She fiddled with the radio knob until she found a soft rock station playing a song by a local group that had made it big. The silence between them was effortless and pleasant. He settled into his seat and looked out the window. Clouds drifted across the sky with the gentle breeze. Aspen trees bordered the service road that ran alongside the canal. Their quivering leaves intercepted the sunlight periodically. Two ships met and passed each other. One rose high in the water. It would be empty, heading back to the St. Lawrence River and to places remote. The other one was heavy, fully loaded. Small waves licked the Plimsoll line stamped on the hull. He speculated what the payload was. He closed his eyes, sensing Eckhart peeking over to him. At the motel, she threw the gears into park and turned to him.
“I—”
“Pick me up at eight? Same place?” He grabbed her hand and squeezed.
“You bet.” She gave him a demure smile.
* * *
After a dinner alone in the motel restaurant, Gibson went back to his suite to unwind. He settled on top of the tousled bed sheets fresh from a shower. He was intoxicated with a sense of freedom that he had never felt with Katherine. Was it real? He had been tempted to jump in and find out, but—the fact that there was a but had stopped him. His cell chirped. It was Scottie, Sergeant Cruickshank, his partner in Victoria.
“Hey, I was just going to phone.”
“Sure.” Her laughter reverberated through the line and overflowed into the dreary room. Like birdsong, it created brightness.
“No, really.” He sat up, fluffed the pillow and melted into its softness. He spread his limbs out and crisscrossed them at the ankles.
“Will you be back by the weekend? You thought—”
“No,” he answered quickly.
“Oh, matters aren’t progressing smoothly then.”
“The worst. A homicide was thrust onto the Task Force, and the unit isn’t set up properly yet.”
“Yikes. So, what are you looking at?”
“I suppose I’m here for at least another week,” he said. “How’s it going there?”
“Nothing exciting happening here. Just catching up on some reports.” Scottie paused. The tone of his voice made her curious. “Have you spoken to Katherine?”
“Yes.” The lie slipped out fast and easy.
“She’ll be fine,” Scottie said, her voice equivocal.
“I’m sure. Got to go. I’ll call again soon.”
“Guess what, Billy? I phoned you.”
The giggle was ear splitting this time. He yanked the cell from his skull. Why did she persist with that nickname?
“All right. See you.”
His phone chirped as soon as he hung up. He looked at the screen and groaned. It was the call he feared. Should he answer? Of course. He had to. No. He would let it go to voice mail. Collect himself and call back. Coward.
“Hi, sweetheart.” He answered on the seventh ring.
“Hello.” Katherine’s pitch was charming with a hint of amusement. “Only three more days.”
Gibson studied the print on the wall, a hotchpotch of colours. A meadow? Flowers? After merely a moment’s hesitation, he announced in his most dismal voice, “I’m trapped here longer than expected. There’s been a murder.”
“What? You can’t. It’s not your problem.” Her tone drew tight with controlled irritation.
“They’re counting on me. You don’t miss me anyway,” he said in his dreamiest voice.
“I do miss you.” Her intonation thawed. “I suppose it’s okay. I am awfully busy.”
“What’s up?” he asked, immediately suspicious, his guilt playing at the back of his mind.
“I have interviews.”
“Oh.” He relaxed and slumped heavier into the bed.
“Yeah, wish me luck.”
“You’ll get the perfect job. Don’t you fret.”
“Okay. Talk to you later.” Katherine disconnected the call before he could respond.
That was a first. Usually she dragged the conversation on, refusing to disengage. He closed his eyes and descended into an uneasy slumber.
Chapter 9
Gibson woke up early, leaped out of bed and rolled his neck back and forth making it crack. He got ready to face the day and stepped outside to a splendid morning. The deluge had turned the thermometer down. He relaxed at the same table in Just Roasted Cafe and ordered a coffee and a toasted bagel with cheese. After his second cup, he glanced at his watch. The Expedition showed up soon after. Eckhart greeted him with a gentle smile.
