STORM ROLL: a Canadian murder mystery series

by KATHY GARTHWAITE

  “Honey. Is that you?”

  Light surged into the room.

  “Katherine. Where have you been?”

  “Oh, silly. Didn’t you get my text?”

  Gibson gawked at the symbol on the shattered screen indicating incoming text. “I guess I must have fallen asleep. Miss you.”

  “I miss you, too,” Katherine replied. “I have some bad news.”

  Gibson sucked in his breath.

  “And a marvelous announcement.”

  “Okay.” His heart stopped and restarted.

  “The awful news is that I had my fingerprints taken.”

  “What?” It skittered another beat.

  “For my new position,” Katherine squealed, oblivious to her husband’s heartbeat. “At a bank. Actually, several branches. As a relief assistant manager—”

  “That’s the bad story?”

  “Don’t fret, my prints won’t be run. They’re put on file for reference. Not that it matters. I haven’t killed anyone lately.” She giggled.

  Gibson thought life was so bizarre.

  “Do you require the good news?”

  “Yes.” Gibson detected a note of enormity in her tone. The twitter of her zebra finches played in the background.

  “We’re going to have a baby,” Katherine said. After a protracted hesitation, she asked, “Are you still there?”

  “Oh, my God,” Gibson answered. Blinking lashes heavy with dampness unleashed. Tears rolled from his smoky eyes, down his cheeks and stuck onto his trembling chin. A sobbing escaped from his throat and reached down the line to his wife. He fingered the screen. “I love you Katherine. I can hardly wait to see you.”

  “Me, too. Tomorrow then,” Katherine said and hung up.

  Gibson’s heart crashed into a rib. He held the phone to his chest. There’s no place like home. He stepped into the shower and spun the dial to its hottest. He pressed his forehead against the frigid tiles, letting the steamy rivulets trickle down his back. The water ran chilly as he stood in a daze. He let the spray pummel his muscles as his mind whirled and clicked. Craving to get the day done, he dressed hurriedly and left the motel. He skipped down the sidewalk. A sparrow soared by his nose and docked on the same hanging basket as the days before. The peeping of chicks caught his awareness. He watched three tiny mouths stretch high to capture food from mom’s beak. Or maybe it was dad? He produced a two-step on the pavement and floated to the café, his loose-fitting shirt already clinging to his back from the heat. Gibson glanced at his watch. It was just seven. The sun would hammer down with unforgiving devilry today. The Expedition came to a halt across the street. He hopped in and sent Eckhart a quirky smile. All was perfect in his world.

  She gave him a sidelong glare, her pale lips dipped into a sulky pout. “Lawsons Lane here we come. You never know.” She was totally annoyed with the investigation going in circles.

  “Work the case until nothing is left behind,” he replied.

  Gibson leaned back to relish the final ride to the crime scene. He looked out the window as they whizzed by sports fields, two high schools, blocks of houses and apartments. The tires crossed silently over a railway track. As they neared the canal, a sequence of siren blasts sounded.

  “Oh, shit,” Eckhart said. She slowed and halted in front of the striped barriers that had dropped down to block access to the bridge. Red lights blinked across the hood in a hypnotic cadence. “About an hour,” she acknowledged the unasked question.

  “I see.” A blue labyrinth of metal rose skyward, the counterweight bearing down on them.

  “Don’t worry, it won’t strike us,” she said.

  The gears wound slowly until the deck stood vertically in the air. A siren blared. The lock swung open wide. The ship passed by, rust stains running down the empty hull standing tall in the water. Gibson wanted to reach out and touch the foreign entity. Another outburst of the signal and the gates locked behind the stern. The bridge made its plunge earthbound, hitting the ground with a thunk that jolted the truck. Whoa.

  “Haven’t witnessed that in a while,” Gibson said.

  Eckhart drove faster than usual to make up for the squandered time. As she shifted into the lane, a Range Rover sped toward the beach ahead of them, dust drifting in vast arcs around the vehicle. Gibson squinted after it. Was that Reggie? Eckhart pulled into Jacobs Landing with a crunching of tires and flung the gears into park. “Okay. Made it.”

