STORM ROLL: a Canadian murder mystery series

by KATHY GARTHWAITE

  “Watch it.”

  “Tim’s your nephew.” The words rushed from her mouth before she could stop herself. Her fuse simmered and fizzled like a firecracker. She bit her tongue and winced at her unprofessional manner. Then she flashed the Cheshire grin in atonement.

  “So what!” Tony retorted, his hackles standing on end.

  Besides hiring your relations, nothing, thought Scottie. Then changing subjects, a modicum of geniality sweetening her approach.

  “Well, we’ve learned that your safety meeting was… shall we say, slack.” Getting no reaction, she continued, “People coming and going as they pleased.” She said it with honey on her tongue although the loathsome fat swine made her seethe.

  “No idea what you’re talking about,” he said. Spit spewed from his mouth.

  “Sure you do. We know that AJ left for a puff.” She barked it out. That didn’t last long. Back to vinegar.

  “AJ was hardly gone a minute.” Tony gnawed the inside of his cheek, the taste of blood filling his mouth. His gaze flicked to the other building.

  “Oh. So you noticed and didn’t tell us?” Scottie asked. “Besides, you weren’t even in charge of the meeting. Maybe you skipped out.”

  A protracted silence followed before Tony spoke, fire in his eyes and on his tongue. “I didn’t leave.” He scratched the bald spot looking for the hair that had taken flight years ago. “Nobody else did either.”

  Scottie felt the vibration emanating from Tony’s shaking limbs.

  “Any washroom breaks?”

  “No.” Tony turned brusquely and raced across the courtyard. “You got it wrong,” he shouted over his shoulder. He swung the door open and escaped up the stairs.

  Scottie groaned and kneaded her forehead, trying to forestall a headache pulsating at her temple. She had meant to ask about AJ getting hit over the head.

  A hammering sound coming from the workshop brought her back to the present. She was surprised when she entered the building to see the welder bent over at the farthest workbench. He must have slipped in by the rear door while she was pre-occupied with the supervisor. Was the door left unlocked? Did he have a key? Did everybody have access? Scottie moved in closer and watched as AJ beat the red-hot surface of the bracket, willing it into shape.

  Patiently she stuck around for a gap in the clanging, to catch his attention. As she remained planted in one spot, her mind whirled with unanswered questions. She plucked out the journal to jot down reminders. The maintenance trucks. Who drove them after hours? What else? She tapped her pen on the book thinking of other issues. She glanced around the workshop, biding her time and feeling brain dead. A frigid gust of wind from an open window sent a paper bag scurrying by. She followed the abandoned brown sack as it tumbled across the cold cement floor. It hit the wall and stopped below the line of mostly empty hooks.

  A shiny moss-green puffy parka caught her eye sitting all alone on the last rung. She stared at a spray of miniature spots that dotted the front of the jacket. A perplexed look washed over her face until what she saw kicked into her rational mind. This wasn’t dirt. Her instincts told her it was something more. She yanked out latex gloves from her pocket and slapped them on. A whiff of copper struck her nostrils as she fingered the parka—the scent of blood. She couldn’t know if it was from an injured finger or spatter from the murder weapon. She tugged on the collar. On the inside, faded initials were marked with a black Sharpie, TRS.

  “Where did this come from?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know.” AJ swung from his bench to face her.

  “Whose initials are these?” She pointed at the letters. Anticipation sent a nervous kind of energy tingling through her to her fingertips.

  He gave a half-hearted shrug and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  Scottie placed the jacket back in its place, tore off her gloves and fumbled in her pocket for her phone. Two calls—forensics to dispatch a crime scene technician promptly, and the inspector.

  As Gibson rode over to the maintenance yard, he was thinking about something else. Who was the blurred person in the Facebook picture? He would have to examine the photo again—with a magnifying glass. Looking up, he saw the clouds piling into a sinister mass. His eyebrows converged into a singular clump. The creases on his forehead would become permanent soon. There were so many unanswered questions. He squeezed his fists on the steering wheel tighter. He pulled his F150 by the garage doors next to a white Chevy with grey lettering on the door. He wondered if Scottie had questioned the dog walker about the truck yet. He added that to his mental list of things to find out. They were all working overtime. All his team were pursuing leads, sorting what might be relevant and what was insignificant. They were painstakingly hunting for any evidence—a direction. This jacket could prove to be the turning point.

