, the tires spitting mud in his direction. Some clung to his scarred hand.

  Across the lot, Slope had disbanded the protest and looked satisfied with his work. He should look pleased, having successfully cast Gray in the part of villain. Score one to you, Gray thought.

  The sergeant approached him with one eyebrow raised.

  “Are you going to charge Farrah Stone with trespassing?” Gray said.

  “No. Why should I?”

  “That’s precisely what she did. If the protestors had marched outside the gate, that would have been fine. But coming inside, interfering with Dr. Kaur’s research –”

  “Now, there’s no evidence they did that.”

  “Look around, Slope. We’re on research land. Her specimens have been irreversibly compromised. Emmy wouldn’t have pulled out that ax if the protesters weren’t damaging months of painstaking research.”

  Even as he spoke, Gray recounted Sita’s words. That he’d taken Emmy’s side. If Farrah were charged, Sita would be too. What the hell was he doing?

  Slope held up a hand. “Okay, okay. I get it. Dr. Kaur lives here, and if this happens again, someone’ll get hurt. Maybe even Sita.”

  Gray saw red. How manipulative was this sergeant? And how very confident in his ability to take on a Chief Inspector.

  Seymour came up from behind. “I’ve settled Emmy down,” he said, glaring at Slope. “She’s understandably upset. First the mutilated body on her farm, and now this.”

  Gray faced Slope. “Has anyone reported a male, thirty to forty years old, with long blond hair, missing from either here or the adjacent towns?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then let’s assume he’s from Vancouver or farther out.” Gray thought out loud. “He must have arrived here somehow. By the coastal bus? Unlikely. What would he use to get around town? No one manages these roads and mountains without a car.”

  The wind picked up and blew Seymour’s thinning hair across his brow. “The killer could have disposed of the car nearby. Worth looking into.”

  Slope agreed to have his men drive around. Seymour’s answering frown indicated he didn’t expect the sergeant to make much of an effort.

  The sergeant turned towards his truck, waving as he left. “I’ll see you boys around.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  H E RAISED THE rolling pin above his right arm and whacked the ball of dough on the kitchen counter, jostling the cabinets on their hinges.

  Again and again, he hit it, nearing the end of the twenty minutes of beating required to tighten the Pain Brié, the “crushed” bread of Normandy, literally named ‘beaten bread.’ It was great therapy.

  Outside Gray’s cabin window, the Pacific thrashed and bubbled, gestating an impending storm scheduled to hit British Columbia’s Sunshine Coast. Inside, his giggling toddler twisted at the table, her dark curls bouncing, and one chubby arm slamming the antique pine.

  It had been an exhausting day. Father-daughter time was exactly what he needed. Nothing would interfere with this, he promised himself. Nothing.

  Leaving the dough to rise, Gray joined Noel at the table. And through some sense of guilt or longing or self-flagellation, reached for his phone and played the familiar video.

  Craig’s wide eyes stared at him from the screen. “Is Mommy going?”

  Gray’s own voice replied in the video, “You kidding? She doesn’t even want us to go.”

  “But it’s three whole days, Daddy. I don’t want to go away...sailing, I mean. I’ll miss her.”

  “You’ll live.”

  A piece of spaghetti flew onto the phone, making Gray jerk back to the present. Tomato sauce blurred the screen.

  Hitting the stop button, he wiped the phone clean before tucking it into his pocket. A drowning need pulled him forward.

  “Let’s go to the beach, Noel. Before it gets too dark.”

  The winter air slapped his face as he stepped into the impending dusk veiled by mist. The beach lay about thirty meters behind the cottage. Gray held Noel’s warm, mittened hand in his bare fingers during their stroll across the mulch and leaf-strewn grass, still wet from the afternoon’s downpour.

  Noel squealed when they reached the expanse of sea and sky and snow-capped Rockies in the distance. To his right, an undulating pined incline extended as far as the eye could see.

  To the left, large rocks and coarse brown sand – scattered with the inevitable geese droppings – stretched for a kilometer before curving into a cove leading into downtown Searock.

  He breathed in the salty freshness. The smell of home, and the most beautiful place he’d ever been.

  Noel began singing a song from her preschool: “Make a circle, make a circle–”

  In perfect pitch, just like her mother. Hearing the tune brought back a decade-old memory which twisted his gut. Before him, endless water drew the eye towards a cobalt horizon, hiding what lay beneath.

  She sang, “–big and round, big and round.”

  He used to control the world and everything around him; nothing felt hard. Now, he grappled for something to hang onto in a storm, and all he could find was this small hand.

  “Everybody hold hands. Everybody hold hands. Now sit down. Now sit down.”

  He lifted Noel over his neck. The tiny boots rocked the front of his shoulders, but she’d stopped singing. Instead, a choking sound echoed in his ears. Was Noel crying?

  But the little girl’s Mona Lisa smile was dry; she wiped his cheek with one chubby finger, catching the single tear trickling down his face. Another choke escaped his throat – when the crunching of footsteps over rocks sounded from behind.

  Gray steeled his expression and turned. Seymour’s ironic voice broke the s
ilence.

  “Am I interrupting a family reunion? As your doctor, I can’t recommend this.”

  Gray lifted Noel off his shoulders. “You’re a forensic pathologist – the last person I want as my doctor.”

  Seymour kept pace as they headed back. “We need to discuss the case.”

  “Not during my time with Noel. After. I plan to drop her back at Sita’s for the night, just in case.”

  The swinging of Noel’s arms matched her skipping. She jumped into the inevitable puddle and squealed in delight, soaking herself to the knees and looking mighty proud of the accomplishment. Gray smiled.

  Drifting smoke filled the night air. Dad must have lit the fire in the stone grate inside the cottage. It would be warm and welcoming, and Gray could dry Noel.

  They continued towards the cabin, finally reaching the side door. Gray stopped and lifted Noel, holding her squirming, drippy figure at arm’s length. He carried her up the steps and let her run inside, her giggles carrying. Gray’s dad, Lew, lifted himself from an armchair and shuffled behind her.

  Gray entered his cabin. They’d have the bread he baked and a roast for Christmas dinner. For the next few hours, he’d get to be Dad. Just Dad.

  And he loved it.

  Much later, the ornate clock sitting above the mantle stuck Midnight.

  How many lazy moments had Gray spent in this stone and wood room, staring at the ancient timepiece handed down by his grandfather to his father, watching the hands move, listening to the mesmerizing tick-tock?

  He and Seymour needed to chew over that last bit of evidence Emmy had provided the previous night.

  “Is Dr. Kaur sure? She couldn’t be wrong about her observations? It all happened so quickly.”

  “She’s sure,” Seymour replied.

  Neither man spoke, both assimilating what she’d said and what it meant.

  A shifting log crackled and sparked in the fire, back dropped by the roar of the adjacent sea.

  Seymour shifted in Dad’s worn out leather recliner, picked up a pipe lying on the side table but had the good sense to put it back down. Dad was practically psychic when it came to anyone messing with his things, even when he was fast asleep down the hall.