STORM ROLL: a Canadian murder mystery series

by KATHY GARTHWAITE

  On the northeast side of the campus was a trendy café called the Ottiva. AJ had given Scottie a heads up on its popularity with the university crowd. The coffee was exceptional and the home-cooked food comforting. But its popularity meant it was jam-packed all day. Scottie pulled into a spot close to the restaurant, and they strode quickly down the sidewalk to avoid getting drowned by the rain now coming down in buckets. As soon as she swung the door open, they could smell the sweet aroma of freshly baked pastry and savoury spices. They found an unoccupied space by the entrance and sat down on the wooden chairs. The table wobbled when Gibson placed his elbow on top. Each time another customer arrived or left, they got a blast of bracing sea air. Despite the commotion, the fresh steaming cups of coffee made it all worthwhile. It was a pleasant atmosphere, unpretentious and friendly. They remained silent, each mulling over the day’s developments. After several minutes of congenial contemplation Scottie spoke up.

  “So, what do you think?”

  “I know every workplace has its token bully, but this place is loaded with them,” Gibson said. Then he put his journal on the table and opened it to the first page. He thumbed through his observations and looked up at her. “Tim is the most obvious bully and Nick is his sidekick.” He paused and added, “Nick’s hiding something.”

  “What about David?”

  “He’s a loner. I’m certain he knows more about what’s going on here.” Gibson stopped to consider. “Maybe he’s afraid to say something.”

  “Afraid of what?” Scottie gave him an incredulous eye.

  “I don’t know. Getting beaten up. Or worse.”

  “By whom. Tim?”

  “Probably. Maybe.” He shrugged. He tried not to dislike the individuals he met while working a murder crime. It clouded his impartiality. But he had Tim in his sights. He hated bullies more than anything. They pressured weaker people to do their bidding. It was an outrage that boiled his blood.

  “Jason is a cocky guy,” Scottie said.

  “Isn’t he? But he also wants to be everybody’s friend. He rides with the crew at the bike park.”

  “Oh, yeah. And the other boss too. What a piece of work. He has a malicious streak.”

  Gibson nodded in compliance. “Is this a hate crime?”

  “I’m not sure. The condom was planted so…” She lost her thought.

  “Someone wanted us to know that Robbie was gay.” Gibson picked up the trail.

  “Maybe.”

  “We can’t ignore the bully factor. And if Robbie was gay…”

  Gibson knew Scottie had a conflicting view from him and wasn’t ready to call this a hate crime. He could tell by how she squirmed in her chair. He couldn’t figure out why she hesitated because she had felt the effects of that kind of thinking herself—people judging her because she was a lesbian.

  “We still have to visit Robbie’s wife and break the news,” Gibson said. “I’ve asked the others to leave that to us.”

  “Okay.” A slight wavering of her voice was evident.

  That was another thing Gibson knew about Scottie. She hated this part of the job. It was always awkward and heartbreaking especially when kids were involved. It affected him too. Although Scottie didn’t have kids of her own, she was devoted to her nieces. If something happened to her sister there would be nothing left but a void, a swirling blackness. He prayed that would never happen. The coffee had renewed their energy. They were as prepared as they could be to break the news to Ellen. Outside the sun gleamed for brief moments, clouds quickly racing in to fill the blue patches.

  “What’s the house number?” Gibson asked as they approached Henderson Road.

  Scottie took out her notebook from a top pocket and tossed it over. At the front of the pad were the contacts compiled from the interviews. Gibson ran his finger down the list and found Robbie and Ellen Spencer.

  “107.”

  Children were playing outside on the lawn as they pulled up to the curb. More kids and a dog rushed around the corner of the house. The long-haired beast bounced wildly from person to person. Laughter echoed throughout the neighbourhood. They walked down the pavement past all the pandemonium and up the stairs to the veranda. Trying to force back their sombre mood, they stopped for a moment to brace themselves. Mayhem usually followed lousy news. Scottie rang the doorbell and then stepped aside. The door was open by a six-year-old girl with curly blonde hair and bright eyes. She remained motionless in her pink frock and lacy socks pulled up tight.