  A van pulled onto the gravel and parked next to him. It was a crime scene guy, Raymond Dolinski, transferred in from Alberta. They stepped out of their vehicles in unison. The technician’s outfit was neat and clean which was a tough thing to manage in his line of work. He looked stern with a curled upper lip and flared nostrils, but his eyes crinkled at the corners in a smile. He saluted his superior with a snappy flick of his hand. Gibson gestured back with a beam of acknowledgement. People assumed Raymond was a prickly individual because of his exterior appearance, but he wasn’t.

  They entered the shop together, one man trailing behind the other. Scottie was seated on a stool with her cell stuck onto her ear. She bobbed her head several times and muttered a few words before she hung up. She pointed to the rear wall where the bloodied jacket stood in plain sight and unpretentious.

  “Could you make this a top priority, Raymond?” Gibson asked.

  “You bet.” He plucked a huge evidence bag out of the case he was carrying and shoved the parka inside, labeling the outside with a black Sharpie. “Okay. I’ll be on my way.” He slipped out. They could hear the pinging of stones hitting the metal sheathing as he sped off.

  “Down to earth guy,” Gibson said.

  “I think Jason and Tony are in the upstairs office.”

  They crossed the courtyard and flew up the now familiar stairs. Behind the closed door, a heated discussion drifted into the hallway. Scottie knocked loudly to get a reaction. The entrance swung open with Tony still holding the handle. He stretched over, balancing on the edge of his seat almost to the point of toppling. With some effort, he corrected himself and drove his chair into the floor with a smack. He bared his teeth. Jason was seated sideways at his desk with his feet spread out in front and hands behind his neck. He had a haughty sneer that formed hollows in his cheeks. When he saw who his visitors were, his lips tightened. With a flick of his hand, he pointed to the low bench under the notice board. Gibson dropped onto the hard surface, wishing he had stayed standing. He sat uncomfortably with his knees touching his chest. Scottie stood by the exit, arms held at her side. The room was cramped with four bodies. Tony made a move to leave, but Gibson waved him back.

  “Need a word with both of you. We found a bloodied jacket. Any guesses whose it is?”

  Tony and Jason exchanged a fleeting glance but remained silent.

  “There’s an insignia on the shoulder with one hundred and fifty under a Canadian flag,” Scottie spoke up. “Does that help?”

  Tony was gazing in all directions. To the bulletin board, the mounted diplomas and the ceiling fan. He made no eye contact and bit at his nails.

  “That was a special order for the Confederation anniversary. We all got one,” Jason said.

  “What about you? The jacket was in your shop?” He fixed his stare on Tony’s double chin.

  Tony raised his palms in a ‘don’t know’ gesture and returned to examining his nails.

  “A few got worn out. Some guys took them home,” Jason said, trying to be accommodating.

  “What about the initials inside the collar?”

  “What are they?”

  “TRS.”

  A trickle o
f sweat rolled down Tony’s temple and gathered at his chin. He pulled a tissue from a hidden pocket in his shoddy sweatpants and wiped his face. He stole a glance toward Jason. For a moment they locked eyes.

  Gibson noticed the mute communication but didn’t understand what it meant so he guessed, “Tim Sanderson?”

  “I suppose.” Jason brushed a fleck of imaginary dirt from his neck.

  “Anyone else with those initials?” Gibson let the crew names flash by his vision. He came up with another name.

  “Tony Sarcone.”

  Tony folded his arms over his stocky trunk. “I don’t have a middle name. No R. And it’s Anthony.” He barked out a laugh. The room resounded with the heavy bellow.

  “What’s Tim’s middle name?”

  Tony snubbed him.

  “Don’t know,” Jason said. His half grimace contorted his features.

  “Where is Tim working?”

  “He wasn’t feeling well and left early.”

