by Ritu Sethi
“That’s true. I only wanted to clear my reputation, prove I hadn’t hallucinated the entire thing. People hate me in this town as it is. Now, maybe people will believe me.”
“But at what cost?” the older woman said. “Another victim’s life. A young woman’s.”
Emmy should have added that. “Of course. Poor, unfortunate Delilah.”
“She was a slut, My Dear. A little like her soon-to-be stepmother.”
Seeing Emmy’s shocked expression, she added, “I call them as I see them. When you’re my age, and everyone around you is either gone or senile, you don’t beat around the bush.” Then she winked. She actually winked.
Emmy cleared her throat and put down the paper before plunging ahead with her mission.
“I don’t disagree with you, Mrs. Franklin. Farrah Stone and her friends —”
“We call them her “Angels,” Dear.”
“Yes, she and her Angels have made running the farm impossible. I might even lose that land if Teddy gives into her.”
“It’s unfortunate then that Delilah is probably dead. You could have discussed the farm with her.”
Emmy lost her train of thought. “What? You mean Delilah owns…I mean, owned the farm?”
“I’m almost Teddy’s contemporary.” She patted her hair. “Give or take a few years. His father’s low opinion of him was common knowledge. If Delilah got away with murder in that house, it was because her grandfather adored her.”
“And left her the mansion?”
“Perhaps. Let’s not get sidetracked. You’ve come to discuss the first Stitcher victim, fifteen years ago. My husband, Ronald.” She rose and moved to the kitchen “First, let’s get you some coffee. You’re as pale as a ghost.”
“I always look like that.”
“They say, time heals all wounds, but in this case, there were none to heal. The Stitcher, God bless him, whoever he was, did me an incredible favor. I was thrilled. Ronald was a bastard, and I’ve never been happier than after his death. Honestly, it was like winning the lottery.”
She returned with the French press and poured a dark sludge-like brew into two white mugs. Emmy’s had a lily on it, and Mrs. Franklin’s had a picture of a wrestler Emmy didn’t recognize.
“Your husband was strangled with his lips sutured? Like the body I found?”
“Yes, that must have been awful for you.”
“And there were no clues as to who killed him?” Emmy asked. “Police never found out who did it?
The old woman shook her head slowly as she sipped, clearly unperturbed that the killing had gone unsolved.
“It’s a mystery to this day,” she said. “Sergeant Slope’s senior — now what was his name?—investigated it. No fingerprints, no suspects. That inspector was a good man, thoroughly competent. If he couldn’t find the culprit, the killer must have left town and never come back.
“Until now,” Emmy said.
Mrs. Franklin chuckled. “Certainly not. That person is long gone, maybe even dead. I don't think you should be looking at that old case.”
The older woman looked thoughtful, perhaps secretive even. Her long and wrinkled fingers rested on an elegant, strong chin; her thin lips were relaxed and not at risk of divulging anything their owner preferred kept private.
Perhaps, Mrs. Franklin liked to have the upper hand, or maybe she merely wanted to project that appearance. If she knew something, did that mean she might know the original Stitcher’s identity? Did the killer still live in this town, traverse among the residents with a clear conscience like a wolf in sheep’s clothing?
If that were the case, the older woman’s life might be in danger.
Emmy gasped.
“What is it?” Mrs. Franklin asked.
Emmy didn’t wish to be the only one responsible for this woman’s safety. She needed to talk to Seymour or Slope.
But could she trust Slope?
Anyone could have committed that murder fifteen years ago – with the exception of Matisse and Delilah.
Poor Delilah.
Emmy rubbed her temples and gulped the coffee, which tasted chocolaty, despite resembling coarse brown mud. Fortunately, it had its intended effect.
“Are you alright, Dear?”
“No, actually, I’m not. I wish I could run away.”
The other woman’s eyes softened. She reached over and touched Emmy’s hand.
“Why don’t you? Run far away from this place and have a real life.”
