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

by Ritu Sethi

  Gray took a breath in and let it out slowly, grateful the other man didn’t mention Sita by name.

  Teddy’s directness was a surprise. How would the local squire’s marriage with Farrah pan out if that’s what he thought of her? Seemed a bloodbath in the making.

  “Where was Farrah yesterday afternoon?”

  “Who knows?” Teddy replied. They’d reached the guest house. “Let’s ask her.”

  Several stone steps led down to the entrance. Teddy opened the wooden door unannounced. Inside, the sunken foyer was dimly-lit, but the few steps up to the main cabin—currently used as a painting studio—brought him into a bright space with vaulted ceilings and windows on all sides: windows to the sea, to the trees, to the mansion itself.

  Teddy had barged in – the way he might enter a small child’s playroom.

  The figure inside stiffened. She signed and held a paintbrush in midair, poised as a weapon. Something told Gray this type of interruption happened often.

  Farrah spoke through gritted teeth. “How many times have I told you not to interrupt my painting?”

  Several canvases leaned against one wall, all of them of the same scene: the immediate view overlooking the trees and ocean – all of them, somewhat amateur attempts to Gray’s trained eye, and all left unfinished. Being an art expert’s son had its advantages. If Farrah had felt the artistic muse before their interruption, she had every right to be annoyed. That muse didn’t visit often.

  “Come on,” Teddy said, his arms held wide open. “Gimme a kiss. You can return to your little painting later.”

  She turned an ever brightening shade of red, a world away from the ice princess he’d encountered at the body farm yesterday. Rage mingled with an odd vulnerability he found almost painful to watch and felt he had no right witnessing.

  Dad had once remarked on her father’s firm hand in running the gallery. ‘Ice in his veins,’ Dad had said. Jeremy Stone had a reputation for supporting only the best and most promising artists. Did he support his daughter’s budding interest as a painter? Doubtful.

  Teddy either didn’t care or didn’t notice Farrah’s discomfort. Any artistic openness shut down with an inaudible slam.

  “I paint in the early mornings, you know that.”

  “Go back to it later.” he waved a dismissive hand.

  “That’s not how it works. You’re a businessman. You don’t get it.”

  “And you’re a businesswoman? When did you become an artist, eh?”

  She noticed Gray for the first time since they’d entered. Her lips pressed into a thin line, one four-inch heel twisted and dug into the worn hardwood, and her every muscle looked tight and poised for action.

  Teddy didn’t seem to care. “Gray here wants your alibi for yesterday at two. When the killer paid Emmy a visit.”

  Farrah yanked her arm back and flung the dripping brush across the room. It hit the log wall and dripped hunter green tentacles down the wooden beams.

  To Gray’s right, Teddy sighed audibly. And added a careless shrug one might give a hard-to-break-in mare who refused to jump the requisite training hurdles.

  This type of family dynamic only reinforced Gray’s inclination to remain effectively single.

  Farrah strutted over, her patent leather boots clicking on the pine planks. “I have the best alibi in the village, Chief Inspector.” She lifted her chin and gave a wry smile. “One you’re not even going to try and break.”

  “What you talkin’ about?” Teddy asked. He seemed more impatient than Gray. “Who is it?”

  “Sita James.” She turned back to Gray. “Or as she now goes by her maiden name, Sita Chand. We met at the hot-springs to go over our strategy for the protest.” Farrah moved in closer. “She rubbed my back; I rubbed hers.”

  Gray didn’t blink. “You take a lot of time off your day job.”

  “I pay employees at the gallery to hover around tourists who know nothing about art.”

  “That’s no way to run a business, Baby.” Teddy moved towards her canvas. “Not bad. Could do better.” He’d said the words lightheartedly, but they’d hit a sore spot.

  Farrah said, “At least, my family business came directly to me. Didn’t skip a generation.”

  Teddy’s neck stiffened; he turned beet red but was saved by approaching footsteps.

  A new figure entered and stood poised at the doorway: his adopted daughter, Delilah Chen Atkinson.