He jumped into the vehicle and settled into the soft leather. Two sheets of paper were balanced on the centre console. He glanced at Eckhart.
“Not a lot of detail. It’s just the basics. The top one is about Mr. Hugh Tatlow.”
“Anything out of the ordinary?” Gibson asked as he glanced at the page.
“He was in the armed forces. A career man.”
“Married?”
“Yes, but his wife died. And the baby too.”
“Whoa. That’s brutal.” Gibson thought about Katherine’s miscarriage with her ex-husband. Not entirely the same, but still. He picked up the second sheet. Plenty of tragedy lived on Lawsons Lane.
“Should we go to the station first?” Eckhart asked.
“Let me call Frenchy,” Gibson replied. He punched in the lab number and waited. She didn’t answer. He cradled his cell in his palm. “What do—” A chirp interrupted him.
“Gibson.”
“I was in the midst of something,” Frenchy said.
“That’s okay. Any news about the prints?”
“I can’t lift them yet.”
“Okay. What about the software program?”
“My guy is still working on it. Uncertain what the issue is, but...”
“Okay, Frenchy.”
“Don’t worry. It’ll happen.” She hung up without waiting for a retort.
“Nothing new.”
“I figured that,” Eckhart said. She inclined into the bucket seat and glimpsed at the wispy clouds gliding along peacefully, non-threatening. She looked down the road, her thoughts wandering elsewhere.
“So, Lawsons Lane?” Gibson asked.
“Okay.”
The trip down the lane wasn’t dusty this time, but a light wind was kicking up from the lake. Eckhart cruised to the end, swinging into the last entrance. The house loomed up ahead. It was a grand two-storey Queen Anne Revival building with a turret at the front corner overlooking the lake. The hipped roof with cross-gables reached toward the sky. Elaborate fish scale siding covered nearly the entire exterior facade. Several windows on the lower level had stained glass. A sweep of steps led to a veranda with lacy spindles adorning the posts and railings.
Gibson punched the bell. A melodic song rang out. The door was opened by a broad man with grizzled hair. His brown eyes were kind with a hint of sorrow on the margins. Not as creepy as the kids made out. The furrows etched on his features supported his tragedy—a profound loss. The lines softened when he smiled.
“It’s about Elsie,” he said, gesturing them into the formal vestibule.
The walls were embossed with velour to the wainscoting. Someone had created mahogany built-ins. The parquet flooring was polished to a mirror finish.
“This is a lovely house,” Gibson said.
“I bought it for my partner and...”
“Sorry for your loss.”
“It was a long time ago,” he said and flapped it off with a toss of his hand.
Nevertheless, it still hurt, Gibson guessed.
“I expect you heard that Elsie was murdered. It wasn’t an accident.”
“Mary mentioned it. Across the lane.”
Grandma.
“Did you see anything?” Gibson asked.
“I was returning from my nightly stroll when the fireworks started.”
“From the beach?”
“No. Down the street and back.” He paused. “I was hiking up my drive when I overheard some
squabbling. It was Elsie and Anatoe.”
“Did you hear what they were talking about?” Now we know it was Anatoe for sure, Gibson thought. He glanced at his partner. She smirked.
“Something about Savannah. It was none of my business.”
Gibson waited. Eckhart scratched in her journal.
“They both left. Not sure who went where. I saw another fellow come along, but he split right away.”
That would have been David.
“That’s all I can report. If I had realized...” Mr. Tatlow sighed.
“How could you have possibly known what was going to happen?” Gibson said, his soft intonation giving the man some solace.
Mr. Tatlow made a noise of acknowledgement.
“Thanks for your help. We may talk to you again.”
Gibson walked down the drive, suddenly aware that the wind had dropped altogether. They hopped into the truck and headed down the lane.
* * *
“The Underwoods lost their only child ten years ago. Katie. Apparently, she drowned. What a shame.” He fingered the paper.