What did she mean by that? How could Emmy leave with her farm at risk, not to mention all the ‘residents’ who counted on her?
“You’ve gone awfully quiet,” Mrs. Franklin said.
Emmy was direct if nothing else. “Do you know who killed your husband?”
Mrs. Franklin finished her coffee, the wrestler’s bloated face streaked by dripping brown liquid.
“No. I don’t. But I’ll say one thing — what’s done, is done. You shouldn’t rattle old skeletons.”
“Your life could be in danger.”
“What? After all these years? If I knew the killer’s identity — which I don’t — why am I not already dead?”
I don’t know, Emmy thought. You’re inscrutable and gutsy, and I like you.
“And why has the killer not used that medical suture and instrument on me?” Mrs. Franklin added. “Those things the Stitcher left beside Ronald’s body.”
“What?”
“The police found the suture and medical instruments used on Ronald at the crime scene, next to his body. You must have seen them, Emmy. Weren’t they next to your corpse as well?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
S EYMOUR COULD SMELL the burning toast from the street, wafts drifting over from an open kitchen window. Gray had sent him to get that first email Slope refused to hand over – the one sent by the missing babysitter who could be the Stitcher’s first victim. The Virtue Family was indulging in a late and dubious breakfast.
The small and dilapidated cottage looked in need of TLC, although this signified nothing of the status of the present occupants since real estate in BC proved a good four to ten times more expensive than the majority of North America.
His knock on the door resulted in a jerky opening, loud shrieking, and an assault of smoke.
“Sorry, eh?” the woman who answered said. Her hair, perfectly groomed to match the business suit, threw him off for a minute. “Calen’s watching TV, and I’m in a rush to leave for Vancouver for a Board meeting.” She yelled out for her husband. “Steve!”
“I’m Dr. Seymour. I called and spoke to your husband.”
Mrs. Virtue stepped aside and let him in.
“Come in,” Sue Virtue said, a bit ungraciously to Seymour’s mind. If she needed reminding of his official capacity, his forensic pathologist identification burned inside his coat pocket. That would trump her alleged board meeting.
Bringing a hand to his midriff, Seymour steadied the grumbling in his stomach. The morning’s single egg was long ago digested.
He planned to hold out, loathe to lower himself to an unpalatable congealed offering of overcooked eggs and Joan of Arc bread, should food be offered in the first place. Later, he’d visit Sita’s cafe for some real food. He wouldn’t turn down a cup of coffee, though -- unless, of course, they offered him instant.
A burly Steve Virtue came out of the living room where a child sat watching cartoons. The father’s right eye twitched, and he wore sweats, stained in several places. Seymour never trusted a man with a tick.
“Let’s go into the kitchen,” he said, in a higher voice than Seymour would have expected from so burly a character before turning to his wife. “Sue, join us.”
She hesitated. “I’ll stay a minute, but no more.”
Dirty dishes filled the kitchen sink, counter, and even a corner of the floor. The smoky stink was worst here, but apparently, the seven-year old’s cartoons couldn’t be interrupted, and the kitchen was the only available space for their discussion.
>
Seymour would never understand modern parents. No wonder, the world was going to hell.
The other man was holding out a sticky table chair. “Sit down. How can we help?”
Jam adorned the offered seat. Seymour took another.
“Thank you for meeting with me. Chief Inspector James and I are with the Vancouver Homicide Division, and although we have no official jurisdiction here,” he held out both palms in benevolent intent, “information about your babysitter could help us in another investigation.”
Sue stood clutching her coat to her chest. Steve’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re talking about Calen’s claim he found his babysitter in the backyard, strangled and stitched at the lips? It’s crap, eh. He tells a lot of lies these days.”
“I believe him,” Sue said, a little too quickly. Her eyes shot darts at her husband. “He doesn’t lie about the important things, only about buying gummy bears at the variety store, and there’s the odd day he skips school. But like I say to the teacher, this isn’t grad school, you know.”
