Murder On Vancouver Island

by KATHY GARTHWAITE

  “By whom.”

  “I expect he meant the workers, because he flapped his hands over to the maintenance yard. He said he sees this guy riding his bike all the time from there.”

  “So you assume he was referring to Robbie?”

  “Yeah. So we asked him if he saw the biker this morning. But he said no.”

  “Anything else I need to know?”

  “We checked out his pack to see if he had Robbie’s wallet. He really put up a fuss about that. Saying stuff like we’re tampering with his personal property and constitutional rights.”

  Gibson raised his eyebrows.

  “Scottie told us it was missing before she dispatched us.”

  “Okay. Did you find anything?”

  “He had a lot of cash which was peculiar in itself but no wallet,” Gunner said. “So we left him and knocked on more doors.”

  “Go on.”

  “We found a neighbour that lives right next to the maintenance building. He saw a homeless guy hanging around.”

  Gibson looked up with interest.

  “We questioned him further, and he backed off. Said they all hang out at the garbage bins. It sounded like the gentleman was just complaining. I don’t think he saw anything in particular yesterday morning.”

  “Okay. We’ll get back to him if we need to. The camp probably isn’t involved. What would the motive be?” He paused. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. A man on the other side of the park was walking his dog early yesterday morning,” Na said. He checked his notes before adding, “Around six o’clock. He saw a truck parked on the main boulevard. It had writing on the door, but he couldn’t read what it said. He didn’t have his glasses on. And he wasn’t sure if anyone was in the truck. Anyways it didn’t seem suspicious to him.”

  Gunner barged in, “Too vague to be any help right now, but we have him in our report in case he remembers anything solid.”

  “Keep looking. Something will show up when you least expect it.”

  “You bet. We’ll canvass the area again. Not everyone was up yet,” Gunner said.

  Gibson was slumped in his chair already thinking of other stuff—Robbie’s spouse. One of the worst things about the job was questioning the victim’s partner. Not usual for the wife to kill her husband. But it happens. Gunner and Na sensed this was the end of the conversation. Gibson was rubbing his face and staring off at nothing. They pushed their chairs away from the desk and quietly left the room.

  * * *

  AJ had arrived extra early for work because yesterday had been cut short with all the excitement. Turmoil expressed it better. He had an extensive project to finish by the end of the week. After an hour of hammering on metal plates, he got a craving for nicotine. The clock hanging by Tony’s office chimed six. Still time before the guys would roll in. He grabbed his pack of poison and slipped out the back for a brief puff. He sucked in the smoke deeply, inclined his face skyward and streamed out broad, perfect circles. After a few minutes, a shiver shot up his spine from a brisk breeze whipping around the corner. He tossed his butt on the ground, crushed it with the toe of his work boots and swung the door open to get back to work, to the warmth.

  A whack on his head sent him sprawling with a face plant to the cement floor. His eyesight blurred and everything went black. He awoke with a ringing in his ears and someone tugging on his shirt sleeve.

  “Are you okay?”

  It hurt to open his eyes. The dim overhead lights shone as if someone was directing a spotlight on his face. He raised his chin slightly and felt his brain reel. Stars drifted into his vision.

  “AJ,” Keith said.

  He attempted another look—the stars had retired. His brain stopped spinning.

  “I’m fine.” He patted the back of his hair and fingered a tacky substance.

  The assistant supervisor helped him to his feet.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. Somebody thumped me when I came back into the shop.”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “It’s nothing. Forget it. I’m good.” AJ shrugged him off and escaped to the restroom. A gash on his forehead leaked blood down his cheek, leaving a bitter metallic taste at the back of his throat. He bandaged the laceration on his face, but there was nothing he could do about the bump on his head except pop a few aspirin.

  Keith was hovering near the door, but AJ pushed his way by and headed to his workbench. He beat on the metal feverishly in spite of his pounding head, wondering who had done this to him. He twisted his mouth into a scowl and turned his narrowed eyes toward Keith—get out and shut up.