  She wore a black leather miniskirt and matching camisole and jacket. Every bit as beautiful as her soon to be step-mom, she also had the Atkinson attitude in full. An obvious affection existed between father and daughter, apparent in their exchanged look and raising of eyebrows at Farrah’s expense. Farrah fumed.

  “You’re just getting in, I presume,” Farrah said.

  Delilah ignored the comment and slithered over to Gray bringing with her a post-coital scent she hadn’t bothered to wash away. It mixed with the paint fumes in a nasty way. Teddy detected it too and cleared his throat.

  She cozied up closer and said, “Do you want my alibi, Chief Inspector Gray?”

  “For all of yesterday afternoon.”

  Did Delilah think another man’s scent would turn him on? Her naivety and clutching need to feel desirable saddened him.

  He thought of Noel: the importance of having a father-figure in a young girl’s life.

  How had Teddy failed Delilah, and how could Gray avoid making the same mistake?

  “I was with Reggie at his office,” she said. “Ask him.”

  So, perhaps, rumors he’d heard of Delilah and Sergeant Slope’s unannounced engagement were true.

  “Where were ya last night?” Teddy said.

  She gave him a coy look. “Oh Daddy, I went out with friends. We just got back from Vancouver.”

  He didn’t believe her, Gray could tell.

  Delilah still had her eyes on Gray. “I love a ‘dark and dangerous’ type.”

  “Delilah,” her father warned.

  “Don’t worry, Daddy. This yummy Chief Inspector isn’t on the menu. Right, Mummy-Dearest?” She’d turned towards Farrah who had proceeded to clean and pack up her brushes.

  Gray had no intention of coming between the two. He focused, instead, on Farrah’s earlier comment regarding Teddy’s inheritance skipping a generation.

  If Delilah had inherited everything from her adoptive grandfather, that fact went a long way to explaining Teddy’s accommodating attitude towards his daughter. Gray needed to discuss this with Lew. He’d know how the Atkinson fortune was dispersed.

  “Where was Matisse at that time?” Gray asked Farrah.

  “At the hot springs, of course. He goes everywhere with me; I’m his mother.”

  Wisely, neither father nor daughter commented.

  On that note, Gray made his excuses and left. What a pitiful excuse for a family. Hell, who was he to judge? Delilah and Matisse were alive, weren’t they?

  He left the cabin and, outside, inhaled the tang of the sea, happy to get some fresh, unsullied air.

  CHAPTER TEN

  J OHN SEYMOUR LOVED solving murders.

  Even without a body to examine, the case sprang into action, split into different directions, each fork leading to a clue and piece of the puzzle.

  He coveted excitement as much as Gray. Well, maybe not quite as much.

  “Vivienne just called,” Gray said. “She’s ready to meet.”

  “Took her long enough to get a moment away from those thugs.”

  Gray had filled Seymour in on what occurred on Blow Hole Cove. It seemed this beach-side wilderness had cove after cove for hundreds of miles. How Seymour longed to return to his Vancouver condo overlooking the marina and city lights.

  “Where does she want to meet?” Seymour asked.

  “At home, later tonight. The cabin’s isolated enough that no one will see her. Those two thugs with her are staying at the motel downtown. The boat’s not safe in this weather.”

  Seymour stretched his
legs under the retro-style table. The café’s wooden seat hurt his butt and back.

  He shifted. “Tell your wife to get better chairs. Maybe a booth or two, for her more mature clientele.”

  “I tell Sita nothing,” Gray answered, holding up both palms. “But feel free.”

  Seymour knew Sita well enough to reconcile himself to the uncomfortable chair.

  His friend looked over the lunch menu and ordered a tuna sandwich. Seymour did the same and sipped his coffee.

  Gray’s dark hair matched his leather jacket, and with a little imagination, he could pass for a hitman. Seymour could picture him in the role of villain as easily as inspector. Perhaps Gray had flipped a coin to decide between the two.

  Seymour sighed. Must be exhausting being Gray James. He suddenly felt more relaxed, happy to be plain old John Seymour, Forensic Pathologist. His patients never got angry at him; his nonexistent wife never nagged. All in all, life was good. And James seasoned it with just the right sprinkle of mystery and professional diversity.