  Gibson frowned at the increasing amount of graffiti on the store walls. Across the weathered boards of the porch, someone had callously painted, ‘Fattie.’ The red lettering stood out on the dark wood. He was perturbed not only at the damage but by the poor taste of words. He stepped out of the vehicle and relished the gentle breeze from the lake. Although it beat the temperature back a few degrees, it wasn’t enough to check the sweat rolling down his neck and soaking his collar. They walked along the pathway, sensing the emptiness of the house. He knocked on the door, but there was no answer.

  “Should we try Grandma’s house?” she asked.

  “Yup. We might be offered a frosty drink even if she has nothing more to tell us,” Gibson answered as he wiped the glisten from his forehead.

  Sparrows, finches and towhees darted across the road as Eckhart crept down Lawsons Lane. Their offbeat clatter warned of further warmth to develop. In the meadow between the two houses, a hawk sat stationary in a towering maple. With a sudden swoop, the raptor plummeted through the pasture and pounced on an unsuspecting prey. He flew back to the tree with a mouse in his large beak. Eckhart steered into Grandma’s yard. She was on the veranda relaxing in the shade.

  “Wasn’t expecting to see you again,” Grandma said. She waved a palm to the wicker armchairs. “Looks like you could use a lemonade.” She scuttled inside without waiting for a response.

  Eckhart slumped onto a bench, stretching her bare legs over the cushion. The rattling of glasses and banging of doors drifted from the kitchen. Grandma pushed on the screen door with her shoulder, her hands engaged with a tray of drinks and biscuits. She deposited it on the side table and plopped back into her rocker. Her skin had a reddish hue from working in the sunlight—a farmer’s face marked with sharp creases. She fastened her untamed hair into a messy bun. Her laughter captivated, so generous of personality. Gibson transferred his chair over to Grandma and settled in for a chitchat.

  “Gregory is a decent lad,” Grandma said out of the blue.

  “He’s fortunate to have your loyalty,” Gibson replied.

  “He wanted to be a schoolteacher like his dad.”

  “Felton was a teacher? I assumed he retired from farming.”

  “Oh, no. He taught for twenty-five years,” she replied. “Gregory planned to follow in his footsteps until the rape thing.”

  “What grade did Felton teach?”

  “College. He adored it. When he first started, they took his fingerprints. Boy, he was livid. He said it made him feel like a common criminal,” she answered. Her soft, stooped shoulders jerked with amusement.

  “What school was that?” Gibson shifted his chair in tighter and leaned forward.

  “Niagara Peninsula.”

  Gibson pushed back in his seat. What had Katherine said? They would hold her prints on file. He let his mind flit to the probabilities as he quaffed the refreshing drink.

  “We should get moving. Thanks for the snacks. Take care,” Gibson said as he squeezed Grandma’s arm. Her eyes twinkled as if she knew his secret.

  They hopped into the truck. Eckhart fired it up and carried out a three-point turn.

  “We should find Felton’s prints. It’s a lead. What do you think?”

  “Sure. As you once said, leave no rock unturned.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Well, it was something like that,” she replied.

  * * *

  Reggie glanced in his rear-view mirror. He was positive that was the Expedition pulling into the store. No matter. He peered at Savannah and gave her a
lopsided grin.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.” She grew rigid, the truck bouncing down the lane.

  Reggie swung right and lined up next to Gregory’s Honda. He vaulted out of the Rover. Savannah remained suspended in her seat. He bent back down at the window and stared at her.

  “Aren’t you joining me?”

  “Felton and Margaret don’t like me.”

  “They will after they find out what I have to say.”

  Savannah wet her lips and made a jerky bob of acknowledgment. She gripped the handle and thrust the door open after a moment’s doubt. Her hand passed along the fender as she rounded the vehicle, booting up dust with her canvas sneakers. Reggie turned and signaled her up the stairs.

  “It’s all right.”