  Chapter 14

  Gibson went back to the window to shake the foreboding thoughts from his mind. His preoccupation with husbands and wives brought Katherine to mind. Was she busy in her greenhouse today? Or sitting on the bed crying for things past? Slowly he focused on an enormous cruise ship docking, perhaps returning from an Alaskan trip. He watched as taxi after taxi drove into the terminal to stand by in a lengthy line of vehicles. Suddenly Gibson realized the breeze had dropped to a peculiar stillness. Sailboats that had been flirting with the wind and waves now puttered to the harbour with their mainsails and jibs furled. A soft tap on the door caught his attention, and he turned towards it.

  “Hi, Billy.” Scottie stepped into the room and approached him.

  “Should we go see Ellen this morning?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Gibson grabbed his jacket, and they made their way down the stairs, past the unoccupied receptionist desk and out the front door. They hopped into Scottie’s truck and headed to the suburbs. The vehicle hummed through the side streets. He stared out the window and let his eyes stray over the landscape. The trees were silhouetted against the pastel blue sky. Under the naked branches, shed leaves made a pulpy mass. A few juncos scratched through the grass for gnats and bugs. Nuthatches and chickadees flitted from one tree to the next, always on the move. A squirrel ran in front of the vehicle. Scottie avoided the little guy with her superb reflexes, barely blinking an eye. She rambled on about Ellen and Robbie’s marriage. How did the condom play into their relationship? Was he cheating on her? Gibson saw the sideways glance she risked to determine if he was taking notice. He grunted in reply so she went on chatting about the kids and the effect this would have on them.

  “They’re too young to understand that,” Gibson said.

  “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “The condom,” he replied and gazed momentarily at Scottie. Her Roman nose in profile emphasized the prominent high bridge and looked remarkably like the curved beak of an eagle—a sign of beauty and nobility.

  “Oh, I meant his death.”

  Gibson picked up on her meaning and became silent again. She turned down Henderson Road, pulled up to the curb and shut off the motor. They exited the truck and strode down the pathway to the wooden veranda. No children were playing on the grass. Gibson hadn’t noticed much when they visited yesterday. Now he saw that the house had a fresh coat of paint, a creamy shade of white. The porch was a darker grey than the trim. As he climbed the steps, he saw peeling paint under his boots. He wondered who would complete the work. Lily opened the door in response to the bell. She twirled down the hallway, leaving them waiting helplessly on the veranda. He could hear a muffled drone of a television in the direction the little girl had retreated. No sweet smells of baking this time, just an uncanny hollowness.

  Ellen came out of the living room, dragging her chewed up pink slippers along the carpet. She was dressed in sweatpants, her hair hanging limply in greasy strands. Her face was puffy and drawn with a jaw clenched tight. She showed them into the room. Two large couches dominated the area with a fireplace on the far side. She perched on the sofa closest to it. Was she expecting to feel warmth from the unlit fire? Gibson wondered. The giant pillows swallowed her fidgeting body. He chose an armchair that faced her. Scottie lingered in the background, standing with a notebook and pen ready.

&nbs
p; “We have a few questions for you today,” Gibson said. “Can you tell me about the party? Did the whole family go?”

  “Party?” Ellen fluttered her eyelids as she looked up at him.

  “The Halloween celebration,” Gibson reminded her.

  “The kids came with us. But I took them home early. Robbie stayed.”

  “When did he get in?” Before she could respond, he added, “And when did he leave for work?”

  “He got in around midnight. I think he left at his regular time. Sometime after six.” She twisted a damp handkerchief in her hands.

  A truck rumbled by and shook the windows in its wake. Gibson looked out to the street. Ellen had gone quiet.

  “Is there any other family besides his half-brother?”

  Ellen raised her chin, her face streaked with a mixture of mascara and emotion. “Oh no. Jeff. I forgot. He doesn’t know yet.” A frown appeared as she pulled on the arms of her chair.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll talk to him.” Gibson sprung out of his chair to stop her motion.

  “There’s no one else. Just me and the kids.” As she spoke, a torrent of tears drenched her cheeks.

  He stole a glance toward Scottie. They left Ellen to her emptiness.