  “Are we returning to the cabin?” Seymour asked.

  Gray looked up. “In an hour. May as well eat lunch. Plus, I need to ask Sita a question or two.”

  “So I’m a third wheel?"

  “More like a buffer. Things got a little heated at the body farm.”

  “Are you going to take her back? You know, that’s what she wants.”

  Gray’s emerald eyes bored into his. “Betrayal isn’t the most painful thing in a relationship. Forgetting how you felt for someone, being numb to it – that hurts more.”

  A customer opened the bistro door, bringing in a cold, damp draft which made Seymour shiver.

  James didn’t share often. Best to not make a big deal about it…but a little prodding might be fun.

  “She has a right to substantial child support, given your net worth, policing aside. I’m surprised it has taken her this long to corner you.”

  Seymour secretly resented Gray’s aptitude for mathematics and his success playing the cryptocurrency market. That three-million-dollar, water-view condo hadn’t paid for itself. Still, you’d think Gray would have let his good friend in on it.

  “Sita knows I’ll pay her what she wants. She doesn’t need to work or run this cafe. It isn’t the money she’s after.”

  “Then what?”

  “A nuclear family. A life. That’s what she wants. Conventionality, getting used to the other person’s morning breath, and knowing how they spend each moment of their day.”

  Seymour played devil’s advocate to keep the momentum going. “And that’s bad?” Meanwhile, he thought: hell yes, it’s bad. Don’t do it, James. Don’t let another towering tree of a man to be chopped down and turned into a coffee table, a dresser, or maybe this increasingly uncomfortable chair.

  Gray gave a lop-sided smile of resignation. “I don’t know if I can go back. Give up my privacy.”

  It wasn’t about independence or freedom, Seymour knew. He and Gray had something in common besides a morbid fascination for crime – they both clutched their privacy like a talisman. Both hated ever to have to explain themselves to others.

  Sita approached their table just as Gray straightened. How did women manage to turn the most alpha of men into uncertain boys? Although Gray didn’t appear afraid; he looked wary. As though someone he didn’t trust held his heart in their hands.

  “You can’t seem to stay away from me,” she said.

  Seymour wanted to protest. He’s here because of the case; because you’re endangering a worthy scientific endeavor by your protests.

  Once upon a time, she’d looked so beautiful to him, with her ruby red lips, thick silk hair which brushed her waist, and petite, feminine figure.

  Now, he saw her analytically for what she was. A woman who blamed her husband – albeit not unfairly (from a certain point of view) – and a woman who would use her second child to now get that estranged husband back.

  It didn’t have the makings of a healthy family, but what did Seymour know? The last woman he’d dated dumped him because he couldn’t salsa.

  She said he had clumsy stumps for feet and danced like a ‘white guy.’ And she grew all the more annoyed when he pointed out that they were both Caucasian.

  “I have an important question for you,” Gray said. “About the case.”

  “What case? We went through this at the Spook’s farm –”

  “Don’t call her that,” Seymour spat. “You’re like high school girls picking on the unpopular.”

  Sita glared at him. If looks could kill.

  Behind her, Gray swiped a hand across his neck, indicating Seymour should shut up.

  Well, he wouldn’t. How dare this community school drop-out dare to mock a woman like Emmy, a woman who graduated at the top of her medical school class? West Coasters did indeed exist in continuous high school mode. Must be all the hemp. Maybe, Emmy should research their stunted development.

  “Ignore him,” Gray said. “Firstly, were Farrah and Matisse with you all of yesterday morning?”

  “Yeah, they were. He kept looking at my breasts. Creepy kid.”

  Gray held out a conciliatory hand. “You’re in the best possible position to tell me about any strangers visiting Searock.”

  “We’re a tourist town,” Sita said.

  “Not this time of year. You’d notice a stranger with long blond hair. Maybe he wore it in a ponytail; I don’t know. Anyone spring to mind?”

  She pulled up a chair and sat, uninvited. Her leg even brushed against Seymour’s. He resisted the urge to pull back.

