13 Mink Street

Knock... knock... knock...

”Come in.”

Karon eased open the door to Tiz’s study and stepped inside. The old man closed the folder laid out before him to observe Karon as he approached and took the seat across the desk. ”What is it?”

”I just finished a counseling session for Mrs. Seymour.”

”How did it go?”

”It went well. She opened up. Now she needs time to let the pain settle and to adjust to her new life.”

”Hm.”

”But I learned something during our session.”

”Go on.”

”Mrs. Seymour lives at 46 Rhine Street.”

”Good neighborhood.”

”Mr. Piaget, the man I met at Hughes Crematorium—the one who paid me twenty thousand rupi for my first counseling session—turns out to be her neighbor. He lives at 45.”

”Hm.”

“Grandpa, isn’t that too much of a coincidence? Mr. Seymour died in the ballroom, and supposedly, he and Piaget were close, always fishing together. And Old Darcy personally handled the cremation of Piaget’s wife, Linda, just recently.”

”Hm, that is a bit coincidental.”

”Here’s where it gets stranger. I personally gave Mr. Piaget his wife Linda’s ashes, but this morning, Mrs. Seymour told me that Linda brought her a delicious apple pie.”

A woman who should have been reduced to ashes was somehow alive and baking pies. It sounded like a resurrection of sorts.

”So you think Mr. Piaget is the killer?”

”I don’t know.”

”You don’t know? I thought you and Inspector Duke were always on the same page.”

“Grandpa, it’s like those religious scriptures. We could sit across from each other all day, talking theory, going from the truths of the universe and the mysteries of the gods down to how human society works and what people call goodness, but in the end, we still wouldn’t be able to flag down a cab to get home.”

Criminal psychology sounded impressive, but it wasn’t a cure-all. Sometimes, after hours of talk that seemed insightful, nothing from the conversation would even fit. Even if the analysis was sound, it could only point the way. Things were never as simple as pushing up your glasses and declaring, ”There’s only one truth, and it is...”

Karon trusted that Inspector Duke was a more skilled investigator than he himself. Hobbies could never match one’s profession. It was possible that Duke would find a useful lead, but all Karon could provide was inspiration.

Once, long ago, a friend had sent him video footage of a murder case. A husband had killed his wife and hid the body, and Karon was asked for his analysis. After watching the video, Karon said there was nothing to analyze. The old detective already knew the husband was the killer by the time he questioned the man. All that remained was the slow, necessary process of finding the body and the evidence. As for the husband, his composure meant little to an experienced detective.

”I think I understand,” Tiz nodded.

Karon smiled.

”You mean what I do is pointless.”

Karon said nothing. Tiz reached for his teacup, so Karon moved to lift the kettle, only for Tiz to quietly state, ”It’s full.”

Karon set the kettle back down, a little embarrassed.

”So, why are you here?”

”It’s this, Grandpa: after we left this afternoon, Mr. Piaget came by. He left an invitation, asking me to visit his house.”

”You want to go?”

”I do.”

”Then go.”

”But... I’m afraid.” Karon spoke as if fear was the most natural thing in the world.

”I’ll be busy for the next few days,” Tiz replied, setting down his cup. ”I won’t have time to go out with you, as I did this afternoon.”

”Then... I won’t go.”

”Hm,” Tiz grunted with a nod.

”You should rest, Grandpa. I’ll turn in as well.”

”Alright.”

Karon stood. As he reached the door, Tiz spoke behind him, ”If you really want to visit...”

Karon turned, smiling. ”Do you have time to come with me, Grandpa?”

Tiz shook his head. ”You can take that with you.”

”Who?”

Meow...

Pu’er dropped to the floor from somewhere up among the books on the shelves, and then sauntered over. The black cat’s face showed an expression of pure, unmistakable reluctance. Karon had long since noticed that their cat possessed an unusual talent for displaying emotion. Most pets relied on ears and teeth, but Pu’er’s displays were more refined, nearly human.

”Are you sure, Grandpa?”

”Yes.”

With that, Karon answered, quiet and serious, ”I understand, Grandpa.”

He left the study and closed the door gently behind him.

Karon paused at the threshold, blinking once, adrift in his thoughts. He trusted Tiz would keep him safe—safer than anyone else, perhaps. Even after all the strange things that had happened, that certainty did not waver. He recalled the moment in the hearse when Tiz, with perfect calm, had asked karon to strip the skin from his own arm. He remembered, too, the intensity at the doorstep, the unmistakable determination to kill.

