by Ritu Sethi
He wouldn’t leave Delilah with the Stitcher.
Now ripping through the shrub, Gray returned the beach where the rolling surf opened before him.
A hint of tepid moonlight snuck through the stubborn, spitting clouds and lit the glistening sand.
But it was too late. He’d failed again.
He ran to the spot.
Delilah’s body was already gone.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
S EYMOUR WAS DOING something at the stove, with his back to the living room. He seemed to be turning the sizzling bacon strips and scooping over easy eggs onto Mom’s ceramic plates.
Gray sat at the table and flipped various between morning headlines, all fusing into the same god-awful tagline: The Stitcher Returns to Searock.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
The news was now public.
Lew’s frail hand squeezed Gray’s shoulder. Instead of warmth, cold penetrated the white cotton t-shirt. He pulled at the V-neck, knowing the fabric couldn’t be choking him but somehow feeling it did.
Lew’s hand now shook. “Everyone knows you found the body last night?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, Gray. Sorry, you had to see her like that. With that sewing, I mean.”
His father spoke to the son, not the policeman. Solving crimes hardened you, but personal involvement could ruin an investigation, and Gray’s objectivity had fallen out the window when he’d heard about the Stitcher’s return, the minute someone threatened Dad’s life, and the second he saw Delilah’s mutilated body.
Time to reign in his reaction. What must Dad be feeling with a killer singling him out – fear, vulnerability because he couldn’t defend himself against a much younger assailant?
Gray’s preoccupation with his own troubles had made him overlook his father’s.
Deep crevices traveled down Lew’s nose to his chin. The cleft which had stood out so proud and masculine in Gray’s childhood, now sagged and crinkled along its edges.
But Lew’s overall vitality defied these individual markers of age. The corners of his mouth pulled up in Buddha-like acceptance: acceptance of Gray, for all his faults and idiocy. His eyes exuded confidence and love. Go get him, they seemed to say.
Seymour leaned against the fireplace to Gray’s left, legs crossed, sipping his orange juice, silently watching the exchange. He indicated towards the full glass of juice, eggs, and bacon before Gray. When had he put it there?
Food was out of the question, but something other than black coffee might help clear the fog in Gray’s head. The last two cappuccinos hadn’t made a speck of difference.
Somewhere, he’d read caffeine needed exercise endorphins for optimal efficacy. He wanted nothing more than to bolt out of the cottage and go for a run.
In a few minutes, he told himself. Take care of damage control here, formulate a plan, and then you can have half an hour’s run on the beach.
He’d been up all night with the SOCO team, and an apologetic yet defiant Slope. A few local residents watched, huddled under their waterproof jackets, bracing the wind and rain. Their expressions reflected a combination of shock, pity, and something even less palatable — blame that Gray had brought another unpalatable death to their beach. Their loyalty to the local boy clearly battled an inherent wish to have him gone.
Lifting the cold glass juice, he wiped the dripping beads of condensation with his thumb and brought the rim to his mouth. The sweet astringency brought forth a flood of saliva; coldness slid down his parched throat.
The two men would choose their words carefully, give him space to regroup and come back fighting. Seymour, for one, would never miss a chance of being a part of the action. The doctor placed his empty glass on the mantle and finally spoke.
“I’m not the local forensic, but I know the head of the SOCO team. He’ll inform me of what they find.”
“Why aren’t you involved?” Lew asked.
“When there’s no actual body, there’s no pathologist. That’s why I can bud into the investigation without stepping on any toes. Unlike–”
“Me.” Gray downed the juice and slammed the glass on the table. “Slope gets to treat me like a bloody witness now as well. As if controlling him wasn’t already a pain.”
Seymour plumped down on the sofa. “He enjoyed patronizing you. What did he say? ‘Are you alright, Inspector? It can be traumatizing coming across a body. Anyone I should call?’ Honestly, James, I felt like punching him myself.”