  “Hello there,” Gibson said. “Is your mom home?”

  “Mm-huh,” the little girl said timidly, swaying back and forth on her tippy-toes.

  “Lily. Who is it?” A shout came from the rear.

  The little girl continued to dance on her toes. Her mother approached from the hallway and halted when she saw them. Neither Gibson nor Scottie wore uniforms, but their suits and haircuts gave away their identity.

  “Has something happened?” Ellen stepped forward, her body stiffening. She had short-cropped red hair that ended bluntly at the nape. Her youthful complexion was rosy and makeup free. She stood stoically waiting to hear what tragedy had befallen her family. Her skin paled and the lines around her eyes deepened.

  “May we come in?”

  “This way.”

  They accompanied her down the cramped hallway, dodging the abandoned toys and boxes. The dim lighting and bare walls gave the appearance of neglect. But then they reached a doorway that opened into a bright and cheery kitchen filled with the delicious smell of cookies and hot chocolate. The girl had followed them into this inviting area.

  “Go watch a little TV, Lily. Then we’ll have treats,” Ellen urged. “Okay?” It almost turned into a plea as her voice rose two octaves. She smiled warmly after Lily as she left the room.

  “Robbie is dead. We’re sorry for your loss,” Gibson said. There was no easy way.

  Ellen let out the smallest of sobs and crumpled into a chair. Outside they could pick up the glees of children playing and the dog yapping. Inside, Ellen had gone quiet. Her entire face seemed drained, aging ten years as the moments ticked along.

  “He was murdered.”

  “Murdered? Why?”

  “Did Robbie have any enemies at work? Anyone who would want to harm him?”

  “No.” Her facial muscles were slack and her eyes had stopped blinking.

  Gibson wasn’t sure if she felt everything or nothing.

  Lily had come back into the room and settled her head on her mother’s lap. Ellen stroked her soft baby curls tenderly and spoke softly. Gibson thought she was singing a lullaby. She looked up at him with mournful eyes.

  “The guys are always picking on him. About his biking and his shorts…” she said. “Was it one of them?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “What will I do?” She breathed in deeply.

  “Is there someone we can call?”

  “No. We’ll be okay. I need to be alone now.” She pushed a lock of hair from Lily’s face.

  “We’ll see ourselves out,” Gibson said.

  The detectives walked down the hallway. A short sob followed them out and then stopped almost at once. They stepped outside to the children still playing on the front lawn, rolling over each other like steam shovels and falling apart with laughter.

  Chapter 12

  The rain stopped late that afternoon. Heavy clouds had broken up, leaving behind a few lonely sentinels above. The sun, angled low in the autumn sky, shone pale against the dark blue backdrop. Gibson breathed a sigh of relief when he rounded the final corner to his house. A beacon set up high on a pole gleamed brightly at the end of the driveway. He had installed it when they had first moved here. The light had transformed the sombre, narrow lane into a safe, inviting road. He pulled into the drive and killed the engine. The glow of the lights that streamed from within the home beckoned him in. He got out of his F150 and paused, taking in the loveliness of the neighbourhood. He could hear the peaceful lapping of waves on the
shoreline below, the twittering of birds as they dashed from tree to tree and an occasional slam of a door in the distance. A barely perceptible current of air from the Southeast crept up the bank and touched his cheek.

  “Hi, Katherine,” Gibson called out as he stepped through the door. Spicy aromas wafted from the back. She appeared in the kitchen entrance with a flour-dusted apron hung from her waist and spoon clutched in hand.

  “You’re just in time.”

  “Whatever it is, smells fantastic,” he said as he removed his boots and coat. He gave her a tender hug and caressed her ear with his cool lips.

  “It is fantastic.”

  “Can I help with anything?” It was really a rhetorical question.

  “Go wash up and I’ll serve gourmet delights,” she said with a grin, turning back to the kitchen.

