STORM ROLL: a Canadian murder mystery series

by KATHY GARTHWAITE

  “Did you visit Robbie’s friend Aaron?” David asked, rolling his neck. They could hear a distinct crack. He grinned.

  “Not yet,” Gibson said. “Do you have time for a chat?”

  David glanced at the vacant parking lot.

  “I guess.” He flashed a smile. Small wrinkles appeared on the outer side of his eyes as he looked at the detectives. He made a decision to divulge all. So he told them; he told them everything he knew. He described Tim as a bully who made rude jokes, intimidated people by standing close and making inappropriate gestures. Tim’s favourite target was Robbie. He pestered and stalked him around the yard. He also tampered with Robbie’s belongings and equipment. But Sunday was the first quarrel that had become physical. David staggered back a step to lean against the wall and tilted his head into the structure. The two detectives remained still as they listened to this tale of bullying in the workplace.

  “So, what was different?” Gibson asked, although he had a good idea.

  “Well, it started when Tim called him Robin,” David faltered, maybe doubting giving it all up. But he was tired of keeping it all in, always fearful of the repercussions. And maybe it was Tim who had killed him. So he continued.

  “Robbie was dressed as Robin from Batman.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Anyway, he didn’t take it this time and called Tim a homo.” David clenched his teeth as he went on. “Twink. Robbie screamed out Twink and then all hell broke loose.”

  Gibson had seen this before. The victim eventually stands up for himself and it turns into a brawl.

  “So I wasn’t lying. I don’t know if Robbie is gay or not.” He looked down at his boots and spread out his hands in surrender. “I really don’t know. He kept it to himself if he was. But like I told you before, his best friend would know.”

  “Thanks.” Gibson squeezed his shoulder in appreciation and sympathy.

  “Sure.” David shuffled his feet, his posture wilting. He walked away. Minutes later the jeep roared to life with a sputter and rattle. He waved to them as he pulled into the street, the exhaust rumbling loudly.

  “It’s been a long day. Let’s go home,” Gibson said.

  They settled in the truck and crawled across town. A growing number of vehicles swarmed around them as they inched their way closer to Brentwood Bay. He flopped back into his seat as Scottie took care of the rush hour traffic.

  “I wonder if Ellen realizes how much bullying Robbie put up with at work,” he murmured.

  A hint of a frown crossed Scottie’s face. She had been thinking the same thing.

  “This bears all the classic traits of bullies in the workplace. The offensive jokes, the insults, the intimidation. I could go on and on,” Gibson continued with his argument. “We really need to take a closer look at Tim.”

  Scottie didn’t comment. She thought the bully factor was there, but had it led to murder? No, she didn’t think so. But she let her partner ramble as much as he wanted to and turned up the volume on the radio. Gibson stared out the window. A few trees that still had foliage hanging on the tips of their branches were turning a golden hue. The rain-soaked leaves magnified the brilliance of the sun as it slunk lower in the sky. He realized Katherine hadn’t called all day. A tightness in his chest gripped him as his concern heightened. He reached into his back pocket, squirming in the seat to dig out his cell and dialed home, waiting patiently while it rang. After seven rings, he punched the hang-up button and clenched his fist into his mouth. She must be immersed in her studies for the final. He glanced skyward and emitted a long, slow breath.

  Chapter 17

  After getting dropped off by Scottie, Gibson remained in the driveway for a moment to admire his home. It was a sixties bungalow with a shake roof and weathered wood siding. The trim around the doors and windows was painted a blue-grey. There was just enough colour to give a clean line but also allow the house to fade into the background of greenery. The fir trees towered over the yard, blocking the morning sun. But the westerly view from the front, encompassing the entire bay, made up for the absence of light at the back.

  He opened the door to the sound of subdued music floating from the study. After shrugging off his boots, he shuffled along the hallway in his thick woolen socks. He paused momentarily to peek in the room, not wishing to disturb Katherine and her notebooks. She was leaning forward in the chair, left elbow braced on the mahogany desk. The wood had a lovely patina that enriched its warm complexion, the same lustre as the hair spilling over Katherine’s arm and brushing the wispy grain. She stared intently at a page packed with columns of numbers. With a coloured pencil in her right hand, she slowly scrolled down the sheet, occasionally making a heavy red check mark on the border. He went through to the kitchen and debated his next move. An easy decision. Off to the café. Then a spin around the bay. He changed into his boating attire and made his getaway through the back door.

