The Late Wife

Diss stood behind Karen, looking at his grandson. While everyone else was paralyzed on the floor with terror at the scene before them, grandfather and grandson were the only two present whose expressions remained completely calm. "Did you figure anything out?" Karen turned back, glanced at Diss, and shook his head. "Nothing at all?" Karen shook his head again. "Only disappointment." "Disappointment?" "Yes." Though he had intentionally provoked the man over the phone earlier, a sliver of anticipation had still lingered in Karen's heart. Using words like "anticipation" and "disappointment" to describe the scene before them was undeniably improper. When Karen hung up the phone and hurried over with his grandfather, he had genuinely worried that something might have happened to Mrs. Hughes. Yet the human mind was an intricate thing. One could feel worry, anxiety, and even righteous grief over Old Darcy's death, while simultaneously detaching another layer of consciousness to evaluate and consider the "artwork" from a completely different perspective. The two were not mutually exclusive. Besides, in front of his grandfather, Karen felt little need to hide. "Disappointed in what?" "Monotonous, cliché, lacking originality." "Even this doesn't qualify?" Diss looked once more toward "Building-Block Old Darcy." "It amounts to just this much." Karen shrugged. "In the end, the display at the Crown Ballroom felt more like the environment lending greatness to the killer's work. This time, we're seeing his true level." "Did you really come here just to admire it?" Diss asked. "No, there should be something else interesting." Karen's gaze began to sweep the surroundings. "I remember when I spoke to the killer, he was fretting over the final piece of the puzzle." "And so?" "From an investigative standpoint, after hanging up, the killer would likely have forced that final piece into place." "So that's what you're looking for?" "Yes." "I'll help you look." "Thank you, Grandfather." Karen walked over to Mrs. Hughes first, extending a hand to help her to her feet. Mrs. Hughes was very fair-skinned. The first time he saw her, he had noticed how pale she was, and up close, one could see she truly was exceptionally so. Some fairness was superficial, static, dry, and dull. Yet other fairness carried depth, dynamism, sensuality, and an allure one could hardly bear to let go of. Both Uncle Mason and Aunt Mary had warned him to "be careful" of Mrs. Hughes. As experienced adults, both knew full well what kind of woman she was. "Old Darcy..." Mrs. Hughes wept, tears streaming down her face like rain on pear blossoms. "Madam, you should call the police now." "Oh... right." At her core, Mrs. Hughes remained a capable businesswoman. Wiping away her tears, she walked toward the telephone. As for the three people still lying on the floor, Karen didn't bother helping them up. Instead, he began searching the cremation chamber on his own, while Diss also paced about, observing. The cremation chamber wasn't particularly large, but having to accommodate three incinerators meant it couldn't be too cramped either. Karen first noticed the incinerator that was still warm. Leaning close to inspect it, he found nothing out of the ordinary. Next, Karen moved to the incinerator beside it. "Hm?" Feeling a flicker of doubt, Karen reached out, pulled the lever beside it to open the door, exerted some force, and hauled the tray outward. Lying face down on the rack was a person. This person wore the work uniform of the Hughes Crematorium. "Ah!" Mrs. Hughes shrieked from behind Karen, startling him so badly that he flinched. "There's... there's another one here!" Mrs. Hughes cried in sheer terror. "No, it's still him." Karen bent down, picked up the pair of tongs, and nudged the hand of the corpse on the rack. The hand slipped out from the sleeve. Karen then nudged the corpse's head, which slid out from the collar of the clothing. The head that emerged was only half a head—just the back of the skull, completely devoid of the front. The hand was the same, only half of one, with no bones inside, reduced to mere skin that looked somewhat like deboned pickled chicken feet. Karen turned, walked over to the counter where the urns were arranged, and used the tongs to flip over the foot inside the urn. Earlier, the "foot" had been standing on its side. Once flipped over, one could see that the foot had been split in two lengthwise, leaving only half of it here. Standing slightly on his tiptoes, he used the tongs to prod Old Darcy's head in the topmost urn. As the head turned, it too was only half a head; the back of the skull was completely empty, as though a watermelon had been sliced straight down the middle. In other words, half of