Seymour, who recalled skipping afternoon classes for a month until his elementary school teacher threatened to inform his father, couldn’t agree more.
Steve closed his eyes and spoke in a mock-tolerant tone which even Seymour knew, from his limited success with women, was unwarranted.
“Getting hysterical won’t help him behave. He’s a boy, and boys need a firm hand.”
Sue’s grip tightened around her coat. Had she ever been at the receiving end of that firm hand?
Given Steve’s casual attire and lack of hurry to get anywhere, it appeared she pulled double duty as both provider and caregiver. No one could be missing the babysitter more than her.
Joanie Skolowski was a London resident, in BC temporarily for work. She’d worked for the Virtue’s for precisely six months before unexpectedly leaving.
“Where did Calen find her?” Seymour said.
Steve grabbed a piece of burnt toast and sat opposite Seymour. He began spreading soft butter across the charcoal surface before reinserting the gritty knife into the brick of butter.
“Through those trees on the right side of our yard, next to the fence.” He held up his hand, and a ring pointed at the ends, caught the light.
“You can’t see it from here, or else we’d have looked out the window when he screamed. By the time he came in, pulled on my shirt a few times, got me away from the hockey game – the Vancouver Canucks beat Toronto, by the way – a few minutes passed. Two at the most. I got on my shoes, let him yank me to the spot, and nothing. In my day, I’d get smacked for a stunt like that.”
Sue’s eyes met Seymour’s; her lower lip trembled.
Her husband chewed his toast with his mouth open.
“Turns out, Joanie went back home,” Steve said. “I got an email from her the next day when she landed in London, eh, sayin’ she was sorry and all that. I swear, those Brits have no work ethic. I mean, Sue kills herself commuting between Vancouver and here three times a week. How’s she supposed to take care of the brat, too?”
Seymour stood, unable to stomach any more. “Can I have a copy of that email?”
“I gave it to Slope.”
“I know. It’s easier if I get a copy now instead of troubling Sergeant Slope. He’s occupied with protests at the body farm.”
Steve’s eyes lit up. “That place. Talk about ghouls doing whatever they do in the name of science. No wonder my kid’s confused and seeing corpses.”
Seymour brought the man back on topic. “Your son saw the body on the twenty-second of September?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“What time was that?”
“The game started at seven. So maybe around eight.”
And you allowed your small child to wander in the dark outside, unattended, at seven pm, Seymour thought. The killer could have been nearby. The killer could have attacked Calen.
Sue’s curt, “I’m leaving now,” indicated she shared Seymour’s sentiment. He followed her to the door while Steve printed out a copy of the babysitter’s email.
“Mrs. Virtue,” Seymour said. “You said you believe your son. You believe Joanie is dead.”
She looked nervously towards the home office, where a printer sounded. Why was she nervous of a lazy ass like Steve Virtue? But Seymour had long ago given up on understanding the skewed dynamics of bad marriages. He felt grateful to have escaped being tangled and suffocated in that particular fisherman’s net himself.
Email in hand, and happy as a peach with his work, Seymour left the Virtue house, also cognizant of the fact that no one had bothered to offer him that cup of coffee.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
E MMY NEVER FELT comfortable in her skin. And the rain crashing to earth from above didn’t help.
Each hurried step in her stiff leather pumps, which became more drenched by the second, tore at her feet. The front steps were a good thirty yards from the driveway, and Emmy sidestepped the pooling puddles deftly, as though maneuvering obstacles for some race show audition tape.
The control top hose she wore might as well be chopping her in half, but you couldn’t wear a fancy dress without nylons, could you? And she didn’t want to stand out.
Still, the sizeable rose-shaped taffeta bow below her cleavage must be a new fashion trend or else the saleslady wouldn’t have recommended it.
This purple, fluffy dress made her feel as stupid as a thirty-something chaperon to a prom. But what did it matter how she looked, so long as she was away from the farm for a while and the possibility of the Stitcher returning a second time?
