STORM ROLL: a Canadian murder mystery series

by KATHY GARTHWAITE

  “Have a seat. This will barely take me a moment.”

  Gibson and Eckhart pulled up chairs and sat. The receptionist opened several drawers before locating the correct carton. “We’re scanning everything into digital files. But we haven’t made it to the ‘Cs’ yet. It’s a slow process.” She dumped the binder on the tabletop. “If you need his spouse’s register, we’ll have to move to the dungeon. It was so long ago.”

  “Pardon me.” Gibson’s chin shot up. “Margaret?”

  “Yes. His wife was a substitute teacher way back when. That’s how they met. She gave up the job when they got married.”

  “I see,” Gibson said.

  “Do you need it?” she asked.

  “I suppose we do.” Gibson locked eyes with Eckhart.

  “Well, have a gander at that. I won’t be long.” She jiggled the keys. “Have to pick up the ancient ones.” She sauntered out the room laughing, a delightful chuckle.

  The detectives pushed their chairs close together, knees touching, and huddled over the file. Gibson picked up a cardboard jacket marked prints.

  “Really. That simple.” He opened the package gingerly and drew out the card with Felton’s imprint. It was a perfect print and hadn’t smudged over the years.

  “Awesome.”

  Gibson put the card back in the envelope and set it aside. He flipped the pages carefully, tracing down the edges with his fingertip. A criminal records check was on the top. There were plenty of performance reports and wage hikes. Then a discipline letter got his attention. He thumbed through it.

  “It’s an incident with a pupil. Fifteen years ago. It’s very vague about what happened, and there was no action taken against Felton,” he said.

  He skimmed through a dozen more evaluations. There was nothing striking, nothing that caught his eye until he turned to the final sheet in the folder.

  “What have we here?” Gibson asked. He knocked his knuckles on the table.

  “They fired Felton,” Eckhart said as she peered at the letter.

  “Yes, so it seems.”

  “Sexual misconduct. They granted him a pass the first time.”

  “Not as tolerable in the ‘Me-too’ environment,” Gibson replied.

  The door handle jangled, and the receptionist breezed into the chamber, her flowered skirt flowing behind. “Got what you were searching for?” She smirked.

  “Why are Felton’s prints here?” Gibson asked.

  “Let me clarify why we have his prints. We have every teacher’s prints. Actually, every applicant. The Criminal Records Review Agency does a records check on everyone that applies for a job with the school board. And not only teachers but all staff. They take the prints but only run them through the RCMP data if something relevant shows up during their enquiries. Something like a DUI. Felton’s prints are still here because he had no kind of unlawful history and nothing came up while he was on staff. It’s as simple as that. We continue to conduct criminal checks this way to be fair to both the staff and the students. Rarely does an unsavoury person get by us.”

  “Can we keep the prints?”

  “What prints?” the receptionist asked.

  Gibson realized she didn’t like Felton but didn’t want to get herself into trouble either. That was cool with him.

  The dungeon was a floor below, a windowless basement. It didn’t smell musky but was cool and well lit. The receptionist trotted at a brisk pace, her crepe soles making a soft squelching noise. They clip-clopped after her down the narrow corridor, single file like children do. She halted in front of a grey steel door, her shoes squeaking from the abrupt motion.

  “Let me figure out what room it is. Haven’t been here in a while.” She referred to a note in an alloy frame beside the entryway. “Nope, not this one.” She proceeded along and considered two more placards before announcing, “Here we are.”

  When she opened the door, a light turned on immediately. It was a limited space comparable to a storage locker. Boxes piled to the ceiling leaned precariously on the right side. She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ll leave you to it. Come visit me before you take off.” She spun around and asked, “Will you find your way out?”

  “I expect so. I left behind a trail of breadcrumbs,” Gibson said.

  The receptionist grinned, her lips lifting upwards. The beam reached her eyes. “Good luck.” She thought of something else and pivoted toward them. “Margaret’s maiden name is Sayward.”

  She retreated down the hallway, the squelching sound providing her whereabouts.

  “Nice lady.”

  “Yeah. Where do we start?” Eckhart asked.

