STORM ROLL: a Canadian murder mystery series

by KATHY GARTHWAITE

  “No matter,” was all Jesse countered. “Want someone to kayak with today?”

  “Yeah, that would be great.”

  He could count on his buddy to cut to the chase. Let it go. The men finished their coffee and preceded down the ramp. They gathered their gear and slipped their boats into the ocean, setting off to the south arm of the inlet. Although the sun was pleasant on their faces, the breeze on the water kept them from feeling the heat. They would use the wind to their advantage and steal a little push down the waterway. As they swung out into Finlayson Arm waterway, Gibson looked up to the cell tower that marked the crest of the Malahat—a thousand feet above sea level—and the loftiest point of the highway leading through the hills to North Vancouver Island. As his gaze shifted to the east over the forested shoreline, the sunlight reflected off windows on the waterfront across the inlet.

  Soon they were paddling smoothly in rhythm, side by side, listening to the chants of the wild. A gaggle of geese flew overhead, honking as they made their way to California. Jesse glanced over to Gibson and nodded his approval. For several hours they travelled along the shoreline undaunted by their screaming muscles. They halted for a snack near the famous Butchart Gardens. The friends devoured several power bars and guzzled water all the while tuning in to the drone that surrounded them. Jesse signalled to go back. Off they went. The wind pushed at them so they had to paddle with more resolution. By the time the landing at Brentwood Bay was in sight, they were exhausted. It was a superb day undisturbed by the cell phone Gibson had deliberately left behind on the dresser. The grin on his face as he dragged his kayak onto the wharf was proof of his ‘Don’t Care’ attitude. He was overwhelmed with the week’s events. Something about being outside vaporized the disquiet. They walked up the incline together, promising another day of kayaking tomorrow.

  Katherine’s SUV wasn’t in the driveway, so the doubt that had sprung up was spurious. When his wife returned home, he took the phone off the hook and shut down his cell. It was a rebellious move that he seldom did, but he needed an entire carefree night with his wife.

  * * *

  Sunday was an echo of Saturday. Gibson met Jesse at the café. After a shot of caffeine, they strolled lazily to their boats confident of the day. They headed north this time, zigzagging in and out of the coastline. Both men were chattier today, babbling about new gear and equipment. Gibson let the last of his apprehension melt away as the hours passed by, pleasantly paddling his trusted kayak. The sun was intense in the sky and beating down on them as they veered toward home at the halfway mark. Jesse picked up the pace, propelling himself to the limit. Gibson followed. His muscles weakened and his lungs burned. All he wanted to do was stop and catch his breath. Gibson hit the dreaded wall and pressed on, letting the throbbing wash over him. They lay on the dock, tension from their exertion melting into the hard surface—slow, smooth breathing restored. They bumped fists.

  Gibson headed home. His mouth watered the moment he swung open the door. The rich aroma of roast beef wafted down the hallway and beckoned him to the kitchen. The music was low. Katherine sat at the table, tapping a foot to the easy beat. A random birdsong floated through the crack of the open window.

  “Ten minutes.” Her smile was sweet with a faint curve of the lips.

  Later they relaxed on the couch, fire throwing warmth into the room. Katherine discussed her disintegration in the hallway, happy to expel her demons. Just as Gibson had driven through a physical barrier that afternoon, Katherine had pushed through a mental block the other day. Youthful self-assurance put rosy dots of colour on her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes. Hope whispered in her ear. Would she pass the exam and secure the coveted diploma? Gibson braced himself against any other conclusion.

  Chapter 26

  How was it that Mondays always rolled around so fast? Still, Gibson considered himself fortunate. Not every case came with weekends off. Katherine had been more relaxed than normal, although she was prickly. She had completed her final exam, but now the wait for the results gnawed on her nerves—and his. He stood at the front window sipping his first coffee of the day and gazed at the bay shimmering in the sunlight. It was another glorious fall morning with a cloudless sky. He walked back to the kitchen and watched Katherine pottering around in her greenhouse. It was time to regroup. He headed out, glancing once more at the ocean and all its potentials. He drove through his little village and hit the freeway, joining the long lines of vehicles going into the city.