There were other reasons for staying at Teddy’s mansion. In Emmy’s absence, Farrah might talk him into closing the forensic facility.
Everything must hang together long enough for the publication of the primary results. With recognition from the University under her belt, Emmy could continue her research elsewhere, with or without Teddy as benefactor. A few more months...all she needed were a few more months.
The Atkinson mansion invariably filled her with awe. She couldn’t imagine managing a place this huge, hiring cooks, cleaners, maintenance specialists, gardeners. Of course, Butch, their manager, took care of most things, and where he lapsed, Farrah stepped in.
Emmy’s hesitant knock on the carved double doors brought an immediate response. She flew back, almost falling down the porch before catching herself.
“Whoa,” Teddy said, grabbing her by the arm. “Come on in, Tiger.”
Pulling back her shoulders, she followed him into the paneled foyer, befitting a gentry that was long vanished in these parts.
A curved banister to her left led to the second floor, and a grand salon was visible through an archway to her right.
The sudden contrast between outside air and the warmth from a nearby hearth heated her lungs, made her breath catch.
For a second, her breath splinted, but Teddy’s hand stayed on her arm, and his smile conveyed he understood her discomfiture.
“You look real nice tonight, Emmy,” he said.
Here he was thinking about her after the awful news of Delilah. “Are you alright, Teddy?”
He nodded. “I’m hanging in. That’s why it’s so good to have everyone over. I don’t wanna be alone, you understand?”
She didn’t but kept the thought to herself. Extroverts confused her. They seemed to inhabit a different planet entirely.
Or else, Teddy didn’t believe Delilah was dead. Now, why should he question a chief inspector’s first-hand report?
He patted her shoulder as though she were a pet. “Don’t let anyone here intimidate you. You out-think and outclass the whole lot of ‘em.”
Did his fair Farrah count in that assessment? Best not to ask.
“Thank you. Ah, about the protest – ”
“Not now, Darlin’. We’ll talk about that later. I’m the host tonight, and I’m gonna do a good job if it kills me. Where’s your weekend bag?”
“I forgot
to bring one. I was in such a rush that I didn’t think straight.” She’d been nervous about coming here and didn’t add that a weekend with his fiancé might give Emmy a stroke.
Teddy tilted his head and led her through the foyer. “Go get ‘em, Darlin. I’ll send Butch over to the cottage to get a couple of your things.”
A pulse jumped in her neck. “No.”
“No choice. He’d get you a pair of jeans, maybe a shirt. You can’t sit at the breakfast table lookin’ like a puff-pastry, can you?”
Butch going through her things? Emmy might have a stroke anyway.
The bloody dress shoes dug further into her skin as they walked; clumpy mascara hastily applied seemed to glue her lashes together. She used two fingers to spring them apart.
Hopefully, she’d be offered a drink soon: champagne, beer, wine from a box — anything.
As if by telepathy, Teddy pressed a glass of something bubbly into her left hand. “You’ll need this before facing the group in the salon.”
It burned her mouth and throat, a little tart, a little bitter; sensation shot to her head.
Before letting Teddy resume his formal duties, she said, “I spoke with Mrs. Franklin.”
He nodded. “About the old murder. Jenny wasn’t too broken up, I bet. Old Franklin was a brute to her and that daughter of his—what was her name? Anyway, she moved away long time ago. I’ll tell you more about that over dinner. You know, the James family knew them all well –”
“What?”
They’d reached the salon—a formal room twice the size of here entire cottage.
“What the hell are you wearing?” Farrah stood leaning against an upholstered chair in the entry, appearing elegantly bored. “You look like Snow White, covered in dwarf vomit.”
Her long, painted fingers tapped the skin revealed under the thigh-high slit of her golden dress, a high-necked, sleeveless number that had a pear-shaped cut-out just above her cleavage and may as well be painted over her model-thin figure — so at odds with Emmy’s curves.
If gaining Teddy’s trust came down to feminine persuasion, how could she ever hope to compete with this mercenary Bond-girl?