  After dinner Katherine cleared the table. Then she busied herself arranging appetizers on china platters and uncorking several bottles of Okanagan red wine for the evening’s company. Gibson got a fire started in the airtight. Before long it blazed brightly, heating the living room and spilling the warmth throughout the house. He helped himself to a beer and sat back to unwind after a harrowing day. Their guests were expected within the hour. The finches chirped happily in the corner. A sharp tap on the door stirred Gibson from his nap. He hauled himself off the couch and answered the summons.

  “Welcome.”

  Andrew and Heather stood on the stoop, arm in arm, and all smiles.

  “Hello,” Heather said. She hugged him and headed for the kitchen.

  “Hi there,” Andrew shouted down the hallway to Katherine. He gave Gibson a hardy handshake.

  “Make yourself at home. Gibson will get you a drink,” Katherine yelled back.

  “Like she had to tell me that.”

  They glanced at each other and chuckled. Andrew settled into the cushions of the cozy sofa. Immediately his attention was drawn to the fireplace, the golden flames flickering wildly behind glass doors. His eyelids drooped as the mesmerizing fire danced, sending out waves of warmth.

  “Yeah. I fell asleep right there,” Gibson said. He was seated in a chair farthest from the heat. A precaution for staying awake.

  Soon they were all hunkered down and comfortably immersed in conversation, sipping their drinks and sampling the finger food. This evening Katherine had her hair pinned up with rhinestone clips. A deep shade of metallic bronze eye shadow highlighted the brown cascades of curls bouncing off her shoulders. She wore casual jeans and a rich cocoa coloured sweater, looking serene and snug sunk into the over-stuffed loveseat with her friend leaning into her.

  “Andrew was telling us about his blog today,” Katherine said.

  “That’s right,” Andrew confirmed. “Sex and death.”

  “We got sidetracked,” Heather spoke up. “Tell us more.”

  “She means gossipy details.” Katherine struggled to keep a straight face but failed. Heather stuck her tongue out.

  “Read the blog.” Andrew chuckled.

  Katherine punched his arm. Heather flashed her saucy smile.

  “Any details you can share about what happened today?” Heather asked.

  “We just got started so there are lots of leads we have to follow.” Gibson hedged, not wanting to share his thoughts.

  “Who was murdered?” Andrew blurted out and promptly bit his lip. Damn.

  “It was Robbie Spencer. Medium height, sandy blonde hair. Works for maintenance. Do you know him?”

  “No. I don’t think so,” Andrew said, letting out a big sigh of relief.

  “This is getting too morbid. Let’s go for a walk.” Katherine stood up and stretched. She tugged on Heather’s hand to get her moving. “It’s stifling in here.”

  She was greeted with groans all round. But gradually, they bundled up to enjoy a stroll along the waterway. The moon was high in the sky, lighting up the route, the trees and the distant snow-capped mountains.

  Gibson wondered about his brother-in-law. Was something going on?

  * * *

  David spent the rest of the day in his garage toying with his tired blue Jeep. He had just added the final coat of polish on the faded yellow and orange sun depicted on the hood. His wife had confiscated the garage for her car, so he was allocated to the driveway where the sunlight had beat the hell out of the paint job. He heard a vehicle stop at the curb. The door squeaked opened and then slammed shut. David looked up fearing the worst. The handlebars peeking out from the cargo bed were from a Specialized mountain bike, orange with white stripes, brand-new. Shit. Tim came around the rear of the truck dressed in his riding outfit, long sleeve jersey shirt and pants. On top of this, he had a full storm trooper set of body armour with shin, knee and elbow pads for protection and a baseball cap. He swung his LED bike light by his side.

  “Hey. Ready to ride in the dark?” Tim asked, kicking his foot in the gravel in the annoying way he always did. “Jason and Nick are coming.”

  “Don’t think so.” He wasn’t up to listening to all their bullshit. Not after today’s events. He continued rubbing at the polish, ignoring Tim.

  “Why not? What’s the problem?”

  “Busy.” David kept his eyes averted knowing Tim had a lot more to spout.

  “What were you telling that detective?” He moved in closer to his prey.

  “Nothing.”