  “Okay.” Gibson cast a look over to his partner.

  “What do you know about AJ getting hit over the head?”

  “What? Where?” Jason sat up.

  “He got taken by surprise in the workshop.”

  Both men were rendered speechless and folded into their chairs.

  “Any ideas who would do that?”

  “Is he okay?” Jason asked. “He should have reported it.”

  “We’re looking into it. We’ll talk again. Let’s go, Scottie.”

  Gibson battled to get off the bench and almost stumbled when his leg cramped. They trotted down the steps and hopped into the truck.

  “Where are we going?” Scottie asked.

  “Tim’s place.”

  * * *

  Scottie fired up the truck and roared down the street to Brentwood Bay. She manoeuvred through the light traffic and reached Hagan Road in record time. They parked on the grass verge because there weren’t any curbs in this part of town. The house they were looking for was one house up from the corner. It was a nineteen fifties post-war structure with the typical white clapboard siding and black asphalt shingle roofing. The window trim was a deep shade of purple. There were no lights on and the drapes were drawn. No one answered the door when Scottie knocked. She tried again, banging louder with her fist. Nobody was home.

  “I thought he went home sick.” Gibson lingered on the porch. He was sure this was a hate crime and Tim was the killer. He wasn’t willing to leave in a hurry. Maybe the guy just popped up the street to a store.

  Scottie could tell that Gibson was digging in about the hate crime hypothesis. She was doubtful the jacket proved anything. But she wasn’t the boss.

  “A homeless guy could have taken it from the garbage bin,” Scottie said. She couldn’t stop herself from speaking up—never was a wallflower.

  “It looks brand new. Who would throw it out?”

  “Could have been scooped at the party?” Scottie suggested.

  “Then what? Returned it? And why? That sounds absurd.”

  “They don’t lock doors around there. People are in and out of that place like characters in a movie.”

  The wrangling went on. Who had access to the coat? Why did it show up now? Why not fling it away—far away?

  “Here’s a theory that meets all the criteria,” Gibson said. He wasn’t giving up his bully assumption to something else that easily.

  Scottie scrunched her face into a ‘here it comes.’

  “Tim was trying to get rid of the jacket. He thought nobody was around and was going to throw it in the back bin, but AJ walked in on him. So he whacks him over the head, puts the jacket on the closest hook and splits. How’s that?” He grinned at her.

  Scottie didn’t see it that way so she said nothing. After ten minutes of standing around, there was still no sign of Tim. Gibson fumbled in his pocket for his cell, his fingers turning numb.

  “Jocko. Anything further? We’re at Tim’s house.”

  “No. Scottie phoned me not that long ago. Nothing has changed.”

  Jocko sounded perturbed.

  “But don’t worry. I’ll stay until I get the test results. I’ll call you,” he said somewhat abashed, remembering that Gibson had let him off the hook about the misplaced prints.

  “Okay, thanks.” Gibson glanced at his watch. He had lost all sense of time. He shivered from the bitter cold, the bite of the wind forming small bumps on his arms.

  “We can’t stay here all night,” Scottie said. The cold reached into her bones.

  Chapter 23

  The snow was falling heavily soon after Gibson dropped Scottie at the station. He advanced through the city streets, exited the freeway and manoeuvred through the side lanes. Five inches had accumulated and stuck to the surface, unwilling to melt. Visibility reduced by the driving sleet made him bend forwards into the windshield. There were no snowplows anywhere in sight. As the silver dust drifted around his slow-moving vehicle, he felt shrouded by an aura of solitude. Few cars shared the road with him, more were abandoned in awkward angles along the curb. No people, no footsteps or paw tracks were imprinted in the powder that collected on the sidewalks. He turned off Verdier Avenue for the last stretch to home, his beacon of light barely discernible. It was a curious sense of disquietude he seldom experienced. Is this how Katherine must suffer? Cut off from people. Emotions deadened by blank despondency?