  “I’m the man of the house.” A deep, gravelly remark overrode the babbling voices.

  “Felton. Put that cigarette out,” Margaret yelled.

  Savannah halted mid-stomp.

  “Stop, Mom,” Gregory pleaded.

  The screen creaked as Felton poked his way outside. He froze at the sight of Savannah, pointing a finger at her. “What the hell is she doing here?”

  “Leave her alone,” Gregory said. He rushed out and stood beside Savannah, draping his arm over her shoulder and steered her to the swing. The long-rusted chains squeaked as they swung back and forth.

  “Take it easy, Felton. I have great news for you guys.”

  “What?” He hacked, and then spat over the railing.

  Savannah flinched.

  Margaret wavered in the doorway. Her annoyance plainly displayed in the pinched expression. Her eyebrows formed a continuous row across her forehead. She stepped outside and plunked into her chair, propping her swollen legs on the ottoman.

  “What’s this all about, Reggie?”

  “Yeah. Get on with it.” Felton lit up another fag, blasting out the smoke with vigour toward Savannah. He collapsed next to his wife.

  “Okay. This isn’t definite, but I studied the transcripts from Gregory’s trial and discovered an egregious mistake—”

  “What?” Margaret shouted.

  Reggie held up his palm. “Let me finish. The prosecutor utilized two different shops to analyze DNA from Gregory and the victim.” He winked at the lovebirds. “It’s probable there was a muddle at the lab.”

  Gregory grinned. He knew.

  “Your son presented me a specimen last week for a retest. I had it run through rapid DNA technology at the Centre of Forensic Sciences.”

  Margaret squealed.

  “The upshot is that the DNA from the rape incident is not Gregory’s.” Reggie stayed his palm repeatedly. “Settle down. They don’t recognize rapid DNA results in the courts. However, we further dispatched a sample for routine inspection through the RCMP laboratory. That requires at least forty days.” He flapped his hand back and forth to stop Margaret from interrupting. “But we’re confident when we receive those, they will establish Gregory’s innocence.”

  Felton sputtered again. The gob missed the rail and landed on the deck. Savannah scrunched her nose.

  “We’ll sue the bastards,” Margaret declared. An arrogant laugh spewed from her greasy lips.

  “Forget it, Mom. I’m thrilled just to be exonerated,” Gregory said. He dropped his chin to his chest and bawled. “All those years lost.”

  Savannah planted a palm over her mouth, a single tear eased down her cheek.

  Chapter 19

  “What the hell?” Eckhart slammed on her brakes inches from the bumper of the Ford F1. The burgundy pickup had cut the corner sharply into the one lane driveway.

  “That’s Anatoe. Let’s see where he’s been.” Gibson hopped out of the Expedition and strolled over to the old truck. Eckhart sauntered up from behind and propped her elbows on the hood.

  “Hey, do you mind?” Anatoe yelled.

  “Sorry.” Eckhart jumped away from the truck, holding her hands up.

  “What now?” Anatoe rested into his seat and scowled at Gibson.

  “Where’s the Chevy?” Gibson looked into the brown eyes, hoping they would be as soulful as his mom’s one day.

  “I sold it.”

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “In Grimsby. A guy there bought it.”

  “I see. Took you two days?”

  “What’s it to you? Am I under arrest?”

  “Not at all,” Gibson replied.

  “Hey, look. I didn’t kill Elsie,” he said. “I had a few days off and hung out with my buddies. That’s all. Even Todd got time off.”

  “What’s that?” Gibson asked and leaned on the window frame.

  “I saw Todd at a coffee shop—”

  “In Grimsby?” Gibson interrupted.

  “Yeah.”

  “Who was he with?”

  “Josephine,” Anatoe replied, pressing his thin lips into a line, not wanting to be the snitch.

  “Okay.” Gibson drummed twice on the door with his palm and pushed off. He swung toward the house and saw Grandma staring in their direction. Was that a warning to keep his secret to himself? Gibson hesitated. Should he tell Anatoe the truth? That he was Anatoe’s father. No. He had no right to interfere with the guy’s life.

