“Sorry. I’m so frustrated with this case,” Eckhart said. “How ungrateful of me after all your help.”
“I get it. We have one last shot. Then, we’ll write up a report,” he replied.
“Okay.” Her whisper tinged with humiliation.
Gibson barely noticed the heat as he headed to the building.
“When’s your flight?” Eckhart asked, the ruffles calmed. She strolled beside him and unlocked the door with her key card.
“The red-eye at midnight. Lots of time yet.” He gave a tiny quirk of a smile.
“It won’t be long. I put Margaret’s prints in already.” Frenchy stood in front of the computer, waiting for the results to appear. The three of them took vigilance, holding their breath. The hard drive whirled. The monitor went dark. It lit up. A positive match.
“What the hell!” Eckhart shrieked. “Are you kidding me?” She grabbed Gibson’s arm and jumped up and down. “Oh, my God. This is incredible.” She broke off and studied Frenchy. “Is this a false reading? A joke?”
“No.” The lab technician shook her head, utterly bewildered herself.
Gibson couldn’t express his bemusement.
“But why? That’s crazy.”
“Let’s go get her,” Gibson said.
Eckhart babbled as she raced to the truck. She chattered all the way down Lakeshore Drive, over the canal and to Jacobs Landing. A long string of vehicles rocketed down the road from Niagara-on-the-Lake. At the first opportunity in traffic, she zoomed across the yellow line to Lawsons Lane. Gibson glanced at the store as they flew by. It seemed desolate, devoid of soul. Eckhart continued down the lane, dust spilling out in the aftermath of the tires, choking off vision behind them. Flocks of sparrows fled from the shrubs on the roadway, dodging the mayhem. She slowed down and sneaked up behind Felton’s vehicle. Gregory’s motorbike parked on the grass had fallen on its side. Before Gibson got out, he patted her hand. She looked over. Her eyes had changed to an icy blue.
“It’s your play.”
Eckhart nodded and hopped out of the truck. Gibson followed her to the steps, waiting on the bottom tread. Felton sat on the swing, blowing smoke through his nose.
“What now?” He coughed twice, and then took another drag on his cigarette. “Margaret, you’ve got company,” he yelled. Felton hacked again, making fat tears roll down his face.
“For Christ sakes, Felton. Spit it out,” Margaret rebuked.
He shot a giant gob of phlegm toward the garden. It missed its mark and landed on the deck.
“Jesus. Just more work for me,” Margaret grumbled. She stalked to the kitchen and came back with a mop, slamming the door behind her. “Disgusting. It’s like cleaning the bathroom after you.” She brushed at the wood with little progress. “Damn.” She flung the mop against the railing and plunked into the floral cushions.
Eckhart waited for her opportunity to speak.
“Margaret Cunningham you are—”
“What am I?”
“You’re under arrest for the murder of Elsie Webber,” Eckhart said and stepped forward. “Stand up.” Her voice thundered with authority. Gibson lifted his eyebrows at the force of her assertion.
“Felton.” Margaret pressed into her chair.
“What?” He spat out another hunk.
“Get up.” Eckhart took one further stride forward.
“This is ridiculous. Felton, call our lawyer,” Margaret demanded. She rose, dragging her hands along her skirt to flatten the creases.
“Yeah, I will,” he said but remained seated as Eckhart clamped on the handcuffs and led Margaret to the Expedition. Gibson opened the rear door and eased her inside.
“Go away.” Margaret jerked his hand off. She sat up straight, a grandiose pinch to her mouth and dead eyes fixed forward.
Felton ground his smoke on the deck and lit another one as they pulled out of the driveway. Every once in a while, Margaret protested her predicament, but they couldn’t make out her words through the thick glass partition that divided the front and back space. When they reached the intersection, Gibson looked over to Jacobs Landing. There was a flurry of activity on the veranda. Gregory and Savannah were scrubbing vigorously at the windows to remove the filth, a soapy bucket of water between them. Their laughter streamed out and travelled down to the beach and across the lake. Gregory didn’t notice his mother in the police vehicle, having eyes only for Savannah.
Eckhart reached for the switches on the dashboard. She glanced toward Gibson before flipping them on. His quirky smile gave the okay. The drive to the downtown station was speedy with the accompaniment of the siren and lights. She had phoned ahead to give instructions. Two officers waited at the entrance for the Expedition to arrive. Without any fuss, Margaret was taken into custody, the steel door clanging behind her ample body.
Chapter 21
Gibson phoned Cooper and told him the news. “Go visit your favourite judge. Get a warrant for Felton’s place. Everything. Not just the house.” He assigned a few more directives and signed off.
“Lunch while we wait?” Eckhart asked.
“Perfect.”
They ambled down Church Street to the pub. A fresh breeze had sprung up and blew gusts of cool respite. They settled into their preferred spot and ordered. It wasn’t hectic so the refreshments came right away. Gibson chugged his beer, wiping the foam off his lips.
“I was parched,” he said. “You did fine.”
“It’s hard to believe. What the hell happened between Margaret and Elsie?” Eckhart asked.
“I don’t know, but we’ll unearth the truth.” He pressed to his temple. An image had come and gone.
They chatted while they dined. Gibson sat back in his chair and polished off his drink.
“We should mosey on. Ready?”
“Yup.”