  “You better not mention anything about the fight,” he warned and narrowed his eyes. “Or did you already spill the beans? I think you did.”

  “What! That the ‘golden boy’ is a troublemaker,” David countered and then added, “capable of who knows what.”

  Tim stepped in tight to David and glanced over his shoulder. Probably to make sure no one was watching his antics.

  “Better not say anything. Don’t make this personal.” His lips quivered, hands fisted at his side.

  David bumped into the bucket as he fumbled backward. It tipped onto the drive and spilled the last of the soapy water.

  “Look what you did.” He stepped forward. “The truth will get out no matter what I do or do not say.” The snarl on his lips tempted Tim to make a foolish move, but he abstained and twisted away.

  “You, asshole.”

  Tim jumped in his truck and spun out his tires.

  David turned to see Jackie standing at the top of the stairs. Her cotton top hung loosely over her slender frame. She had that Mediterranean appearance with her aquiline nose, almond-shaped eyes and olive-bronzed skin. Her Scandinavian straw-like blonde hair was twisted into a bun. The mixture of cultures made it easy to look at her.

  “What a jerk.”

  “Frigging ass,” he growled. His body vibrated uncontrollably from the confrontation.

  “What else can you say?”

  “Nothing,” David conceded as he cooled down. He picked up his rag and continued buffing the hood, more resolutely than before.

  Chapter 13

  Gibson was sitting behind his desk at VIIMCU, the major crime unit. The inconspicuous building was located on Dallas Road in a row of commercial type structures. From his million-dollar view, the open ocean stretched before him. The sailboats below were mere drops of colour. In the distance, the majestic Olympic Mountains seemed to soar out of the strait. Snow on their caps stayed all year round with sunlight glinting off the whiteness.

  The three-storey low rise was made of concrete and mirrored glass. Thousands of panes cast back the diversity of the street and the sun’s golden rays. The front entrance had no signage to reveal its government designation. Big glass doors opened into a spacious lobby. A modest cafeteria for the force was tucked in the corner of the building on the first floor. Few civilians were allowed so the seats were filled with employees. The rest of the floor held the Forensic Identification section where the crime scene unit processed fingerprints, DNA, hair, fibres and photographic evidence. The third floor contained the newly set up Bomb Squad. A specially trained Vancouver team used to take the ferry over if the situation
called for defusing an explosive. It had been a waiting game that took up to nine hours to get the job done. Now Victoria had its own unit to handle detonations. It made sense and was a relief to police officials.

  The second floor was Gibson’s realm. It was partitioned into several rooms at the front, and a huge boardroom and interview chambers at the back. His office was a small elegant room with soft carpeting, blue-grey surfaces and lots of light streaming in from the many windows. There were prints in silver frames hung on one wall. His desk faced the corner window and was efficiently organized with stand-up filing racks and a laptop. Beside it were an extensive filing cabinet and a bookcase. At the door there was an old-fashioned hat and coat rack that he had discovered during an expedition down Fort Street on Antique Row. He had several men that served under his guidance. Scottie and three detective constables had their offices across from him.

  His supervisor, Police Chief Rex Shafer, worked out of the central station on Caledonia Street. Rex rarely interfered with the operations at the major crime unit but always kept his finger in the pie. He would give opinions, ask questions and wanted to be informed of any progress. Requests for assistance from other districts came in occasionally, and Rex had no compunction about sending someone from the task force to go.

  Gibson sunk into the softness and sweet smell of his leather armchair and inhaled its richness. Just as he picked up his cell to make a call, the landline buzzed.

  “Gibson.”

  “What have you got so far?” It was the police chief. “I heard something I don’t want to hear.”

  “Okay.” His boss was all political so he knew what was coming next.

  “Don’t turn this into a hate crime. We don’t need that. Understood?” Rex asked gruffly. “Follow the money. That’s my motto,” he added with confidence.

  “Yes, Chief,” Gibson conceded. He always complied. Then he let the investigation take him where it led.

  “Okay. Keep me posted,” Rex said, pacified for the moment. “You have Gunner on the case?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Good,” the chief said and hung up.