13 Mink Street

Chapter 19: The Killer

"Here, this is the watch."

Mrs. Seymour produced a black box. Inside lay a gold Miffett watch.

Not long ago, Mrs. Hughes had given him a Monroe watch worth about two thousand rupi. Mrs. Seymour’s gift was worth ten times that, fetching twenty thousand on the market. Piaget had once paid a consulting fee of that amount, and now Mrs. Seymour handed Karon a watch that matched that value.

Life on their street was evidently a world apart. What most people earned in a year, at least before taxes and bills, was little more than the price of a trinket to the people of Rhine Street.

"It’s beautiful," Karon said, turning the watch over in his hands. "Really a delicate timepiece."

Mrs. Seymour smiled. "As long as you like it."

He shook his head. "I’m sorry, madam, but this is too generous. I can’t accept such a gift."

He meant it. There was nothing performative about his refusal. In his old life, he’d worked his way up from an average upbringing to enjoying a bit of modest comfort. Here, being part of the Immers family, money and food had never been cause for worry. His feelings about wealth had settled into something even, unmoved by windfalls.

He might haggle with a cab driver, not for the hundred rupi, but to avoid feeling taken advantage of. He appreciated money, but did not long for it. Had his family been squeezed into public housing, had things been different, perhaps he would have accepted with simple gratitude. But the truth was, he was not poor, at least, not in that way.

At first, Mrs. Seymour mistook the refusal for polite modesty. She tried more than once to convince him, but soon saw that he truly did not want the watch as a gift.

"How about this," she suggested at last. "I’ve heard psychologists sometimes take on clients as a series of sessions, do they not?"

"I only offer such things to household guests, at present. But of course, madam, if you need me, I’m available for more sessions."

She brightened. "Then let’s call this watch an advance for a year of your consulting. Once a month, you’ll visit my home. Or, if your household isn’t too busy, I can be invited over for psychological counseling."

He hesitated. "It’s still too much."

She shook her head. "I think it’s worth it. Do you know how much I spent on my husband’s funeral?"

Karon hesitated. He knew it had been a sizable sum, something that would have excited Aunt Mary, but he couldn’t name a figure aloud. The family’s menu of services tended to start with high prices, leaving room for negotiation. He only knew the cost before markups, not the price Mrs. Seymour actually paid. If he guessed too low, she’d know she’d been overcharged. Business was business, after all. Prices fluctuated by negotiation, and he saw no reason to undermine his own family.

Mrs. Seymour raised two fingers. "Two hundred thousand rupi."

He released a breath. His uncle and aunt hadn’t gone overboard, after all. The price was fair. For that sum, Mr. Mossan and Jeff could have conducted funerals twenty times over.

"You see?" Mrs. Seymour said. "I spent two hundred thousand rupi to put that man in the ground. What’s a watch, compared to that?"

Though her outward composure had returned, he could sense her hatred for Mr. Seymour simmering beneath the surface. She gave a dry little laugh. "Don’t judge me. I’m just... afraid. Afraid of being so lonely now."

There was no warmth or nostalgia in her eyes. Her words held no longing. She had spent years being the ideal wife, but in the end, her husband’s betrayal had shattered her faith in what she thought was true.

"I understand, madam," Karon said quietly. "I’m happy to help. If you ever need my services, you only have to call."

"That’s wonderful," she replied. "Let me put the watch on for you, then."

She fastened the watch on his wrist. Stepping back, she studied him in the soft light. "You’re a handsome young man."

***

Karon left Mrs. Seymour’s house and waved at her as she stood in the doorway. At the corner, where taxis passed more often, he paused and slipped the expensive watch off his wrist, tucking it away.

The golden retriever bounded ahead, tail wagging. No one at the Immers household had taken it for a real walk in ages, and it showed. Pu’er remained perched on Karon’s shoulder. This cat never lunged after strays in the street, so Karon had no fear of it wandering off.

At the curb, Karon flagged down a taxi.

"13 Mink Street," he told the driver.

"Alright, sir," the driver replied.

Once inside, Karon closed his eyes and then kept them shut throughout the ride. What rose up first in his mind was the matter of the Adams family. Had Piaget, after splitting his mind, begun killing for entertainment? However Karon tried to see it, that seemed unlikely.

It was true that voices over the phone could easily be disguised, man for woman, woman for man, especially given the metallic distortion of telephones in this era. Still, Piaget did not fit Karon’s psychological profile of the killer. Socially inept, perhaps, but certainly not stupid. Anyone capable of deliberately creating a second self was far from that.