  Gibson pulled into the driveway, shut off the ignition and let the tension sweep aside. He wasn’t certain if his melancholy thoughts or the daunting ride home had stiffened his muscles. Maybe he was turning into an authentic local, giving in to the nerve-racking ordeal of driving in the snow. He chuckled to himself and patted the hood, grateful for the four-wheel-drive vehicle.

  Katherine had taken vigilance by the window. Like a falcon eyeing mice as they scuttled through the grass, she stared into the dense flurries watching for signs of her husband. From the top of the lane, dim headlights appeared. She watched as the truck wavered down the icy track toward their house and crunched to a halt in the driveway.

  Gibson made a speedy dash to the door. He yanked it open and stepped into the heat with great white flakes chasing behind. She shivered as the icy wind blew right through her sweater. He thought her trembling body came from a coldness inside her, not from the arctic air that had blasted in.

  Katherine clenched and unclenched her hands. She found social affairs difficult, and today the snow was adding an extra element to her uneasiness. This would be Heather’s first art display at the famous South Side Studio. The gallery hosted showings of upcoming Canadian artists, making this a significant solo exhibition. It was a big step up for Heather. Victoria had a vibrant artist community, and the competition was fierce. They could not miss it.

  “The show is hours away. They’ll have the roads plowed by then,” Gibson said.

  He nudged her playfully down the hallway and into the kitchen. The scents of peppery oregano, citrus and marjoram filled the air. Lasagne. He couldn’t think of a better way to warm the soul on a frosty evening along with a glass of red wine, of course. While they were eating, he heard the plow go by. It rattled the windows as it rumbled down the lane. He checked out the front window. The steel blade had left a glaze on the road surface, but it had stopped snowing. He headed to the bedroom to get ready. He put on a plain white shirt with tailored black slacks. A black wool sweater almost hid his silver and black tie.

  “I’m going to warm up the truck.” Gibson donned his coat and woolen scarf and marched outside into the frigid night. The clouds had thickened and a brisk wind brought a chill to the air. He exhaled a puff of white fog and hopped into the cab. He fiddled with the knobs to adjust the heat and waited. Katherine opened the door and a beam of light crossed over the frozen lawn. She wrapped her arms around her body, hesitated fleetingly and dashed to the truck.

  Gibson backed out onto the street. The tires gripped the road surface better than he thought they would. He peered sideways at Katherine. She sat rigidl
y with a seat belt snuggled across her chest holding her upright. All roads into Victoria were clear and the traffic was light. Snow had dusted the town and turned it into a magical land. Conifer branches from the majestic fir trees were bent low with the extra white weight. Their needles brushed the ground and left scratch marks on the thick blanket. Rooftops stacked six inches deep made the buildings look like gingerbread houses. Several humps on the roadside disguised vehicles covered in the plow wash. He turned right off Blandshard to View. There were plenty of parking spots, few people being out and about. He had hoped the snowstorm wouldn’t deter the art patrons.

  Gibson whipped around to the passenger side and released the door. Katherine held onto the dashboard for just an instant before she swung her legs round. He had worn plain sensible leather boots, not as trendy as her high heeled ones. The roads had been plowed and sanded but not the sidewalks. Katherine took baby steps on the slickened surfaces. He held her in tight for safety—and comfort. Fine lines creased the corner of her eyes, and her lips squeezed into a pout. As they got closer to the gallery, music blared out to the pavement to welcome the guests. At the entrance, a cloakroom attendant hung their coats and handed him a ticket stub for retrieval. Next, a youthful girl dressed all in black approached them with a tray of bubbly wine. They grabbed a glass and advanced farther into the hubbub.

  The studio was an impressive room with a twelve-foot flat ebony ceiling. LED track lighting beamed down onto the floor and quelled the harsh shadows. The walls were painted a stormy gray and reflected the light with a soft glow, making the artwork come alive. The wide-open space invited a spirit of analysis and exploration.

  Gibson kept Katherine close to his side while they ambled through the studio. The watercolours were subtle in their hues and tones—so unlike the artist. Each art piece was a glimpse into Heather’s mind. Bodies pressed into them with everyone moving in different directions. They wandered. They jostled. And shuffled on from one painting to another. He steered them through the throng toward the grinning artist.