  Chapter 15

  Foul Bay Road was just around the corner. Scottie pulled to the curb and parked. They walked up the cracked sidewalk to Jeff’s house. The garish green and yellow gables, powder blue handrails and turquoise trim were typical décors for this gentrified neighbourhood. Scottie knocked, paused and waited for an answer. She knocked again. Gibson noticed there weren’t any vehicles around. He tapped her forearm and gestured to the driveway.

  “I don’t think anybody’s home.”

  Then the door swung open. As skinny as Robbie had been, his half-brother Jeff was substantially bulkier. His pants hung loosely below the waistline. Matted brown hair was plastered to his forehead and a whisper of a tattoo peeked from under his tee-shirt at the shoulder. Was that a flying pig? Scottie towered over him by almost a foot. The contrast in their heights emphasized the man’s stocky build.

  “Jeff Stewart?” Scottie questioned, a little gruffly.

  “Yes. What do you want?” Jeff asked with exasperated impatience.

  “It’s about Robbie,” Scottie said, toning it down. “May we come in?”

  “What about him? I’m kind of busy.”

  “He’s dead,” Gibson butt in.

  “What?”

  “Murdered.”

  “That’s bullshit.” Jeff stepped back. His mouth opened and closed like he was gasping for breath. The sickly smell of instant sweat assailed their nostrils. His eyes flickered, and he turned into the house. Without an invitation, they followed him down a narrow hallway to a miserable living room. The mixture of stale cigarettes and musty air stopped their breath short. The lighting was mute and made dimmer by the smoky atmosphere. Only a single ray of sunlight found its way past the drab curtains, possibly drawn closed to block out prying eyes. The stark furnishings called attention to the dinginess of the space. There was an overstuffed couch with frayed armrests and burn holes in the cushions. A tattered blanket was draped down to the floor—doubtless where Jeff had been napping. Rickety second-hand chairs and a coffee table covered with greasy plates and overflowing ashtrays completed the scene. The drape jammed on its warped wooden pole as Jeff pushed on it with some difficulty. Finally a glimmer of light forced its way through the dirt-laden windows.

  Jeff waved them to sit. Walking across the carpet sent clouds of dust flying. Scottie clamped her mouth tight and pulled her palm over her nose, barely inhaling—fearful of foreign debris floating into her lungs. Jeff flung himself back onto the couch, snatching a cigarette and drumming it on his thigh. The detectives sat squatted on the edge of their chairs, hoping not to stain their clothes or worst—find bugs crawling up their pant legs. Scottie opened her notebook and produced a pen from an inside jacket pocket.

  Gibson started by saying he was sorry for his loss. He rapped off the traditional rhetoric begrudgingly. There was an unpleasant quality about Jeff.

  “We didn’t get along particularly well,” Jeff snorted.

  The detectives remained silent. Not only to stop themselves from saying something regrettable but to see if Jeff would continue talking. Bingo!

  “But it’s shocking. We talked sometimes. What happened anyway?” Jeff flogged his cigarette on his leg more forcibly.

  Gibson gave him a lowdown of the crime leaving out details that only the killer would know. Jeff pulled away from the onslaught of ghastly facts, his ruddy complexion paling quickly. His feet jiggled on the worn-out rug. He plucked up a lighter off the coffee table, and then tossed it back without any thought.

  “Do you play baseball, Jeff?” Gibson asked. The tone of his voice revealed his dislike of the brother—half-brother.

  “Sure.”

  “Robbie was struck with a bat.”

  “It wasn’t mine!” The pitch in his voice had gone from bass to alto.

  “Were you at the party with Robbie?”

  “Yeah,” Jeff answered, uncertain how one question had led to another.

  “So you hung out occasionally as well it seems,” Gibson said. “Tell me.”

  Jeff leaned forward, twirling the cigarette in his fingers. The slightest curve at the corner of his mouth appeared, a coldness crept into his eyes.

  “Ellen invited me. She’s always trying to get us to mend bridges.” He paused and peered at them. A smirk playing on his face showed yellowed teeth. “So I showed up at the party in my Sunday best. Cause you never know. I hooked up with this nice young woman.” He showed a voluptuous shape with his hands, gave a wink and settled back in his chair with an exaggerated casualness.