But the paintings in his wife’s studio were not a coincidence.

A headache pressed against his skull. Karon raised a hand and gently rubbed his forehead. The nausea and dizziness from seeing that third painting, the one of the Church of Order’s divine judgment, still lingered. The driver caught a glimpse of him in the rearview mirror. "Are you carsick? I can drive slower."

"No, not at all. Please, if anything, go a bit faster," Karon replied.

"Alright."

When the cab arrived, Karon paid and stepped out onto the street. A sudden thought came to him: perhaps it was time to get a license and a car of his own. A permit was simple enough to get, and a used car wouldn’t be expensive. What mattered most was that taxis in Roja City were both costly and inconvenient.

Karon entered the sitting room at home to find Aunt Mary and Mrs. Hughes on the sofa. Mrs. Hughes’ eyes were red and swollen, and she dabbed at them constantly with a tissue. Aunt Mary sat close for comfort. It had been too late for Mrs. Hughes to visit the previous night, but today she had turned to her good friend.

"Don’t worry," Aunt Mary was saying. "I’ll make sure Old Darcy is taken care of properly, with a dignified funeral. The killer was truly terrible; poor Old Darcy!"

Karon stepped closer. "It’s true, the killer was brutal, tearing Old Darcy apart into dozens of pieces. But there’s nothing to worry about with Aunt Mary handling it."

"Damn Old Darcy!" Aunt Mary swore without thinking. She had only just learned that Old Darcy had become pieces. She quickly caught herself and self-corrected, said, "No, damn the killer, for doing that to Old Darcy."

Her composure broke, and she reached for a tissue.

Mrs. Hughes looked at her friend, puzzled. "What’s gotten into you? I thought I was the one who needed comforting."

Aunt Mary choked up. "I just... feel so bad for Old Darcy. He really was... pitiful."

Trying for a brave face, Mrs. Hughes looked up at Karon. "Karon, your aunt and I are getting barbecue tonight. Will you come along? It’s a popular restaurant."

"I’ll pass," Karon said politely.

Aunt Mary raised her red-rimmed eyes. "Come with us. I mean to drink tonight, and you’re the only man in the family fit to join us."

"I’ll call Uncle Mason," Karon offered.

That nearly broke Aunt Mary. "Like I’d give that man the chance to haul both of us, drunk, to bed?"

"Alright. I’ll come."

"Wait here, I need to take care of a few guests downstairs."

"Alright, Mary."

Aunt Mary stood, dabbing her tears, and went downstairs. Once out of sight, a muffled shout echoed up the ramp, "God, poor Old Darcy!"

Mrs. Hughes let out a long breath, and even winked at Karon. "Mary’s in for a rough day. By the way, Karon, where’s the watch I gave you? You’re not wearing it; don’t you like it?"

She’d noticed his bare wrist.

"I do like it very much, madam," Karon said. "I just haven’t formed the habit. I forgot this morning. Maybe, with time, I’ll get used to it."

"That’s good. I was afraid you didn’t care for my Monroe."

"No, truly. It’s the best gift I’ve ever received from anyone outside my family."

The phone rang, and Karon went to answer it.

"Hello, is this the Immers residence? I’d like to speak to Karon," Inspector Duke’s voice came through the line.

"Hello, Inspector Duke. This is Karon."

“We’ve identified the body found beneath the stage at Crown Ballroom. His name is Cole. The man’s from a neighboring city and arrived in Roja three months ago, searching for work. That’s what the police from that city told us. I’ve sent detectives to the places Cole stayed, and we’ll soon know some details; where he worked, who he knew.”

“It would go faster if the newspapers picked up the story,” Karon said.

“I filed a request, but it was denied. The reason? They say the victim’s condition would incite public panic and draw protests from the Berai Church. Frankly, I’d love to put my boot through every last politician in city hall. The real reason is elections. They want this buried deep. If we could print this case, publish his photo, we wouldn’t need outside help. His local contacts would already be walking in with answers. Now I just have to hope our people work fast. I’ve mapped out Old Darcy’s network, so now, all that’s left is to wait for information on Cole. Like you said: if the two networks overlap, we can tighten the circle around our suspects, right?”

“Yes.”

“But let me ask you again, Karon. Is the killer truly that reckless, targeting those right around him? Wouldn’t that get him caught?”

“My instinct and my experience say yes. But the fact remains, you haven’t caught him.”