  Gibson had a tough job finding a parking space on the street so he headed to the underground garage. He slogged up the steps, gave a wave to the receptionist behind the security counter and trudged on to the next floor. Scottie was in her office bent over a pile of folders scattered across her desk.

  “Hey.”

  Scottie looked up and fell back in her chair, tossing a pen on top of the papers. She stretched her legs out and stifled a yawn with her hand.

  “I hate paperwork.”

  Gibson hung onto the doorframe as he leaned into the room and nodded. He knew Scottie had spent countless hours on Friday writing the reports, perusing each page to ensure the details were correct. The chief was a stickler for accuracy. The Crown Attorney had hammered that home after a ruined trial last year. An indiscretion in a detective’s statement had blown the case into smithereens.

  “Did you find out anything about either the homeless guy or the dog walker?”

  “No. I got hung up on this,” Scottie said and picked up a document. She was ruffled.

  “The chief. You know.”

  “Yeah,” Gibson quirked an eyebrow and smiled. “Thanks for covering for me.” Scottie understood his situation at home with Katherine. Gibson never had to solicit help.

  She shrugged it off.

  “The bully factor is out. Right?”

  “Yes. I suppose.” He grudgingly conceded on that point. Tim was in the clear. Doesn’t mean he’s not a bully, he thought to himself, not daring to voice that to Scottie. He didn’t need a ‘told you so’.

  “What an ass. That’s for sure.” Scottie laughed. She watched him teeter on dark emotions and changed the subject. “So, money?”

  “Gunner and Na are still checking the cash trail,” Gibson said. “Too bad we can’t bring Tony down for sexual improprieties.” He studied the ceiling, his jaw thrust forward.

  “We know Jeff gains financially from Robbie’s death.” She motioned her partner into her office.

  Gibson sat in the solitary chair in front of her desk. He crossed his legs. His right hand drummed a song he had heard on the drive in.

  “The chief feels strongly about the money motive. Could we put some pressure on Jeff? He seems to be the most promising person at this point. What have we got?”

  Scottie pulled a journal out of her pocket and flipped through several pages. She tapped the book and put it away.

  “He doesn’t have an alibi.”

  Gibson’s thought as well—alibis. He had pursued the investigation in a linear motion, bent on pursuing the bully. Now each person’s whereabouts had to be made clear. It was obvious they had overlooked a detail. Not having an alibi didn’t make a person guilty, but it did eliminate the individual as a suspect.

  “Ellen’s is solid.” Gibson pushed back in the chair, extending his legs out.

  “Who else?”

  “Nick.” Scottie closed her eyes momentarily. “And Tony. We have to recheck everybody.”

  Gibson blew out a loud sigh, making that rude noise with his lips again.

  Scottie looked up, shocked at her boss’s lack of finesse, not in character.

  “It’s getting to me,” was his only comeback.

  “I hear you.”

  “The guys at the safety seminar,” he continued.

  “That’s another big black hole,” Scottie agreed.

  They sat quietly, each in their deliberations. Gibson thought they had let their guard down. Apparently so did Scottie because she spoke up, mirroring his sentiments
.

  “Okay, we really didn’t pin that meeting down. Did we? And I’d like to scout out that homeless guy.” Scottie stopped to think it over. “Give me one day to find him. Somehow he must be connected to this.”

  “Sure,” Gibson agreed. “The jacket won’t help us.”

  “Nope.”

  “Let’s get a coffee.”

  They walked down to the employee restaurant on the first floor. The place was full of the chatter of detectives, deafening in the low-ceilinged room. Gibson felt restless and sat quietly. He had been unfocused all week by Katherine, the exam and the panic attack. Was he so preoccupied he had stopped doing his job well? He breathed in. Then let out another moan. Scottie left him to his musings and enjoyed an egg salad sandwich with her drink. The prattle at a table diagonal to them distracted him. He tilted his head at a sharp angle and twitched his lips upward. What had he overheard? Old man and a dog. Run over. His ears pricked up when he heard it happened at the university. Was it their dog walker? That would be a coincidence. He glanced over at Scottie and noticed the chatter had caught her interest too. She raised her eyebrows, motioned her chin in question to the group of officers.