Old Darcy lay on the incinerator rack, while the assembled Old Darcy stacked atop the counter was merely the other half. The killer had divided Old Darcy into two halves. "There are things over here as well." Diss pushed a two-wheeled cart over. It was originally meant for transporting cremated ashes and miscellaneous items, but now held a hammer, nails, a ball of twine, rope, and several bottles and jars. "What's in these bottles...?" Karen poked around curiously with his tongs, though the bottles bore no labels. "It's strong adhesive," Diss said. "Glue, is it..." Karen took a few paces backward, quietly retreating to the vicinity of the telephone. Diss walked over and stood beside Karen, asking, "Half a body on the incinerator rack, and half here among the urns. So, what was the killer actually trying to achieve?" Karen pursed his lips and said to Diss, "Old Darcy is cremating Old Darcy." "Is that what it means?" "The killer likes using irony to express his artistic sentiment. Half of Old Darcy lies face down on the rack, while the other half of Old Darcy, holding a small hammer and wearing gloves, stands beside it preparing to push him into the incinerator. "Or perhaps that half of Old Darcy gets cremated, and the other half prepares to crush his own bones and pack them into the urn. "Viewed from the right angle, the bisected figure can appear as two complete people." "Like wax figures," Diss remarked. Wax figures in a museum were sculpted into postures depicting actions, such as a farmer plowing a field or a soldier charging forward. "Yes, Grandfather, that's an apt comparison. I believe that effect was precisely what the killer intended to present." "If that was his intention, why did it end up looking like this? Was it because your phone call left him without enough time?" "I think it's more likely he realized his skill wasn't up to the task of completing such delicate work. Splitting a corpse and then sewing and securing it together not only requires immense labor, but also exceptional tailoring skill. "So he had to settle for second best, resulting in the state it's in now." No wonder the killer had lost his temper so easily over just a few taunts during their call. At the time, he was already languishing in frustration because his creative ability couldn't keep pace with his imagination. "Still, Grandfather, there's one thing that puzzles me. At the Crown Ballroom, the killer used *Song of the Soul* to mock the Berry religion. By right, this one should have touched upon religion as well. "Criticizing authority, mocking religion, and seeing oneself as the lone sober soul among the drunk are all common triggers for an artist's ego." "This before us is already one," Diss said. "In the doctrines of the Church of the God of the Abyss, there are records regarding the God of the Abyss. Legend has it that he divided himself in two. "One half fell eternally into hell; "the other transformed into crystalline powder and ascended into heaven. "Then, "using himself as a medium, the self in hell and the self in heaven forcefully opened a space. It belonged to heaven while connecting to hell, yet existed independently, known as... the Abyss. "His believers also like to call him the Lord of the Abyss." "The Lord of the Abyss?" Karen looked at Diss. "How come I've never heard of it?" "The birthplace of this faith is very remote. Moreover, its rituals and doctrines are far too extreme, leading many national governments to ban and prohibit its preaching within their borders. "Let alone in Rojia City, there are no organizations belonging to the Church of the Abyss in all of Ruilan—at least, none out in the open." ... The police arrived. Leading the team once again was Sergeant Duke. When the report came in, an old detective's sixth sense told him that this seemed like the killer's latest work. All afternoon, the phrase "new piece of artwork" had practically been hammering inside Sergeant Duke's head, along with the placid expression of that young man surnamed Inmeles when he said those words. If not for the mountain of matters at hand, and if not for the Inmeles family—especially that old gentleman—having connections in Rojia City, Sergeant Duke truly would have liked to find an excuse to detain that young man and give him a thorough "interview." Then, when Sergeant Duke led his men into the Hughes Crematorium and saw Karen already standing there, he clenched both fists and cried out in disbelief: "Dammit, did you people sign a partnership agreement with the Grim Reaper? How do you manage to get here so fast every single time!" "Good evening, Sergeant Duke," Diss spoke up. "Uh, oh?" Sergeant Duke took the initiative to shake Diss's hand. "Good evening, Father Diss." The police began their work. Because