STORM ROLL: a Canadian murder mystery series

by KATHY GARTHWAITE

  “And?”

  “This jacket has Jason’s initials on the collar and Robbie’s blood on the lining.”

  “Huh?” Scottie wore a puzzled look, not getting the implications. “How does that help? Don’t we already have a bloodied jacket?”

  “This is a different one.” Gibson smiled. “Jocko did an analysis of the dried spots. He said the blood transferred from the jacket you found in the shop—that was Robbie’s jacket—to the lining in Jason’s jacket.”

  “What? Could you go slower?” Scottie scratched her throbbing temple.

  “Jason wore Robbie’s jacket when he killed him.” Gibson let Scottie understand this first part and continued. “Blood had splattered on the front so Jason had to stash it somewhere. He ran up the stairs to his office and stuffed the jacket into his locker.”

  “Underneath his own jacket,” Scottie said.

  “Right. Then he ran down the back stairs to the parking lot. He came up behind the guys standing at the door and pretended he had just gotten to work.”

  “Okay, I get that. So now Jason has to get rid of the jacket from his locker.”

  “That’s right. When he tried to ditch Robbie’s jacket, he was interrupted. The best he could do was leave it on a hook in the shop. Go back for it later.”

  “AJ.” Finally, Scottie got it.

  “I guess Jason thought AJ saw him put the jacket there. Who knows what Jason was thinking? Was he going to kill AJ as well?” Gibson shrugged.

  “That’s crazy.”

  “But no matter, you found the jacket before he could get it back.”

  Scottie beamed her Cheshire cat grin.

  “Obviously Jason didn’t realize blood had seeped onto the lining of his own coat or he would have dumped that one too.”

  “I can see Jason champing at the bit.” She puckered her lips to whistle a tune and then stopped herself. “Luckily AJ wasn’t killed.”

  “They found bloodied strands of Robbie’s hair as well.” Gibson smirked. “Too bad.” He drew a check-mark in the air.

  “Blackmail.”

  Gibson sat back in his chair to think but didn’t reply.

  “So. Blackmail?” Scottie spoke again like a broken record. “Robbie realized the diploma was a fake and asked Jason for money. He promised not to expose him, but Jason got jumpy and killed him when it got to be too much for him.”

  “Yeah,” Gibson said.

  “Robbie made a poor choice. He should have reported the issue instead. Now he’s dead.”

  “Still comes down to bullying. Jason has been just another bully at the maintenance yard,” he said. “You know in that atmosphere the whistleblower usually pays the price.”

  “What do you mean?” Scottie asked.

  “Robbie may have felt that snitching on Jason would land up biting him in the butt. That happens a lot. You wouldn’t think it worked that way but it does.”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  “Greed played a part in Robbie’s decision too,” Gibson said. “Let’s go to the lockup and read Jason his rights.”

  Scottie gave him a fist tap and off they went.

  * * *

  Jason had been moved to the RCMP station and had been in custody overnight. They entered a room that was a shade of grey that matched the prisoner’s eyes. The door clanged behind them with a force that sucked the last of the air out of the room, leaving a stench of sweat.

  Gibson was expecting handcuffs to be holding Jason’s hands together, but he had them clasped in his lap unfettered. His knuckles were white and his face paled. His eyes darted around the room as if each thought he had was more worrying than the last. The bravado was gone. Gibson planned to use this crack of apprehension to his advantage.

  Jason’s lawyer had arrived earlier to speak with him. Now Glen remained quietly beside his client with a notebook on the scarred furniture, his finger tracing someone’s name carved in the wood. He flicked a lock of hair off his forehead. The stern look on his face looked cemented on.

  Gibson placed a document on the table. He spun the paper around so the writing faced Jason and his lawyer. He shoved it along the surface. Jason kept his hands—turning to fists—in his lap. Glen reached for the sheet, but Jason slammed his palm on top.

  “Never mind. It’s over,” Jason shouted. His voice was grating like fingernails on a chalkboard.

  “This lab report proves the blood on your jacket is Robbie’s,” Gibson said. “And hair too.” He crinkled his nose at the whiff of something unpleasant.