“I should have carried Delilah back to the cottage right away,” Gray said. “Instead of searching for the killer. Losing my head, plunging into the thicket blind like that, I lost perspective.”
Lew moved to the window, his cane clicking the floor. The rubber tip was asymmetrically worn. Gray would get him a new one first chance.
“You behaved like a human being,” Lew said. “Not a policeman.”
“I’m a policeman, Dad.”
His father turned back and smiled. “Always so serious. Even as a child, we couldn’t get you to live in the moment. I thought you’d reached that stage in Montreal, but Noel’s presence brought the old rigidity back.” He nodded towards a row of birch dancing in the wind outside the cabin window. “Living a good life is the ultimate art form, the test of the ultimate artist.”
Then I’m a door to door salesman, Gray thought. No one in their right minds could credit him with living a good life.
“Life is lived in here.” Lew touched his chest. “Not out there. We don’t choose what happens to us, or the storms we must endure.” His gaze drifted out the window again, past the line of trees, to the sea.
Gray knew what he must be thinking: that his grandson lay out there in the water.
Gray couldn’t face that right now, and yet, it all felt connected: his family, Craig, the Stitcher...what Gray would do for all the people who relied on him, and what he couldn’t offer Sita.
How would he tell her the truth? That her husband had drowned alongside her son? That a stranger emerged from the storm instead.
“Slope wasn’t involved in the Stitcher investigation fifteen years ago, was he?” Lew asked. “As a young constable?”
“He joined the tail end of it.”
Seymour chimed in. “Slope needs to focus on the recent killings, not waste time on something that happened ages ago. I’m sure we’re looking at a copycat murder.”
“Agreed,” Gray said. “This killer must have a new motive for the killings, different from the first Stitcher. We can’t pollute the investigation with irrelevant details from the past, or we risk following the wrong track altogether. Now, many of the town’s occupants have changed in the past decade due to surging BC real estate prices. Only about a third of the original residents, like Dad and most of the people on the beach, remain, and among them, who would know enough to circulate details about the original Stitcher? Teddy, perhaps. He was a local political candidate back then.”
“Who lost to someone more capable,” Lew added. “Anything Theodore knew about the Stitcher, or any local scandal is public knowledge, I guarantee that. Never was discrete, even back in school.”
“And yet, he’d hidden the fact that Delilah was her grandfather’s heir.”
“Not from people like me; although, he never admitted it. We all knew the old man would leave Teddy high and dry. That fault rested with old Stanley Atkinson, I think. Teddy’s an okay man now, not wild like he was, but the old coot couldn’t forgive his leather-jacketed, biker son, even when that son agreed to finally don the boring squire costume. If Teddy hadn’t adopted Delilah, I bet the whole estate would’ve gone to cancer research or something. Hell, maybe that would’ve been better.”
“Better than Farrah Stone getting her hands on the money?” Seymour asked.
Lew snorted. He seemed to think that sufficed as a response.
“Fifteen years of police experience tells me this is no maniacal killer,” Gray said. “There’s reason and purpose to these crimes. They’re planned a
nd executed efficiently and reproduced accurately: that’s not the result of an out-of-control, passionate killer. It indicates discipline.”
“But doesn’t exclude hate,” Seymour said. “I agree there’s a purpose behind these crimes, but what sort of crazy bugger strangles, mutilates, and then steals bodies? What sense does that make?”
“That’s the key, isn’t it?” Lew said, quite reasonably. “Find out why the killer took the bodies, and I’ll bet you’ll solve the crime.”
Perhaps, Gray had inherited his detection skills from Dad’s razor-sharp mind.
“How long was Slope secretly engaged to Delilah? Why would she choose him?”
His father took his time getting to the sofa. “That’s an interesting question. Makes you not quite trust our local dick, doesn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” Seymour asked, practically foaming at the mouth. “Was he marrying for money?”
“What else?” Lew said. “You think that shark loved anyone, ever? Even his own mother, rest her soul? She died alone in an old-folks home twenty miles from here, did you know that?”