Karen had spoken directly with the killer, he was asked to give a detailed statement. Sergeant Duke was present the entire time. "...That's all I know." "So this time, he switched from the Berry religion to the Church of the Abyss?" Sergeant Duke puffed on his pipe and rubbed his forehead. "What worries me now is whether he'll continue killing." Karen answered very calmly, "Inevitably. And very soon." "Very soon?" "Because this work of his was a failure. "The killer is someone who thinks exceptionally highly of himself but possesses only mediocre skill. Such people don't pause for self-reflection; they grow impatient to prove themselves again and again." In his earlier account, Karen had omitted the mocking remarks he made to the killer over the phone. "By the way, Sergeant, have you identified the first victim?" Sergeant Duke shook his head and said, "We have a lead, but we're waiting for the neighboring city's police department to help confirm it. The deceased likely wasn't a local. "Also, there's another thing. You mentioned that the killer and the victims should have a very close relationship to allow for that sense of immersion." "Yes, so I suggest you start by investigating Darcy's social network." Sergeant Duke narrowed his eyes, leaned forward slightly, looked at Karen, and asked, "So by that logic, once the first victim's identity is determined, cross-referencing their two social circles to find the overlap will narrow down the killer?" "Theoretically, yes." "Would the killer really be that foolish?" Sergeant Duke sounded somewhat incredulous. Karen shrugged and said, "He really is that stupid." ... "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes." Karen expressed his gratitude to Mrs. Hughes. She had driven them personally, bringing him and his grandfather back to Mink Street. "I'm sorry for all the trouble I've caused you." "Don't mention it," Diss replied. Mrs. Hughes took a deep breath and said, "Old Darcy was a long-time employee of mine. I never imagined something like this would happen to him. Father Diss, I leave Old Darcy's funeral in your hands. I will cover all the expenses." "Very well." Mrs. Hughes managed a strained smile and said, "Mary will have to work hard on this. I have only one request: on the day of the funeral, I hope Old Darcy can be whole... or at least look whole." "Very well." "Thank you. There is one more thing I hope you will consider." "Go on." "I want to sell the crematorium. In truth, I was already feeling exhausted. Over the years, it was thanks to the veteran employees around me that I managed to keep going, especially Old Darcy. Now that he's gone, I can't keep running it alone anymore. "I hope you will consider acquiring the Hughes Crematorium. As for the price, everything is negotiable. Name your price, and I won't refuse." This was an expression of absolute trust in his grandfather's character. Besides, even though Old Darcy had died inside the crematorium, what kind of place was a crematorium anyway? Would a place that burned dead bodies day in and day out care about becoming a "haunted crime scene"? "I'll speak with Mason about it." "All right. Thank you once again, and... thank your grandson as well." Mrs. Hughes bowed to Diss first, then opened her arms and embraced Karen. Instantly, Karen felt a profound sense of fullness, as if sinking into a cloud of fresh cream that carried not the slightest hint of cloying sweetness. It was like an old farmer lying atop his home's granary, experiencing immense spiritual satisfaction. Mrs. Hughes climbed back into her car, started the engine, and drove away. Karen followed Diss into the ground-floor living room, where Aunt Winnie was sitting on the sofa going over the account ledgers. "Father, you're back." "Mm." "What about Uncle? Hasn't he returned yet?" Karen asked. Earlier at the door, he hadn't seen the family hearse. "Mason and the others came back around dusk, bringing two 'guests' and one family member." In the Inmeles household, "guests" specifically referred to corpses, while the paying relatives of the deceased were called family members. In other words, his uncle had successfully landed both contracts. One was the man seated in the booth whose head had been cleaved in half, and the other was the person who had suffered severe injuries and eventually succumbed. "Where is Uncle now?" "Out shopping with that guest's wife." As she said this, Aunt Winnie tapped her head, gesturing toward the wife of the deceased whose head had been cleaved apart. Karen remembered Aunt Mary mentioning that afternoon that when notified, the wife had adamantly insisted her husband was currently away on business in Wien and couldn't possibly have died in a ballroom on Hill Street! Evidently, she had accepted