  “Don’t say anything,” Glen advised. He applied a grip on his client’s arm. Jason pushed it aside with a jerk.

  “Doesn’t matter anymore,” Jason said. He looked at the grey walls.

  The lawyer shrugged and slumped in his seat.

  “I arrived early to confront Robbie about forcing money from me. He shoved me against the wall and jammed his elbow into my throat. I could hardly breath. He was laughing. I got free and grabbed the bat. It was self-defence—”

  “Robbie’s jacket!”

  “What?”

  Gibson’s charcoal irises went dark and smoky. His thoughts drifted to reasonable murder—if there was such a thing, he would have killed Katherine’s ex for all the damage he had done. He rubbed the crook in his nose—not caused by a bar brawl but in a fight with Arthur—and knew he could have stepped over that invisible line just as Jason had. But he didn’t.

  “You put on Robbie’s jacket before he got there.”

  “Premeditation,” Scottie said.

  “Don’t say another thing.”

  Jason jumped up and knocked over the frail metal chair. It clanged on the cement floor.

  Chapter 33

  The drive back to VIIMCU was short. Even the late-night shoppers had finished long ago. Gibson stared out the passenger window, his thoughts lost in the purr of the tires. The moon cast a golden sheen over the landscape. He watched it disappear behind a nebulous mist. In the distance, the mass of clouds had vanished. The sky had darkened from sapphire blue to midnight black. His cell chirped.

  “Gibson.”

  “Good job,” Rex thundered down the line.

  “Thanks.”

  Rex rambled on with Gibson barely listening.

  A buzz in his ear startled him. The chief had hung up.

  Scottie stopped in the ‘no parking’ zone in front of their building. They let themselves in with an electronic key and dashed up the stairs—elation giving them one last spurt of push. Gibson called the Crown Attorney, but he didn’t get an answer so he left a message. They wrote up the final report hunched over the desk in Gibson’s office. The air was thick with the smell of burnt coffee from a machine in the far corner. One that was rarely used except for these nights. The lights from the docks blazed through the large window casting long shadows on the floor. A blues radio station played in the background and stopped them from falling asleep. The ceiling lights flickered as if they were tired as well. Soft scurrying of tiny feet resonated down the empty corridor. Scottie stifled a yawn.

  “Even the mice are rushing home.” Her laughter turned into an episode of hiccups, halting her speech as she tried to recover.

  “Let’s go.”

  Back out on the street, the detectives did a fist tap. Scottie drove away, tooting her horn as she took off. Gibson hopped into his truck and made a beeline for Brentwood Bay. As he cruised down the highway, he opened his window. A breeze blew off the ocean and over the peninsula. He inhaled the pure air.

  Gibson parked in the driveway and glanced around as he often did when he got home. A minute grin played over his worn features. He could taste the ocean salt on his lips. He let out a single sob and wiped his face with the back of his hand before anybody could notice. Was the salt from the sea or from the tears hiding behind his charcoal eyes? Gibson released a weak chuckle and bounded up the stairs—he thought he had spent all his energy.

  The door swung open to a burst of warmth and the aroma of baked bread. He follo
wed his snout down the hallway to the spices and a murmur of voices. Katherine’s velvety contralto stood out among them. When he walked into the kitchen, two friends were seated at the table. His wife hovered by the stove stirring a pot.

  “Rosemary?” he asked, inhaling deeply, his mouth watering.

  “Yes. Heather and I are collaborating on some recipes. With my greenhouse herbs.”

  Katherine brushed by him—fingers grazed, a fleeting glance—and swept over to the counter. A generous slice of bread with jam and a hot pour of coffee was placed at the head of the table. Gibson plunked down and felt his muscles unwind instantly. He held the present company responsible.

  “Delicious.” Andrew’s empty plate was witness to his remark.

  Three eager faces waited for the story.

  Gibson took a few swallows and nibbled slowly to savour the herbal flavour. Andrew jabbed him in the ribs to prod him along. Gibson gave a discreet cough. His eyes sparkled. He didn’t speak. Not even a glance over.

  They stared harder.