  “Check it out.”

  “Yes, sounds like our guy.”

  After their break, they moved out in opposite ways. Gibson drove over to the maintenance shed to see about the trucks. He had left in a rush on Friday and neglected to find out about the fleet protocol. He parked along the curb and headed for the workshop. AJ was busy at his work bench. He saw Gibson enter, so he put down his hammer and removed his gloves.

  “What’s up?”

  “Who gets a vehicle? Not for work but for personal use.”

  “Both the supervisor and foremen take a truck home.” AJ paused, running his hand across the still tender gash. “Whoever’s on call takes one as well.”

  “Who was it that weekend?” Gibson’s eyebrows arched.

  “David.”

  Gibson’s posture stiffened. He had let David’s alibi slide. A visit to Jackie was in order. He leaned his hip against the workbench trying to think this through.

  “What about the keys? Especially to the back.” He pointed to the rear.

  “Everybody in the yard has a full set for all the doors. We rotate the on-call work. It’s easier that way.”

  Dead end. Access for all. Damn. There was a big whoosh of cool air. A tall, gangly fellow stepped into the room letting the door slam behind him. He looked at both men and smiled. AJ introduced.

  “Meet Keith.”

  The illusive assistant supervisor darted his eyes around the shop. Perfect. Gibson needed to pin down the movements of everyone at the meeting. This man would know. Keith had the best view that morning standing at the front. Gibson wanted everything. Who got up? Who left? How long were they gone?

  “I don’t know.” Keith pursed his lips together, shaking his head back and forth in a constant motion at the questions Gibson fired at him.

  It was hopeless. The man was no help at all. It had been his first time running a meeting, and he was nervous. He didn’t notice anyone come or go. Gibson continued to be disappointed. No confirmation of anybody’s movement. What was wrong with the people here? But still, it was a long shot. Not sufficient time to run across the courtyard, kill someone and make it back—no blood, not breathing hard. But certainly time enough to see something. Gibson was frustrated. He would arrange for Na to set up a fresh round of interviews. It would get sorted or…? Or what?

  He left the building and sat in the F150, his eyes fixed inwards. He lowered the window and filled his lungs with the freshness before firing up the engine. It roared to life with one turn of the key. He headed out of the university grounds and took a right to Foul Bay Road. When he got to the house, he saw a white pickup truck parked in the driveway with some advertising on the side panels. He rapped on the door loudly. Jeff answered after a few minutes, opening the door only a crack. Gibson could see his dirty T-shirt and baggy jogging pants. As if Jeff ever jogged. What was wrong with him? Where was this cynicism coming from? He needed a holiday—at the least a scoot around the bay. Was it only Monday?

  “Is that your vehicle?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you do for a living?” Gibson asked, although he had read the sign on the side panel.

  “A painting contractor,” Jeff said. “Not much work in the winter.”

  “I haven’t seen your truck before. Where is it usually parked?”

  “My friend borrowed it last week. To get firewood.”

  “Person’s name?”

  Jeff gave him a name. Gibson jotted it down in his notebook with a big question mark. He would definitely follow up.

  “Is that it?” Jeff held onto the door tightly. There would be no invite into the house today. Gibson leaned in and caught a whiff of something pungent—weed.

  “You don’t have an alibi.”

  All he got in reply was a twisted grin.

  “Did anyone see you that morning?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” Gibson tapped the pad with his pen. “It’s going to be a problem for you.”

  Jeff gave him a last defiant glare and slammed the door shut.

  Chapter 27

  Gibson walked through the empty detective agency and opened the door to his office. He sat at his desk, shuffling through some papers. It may have been another sun-drenched day but his disposition was anything but sunny. The previous day hadn’t brought any clarity to the investigation. Everything had bogged down since Tim had been cleared of suspicion. He began reworking the evidence painstakingly, taking great care over each minor factor. He flipped through his notebook, page by page. Something would show up, some trivial detail that would clinch the case. He had honed in on one individual and sought to make the facts fit because of his own biases. When would he quit beating himself up over that?