Eckhart spun into the next driveway. It was an ordinary clapboard dwelling as divergent from Mr. Tatlow’s place as day to night. Large trees loomed over the yard and heavily shaded the lawn. The gardens were pleasing with bundles of annual colour. Climbing roses on the face of the house blossomed in a rich pink blush. The front entrance didn’t have a portico and stood open to the weather. There were no fancy scrolling or railings on the scant landing. Chairs dotted the grass in groups, for the most part in the shade. He knocked on the door. Mrs. Underwood answered, glancing at the emblem on their vehicle.
“Hello. Come in.” She signaled them to the living room. All the furnishings were spotless and tasteful. The essence of spices wafted from the rear. “It’s the detectives.”
“Coffee?” Mr. Underwood rose from his loveseat and gestured to a couch by the window. He sat back down.
“That would be nice,” Gibson said. He sat and looked out the window toward Grandma’s house. Eckhart perched next to him.
“I won’t be a moment. Bear with me.” Mrs. Underwood scurried down the hallway, soft footfalls resounding in the small space.
“She’s an excellent cook.”
Gibson smiled. Eckhart reached for her journal, ready to take notes.
Mrs. Underwood came back with a big tray. “I have sandwiches too.” She arranged the works on a table between the two seating arrangements. After everybody was established with a plate of food and steaming coffee, she sank into the loveseat. The couple remained close but not touching, linked by a force that flowed between them.
“Did you make it to the fireworks?” Gibson asked.
“No. We didn’t go,” Mr. Underwood said.
“It was ten years ago to the date we lost our child,” his wife said matter-of-factly.
Although he was aware of the story, Gibson felt his heart strike his rib cage.
“Katie had gone out on her bike with friends. A day like today. Perfect.” Mrs. Underwood inhaled sharply and went on. “She was with Savannah from the store. Jackie was at her grandma’s house that weekend, as well.” She pointed across the street.
Gibson’s heart darted around his chest, seeking for a place to stash his emotions. Eckhart sat straight, mouth drawn. It was painful to listen to Mrs. Underwood speak in such a neutral manner.
“I presume the girls separated. I discovered Katie’s bike at the top of the beach stairs. The police suggested she had drowned.” She shrugged. “We never recovered her body. What could we do?”
The detectives sat still.
“It’s okay. We’re okay.” She reached over the coffee table and touched Gibson’s sleeve. He was reluctant to look her in the eye. When he did, he didn’t see the emptiness he was expecting, but hope—hope that Katie was at peace. His heart settled into its appointed spot.
Mrs. Underwood squeezed his arm and smiled a smile that brought memories back. Gibson swallowed hard. This was what heartbreak felt like. He had experienced it once before when his younger brother had committed suicide. A tear threatened to expose him. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” He perched on the brink of the couch.
Mrs. Underwood glanced skyward and exhaled. Mr. Underwood patted her hand.
“Thank you for your time.” He pointed a chin at Eckhart and rose. “And the snacks.”
Gibson wasn’t certain what he was feeling when they left. Despair? Hope? Guilt?
Eckhart looked distressed.
“Late lunch?” he asked.
“Yeah. How about the Mansion Pub? I love their Reuben sandwich.”
Eckhart fired up the engine. The drive downtown was quick. The traffic had thinned considerably. She discounted the ‘No Parking’ sign in front of the pub and parked with the truck’s nose touching the sign. They ordered the same as the last time. Gibson rested back in his chair and looked at the mirror behind the bar, thinking things over.
“Anatoe claimed he was getting a beer from Felton’s house,” Eckhart said.
“And nobody noticed him.” Gibson took a taste of his burger.
“That’s right, but David told us he thought Anatoe and Elsie were arguing by the landing. Although he wasn’t a hundred percent positive, Mr. Tatlow was. Anatoe doesn’t have an alibi. None that we have found yet. Why would he be quarreling with Elsie? Why go to the beach to start a fight with her? What would be so important?”
“That’s a lot of questions,” he said.
Eckhart wiped mustard off her mouth with a napkin and looked over at him. “Could it be that he just wanted to go out with her sister? That sounds so lame.”
“We’ll ask him again.”