  “There were many motives but nothing fit,” Gibson said. “When Katherine reached for her diploma it twigged.” He pointed to the side of his temple. “There it was. The link I was looking for. Robbie and Jason.”

  As he explained the events in detail, his wife looked intently into his bleary-eyed face. She wondered if her problems had encroached upon her husband. Gibson recognized her worries and gave an imperceptible signal. She smiled. It had been his past misgivings that were distracting, not Katherine’s.

  “All the innuendos and gossip about Robbie being gay weren’t true. That sent us running in circles trying to grab our tails. And Nick with the secret he was keeping from his wife and his buddy, Tim. Oh boy. We thought Nick was guilty, but he was just hiding from himself. There was no affair with Robbie, but…”

  Gibson caught his breath and stole a glance toward Andrew.

  “The fight David heard was about seniority.” He stopped. “Did I leave anything out?”

  “I’m glad you guys know about my gay inclination,” Andrew said.

  Heather let out a low exclamation. Her hair swooshed as she swung her head to peer at Andrew. Finally, she understood why the attempts to attract him had failed.

  “Would you like a rose garden? A fresh dawn for your new life.” Gibson grabbed his wife’s hand and squeezed hard. Katherine was a soul that could soar. Her gold locket twinkled in the light.

  He hoped the panic attacks would cease. If not wholly, at least a road to happiness could be found. His eyelids flickered—with good expectations or with drowsiness? Gibson knew tomorrow would be a brilliant day for a kayak adventure.

  MURDER AT LAKE ONTARIO

  Detective William Gibson returns in this gripping murder mystery

  Kathy Garthwaite

  Prologue

  Summer in the eastern regions of Canada was all about sunshine and water.

  Lawsons Lane had plenty of both for the children that lived there. A dead-end street with steps leading down to a pristine sandy shore. Cars that slowed for the bicycles swinging side to side on the dusty track. Large grassy meadows to run through and hide. Squeals of laughter and joy from the early light of morning through the sweltering heat of the day, ending in exhaustion as the sun dipped behind the escarpment to the west.

  It was considered to be a safe place to raise a family until a bike was found on the landing above the beach, and a young girl vanished into thin air.

  A lone figure placed the shovel on the wall, where an outline in black marked its proper spot, and joined the frantic throng in search of the lost child.

  Bees droned overhead, and birds darted across azure skies.

  The first death on Lawsons Lane. They said it was a drowning.

  Chapter 1

  Inspector William Gibson was eager to get on the plane to Ontario. On this special assignment to his old stomping grounds, he would furnish the glue to integrate the Niagara Peninsula Major Crimes Task Force with Inspector Rene Eckhart at the helm.

  But Gibson had an ulterior motive for wanting this trip so badly. His good buddy had let slip something that had stunned him. He wavered on the truth of what he had been told, but it made sense now that he thought about it. And his buddy had grown up in the same small town, had been a banker there all his life and knew a lot of people. The man would know.

  Gibson was glad that this was a solitary jaunt. Not only because he wanted to find answers, but he needed some time for himself. The last year had been a stormy one. The cases, arduous. His wife’s panic attacks, draining. Life at home with Katherine had become a plodding routine. A fragment of love persisted, but an aching hollowness thrust away the light. A sad smile flickered and snuffed out. He settled into the generous-sized seat, an extra pillow behind his head and a good deal of room to spread his long limbs, and nudged aside his sense of guilt. With half-closed eyelids, he tuned in to the strum of the jet stream, morphing into a percussion of breakers on a craggy seashore. Pictures of kayaks zigzagging through never-ending nooks and crannies along the coastal inlets flooded his imagination. He gradually ebbed away, wrapped in the delicious comfort of sleep.

  The sticky, squelchy sound of rubber hitting tarmac stirred Gibson from his dreams. He peered out the tiny window. Waves of heat steaming off the runway distorted the view. It must be boiling out there. He grabbed his knapsack from the overhead locker and headed down the aisle. After a quick jog along a lengthy corridor, circumventing the baggage carousel, he finally reached the arrival area and out the door.