Gray shook his head.
“Yeah. I saw Slope’s mom as often as I could. She called out for her son in those last moments, but he was too busy having dinner with Teddy and Delilah. None of the three cared for Mona one bit, and she raised that boy singlehanded, working at the local grocers during the day, the motel some nights. It isn’t easy making ends meet in this town, not since so much of Hong Kong bought up our West Coast in the late eighties. I don’t know how she survived as a single mom.”
Gray rose and began the making cappuccinos. Maybe, more caffeine would clear his sleep-deprived brain. “Money must be very dear to the sergeant’s heart. He seemed affected by Delilah’s death, but also acted as though he didn’t believe me.”
“Acted is right, Son. He can’t lead that investigation now, not with his involvement with Delilah.”
Seymour said, “Gray can’t lead the investigation either.”
Lew sighed. “No, he can’t.”
“Slope kept the engagement under wraps for a reason. What did Teddy think of it?”
“Theodore Atkins understands compromise, like most of my generation. We fought for what we’ve got in this world. Know when to retreat. Delilah was what we might still refer to as a ‘loose woman,’ and Slope’s probably better than some of the trash she’s brought home.”
Gray brought over the coffee, but the older man shook his head.
Lew reached for his cane and pushed himself up. A frail man in body if not spirit, he reminding Gray of the passage of time – that Gray would one day be old and alone too, possibly in this very town.
“One more thing.” Lew turned at his bedroom door. “Don’t trust Slope with evidence. I never liked that kid; he lied to me plenty over the years.”
With that, he retired to his room. The previous sleepless night must be costing Dad more than it cost him or Seymour.
A pounding on the door made Gray turn. What now?
“I’ll get it,” Seymour said.
He opened the door a crack, and through the flashes and torrent of speech, Gray realized a second surge from the press was upon him. Seymour delivered the phrase, ‘no comment,’ repeatedly and firmly shut the door.
“Are you certain SOCO found nothing so far on the beach?” Gray said.
“I told you – between wind, rain, and all that trampling you did, nothing of value. The footprint you saw was washed away by the time we arrived. Covering the area with your jacket was a good idea, but it couldn’t prevent the tide from sweeping in.”
“What about the ground among the trees.”
“Now, let me see. Size eleven shoes –” Seymour pointed at Gray’s bare feet. “— trampled all the wild grass, flowers, and foliage.” He stopped smiling. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Gray held up both hands. “I know, I know. I messed up. Some green police cadet would have done better.”
“Than what? A girl guide?”
Gray gulped down the cappuccino, wiping the foam from his lips. “I felt rage, pure and simple.”
“Very professional.”
“I’m not you, Doctor.”
Seymour huffed. “Thank heavens for that. Or we’d both be bored to death.”
Gray pushed himself up, grabbed his cup with his bad hand, and it spilled.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Seymour’s head shake, so slightly, he might have imagined it. He didn’t care. He took the cup to the sink.
“You know why the killer chose me to find Delilah’s body?”
“Why?” Seymour asked.
“So I couldn’t possibly investigate. I’m cast as witness now. This Stitcher is smart as well as ruthless.”
Seymour fell into a nearby chair. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Slope, I can control. Let’s hope the constabulary doesn’t send a third detective to take over.”
That was probably what would happen after the bad weather passed. Gray didn’t say it, didn’t want to explain, but the only safe passage was to solve the killings now — in the eye of the storm.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
E MMY STEPPED OUT of the pickup into the misty wind and slammed the heavy door. The townhouse before her looked practical and modern, unlike most of the houses dispersed closer to the main street. Beaver lane stood ten streets north and three to the east, just enough distance from the town hustle and bustle (if it could be called that) to qualify for the designation of ‘suburb.’
Why had she come here? What did she expect to accomplish going over Slope and Gray James’s head?