And yet, it was still so easy for Karon to believe that he was safe at Tiz’s side. It was possible to imagine Tiz as some old gangster and yet still feel protected. The man’s self-discipline bordered on violence; he was certainly capable of murder, if required, and as for his age, Karon doubted it mattered. In truth, Karon had no illusions: in terms of physical strength, he wouldn’t stand a chance against the old man. Tiz was a stronger presence than any street tough.

And yet.

That cat, he thought. “Maybe this is a cat with a story.”

Karon glanced down to realize Pu’er hadn’t followed him out, having lingered behind in the study.

He paused for a moment, then decided it was time to wash up and get some rest.

***

“You’re out of your mind! Completely insane! You want me to babysit some child playing detective? Tiz, what on earth are you thinking?” Poelle paced, keeping clear of the desk, hugging the wall.

“I want you to watch him. Just as you said yourself: he’s demonkin.”

At that, Poelle fixed a narrow-eyed stare at the man, her tail flicking.

“Then why not just kill him?” she spat back.

Tiz’s eyes snapped over to the cat in the corner.

Hiss! Poelle’s tail puffed up. She braced herself, mewling nervously. “I get it. I’ll go with him. I’ll keep a close eye on that demonkin.”

***

Morning arrived. Karon slept in late, the exhaustion from yesterday weighing on him. His dreams had been restless and unsettled. At times, he found himself in a ballroom, a dancer in his arms. Suddenly, he was beside a cremator, shoveling ash. He dreamed of lying in a coffin in the basement at home, prayers drifting above. Then, he was suffocating in Mrs. Hughes’s tight grip.

Only after washing up did any sense of normalcy return.

When he made his way to the second floor, Aunt Winnie spotted him and smiled. “Lunch is ready.”

“Thank you, Aunt Winnie.”

They were having noodles. From the day that Karon had made broth, Aunt Winnie and Aunt Mary hadn’t lost their fascination with it. The stock was good, and topped with fresh green onions. He even brought out a jar of the chili oil he’d put up a while ago. While the noodles themselves might not be quite as springy as he would have liked, he still found the meal a relief. He couldn’t face another breakfast of bread, fried eggs, and little sausages. There was no joy in such things anymore.

Aunt Mary was downstairs, preparing two “guests” for their final viewing. A patient had died at a nearby hospital, and Uncle Mason was already gone, taking Paul and Ron with him. That was the business: long stretches of calm, then suddenly everything happening at once. Of course, most people, deep down, wished the Immers family’s trade wouldn’t flourish.

Karon finished his lunch and went downstairs. He sat on the sofa and flipped through the newspaper. There were stories about the accident at the Crown Ballroom—two dead, several injured—but no mention of any homicide, and no note of Old Darcy’s death at the Hughes Crematorium. The front page was dominated by statements from Roja City’s old mayor. News of the serial killings was nowhere to be found. It was clear the story was being suppressed, given the mayoral elections currently underway. If word of such violence spread, panic would take hold, and people would question the mayor’s competence, especially given how loudly he boasted of public safety.

“Would you like some coffee?” Aunt Winnie had prepared a pot for Aunt Mary in the basement, and offered to pour him a cup.

“No, thank you, Aunt Winnie. I’m going out for coffee soon anyway. I’d rather not waste the good stuff at home.”

She laughed. “You’re sounding more like Aunt Mary every day.”

Just then, the phone in the living room rang, so Karon stood and took the coffee pot. “I’ll take it down to Aunt Mary.”

“Alright.” Aunt Winnie went to answer the phone.

Karon headed down to the basement and gently knocked on the open door of Aunt Mary’s workroom. Inside, Roja Sprite was playing on the radio, its melody soft and light. Aunt Mary stood with her back to him, humming along. Her figure, full beneath her long dress, suddenly made him think of Mrs. Seymour and how she had stripped down in front of him the night before. How painfully thin she seemed beside Aunt Mary’s earthiness.

It might not be ethical to judge an elder’s figure, but still, within the confines of one’s own mind—even among family—it was natural to notice what pleased the eye and what did not, as long as one kept such thoughts in check. It was best to view it in the same manner as a work of art.