  The Seaside Café was gearing down for the day, but he spotted his good buddy sitting beside the window that hung over the water—Gibson’s favourite spot. Jesse Players was looking beyond the boats, kayaks and canoes lying on the wooden dock. His gaze sought the ocean sparkling in the sunlight. Ripples formed on the surface by a gentle breeze. A mug of coffee cupped in his hands was almost empty.

  “Hey.”

  “Have you got time for a drink before you go out in your kayak?” Jesse asked with a grin.

  “You bet.” Gibson snorted. Jesse had him pegged. He pulled out a chair at the end of the table and sat down.

  The waitress came hurrying over with a pot of coffee. She leaned against the table top with her hip and ventured a guess.

  “Coffee?”

  “Please.”

  Gibson sat back and smiled at his buddy. The men had been friends back east. Jesse had moved here years before, and they had lost touch. Gibson had been on a solitary stroll when they bumped into each other on the waterfront path. It was a nice surprise for both men. As they became reacquainted it was clear they had lots in common. Hardly a week passed by and they could be seen in serious discussion at this same table, chatting for hours. It was developing into a strong friendship.

  Jesse had worked in investment banking on the Niagara Peninsula before retiring to the west coast. He no longer dressed in tailored suits or sported short business-style hair. Now he wore jeans and chunky sweaters. His cropped hair had grown into a brown wavy mane that touched the top of his rumpled shirt collar. And the polished Italian shoes were exchanged for well-worn sneakers. Despite an acrimonious divorce, a playful smile was still planted on his face. His soft hands had turned hard and calloused from outdoor play. His days were occupied with kayaking, hikes and to slow it down a bit, some reading. He volunteered at the university in the business department as a mentor. Occasionally he helped Katherine with her studies by coaching her in his area of expertise.

  Gibson captivated his buddy with some of his more compelling cases—with discretion. He figured this was one of them and was curious about Jesse’s perception of the murder. He summarized a skimpier version of the facts so far, of which there were few.

  Jesse directed his gaze back to the sea watching the blues and greens of the incessantly flowing water dance with the light.

  “Someone who commits a hate crime is prejudiced toward another individual for lots of reasons. Race and religion come to mind. This crime does appear to be against a person’s sexual orientation.”

  “Okay.”

  “Or the killer’s belief that this person was gay,” Jesse said. His gaze was concentrated at a spot halfway to the window, making his eyes appear crossed. His eyebrows gathered together in contemplation. “If it is a hate crime, that is. You’re the detective.”

  Gibson’s ears picked up this last remark, paying no heed to the dig. Jesse’s divergent interpretations always entertained. He pondered the prospect that the killer just assumed his victim was gay. An alternative take on the issue. That’s why he liked meeting with him. He mulled over his friend’s opinion a
bout this being a hate crime or not. He was convinced it still was.

  “See you later.” Jesse stood up, rapped his knuckles on the table and took off for home.

  Although Gibson would pass this new concept by Scottie, he wasn’t sure it made a real difference. Being gay or not could be irrelevant. People often detest things they perceive are truths even when they are lies. He tapped a finger against his lips thinking everything through. Other motives needed to be explored too. He decided not to get fixated in one direction and push away his preconceived theory about this crime. That path could muddy the waters. But it was hard to maintain an impartial mind when he thought of that little shit, Tim. He rattled his brain to knock out the internal conversation. His coffee had become cold. He glanced up at the clock, paid his tab and trekked down the dock to drop his boat in the water. He paddled in and out of different nooks enjoying his freedom. An hour had gone by and the light had faded. A sudden shadow was cast over him and his kayak. He looked over to the western horizon and realized the sun had dropped below the ridge of mountains. Time to get back.