  Gibson tugged at his collar and gaped at the containers. They were labelled, but the years had faded the ink. He passed his palm along the stickers, pressing them back in place as he worked. They hauled down boxes and examined their contents. The search went on for ages as they dismissed irrelevant files. Finally, Eckhart yanked out a binder with ‘Margaret Sayward’ faintly imprinted in blue.

  “Got it,” she said. Her hands shook as she flipped it open. There were two formal letters and a brown envelope. “Her resume and acceptance letter. And behind door number three.” She tipped the sleeve and a print card dropped into her palm. “Ta-da!”

  “All right. We’re set,” Gibson said and tucked the treasure into his front pocket with Felton’s.

  “But Felton is lame and Margaret is fat. Pardon my politically incorrect terminology,” Eckhart said.

  “That’s true, but at least we have two prints to run we didn’t have a few hours ago. You never know,” Gibson said. He agreed with Eckhart and didn’t expect the prints to bring them any closer to a murderer, but it chased the day away. One more night and a morning.

  Eckhart curled her pale pink lips and rolled her eyes. They clambered up the concrete steps. At the halfway point, Gibson’s cell chirped. He looked at the text.

  “They picked up Todd. I guess there isn’t any mobile coverage in the basement. They got him an hour ago.”

  “Okay, that’s something,” Eckhart said. They were going in so many directions, it was making her brain spin. She just wanted something to pan out. They climbed the rest of the stairs and found their way back to the front desk without any problems.

  “Thanks for everything,” Gibson said.

  The receptionist offered a shrewd grin and retired to her keyboard. The clacking of keys was fast and steady.

  The heat struck like a tsunami wave as Gibson opened the main door outside.

  “Holy shit. It’s sizzling out here,” Eckhart said. The Expedition sat where she had left it hopped up on the curb. The waves of heat off the hood were visible even from the top of the steps. They held the truck doors open for a few minutes to let the hot air escape. It fired up admirably, and soon frosty air flowed out the vents. Eckhart slapped the dashboard. “Good truck.”

  Gibson sat back and depressed the lever at the side of his seat, allowing himself a few more inches of space. His spine felt compressed by the session of tugging heavy boxes off towering ledges.

  “Let’s shoot the prints over to the station first.”

  “Okay.”

  Gibson plucked his cell out. He had it in a front pocket this time. The call dispatched to voicemail after ten rings. “Damn. Frenchy isn’t there.” He glimpsed at his wristwatch. “Oh, it’s six already. Guess someone has a life.”

  “Not us,” Eckhart said.

  He dialed another number. When Cooper finally answered, Gibson spoke for several minutes before disconnecting the call.

  “What’s going on with Frenchy?” Eckhart asked after he hung up.

  “She went to a concert in Toronto with Reggie.”

  “Really? What did Cooper say about the prints we found?”

  “Not a lot. He was surprised. Hey, we missed lunch today and I’m ravenous. What about you?” On cue his belly rumbled.

  “Sure. Where to?”

  “The Mansion House. It’s near the police station. We can nip
in there afterward.”

  “That’ll work,” she said. “Should we give Rodney a heads up as well?”

  “I’ll shoot him a text. Undoubtedly he’s left the office.”

  “Yeah.”

  * * *

  It was seven by the time they dropped off the prints and headed back to town. It was Saturday night, and the streets were crawling with people dining out and pub hopping. The lone theatre had a queue that vanished around the corner. There wasn’t one spot to park either so Eckhart hit the police lot.

  “Should we go in first?” Gibson asked. His stomach growled in revolt with no means to muzzle the noise except to feed the beast. “Forget it. Let’s dine.”

  Even as the sun dipped lower in the sky, the intensity of the day ebbed slowly. They zipped down the sizzling pavement to the pub. A live band pumped rock ’n’ roll, country style, into the street. They grabbed one of the last free tables, happy to sit still at last. It looked as if the waiter was overworked so they sat back and enjoyed the music while they waited. Their server finally came over, and Eckhart ordered a wine while Gibson asked for the on-tap house beer. The burgers would get there when they got there. What can you do? Gibson checked the screen when his cell chirped. It was the superintendent.

  ‘Excellent job, you guys. Call me in the morning.’