  The heat hit his cheek like a slap, but not as hard as what he saw before him—a Ford Expedition with a NPMCTF emblem painted on the door, its left front tire jumped up on the curb and a drop-dead gorgeous woman leaning against the hood. Her willowy body had sun-kissed skin of bronze. Rosy swipes of colour splashed across her high cheekbones. Amber gold hair tumbled in waves to her shoulders. Dark pools of blue, the hue of an ocean pulsating, stared out from under flickering lashes. A sensuous hint of mischief sculpted her pale pink lips. Gibson caught his breath. She smiled.

  It was his ride, Inspector Eckhart. Rene, not a man—definitely not a man. He held out a palm, and she took the invitation. A zip of electricity traveled up his arm. He put his trembling hand into his jeans pocket and jerked his eyes from the deep pools, choosing not to drown. Not yet anyway.

  “Pleased to meet you at last,” she said.

  “Me, too.”

  His feet felt leaden.

  “This is my ride. Let’s go.” She tapped the hood and flashed him an encouraging smile.

  “Great.” Gibson threw his bag in the rear and hopped in.

  First in line. First out. Eckhart hit the turnpike before the hordes had picked out their luggage. She drove down the eight-lane highway at a clip. Gibson eased back into his seat and listened to her chitchat. Her voice was melodious, a bubbling mountain creek. The truck slipped out of the hustle of the city. Their destination was an hour in time—a century away from the insidious gloom of Toronto. Soon they neared St. Catharines. She cruised the backroads to the Task Force. The scenery rolled by—the flatness of the region sporadically broken by groves of woods. Out west, his beloved conifers shot up higher than skyscrapers, the coastal rains sustaining their growth. Here the trees were limited, restrained by severe winter storms and summer drought.

  On the outskirts of town, the landscape shifted into commercial zone blandness, which really meant plain buildings and pavement. She pulled into the station parking lot. The red brick structure was a squat one-storey affair extended over an entire block. Windows mirrored the dazzling sunlight. The temperature had rocketed past the mid-30s as the day drew on. A mist rising above each vehicle hood produced a delusion of fluctuating images. A large Ford F150 with a Royal Canadian Mounted Police logo sat crosswise at the entrance.

  “That’ll be Rodney,” Eckhart said.

  “The boss.”

  “Yup. The superintendent.”

  A swipe of the electronic k
ey and the entry clicked open. It was nice to step out of the heat into a refreshing lobby. The front desk was empty. Muffled voices slipped through a cracked door at the rear.

  “We haven’t got a receptionist. But soon enough.” She gave a shrug. “There’s still lots to do, but we’re getting there. You should meet the officers first. Rodney is probably with them.”

  She traipsed across the immense space, shoes clicking on the tile floor, and peered in a doorway.

  “Hi, guys. Inspector Gibson is here.”

  Three men popped out of the room. Superintendent Rodney Snowden was a burly fellow with a rugged complexion. The hand he held out to Gibson felt like worn leather. A man of the street. Same as him.

  “Welcome. Moreover, thanks for coming. Really.” The baritone voice was reassuring. A youthful confidence sparked his hickory brown eyes. His laughter rolled.

  “We’ll spin this into an ass-kicking crime unit,” William said and gestured, collecting in the full place with a sweep of his hand. He wavered for a moment. “East of the Rockies.” And he meant it.

  “Yes, sir.” DC Peter Jones let out a throaty laugh, his smile revealing a top row of perfect teeth.

  DC Ron Cooper nodded, and the two men bumped fists.

  “So is your wife at the motel resting or has she gone shopping?” Rodney asked. A wide grin forming thick lines from his mouth got swallowed up by the craters in his cheeks.

  “Actually, I came here on my own.”

  “So, you’re an old married man.”

  “No. We’ve only been married for two years.”

  “Second marriage would be my guess?”

  “Yeah.” Gibson shuffled his feet, wishing the cross-examination would be over soon. His first wife was something he didn’t want to think about. It had ended in disaster—from the marriage bed to the couch to the divorce court.

  “Any kids?” Rodney’s smile warmed another degree.

  “We’re trying.” Gibson glanced at the screen when his cell chirped, but he swiped the ‘ignore’ button and put the phone back in his pocket.