A certain vindication, perhaps? She didn’t appreciate the sergeant’s condescending attitude, or the Chief Inspector’s anger and dislike. Emmy deserved neither. All she’d come here to do was conduct her research and make a modest life for herself. Where she’d failed in the city, she had hoped to succeed in a less demanding environment — and what had happened? The local women hate her, and some bloody maniac leaves a mutilated corpse on her land.
Or more specifically, Teddy’s land.
Farrah must have plenty of influence over her aging fiancé, especially in the sexual department, which Emmy couldn’t hope to compete with.
No sixty-year-old man would trade in a younger, hot-to-trot woman for the satisfaction of forensic research. Not even the scientists she knew, forget about the self-proclaimed local Squire.
Not that Emmy disliked Teddy. But she had no illusions of how far his mutual respect for her would stretch in a tug-of-war with Farrah.
A light switched on in the ground floor salon of the townhouse.
Emmy checked her watch: only 7:30 am. Would Mrs. Franklin mind so early a visit, given Emmy wasn’t expected until 9 am?
The thought of killing an hour and a half in the local downtown cafe (owned by Sita, and frequented by many of the people at yesterday’s protest) didn’t sound appealing.
After climbing the three cement steps as slowly as humanly possible, Emmy knocked on the maroon-colored door.
The hall light switched on, and a tall and lithe woman in her seventies (who looked like she still religiously performed all her Jane Fonda workouts) opened the door. She even looked like the actress and didn’t appear surprised by the early call. Maybe, she heard the truck pull up at the front of the house.
“You’re very early,” a deep, confident voice said.
“I know, I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait to speak to you.”
Jenny Franklin handed over the morning paper. “Follow me.”
The headline made Emmy blink:
‘The Stitcher returns!’
According to the story, local boy and now Chief Inspector, Gray James, found a body late last night, but the corpse subsequently disappeared.
“Sit and read it, dear,” Mrs. Franklin said.
Emmy mindlessly took the chair closest to her at the kitchen table, her eyes glued to the page.
The story went on to ex
plain the previous night’s events in glorified detail: how Gray, since everyone in town knew him by his first name, found the body around 11 pm — a strangled girl whose lips had been sutured shut with surgical nylon, just like fifteen years ago, the reporter said. Gray chased the killer but lost him, returned to the beach, but the deal girl was gone.
Mrs. Franklin’s eyes were on Emmy the entire time she was reading; narrowed, assessing.
“I suppose people will believe me, now,” Emmy said.
“I suppose so. Not everyone remembers the first crime. Most of the residents are new, or the older folks have moved away or died off. Local real estate agents make a point of not mentioning the Stitcher killing to Vancouverites looking to buy coastal shacks. They’ll all know now, the young and the old, the minute they have their morning coffee. And everyone will be discussing it.”
“This time it was a girl.”
“You found a dead man, correct?” Mrs. Franklin said. “Like the first time, all those years ago.”
Her eyes lowered. She must be feeling pain, mustn’t she, even after all this time? Emmy never was good at condolences.
“Don’t let me stop you,” Mrs. Franklin continued. “The article gets better. Gray James, of course, identified the victim.”
Delilah Chen Atkinson.
Oh my God, Emmy though. Poor Teddy. Poor Delilah; not that she’d met the adopted daughter more than once or twice. Her impression was of a lost girl, immersing herself in a vulgar rather than satisfying sexuality — neither of which Emmy had any time for.
She blinked, remembering what Teddy had said: that Delilah liked Slope. Teddy feared an impending announcement — one which he loathed for multiple reasons.
He’d once vented about Slope’s possibly marrying into the family, getting his hands on Teddy’s various properties.
But how could Slope have done that with Teddy and Farrah alive? Unless Delilah owned some of the property herself. What the hell did that mean for Emmy’s farm?
“It’s quite a coincidence,” Mrs. Franklin said, fracturing Emmy’s thoughts. “Another Stitcher killing, just before you visit me to discuss the first.”