  Eckhart leaned in so she could read the message.

  “Cool.”

  Their food made it before long, and they ate in silence, enjoying the band. Gibson drummed on his thighs to the rhythm. At the windup of the first set, they headed outside to a cooler night air. The sun’s stifling rays had perished behind the escarpment in the west. They walked back to the station to see about a visit. Gibson rang the bell and held up his badge to the camera as he spoke to the dispatcher.

  “We would like to visit Todd Webber.”

  “No can do,” the officer responded.

  “Okay. Why’s that?”

  “Lights out at 2100.”

  Gibson glanced at his watch. The glare of the spotlights directed at the entrance made it challenging to see the glowing digits.

  “Right. In the morning then. Thanks.” He swung to Eckhart. “A hell of a day. Drop me off?”

  “Sure.”

  Gibson rolled down his window and let the coolness flood his fevered skin. He gazed up at the sky and saw a shooting star zip through the constellation Sagittarius. It hung low near the southern horizon with the Milky Way spread as an immense ribbon of luminosity in the background. He wondered if Katherine had seen the flash.

  “There you go,” Eckhart said as she pulled up to his motel.

  Gibson skipped down the passage to his suite. He flopped into an armchair and tossed his cell on the duvet. His hair was slick, and his face had a glossy sheen from the day-long oppressive heat. He wanted another shower to cool his thoughts. Thousands of droplets bombarded his skin as he stood under the refreshing water. The sensation consoled his mind as a weariness overcame his body. He collapsed into bed, tired as hell. A soft snore flooded the room as he let go of the day. Even the phone pressing into his ribs when he rolled over didn’t disturb his rest.

  Chapter 20

  Nighttime surrendered to the dawn. The soft light snuck through curtains left partially open, slanting onto the bed sheets and licked Gibson’s sunburnt face. He was buried in sleep. The sun broke clear of its boundary, and the rays tumbled into the suite. He drifted into consciousness and smoothed his tired eyes. He squeezed his cheek to the flattened pillow.

  His cell chirped. ‘Soon. Katherine.’ He drew in a breath and texted back. ‘Not soon enough.’

  Gibson showered again and put on the last clean shirt he had and his wedding band. Packing his bag took two seconds and he was out the exit. The fresh morning air was still. There would be no cooling breeze to break the sweltering fever that the amber sun promised for the day. He looked for the sparrow as he strolled down the sidewalk. The bird flirted with his hair as she bustled past. Gibson chuckled and continued to the café. He grabbed a coffee and waited on the patio for his ride. The Expedition stuck its snout into the street fifteen minutes later. He hopped in and threw Eckhart a quirky smile.

  “Is Frenchy in the office?”

  “Not yet.” She stared at his hand.

  “Should we go visit Todd first?” Gibson asked.

  “You bet,” Eckhart replied. She sped downtown in record time and parked in the same spot as the night before, twirling the keys in her fingers.

  “We should run Todd’s prints first. Do you concur?”

  “I do.”

  The desk sergeant directed them to an area at the rear of the building. “His lawyer’s here.”

  Loud voices stole down the corridor. They followed the sound to an interview room on the left where a frenzied conversation was going on.

  “Hello.” Gibson knocked on the door, and it swung open with a squeak.

  “This is a confidential conversation.”

  “No. Let them in. I want to know what’s going on,” Todd said and jumped out of his chair.

  “Don’t say anything,” a small man with neat hair said.

  “To hell with that. I didn’t kill my wife. Why would I?” Todd’s shrill voice ricocheted off the lead-coloured surfaces. He slumped back into his chair. A scuffle exploded into the room.

  “What’s happening here?” Savannah demanded as she ran to her brother-in-law.

  “Sorry, sir. I couldn’t stop her,” an officer said as he rushed up behind the frantic woman.

  “It’s okay. Let her be,” Gibson replied.

  The officer shuffled back to his duties at the front.

  “Everybody have a seat. Let’s get this straightened out.” Gibson’s cell vibrated in his back pocket. “Excuse me a moment.” He stepped into the hallway. The scrape of metal legs on linoleum followed him out as everyone settled in.

  “Gibson.”

  “It’s Frenchy. I received your message. I’m at the office.”