“So you’re saying the killer only looks clever because our police are fools?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Inspector Duke sighed, long and deep. Through the phone came the rasp of a match—he was lighting his pipe. “You said this lunatic will kill again soon, to finish his wretched ‘art.’ I hope I find him before that happens.”

“I hope so too.”

“All right. If anything comes up, I’ll let you know. For what it’s worth, I have a hunch you’re right.”

“Thank you.”

Karon hung up and turned to Mrs. Hughes, giving her a small smile and gesturing toward the stairs. “Madam, I’ll go help my aunt in the basement.”

“All right.”

He stepped down into the workroom, where three bodies were laid out. Two had come from the Crown Ballroom, one of which was Mr. Seymour. The other had been sent over from the hospital. Every corpse had been carefully tended to. They lay arranged, looking less like bodies than people deep asleep.

Aunt Mary sat perched on a round stool, legs crossed, furiously drawing on a cigarette. It was only after a moment that she realized that her skirt had ridden up nearly to her hip. Karon shut his eyes and gave a soft cough. When he looked back, she had already shifted, smoothing her skirt into place.

“Karon, you knew all along Old Darcy had already been hacked into dozens of pieces, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Karon quietly agreed.

“Do you know how hard it is to reassemble someone split into dozens of parts? I have to fish for bits in a tub, piece them together, sew each seam by hand. I’d rather sort Lent’s puzzles all day. Anything but this!”

“I know it’s hard, Aunt, but you’re the only one who can do it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Do you have any idea what a job like this would bring if I’d known before agreeing on the price? I just promised I’d do it for the cost of welfare. Damn it, damn, damn!” She tugged her hair. “At regular rates, putting a body like that together would start at tens of thousands of rupi.”

She paused, then added, “And that isn’t counting a mortician’s hardship bonus!”

“You work hard, Aunt, but maybe we can account for this when we finalize the Hughes Crematorium buyout.”

She seemed a little pleased by that prospect, but then frowned and looked at him. “But that’s still not what I asked. You already knew; why didn’t you warn me?”

“It was Grandpa’s instruction,” Karon said.

“Father?”

“I asked if we should tell you what the job involved in advance. He said absolutely not. He said you’re the most talented mortician he’s ever known.”

“He really said that?”

“Yes.”

Mary finally seemed to relax, at least a little. Then, glancing away, she clenched her fist. “Let’s leave talk of the buyout for now. Tonight, I’m ordering some good wine. If she’s paying, I’m going to make it hurt.”

“I thought we were having barbecue?” Karon was confused.

“We are. Barbecue at the wine manor.”

“I can’t drink wine.”

“You can drink grape juice. I won’t risk having you come home drunk only to end up taking care of us. Besides, your grandfather is out tonight and won’t be back until morning. This really is our chance.”

***

At half past four that afternoon, Karon and Aunt Mary climbed into Mrs. Hughes’ car and set off toward the eastern district of Roja City. Because their route led east, Mrs. Hughes turned off from Mink Street, merging into the run of row houses. Karon wanted to ask her to take another way. He still felt uneasy about 128 Mink Street, the rowhouse where Uncle Mason’s first love and her family lived, but Mrs. Hughes was already accelerating, turning into the narrow neighborhood lanes before Karon could speak. He hesitated and let it pass.

“They’re moving out.” Up ahead, a moving truck blocked most of the street, forcing Mrs. Hughes to slow down. Karon saw right away that it was the family from 128 Mink Street. Uncle Mason had mentioned that, after what happened with Jeff, his first love’s family would be leaving soon. It seemed today was the day.

Karon’s eyes rose, almost without thought, to the second-floor window. The curtains were pulled tight, hiding everything from view.

“Karon, what is it?” Aunt Mary’s voice was light, almost teasing. “You feeling alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“Mary, what would you think if I bought a place here after selling the crematorium?” Mrs. Hughes mused. “We’d be neighbors. Just around the corner.”

“That sounds lovely. You could lend me a hand when things get busy.”

Mrs. Hughes laughed. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll snip bits off the men to keep them for myself at night?”

Aunt Mary gave her a mock reproach. “Karon is here. Don’t you have any shame?”

“Alright, alright. Let’s see which ones are vacant... 128, of course. I’ll have a realtor check it out and see what the price is.”

About half an hour later, they reached the edge of the countryside. They were met by a tangle of low vineyards, a sign by the gate that read “Friday Winery.”

“Is business bad here?” Karon asked as they got out of the car.