reality. No, not only had she accepted reality, but she had also suffered a severe psychological shock. Her husband had died by day, and by night she was riding in a hearse on a wild shopping spree. It sounded somewhat crazy... yet Karen could understand it. Still, Karen asked curiously, "How could Aunt Mary agree to that?" Letting his uncle accompany a woman who had just lost her husband on a shopping spree in the middle of the night? "Because Mrs. Seymour booked Package B!" Aunt Mary's voice came from the staircase, and she emerged from the basement looking, well, exceptionally radiant. Karen had seen the family's "menu." Package A was reserved for truly wealthy elites; they might not land even one such order in an entire year. The coffins used for that package were the Golden Casket and Breeze Casket that Karen had looked at before. Package B, meanwhile, sat at the very top tier of the family's core business. It belonged to normal clients who spared no expense on a grand funeral, which also meant the profit margin was substantial. "Package B, Karen! Let alone letting your uncle accompany her shopping, I wouldn't even mind lending him to her for two nights." Karen signaled to Aunt Mary with a tilt of his head. Aunt Mary looked over, noticed Diss sitting on the sofa, and immediately clamped her hands over her mouth in fright. Diss merely shook his head slightly and said, "Old Darcy is dead." "Who's Old Darcy?" Aunt Mary asked, puzzled, then caught herself. "Oh, the old cremator at Hughes Crematorium. Poor Old Darcy. May God receive his soul." With that, Aunt Mary made a gesture of prayer, clearly attempting to make up for her inappropriate remarks moments before. Diss walked straight upstairs. Karen spoke up. "Mrs. Hughes wants us to handle Old Darcy's funeral." Hearing this, Aunt Mary showed no excitement over landing another contract; instead, she rolled her eyes. "I hate doing business with acquaintances the most. Not only is there no profit margin to speak of, sometimes we even have to do it at a loss." Karen couldn't help smiling inwardly: *These two truly are best friends.* After a moment's hesitation, seeing that his grandfather hadn't directly mentioned Mrs. Hughes's intent to sell the crematorium to Aunt Mary, Karen also decided not to tell his aunt that Old Darcy had already been reduced to numerous pieces. "Oh, right, Karen. While you and Grandfather were out this afternoon, a gentleman came to visit you. When he learned you weren't home, he left, but he left behind a letter saying you could come to his house for coffee whenever you have time." Karen took the letter. The signature read "Piaget"—the psychologist who had brought his wife to Hughes Crematorium for cremation last time. The letter's contents were simple, stating in essence that it was a pity they couldn't meet today, inviting Karen to his home as a guest, and leaving behind a telephone number and an address: 45 Rhine Street. If Mink Street belonged to the city's second ring, then Rhine Street was right in the central core of the first ring; the municipal government building was located on that very street. "All right, Aunt. I understand. I'd like to go up and take a bath first." "Mm, get some rest early." Just then, the sound of a vehicle came from outside. Uncle Mason had returned with Mrs. Seymour. Mrs. Seymour appeared to be in her thirties, dressed very plainly. Uncle Mason, following behind her, carried an armful of large and small shopping bags packed with shoes, clothes, and handbags. "Mason, why didn't you take Mrs. Seymour home?" Aunt Mary asked. After shopping, shouldn't he have driven her home first? Why bring her to their house so late at night? Treating the body and conducting the funeral arrangements would happen several days later, not starting tomorrow. After all, clients like Mr. Mossan's children, who were in a rush to dispose of their father, were an extreme rarity. Most funerals left ample time to send out condolences notices and allow friends and relatives to prepare and attend. Meanwhile, the body also required proper embalming. Mrs. Seymour spoke up first. "Mason mentioned that your family also offers psychological counseling services. I need that service right now." Standing behind Mrs. Seymour, Uncle Mason raised his eyebrows at Karen while mouthing words to Aunt Mary. Aunt Mary caught on immediately and said, "Yes, yes, of course we do. We'll arrange it for you right away." ... Psychological counseling required an enclosed, comfortable space. Karen didn't have his own office, however, and Aunt Mary didn't dare go upstairs to ask Diss to vacate his study, let alone suggest Mrs. Seymour go down to the basement. In the end, Aunt Mary yielded her and Uncle Mason's bedroom so Karen could