  “That’s great. Could you do Todd’s prints first? We’ll be standing by,” he said. “Thanks for coming in on such short notice.”

  “No problem.”

  Gibson disconnected and entered the stuffy box. His forehead took on a glossy shine almost at once. He scanned the faces at the table. Todd sagged heavily in a chair between his lawyer and Savannah. He looked a mess, but it was his raspy breathing that unsettled Gibson. His lawyer sat up straight with a briefcase and a straw hat by his hand. He shuffled the paperwork that he had laid before him on the tabletop. A fine tailored suit of grey matched his eyes, a lustrous patina of burnished metal. But the neon red in his striped tie clocked him a rebel. He tapped his polished black loafers on the crumbling tiles impatiently. Savannah sat on the brink of her seat, knotting her fists under her knees to control the desire to strike out at the enemy. The scowl on her pink mouth made her look ten years older. Eckhart sat quietly, but the glint in her blue eyes exposed her mischievous spirit.

  Gibson selected a seat by the recording equipment and considered his options.

  “Let’s do this off the record,” he finally said. He looked up to the top corner of the room and made sure the red button on the camera wasn’t on.

  “Off the record? Seriously,” Eckhart retorted.

  Gibson glanced at her as she opened her mouth and hissed in dispute. Her pink lips paled as she nibbled on a pencil. He arched his steel-grey eyes and locked onto her indignation. She flipped her hair and strummed her nails on the blemished wood. Todd leaned forward, but his lawyer seized his arm attempting to block his progress. He sought to tear away.

  “Be quiet,” his lawyer said and tightened his constraint.

  Gibson’s cell chirped, and he glimpsed at the screen.

  “It’ll be all right. Let him talk,” the detective said, throwing a nod of promise to the lawyer.

  There was a wild look about Todd. His slept-in clothing shouted a stench from the gutters. The pallor of his skin looked worse than the last corpse he
had seen. Gibson clenched his teeth, thinking the last corpse he had seen was Elsie.

  “Why did you meet up with Josephine? Are you having an affair?” Gibson asked calmly, his pit-bull having a nap.

  “No. Nothing like that.” His lips smacked when he spoke. He planted his elbows on the table and pressed his fingers on his forehead. Beads of perspiration dribbled down his temples, reeking of fret. “I couldn’t stand it any further.”

  “Stand what?”

  The lawyer touched his client’s shoulder.

  “JoJo wouldn’t stop phoning. I told her it had been a mistake. I told you that earlier,” Todd said. Even his swollen eyes were pale.

  Gibson waited to hear more and Todd obliged.

  “I went there to make it perfectly clear to her that nothing was going on. To leave me alone. I love Elsie.” The sweat flowed liberally and intermingled with his tears. His body heaved with anguish, with a heartache that would never leave.

  Gibson almost felt sorry for the man, knowing that he had not been the perfect husband either. It wasn’t his job to judge.

  “We ran your prints already. They’re not yours. You’re free to go,” Gibson said, catching everyone off guard.

  Savannah let out a wail and swept Todd into a hug. Eckhart walked out of the room. In a snit? Gibson wasn’t certain.

  “Sorry,” Gibson said.

  “I’m glad we’ve cleared that up. Thank you,” Todd’s lawyer replied.

  The gentleman shook hands. Gibson left them to their sorrow.

  Eckhart was already out the station. He jogged after her. “Hang on.” She scorned him. “What’s wrong?” he called out. She banged the truck door and fired up the motor. He hopped into the passenger side.

  “That’s it.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve run out of suspects.” She glowered at him, awaiting the rebuke.

  “Sometimes—”

  “Yeah, I realize sometimes the case goes unsolved.” She mimicked him with a growl deep in her throat.

  His cell sounded again. ‘Not Felton.’

  Eckhart snatched his phone and glared at the screen. “Right.” She tossed it into his lap and reeled out of the parking lot. The Expedition rumbled down the street, taking corners with considerable velocity. Gibson pushed into his seat and kept his eyes and mouth sealed. She squealed the tires onto the tarmac and slapped the gear into park. He remained inert, waiting for the storm to ease. She glimpsed at him.