  “Take care, Anatoe. Say hi to your mom.”

  He hopped into the Expedition with Eckhart following suit. Anatoe guided his pickup past their vehicle and remained at the entrance, watching as they veered into the street and out of sight. Gibson thought maybe Cecilia might tell Anatoe if he asked her the right question.

  “Todd is implicated in something. Isn’t he?”

  “We need to bring him in for questioning to get to the bottom of this,” Gibson said.

  “So it wasn’t a one-night stand. He’s having an affair. And maybe wanted it to be more? Get rid of the wife?” Eckhart asked.

  “It’s definitely a strong possibility,” he replied.

  “Do you think Elsie knew about the affair and was threatening him?”

  “We don’t know anything at this point. Let’s start by finding Todd and getting him to the station downtown.”

  “Okay.” Eckhart turned to him and almost whacked the guardrail at Jacobs Landing. They hurried down the path for the second time that day, but nobody answered the door.

  “Maybe he’s still in Grimsby. And where is Savannah?” Gibson asked. He pulled out his cell and dialed the DC.

  “Cooper. I want surveillance at Todd’s place. And bring Jones with you. Stay there until he shows up. I don’t care if it takes all day and all night. Just make sure you bring him in. He’s not under arrest, but he is under suspicion for murdering his wife. I need answers,” Gibson said. He hung up and crammed the phone into his back pocket.

  “Whoa. Really. You’re really thinking it could be Todd?”

  Gibson shrugged.

  “What did Cooper say to that?”

  “He was surprised, but will get on it.”

  “I bet.”

  “Today’s Saturday. Will the college be open?”

  “It’s always open,” Eckhart replied.

  “Let’s go.”

  “But, I thought—”

  “We don’t know anything for certain. Follow all the leads,” Gibson reiterated.

  “Right.” Eckhart thrust the gears into reverse and backed out. At the stop sign, she took a left and sped down Lakeshore Road, past several wineries and fruit stands. Just after the cemetery, she turned and followed the street, swerving with the dogleg. Gibson stared out the window to the vast orchards eating up the land. The college loomed ahead, all glass and metal—that seemed to be a theme in this town. A remorseless sun gleamed off the mirrored panels, exacerbating the already fiery rays. The parking lot was packed so she bounced over the curb at the front of the building and stopped.

  “That’ll do,” Eckhart said.

  Stone stairs swept steeply up. Students loitered on their coolness with their backpacks sprawling every which way. There was plenty of laughter and
kissing in the corners. The ornate doors opened smoothly with a steady surge of bodies in and out. Inside the grand entrance, a black arrow clearly marked the path to the office. The receptionist was a middle-aged woman with mousy brown hair swept up with rhinestone clasps. A colourful scarf covered the wrinkles forming on her neck.

  Gibson leaned on the counter, provided a lopsided smile and took out his badge. Eckhart flashed her ID as well.

  “Officers. How may I serve you?” she asked. Her grin was practiced, but nevertheless sincere.

  “We’re interested in reviewing a teacher’s file. A retired teacher,” Gibson said.

  “You have a warrant?” She looked at him over her black-rimmed glasses. Her smile intensified, pushing creases from the edge of her lips. Gibson screwed up his face.

  “I didn’t think so,” she said and rapped her fingers on the laminate top. “Who are we talking about?”

  “Felton Cunningham.”

  “I see.” The thrumming continued. “I’ll make an exception. Follow me.”

  Gibson swung the flimsy gate. It struck the side of the counter with a wallop.

  “Sorry. Didn’t realize my strength.”

  “Don’t worry. That’s not the first time that has happened. It needs to be adjusted,” she replied.

  The inner sanctuary was a maze of corridors. After turning several corners, the receptionist halted in front of a paneled door with brass fittings. She sifted through a jumble of keys and unlocked the storage room. The space was larger than he thought it would be. It was more of a study room. A long table monopolized the area, its luminous polish showing off the whorls of the wood. Six chairs shoved in the corner looked antique.