“He won’t tell us.”
“We’ll see,” Gibson said.
“Maybe the ring is his?”
“Could be.”
“What about the Grimsby guys? Are they connected?”
“We’ll check them out, too.”
Eckhart plucked out her journal again and found the name she was looking for. “John Terry Henneberry. He’s the president of that fraternity club. Should we phone ahead?”
“No, I think we’ll make a surprise visit,” Gibson replied, a small smile playing on his lips.
“Where has Gregory been? That’s a problem. Don’t you think? It’s been a few days since anyone has seen him. Is he the killer and we’re just letting him go?”
“I haven’t forgotten about him. Maybe he went to Grimsby,” he said.
“He should know that we would want to talk to him. After all, he found the body.”
“We’ll track him down. One way or the other.”
“Okay. What about Mr. Tatlow?”
“He seemed harmless enough,” Gibson said. “Or is he the monster the kids insist he is?” He didn’t really think that was the case.
“Right. Who do you truly know?” Eckhart tempted him with her deep pools of blue. “You deserve a nightcap after listening to all that stuff about death on Lawsons Lane.”
“I do.” He knew what he was about to do was wrong, but he wanted this.
Eckhart chattered as she drove. Her laughter was like a songbird. He drank it all in, savouring the moment. She parked in the driveway and they scampered up the steps two at a time. A moon hung over the lake, spilling a silver light into the room. She held out her hand, and he took it. The kisses were long and deep. All thoughts of the future melted away in the heady lust. Afterward, he lay beside her and let himself dream of a different life.
Chapter 10
It had been a warm night with barely a breeze to cool his fevered body when Gibson stole his way out of the townhouse. He had taken one last glimpse before he closed the bedroom door, the moonlight shimmering on her smooth skin. Now he waited in the café for the Expedition to come round the corner. Eckhart smiled at him as he hopped into the truck.
“Hi, handsome.” Her voice had a trace of huskiness that wasn’t there yesterday.
Gibson felt at ease. She wo
uld always know what to say.
“It’s time to see what the husband has to say,” he said. Even to his own ears that sounded weird.
“I agree.” She giggled like a school girl and glanced at him sideways, a faint curve of her mouth lingered.
Eckhart drove out of town and shortly after pulled into Jacobs Landing. She lined up the Expedition in front of the general store. Someone had ripped dead flowers from the terracotta urns and thrown them on the ground. They strolled under the covered passage—honeysuckle and purple-flowered clematis vines clinging to the lattice trellis—to the small forties bungalow at the back. It was isolated from the house next door by a tract of meadowland. He punched the buzzer. The peal reverberated inside. There was no other noise until the slapping of rubber echoed along the hallway. Savannah opened the door.
“May we come in?” Gibson asked.
“You’re the detectives?”
He nodded.
They accompanied her down a short corridor, pictures covering the walls with their life. Gibson swept his eyes over the black and white and sepia photographs. Savannah led them to the kitchen, the sweet smell of coffee brewing. The room was bright and cheery, painted a bold yellow. Behind the glass-fronted cabinets was a mishmash of chinaware, doubtless collected since the fifties. A simple folded tea towel dangled from the oven handle. The rustic table took up most of the tiny space with old chairs crowded around. Probably antiques now.
Todd sat at the head of the table and nodded in their direction. He was dressed in the uniform of the grieving—sweat pants and a T-shirt. His hair was unruly, but he had shaven. A weighted look dragged his skin down in pale folds. Gibson hauled out a chair and sat down, glancing out the window to the fields beyond. Eckhart perched on a seat beside him. Savannah plunked down and brushed at her forehead.
“We’re sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.” Todd’s lips were drawn in. A glassy look told them his spirit had retreated inward as well. Where else could he flee?
“Did you make it to the party?” Gibson asked.
“No, I was working on the books. I planned to make it before the fireworks started, but...”
“Someone heard Anatoe and Elsie arguing. Any idea what that would have been about?”
STORM ROLL: a Canadian murder mystery series Page 24