conduct the session with Mrs. Seymour there. "Please." "Thank you." Mrs. Seymour stepped inside and began observing the bedroom's decor. It was a cozy room. She then sat down on the edge of the bed. Karen pulled a chair over and sat facing Mrs. Seymour. He knew this lady was currently in a volatile, irritable phase, not merely because of her husband's death, but far more because of her husband's betrayal. "Mrs. Seymour, could you tell me about you and Mr. Seymour first?" Karen quickly entered his professional mindset, feeling a momentary sense of detachment. For an instant, it felt as though he had returned to being himself from his previous life. Yet right after this momentary trance, when Karen refocused his gaze on Mrs. Seymour, he discovered that she had already taken off her coat and was shedding her inner clothing. "Mrs. Seymour, what are you..." "Young man, you're very handsome." "Thank you, but you..." "Sleep with me. Right now. Right here, this instant." "Mrs. Seymour, we are conducting a psychological counseling session." "I know. After you sleep with me, I'll pay you the counseling fee." "I'm sorry." "I'll pay you double the fee!" Stripped down to her undergarments, Mrs. Seymour stepped forward and began tugging at Karen, attempting to pull off his clothes. "Right now, this instant, on this bed, do it with me. I'll satisfy you. Any position you like is fine. If you've never done it before, I can teach you." Karen didn't resist violently. Instead, he spread his hands, allowing Mrs. Seymour to pull off his jacket. Right then, Karen asked very calmly, "Any way is fine?" "Of course, yes." "Then let's go down to the basement. I'd like to do it right in front of Mr. Seymour." The next instant, as though a bucket of icy water had been dumped over her head, Mrs. Seymour froze. Karen softened his tone and asked gently, "Is it worth it?" Mrs. Seymour slowly sank to a squat, hugging her arms around herself, and began to weep. "Why? Why? For him, I gave up my career, gave up my own family, stayed home all this time being his devoted wife and caring mother! Why did he treat me like this? Why would he treat me this way? How could he do this to me!" Karen picked up Mrs. Seymour's clothes, draped them over her shoulders, and sat down on the floor beside her. Without saying a word, he simply watched her cry. Crying it all out would help. Mrs. Seymour reached out, clutched Karen's arm, pressed her face against his shoulder, and choked repeatedly on the words, "Why, why..." And Karen knew that she didn't actually need an answer. ... "How much did you charge?" Aunt Mary whispered beside the dining table outside the room. "Two thousand lubi," Uncle Mason answered. "Are you out of your mind? That expensive?" "The last one gave twenty thousand lubi," Uncle Mason corrected her. "I looked into it. This sort of thing is just expensive." "Do you think Karen can manage this job?" Uncle Mason pondered for a moment before answering, "He should... be able to. In any case, ever since my nephew woke up from that serious illness, he truly feels like a different person." "What kind of feeling?" "The kind of feeling that makes me want to call him Uncle." *Click.* The door opened. Karen stood by the entrance as Mrs. Seymour walked out. "Thank you." "You're welcome. It was my duty." Mrs. Seymour then bowed to Aunt Mary and Uncle Mason. "I leave my husband's funeral arrangements in your care." "Of course, of course." "You're too kind." "I've truly troubled you all tonight. I will be heading back now." "It's very late now, and taxis are hard to come by. Let me drive you home," Uncle Mason offered. "Then... I'll trouble you. My home is at 46 Rhine Street." "All right, no problem. It's not that far," Uncle Mason said. Upon hearing the address, Karen, who had been offering a polite farewell smile to the client, spoke up: "Mrs. Seymour, may I ask if you know a Mr. Piaget?" The address Piaget had left was 45 Rhine Street. Barring any surprises, he should be Mrs. Seymour's neighbor. "Mr. Piaget? Yes, of course I know him. He's my neighbor, and on very good terms with both me and my husband. Mr. Piaget often goes fishing with my husband. "His wife, Linda, is also a wonderful person and a fantastic cook. She often invites us over to their house for dinner." "Oh, I see." Karen noticed that when mentioning Piaget's wife, a smile touched the corners of Mrs. Seymour's lips. The smile was somewhat peculiar. Moreover, by right, she should have followed it up with: *What a pity his wife passed away last week.* That would have made sense. Then, Mrs. Seymour added, "Just this morning, Linda brought over an apple pie for me. It tasted wonderful. I even saved half of it in the refrigerator for my husband. Sadly, he won't get to eat it now."