  Reading all morning in the quiet room had caused his muscles to cramp. Gibson stood up to stretch, stepping over to the window. The sun was at its zenith. Rays glittered on the ocean below, some light reaching the bottomless depths, some reflecting off the crystal water. Golden energy filled the sky with an intrinsic luminosity. Blue skies prevailed. He glanced down to the pavement and watched a group of bikers cycling to the park. He issued a short, mirthless laugh and turned from the view.

  With a strategy for the afternoon, Gibson stopped at the Ottiva for lunch first. He enjoyed a latte and a chicken salad. The sandwich was prepared with bread baked that morning. He had smelled the comforting aroma upon entering the café, making his mouth water in anticipation. The nose had not failed him. The meal was exceptional. He finished up and left the restaurant. He was in a better mood. Gibson got back into his truck and made his way to Cordova Bay. The street followed the shoreline for a few kilometres so he lowered his window to the salty air—wonderfully refreshing.

  At the maintenance shed he found out that Nick had called in sick. Gibson needed Kim’s last name. He parked beside the massive hedge that fronted the house and strolled along the curved sidewalk to the entrance. It was a tidy yard with all the leaves raked, grass cut low for the winter and the evergreen trimmed. He paused on the porch and listened for sounds inside before he knocked. It was several minutes before he detected footsteps coming, and the door lurched wide.

  “Hi. Not feeling well.”

  Nick glared at him and swung away. He gestured with a backward wave of his hand for Gibson to follow. The living room wasn’t as spruce as it had been at his initial visit. It seemed bleak and dismal. Several dirty mugs and plates were littering the side tables. Newspapers were strewn on the floor. Nick plunked himself into a recliner.

  “Where’s Susan?” Gibson asked.

  “She left to visit her mom,” he said. His shoulders slumped and his eyes constricted with a mournful gaze. “And the kids.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “She suspects something.”

  “That you killed Robbie?”r />
  “No!” Nick yelled as he bolted out of his chair. He paced up and down at the bay window, fists clenched by his side. His cheeks flushed scarlet and roasted hot. He peered sideways at Gibson and sat down, eyes cast to the ground.

  Gibson picked an armchair opposite him, leaned forward and completed the thought for him. “Your cheating.”

  “Maybe. What’s it to you?”

  Gibson reached into his upper pocket, plucked out the Facebook photo and extended it to him.

  “Is that you?”

  “No.” Nick thrust the image away.

  “You and Robbie argued.”

  “No!”

  Gibson pressed on.

  “A lover’s quarrel?” If that had led to murder was what he was pondering—maybe even a lover’s triangle somewhere in there.

  “Are you insane?” Nick shrieked, vaulting out of his chair again. “Nothing is going on.”

  “Something’s going on.” He watched Nick’s pale skin turn from a ghastly white to a shade of ghost.

  Gibson knew he wasn’t getting any more out of him today so he left the man to brood and slipped out. He hopped into his truck and decided to drive the back route to Brentwood Bay. It was a quick route that only the locals knew. He crossed the highway and took Keating over to Clarke. The blacktop road dropped to the harbour where a small ferry carried passengers and vehicles across the inlet to Mills Bay. David lived about halfway down the slope. He parked on the boulevard opposite the two-storey dwelling. It had brick cladding on the front with white siding and louvered shutters by the small windows. The brown asphalt roof had several angles with a dormer facing south. Five deciduous saplings planted on the lawn would grow into large trees one day and conceal the house from the street and the sun in the summer.

  He glanced down the side of the house. There weren’t any vehicles visible, but there might be one in the garage at the bottom of the drive. He couldn’t tell because the walls there had no windows. It was doubtful that Jackie was home. Maybe he should have phoned first. He walked along the sidewalk to a porch. The lady, bundled in several layers of clothing, was raking up the last of the pin oak leaves next door. She flipped her palm up in a cordial wave. Gibson gestured back. An ornamental knocker on the frame looked unused so he buzzed the bell and waited. The door was painted the charcoal of a winter’s sky, same as the shutters. It swung open with a rustle of air. An olive-skinned lady peered at him. She looked casual in a yellow and blue Fair Isle sweater with tight jeans and multi-coloured woollen socks on her petite feet.