Or perhaps, “admire” like a work of art. Karon realized the word had picked up a strange, uncomfortable undertone. The serial killer had seen to that.

“Oh, Karon, have you come to bring your beautiful aunt her coffee?”

“Yes, my beautiful and enchanting aunt.”

It was obvious Aunt Mary was in high spirits these days. Package B, it seemed, did more to nourish her than Uncle Mason ever had. Ignoring her portion of the family profits, Aunt Mary pulled in the highest salary and bonuses. The busier business became, the more she earned.

Embalming was not nearly as simple as dabbing on makeup. Once the police finished sorting the case and released the evidence, Old Darcy’s pieces would be sent over. Aunt Mary would then assemble what was left, fitting the dozens of fragments back together. It was work that could drive anyone mad, yet to Aunt Mary, it was just another part of her job.

Karon poured her a cup of coffee, which she sipped slowly. While working, coffee served as little more than emotional ballast. She never had the time to taste it.

He noticed that Aunt Mary was spraying paint over Mr. Seymour’s remains—literal spray paint, as though working on a car. Mr. Seymour’s abdominal muscles had taken on a genuine bronze sheen.

“Good, isn’t it?” She held her coffee in a hand as the other glided over Seymour’s sculpted abs. “Go ahead and touch. Mr. Seymour won’t mind.”

“It’s okay, Aunt Mary.” He wasn’t comfortable touching another man’s abs, let alone a dead man’s.

“Mr. Seymour was in good shape. Must’ve exercised a lot when he was alive.” As she spoke, an odd thought drifted through Karon’s mind. If he could bring Mr. Seymour along on his visit to Piaget, his personal safety would be guaranteed. Even painted over, the body still looked formidable. If only he would spring up and follow, he’d make the perfect bodyguard. The notion almost made Karon laugh. What is this? Some fevered daydream?

Mr. Seymour’s face was pinned in place, delicate threads drawing his features taut.

“Mrs. Seymour said she fell for his tough-guy looks back in the day. She wants him looking his best in the grave. I need to sharpen the lines of his face a bit more.”

Karon nodded. No wonder. Half of Mr. Seymour’s face had already been “renovated,” and the results caused him to start to resemble a classic action star.

“Aunt, I’ll head upstairs. I’m going to visit Mr. Piaget in a bit.”

“Go on, then.” Aunt Mary set her cup down and bent back over her work.

***

Back in the living room, Karon straightened his clothes and tucked a thousand rupi into his pocket, planning to pick up pastries or fruit for Mr. Piaget before his visit.

Pu’er crouched on the mortuary slab. She turned away, tail as stiff as death, almost as if, by pretending to be dead, she wouldn’t be noticed. Karon scooped the cat up anyway.

He still believed Tiz. If Tiz truly meant to kill him, things wouldn’t have gone through so many twists and turns.

The cat in his arms, Karon looked outside at the golden retriever sprawled in the flowerbed. He glanced from the animal in his arms to the big dog in the yard. When it came to safety, the dog seemed the wiser choice. He hesitated, then took the golden retriever by the leash.

And so, one man, one cat, and one dog stood outside the door, waiting for a taxi.

A cab soon pulled up, the driver leaning out of the window. “Sir, there’s a cleaning fee for pets.”

Karon replied, “Then please go on. I won’t take your car.”

The driver hesitated, but then relented. “Alright, I won’t charge this time. I like pets, too. Please, get in.”

“Please take me to 45 Rhine Street. How much?”

“Forty-five rupi.”

“Please go on.”

The driver laughed. “How about thirty? It’s my birthday.”

“Twenty-five.”

“That’s too low.” The driver looked troubled.

“We’ll stop at a pastry shop on the way. I’ll buy you a ten rupi cake for your birthday.”

“Get in.”

***

One o’clock in the afternoon. Karon stood at the gate of 45 Rhine Street, a box of macarons in hand. The cat and dog waiting at his feet. He stepped forward and pressed the bell.

Soon, the door to the house opened. A woman in pink houseclothes came out, approaching the courtyard gate with a look of puzzled caution.

“Excuse me, are you Mrs. Adams?” Piaget’s full name was Piaget Adams.

“Yes. Please, call me Linda. And you are?”

“I’m a friend of your husband’s. He invited me for a visit.” And I am also the one who once held your ashes.