  Gibson set his steel-grey eyes into a stony stare.

  “What’s her name?” he barked.

  “I don’t know. The lady was in a costume,” Jeff said. “But then she split all of a sudden. I don’t know why. Anyway, I went home.” The grin had vanished. He tossed the unlit cigarette onto the table and played with the silver earring hanging from his pierced ear.

  “And the next morning?”

  “I was here. Sleeping. The girl split like I said.” He dropped his gaze, rubbing his forehead to mask his chagrin.

  Just then Gibson’s phone buzzed.

  “Gibson.” He escaped from the stifling room and stood in the hallway.

  “Jocko. Here at the lab.”

  Gibson closed his eyes and waited for the news.

  “The blood on the bat is from Robbie Spencer. I got a good set of prints from the handle. There was also a sticker on it with initials. JS.” Gibson heard him shuffle paper. “Oh yeah. Nothing interesting with the backpack. Only Robbie’s blood.”

  “The condom wrapping?”

  “No prints.”

  “What. Isn’t that kind of weird?” Gibson groaned.

  “Somebody wiped it.”

  “Oh, really.” He thanked Jocko, hung up and stepped back into the gloomy room. He looked at Scottie and said, “Get his prints?”

  “What? You can’t do that,” Jeff protested.

  “I think the bat is yours. There’s a label on it with your initials. So yeah, we have good reason to take your prints.”

  “It’s not mine.”

  But they got his prints nevertheless. Now with some physical evidence, they went hunting for prints from everybody possible.

  * * *

  Katherine was in the greenhouse with Heather, steaming mugs of chamomile tea warming their palms. Wispy bangs tickled the side of Heather’s left cheek. She leaned forward with interest as Katherine spoke, unfolding her legs and adjusting the folds of her red dress.

  “Chamomile is an excellent herb for combating anxiety and depression,” Katherine said. She had spent a sleepless night tossing and turning—many sleepless nights. She was trying to get the business diploma she had deserted a long time ago. As the exam date got closer, the knot in her gut got
bigger.

  “You know a lot about herbs,” Heather said. “I love cooking and should use them more.”

  Katherine sensed that her friend wanted to draw the conversation away from her despondent spirits. But she was in a melancholy mood and could not be swayed to alter her gloomy state of mind.

  “I’ve been thinking about my ex.” A crease was forming between her eyebrows as she talked. She rubbed at it to release the tension, but it wouldn’t go away.

  “Oh, Katherine,” Heather exclaimed. She had been strumming her nails on the side of her mug. This remark caused her to stop midway to the next tap and look intently at her friend.

  Katherine waved a hand backward to ward off the sympathy. She rubbed at her forehead again, trying to erase the subsequent thought.

  “And my miscarriage. It was awful.”

  A blush fluttered up Heather’s face. She pressed her lips together and picked at her nail polish nervously. Katherine ignored her friend’s weird reaction and carried on with her story.

  “Just living with Arthur and his bullying started my panic attacks. Then the…” she floundered, stopping her thoughts midflight. Her mouth went dry. She felt a shiver run up her back and a clammy sheen break out on her cheeks. But she was beyond crying at this point so she squeezed her eyes shut and blurted out the ending.

  “I lost the baby.”

  Heather reached over and stroked her friend’s trembling hands with tender caresses. Her touch was warm against the dampness of her friend’s skin. Before Katherine could speak, she raised a finger to her mouth and shook her head. There were no words for this moment. Heather remained still as her friend fidgeted on her stool. Katherine scrunched up her face and then released the tension, struggling to regain composure. As her apprehension eased, the wrinkles that had appeared around her lips smoothed. She gave Heather a timid grin, breathed in deeply and pulled her hands away.

  “I’m okay. Let’s talk about the gourmet cook.”

  “Yes, this gourmet cook needs lessons on infusing herbs into her creations.” Heather blew out a giant exhalation of pent-up breath and took a sip of her cold tea.