  * * *

  Katherine was still hunkered over the scattered books on the desktop, pencil in hand. Her elbow was in the same position as before, but now it sagged a little lower. Gibson crept by and stepped into the kitchen. Crushed green peppercorn emanated from the oven. He opened the door to investigate. The aroma of shepherd’s pie assailed him along with a blast of heat. His mouth watered, and he felt pangs of hunger rumble in his belly. He slipped into the study, approached his wife, leaning over to lay an affectionate kiss on her already puckered lips. He received a warm welcome.

  Gibson came up for air.

  “I’m ravenous.”

  Katherine’s face lit up with pleasure.

  “The pie.”

  She jabbed him in the arm with her pencil, and they headed to the kitchen. Gibson got out the wine glasses while she filled their plates to overflowing and a salad on the side. They sat at the oval table and dug in. Andrew, Heather and Scottie’s current girlfriend were the subjects of their gossip.

  “Heather has a thing for Andrew, but…” She stalled, fumbling for words.

  “That’s women’s business,” Gibson said and held up a palm to ward off love talk.

  Katherine propped her chin up with a hand and chuckled. It was a comfortable meal with scrumptious food, a red wine from the Okanagan and a wife who seemed relaxed. After dinner, Gibson whistled while he loaded the dirty dishes in the sink. Katherine retreated to her study. She closed the door behind her, blocking out anymore distractions.

  Depleted from the day, Gibson went to bed. The warm quilt was comforting as he nestled into its folds, shielding him like a silken cocoon. His head dropped to the pillow, and he dreamed of mountains and water. And his kayak.

  * * *

  Unbeknownst to Gibson during the wee hours of the morning, two patrolmen were dispatched to investigate a commotion at the university near the unsanctioned camp. A homeless man had been severely beaten, the caller said. By the time the officers arrived, most of the campers had dispersed. They took what witness statements they could, then left to write up their report.

  Chapter 18

  Gibson’s lean figure was silhouetted against the rays streaming through the tinted window. The intensity of the November sun all but obliterated the hint of grey in his sandy hair. There was a power in his tall posture. A suggestion of resolve played across his smooth-shaven face. His stare was set on the opposite wall, not discerning his surroundings. A wandering cloud blocked the light momentarily. He shifted his gaze toward the intrusion on his reverie. The billowy mass scurried off, returning brilliance to the room. Instantly he closed his eyes against the onslaught and turned away.

  The office had been quiet all morning. Most of the detectives were on assignment or active with separate cases. He could hear someone across the hallway shouting down a phone. Probably Gunner. After a short time, he gradually opened his eyes again, adjusting to the elevated level of brightness. He saw Scottie standing at the entrance, reluctant to break his meditation. She had a paper clutched securely in one fist and a bag in the other. Abruptly he moved from the window and sat behind the desk. With an elbow resting on the surface, he unconsciously rubbed at his crooked nose. His partner moved into the room.

  “What’s that?” Gibson pointed to the scraps of paper. With a wave of his palm, he gestured for Scottie to sit.

  “The name and address of Robbie’s friend from the conference.” She raised her hand. “And coffee.” She grinned and dropped heavily in the leather-clad chair. She took two lattes and two cinnamon buns from the sack, placing them on the desk. He raised his eyebrows but didn’t make a move forward. Instead, he pulled out the lower drawer and propped his feet on the corner. Then he slumped further into his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. He ran his fingers through his hair and fiddled with his collar. Scottie pushed a coffee and bun within Gibson’s reach.

  “How’s that for service?” She chuckled.

  They were content to sit in silence and enjoy their snack. Scottie leaned back. She watched the patterns of light ricocheting off the bird prints mounted in thick silver frames and figured it was Heather’s artwork. The pinpricks of brightness flickered rapidly around the office like a strobe in a darkened nightclub.

  “We have found no reason for someone to want Robbie dead.” She searched Gibson’s charcoal eyes waiting for the rebuttal. It came swiftly.