  “I remember a guy like that;” she said. “A couple of days ago. Real pain in the ass. He wanted his salad dressing, croutons, onions, and radishes on the side. What’s left? A head of lettuce?”

  Gray perked up; his words came fast. “Did he mention his reason for visiting Searock?”

  She scrunched her nose. “He looked down his nose at my bistro, and you know how well I take that. Just complained about the food and left without leaving much of a tip.”

  “But he was here,” Gray said, looking pretty pleased with himself if a little slow.

  Seymour jumped in. “Did he pay by credit card?” Honestly, who was the detective here?

  “No, he paid cash. I remember the lousy dollar he left as a tip. ”

  “Any impressions?” Gray asked. “Local artist, snowboarder, here from Vancouver?”

  “No, not an artist. If anything, he looked like that sharp but useless type who critiques other people’s art and always finds it wanting. The kind who builds himself up because he knows he’s worthless inside.”

  They were harsh words for someone so critical of Gray and Emmy. Seymour kept that particular thought to himself.

  Sita rose and hesitated, as though she might lean over and kiss Gray, but instead, she saluted a farewell and moved away.

  Had Seymour seen frank hunger in her eyes? Hunger and regret? It didn’t appear reciprocated.

  Her estranged husband didn’t seem to notice; his intense face said it all. They’d confirmed the existence of a stranger who might be Emmy’s body farm victim. Knowing Gray, finding the car would invariably follow.

  Gray’s cell burred, surprisingly playing no particular song. He had a customized ring-tone for everyone, but not yet for Slope, it seemed.

  Seymour privately liked the ringtone Gray used for him: the theme song to his favorite Paul Newman movie, The Sting.

  Gray listened to whatever the sergeant was saying, then answered into his cell:

  “Who is the vehicle registered to? Donovan Price? No, I’ve never heard of him. Sita confirms that a stranger meeting the description ate here a couple of days ago. Which meant he stayed in town overnight. Worth checking the local inns and hotels to see if he met up with anyone.”

  Slope spoke on the other end for a long time, uninterrupted. The suspense bubbled inside Seymour. He couldn’t contain himself.

  “Where did they find the car?” he blurted.

&
nbsp; Gray held up his hand. “Dr. Seymour’s with me now. Yes, I’ll bring him” He hung up and downed his coffee. Where the hell were those sandwiches? Typical hipster service.

  “They found a car within walking distance of town,” Gray said, looking especially pleased with himself.

  Seymour smiled. Gray smiled back.

  The game was surely afoot.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  E MMY COULDN’T BELIEVE what she’d discovered about this pretty, peaceful little village. Who knew what evil lurked behind their mineral hot springs, their yoga retreats, their mid-winter music festivals.

  What a bunch of crock. What a shocking, horrific little town it was — filled with hypocritical residents and one very malicious killer out to ruin Emmy.

  Wherever she turned, one face stared back: Farrah Frickin Stone.

  Emmy held her breath and opened her eyes, blinking to the sting of fresh salt water.

  The frigid current skimmed across her shoulders and bare midriff in the two-piece red racing suit she currently wore.

  After the showdown with those local women at the body farm, only one thing could take away the churning restlessness inside Emmy; only one thing could calm the internal storm before she went to do what had to be done.

  As the waves soared above her and crashed downward, as the cold salt water numbed her skin, she once again knew existence without fear; temporarily, she knew bliss.

  No one currently walked the beach. Emmy now treaded water near the shore, where her feet could just touch the bottom and recalled something Seymour had mentioned.

  Somewhere off this shore, Gray James and his son had gone sailing once. This was where it had happened.

  Seymour had shared another fact (which made her wonder just how discrete he was). He’d caught Gray examining his open hands once and rubbing them as though trying to remove a stain.

  She felt a surprising sympathy for the chief inspector, a tenuous connection even.

  Emmy knew darkness lurked in the hearts of men; she’d seen the evidence in her work often enough. But her mind gravitated towards innocence and wonder which left her at a loss, the way a child became confused by the motives of adults.