“Wretched,” Mrs. Hughes replied. “That’s why the owner grabs at every source of profit.”

Then, to the waiter, she said, “Reservation for table seven. Bring out the bottles I have in your storage.”

“Yes, madam.”

Grilling was self-serve. The meat was good, but Karon had never cared much for barbecue. In his past life, his stomach had been sensitive, while in the current one, his body was even more fragile. Food like this was something he could only admire from a distance. He ate little, spending most of his time tending the grill for Aunt Mary and Mrs. Hughes. The two women, bright and animated, drank freely, laughter rising over the faint sizzle of the fire as they lost themselves in stories from long ago.

By nine, yielding to Karon’s quiet suggestion, they called it a night. Both women were more than a little drunk. On the way to the parking lot, Karon half-supported them, one on each arm. Left alone, they would have been hard pressed to stay upright.

Despite having a woman on each side, there was no hint of happiness in bundling them across the lot, only the sharp smell of alcohol. They took turns retching, adding a sourness to the air that drove away any stray thoughts before they could manifest.

Mrs. Hughes, cheerful and unsteady, tried the driver’s door, intent on getting behind the wheel. Karon stepped in at once. He couldn’t let her drive, not like this, nor would he risk it himself as a passenger. “Madam, let me drive.”

“You... know... how?” Mrs. Hughes asked, amused, almost singing the words.

“I do.”

“You... are something else.” She collapsed into his arms, her hand idly tracing slow circles on his chest with a wandering finger. Karon gently moved her off and helped both women into the rear seat before climbing in behind the wheel. A moment later, as he pulled out from the winery, a police cruiser rolled in, both cars passing through the gate’s narrow light.

“Look at that,” he muttered. “Official vehicles, used for private errands.”

He drove slowly. The car was unfamiliar, and it was his first time driving since waking up. It was also a stick shift, which was all the more reason for caution.

The women soon slept, tangled in the back seat. Karon opened the windows, letting the night air drift through and carry away the thick scent of wine. By a quarter past ten, they were back on Mink Street. Karon stepped out, eased Aunt Mary from the car, and led her through the gate and into the parlor.

“You drank plenty tonight,” Aunt Winnie commented. She had been doing the accounts on a couch, but rose and rushed over to help, calling for Mina to come down.

“Where’s Uncle?” Karon asked.

Aunt Mary instantly seemed to wrench herself out of her mental fog, her voice growing sharp. “Don’t let him take us!” she said. “He can’t take us home.”

Aunt Winnie, half-amused and half-exasperated, said, “Mason took the hearse out just after dinner. He received a call to pick up a client. The Maronco family’s funeral home had a falling out with someone, so now the body is being transferred here. Mason isn’t back yet.”

“That’s fine, then.” Aunt Mary nodded and, turning away, leaned toward the floor and retched.

Karon stepped back, covering his nose with a hand. “I’ll drive Mrs. Hughes home.”

“Couldn’t you call a cab? No, never mind. That’s not safe.” No one felt safe letting a drunken woman take a cab home alone at such an hour.

“It’s Mrs. Hughes’ own car. I’ll drop her off, leave her car there, and catch a taxi back myself.”

“All right. If it gets too late for a taxi, call me. Mason can come get you.”

“Okay, Aunt Winnie.” Karon left the house and headed back to the car. In the back seat, Mrs. Hughes sprawled, her skirt rucked almost to her chest. Karon glanced over, shook his head with a small, rueful smile, and started the engine.

***

Roja City Police Department.

Inspector Duke dozed in his chair, pipe still clenched in his teeth. He had spent the last several nights in the office, snatching sleep in short bursts whenever he could.

The phone rang, sharp and insistent. Duke jerked upright, reaching for the receiver. “Duke here.”

“Inspector, we found it. We found him!”

“Well?”

“Cole used to work at Friday Winery in our city; the one with the restaurant. He was a waiter there for a month, but then quit.”

“He quit?”

“Yes. His coworkers say Cole used to brag about landing a rich widow who came in often. Said she was glad to keep him as her lover.”

“And this woman, do we know who she is?”

“The owner of the Hughes Crematorium: Mrs. Hughes.”

Inspector Duke stood so fast his chair nearly toppled.

Cole and Old Darcy. One her lover, one her longtime employee. The killer hadn’t been hunting at random, but had been striking within their closest circle, leaving a trail the police could actually follow.

Duke clenched the receiver, disbelief hardening into certainty.

Karon had been right. The killer really was reckless enough to do this.