  “Hate crime,” Gibson retorted, thrusting his chin upwards in self-righteousness. Then he lowered his chin almost as fast. He had pledged yesterday he would maintain an open mind. Oh well! But what did they know for certain? It was time to review what they knew. Robbie had biked to work. He had been struck on the back of his skull. With a bat. Probably kneeling down to tie a loose shoelace. He quarrelled with his spouse regularly. Everyone in the maintenance division was either a bully or was bullied. Two witnesses may or may not have seen something.

  Not much of anything.

  Scottie put both elbows on the desk and interlaced her hands. Gibson pitched his empty paper cup in the trash basket. He wiped the crumbs off the surface into his palm and tossed them in too. Then he thought of another possibility.

  “What’s Nick up to? He was shaken up when he saw the condom. Was he involved with Robbie sexually?” He stopped and let this idea whirl around in his mind. “Without passing judgement, Nick’s wife is so, so.” He gestured his hand, side to side. What did he mean by that? A husband would cheat on his spouse because she was plain looking? With another guy? He was losing it.

  Scottie shifted her weight in the chair, her backside numb from sitting still and uncomfortable with those kinds of thoughts.

  “Let’s go for a ride,” Gibson said as he pushed himself to his feet.

  They set off in Scottie’s vehicle, heading east to the Rockland area. The streets criss-crossed at random and changed names at district lines making navigation difficult. At last they drew up to their destination. It was a substantial two-storey mansion built in the 1900s, a fine example of the Arts and Crafts architectural style. Samuel Maclure, he concluded. A cross-gabled roof with flaring eaves, a gable dormer, exposed soffits and double-hung leaded-glass windows dominated the design. The detailing was amazing with decorative tooth-like dentils on the fascia boards and large stones circling the foundation. The cladding was a combination of cedar shingles and narrower lap siding.

  The detectives admired the house before they walked up the broad stairs leading to the veranda. It was framed by great square posts. The solid red oak door had recessed panels with clear bevelled glass inserted at the top. Once upon a time, this dwelling had been a private family residence. Now three bells were lined up beside the glass. Alongside each was a handwritten name inserted into a decorative brass plate. The first bell was labelled ‘A. Fraser’, the individual they were seeking. As soon as Gibson pressed the buzzer, the door swung open. A young man rigged out in a leather jacket with a red wool s
carf hanging loosely from his neck almost ran into him. He had tousled brown hair and a dark bushy moustache that drooped down the edges of his mouth. At the moment, it was turned down in a gruff scowl.

  “Aaron Fraser?” Gibson asked.

  “Yes. Who are you?” He took a step forward but neither of the detectives made any effort to move aside.

  “We’re with the major crime unit. May we speak to you for a moment?”

  They both flashed their badges.

  “I was just heading back to work,” Aaron said. He glanced at his watch and pursed his mouth disapprovingly. “What is this about?”

  “Do you know Robbie Spencer?”

  “Yes. Robbie is a good friend.” Aaron froze. “Has something happened?”

  “Robbie was murdered.”

  He bent over as if he had taken a bullet in the gut.

  “Oh my God.” He covered his mouth with both hands and closed his eyes. “I saw him last week.” He paused and sucked in some air. “I can’t believe this.”

  Setting a hand on Aaron’s arm, Gibson guided him inside. The entrance opened directly into a room as beautiful as the exterior. A massive fireplace with an extensive oak timber on top extended out two feet and overshadowed the entire space. The gilded mirror above it looked as if it had hung in a castle from the last century. The mantel was loaded with photos in metal frames. A jeweled chandelier left behind from glorious days hung to the side, misplaced by the partitioning of the house. The furnishings were masculine, simple and elegant.

  Aaron flopped heavily into an armchair by the door. His head fell against the velvet brocade. The golden threads of the rich woven fabric picked up the light above his head. Gibson chose a seat across from him and rested his palms on his thighs. Scottie stood close to the hearth and scrutinized the faces in the snapshots.

  “Who? Why?” He lifted his head and looked over to Gibson. His brown eyes had welled up with tears. He coughed to clear his throat and hold off his despair.

  Gibson told him what had happened at the yard, trying to keep out the gory details. The glow on Aaron’s cheeks faded to an ashen hue. He clamped his hands into a death grip and held them on his lap. When Gibson suggested that Robbie was gay, he protested.