Gibson settled the bill, and they walked down the shady side of the street to the station. Margaret’s lawyer hadn’t arrived yet so Gibson rested on the bench in the foyer. He leaned against the hard wall painted a nondescript green, like slime, and passed the time with a game of solitaire on his cell. Eckhart leaned against the wall, too anxious to sit still.
“How much does Felton know about all this? We should pull him in for a chat,” Gibson said, looking up at his partner.
“You’re right.”
Gibson punched the redial button. “Cooper. Could you bring Felton in? He’s not under arrest.” He hung up. “On the way.”
Sultry air slinked in when the main door opened. A man dressed in a brown suit and elegant brown shoes stepped inside. His bushy brows bent over droopy eyelids like a basset hound, and his beaky nose was drippy. Fat lips bunched into a harsh frown down to his double chin. His teeth moved as if he was chewing cud. He peered at Gibson as he tottered to the counter. With a loud harrumph, he cleared his throat and said, “I’m Philip Smith, Margaret Cunningham’s attorney. Where is she?”
Gibson glanced up. The man clung with wrinkled hands to a briefcase that looked traumatized from years of scraping under courtroom benches. The officer at the desk led the way down the corridor. The elderly man moved unsteadily after him, his hard-soled wingtips making a disturbing clack on the linoleum. Gibson tossed his chin toward Eckhart. She stealthily shadowed the two figures to Margaret’s lockup. A metal chair just outside the door shouted her name. She sat down on the cold surface prepared to wait it out for the long haul. The officer pitched her a grin and headed back to his post. The lawyer snarled, a short fizz escaping his parted lips.
Another sweltering rush of air whistled in. Two constables stepped into the station and crossed the lobby with their quarry sardined between them. Cooper turned and winked, hoisting his chin with a sniff. Jones took a wide stance at the counter and anchored his free hand on his hip. Felton gawked at Gibson with an outraged frown, his forehead furrowing into cavernous creases. After the constables clocked in their detainee, Gibson rose to accompany the parade down the corridor. He seized the steel handle of an intervie
w room and yanked on the weighty door.
They all piled inside the tiny square room painted a shiny gunmetal grey, designed to instill apprehension. The fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed when Gibson flipped the switch revealing four orange plastic chairs and a plywood table. Gibson gestured to the far side of the narrow table. Felton sat and placed his fists on his knees. His shoulders took on the configuration of the non-ergonomic chair, forcing his shoulders to sag forward. He looked ghostly in the bold light.
“Thanks guys. I’ll take it from here,” Gibson said. The constables saluted as they scooted out, amused grins pasted on delighted faces.
“We’ve arrested Margaret.”
“Yeah, I know. I was there,” Felton said. “What for?”
“For the murder of Elsie,” he answered, although the man already knew.
“Why am I here?”
“I have questions. Do you want a lawyer, Felton?” Gibson asked.
“Why? I didn’t do anything.” He coughed.
Gibson pushed the recorder on.
“Do you know why Margaret murdered Elsie?”
“No. Did she?” Felton hesitated before continuing. “It’ll be Elsie’s fault for getting killed. She’s nothing but a gossipmonger.”
Gibson urged his lips together, bearing the fury he felt at the despicable man. Felton accepted the detective’s gag for approval.
“She spreads rumours like I smear peanut butter.” His snicker changed into a fit of whooping. He tugged out his grubby handkerchief and added to its ghastly stench. Gibson remained restrained, letting the aged fellow babble on.
“Ten years ago, she claimed I was a paedophile. Suggested I had something to do with…” He clamped his trap shut and launched a sneaky look toward the detective.
“With what Felton?”
“Nothing, Gibson.” He dragged out the word into a drawl and coughed.
“So, what happened lately that changed things?”
“Gregory is what happened.”
“What like father, like son?” Gibson recalled what Jackie had heard.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Tell me, Felton, where did the rape happen?” Not that it was relevant, but he was curious.
“At the beach.” Felton’s black eyes drilled into his steely grey eyes.
“What? At Lawsons Lane?” The answer surprised Gibson. He tried to connect the dots while Felton rambled on.
“Who does she think she is? Accusing me of whatever. Moreover, Gregory didn’t even rape anyone. So the hell with that father and son bullshit.” He stopped and wiggled in his chair, sliding down further into its tortuous hardness. His face had turned crimson. “It’s all because the victim was a kid Elsie knew.”
The inspector’s cell trilled. “Gibson.” He listened for a while, his mouth twitching with anticipation. “You’re sure. Blue.” He hung up.
“Where do you fit in, Felton?” Gibson asked, trying to keep his tone detached.
“I don’t,” he answered, struggling to bolt out of his seat, but choked instead. “What bullshit!” Felton gobbed into his bandana. The coughing ceased for a time. He mopped his mouth and cleared his throat. It sent him into a fit. He clutched at his chest.
Gibson got up. He hollered down the corridor. “Hey, Cooper. Get us some water.” The old man continued to gag. “Stat.”
“Here you go boss.” Cooper came around the corner a second later.
Felton gulped down the cool liquid and collected himself. “I’ve had enough of this crap.” He licked his tobacco-stained lips.
“A few more questions, if you don’t mind,” Gibson said. He stared at the drained glass. Well water. Felton’s house next to the beach access. The tumultuous thoughts that had trundled through his mind and nagged suddenly came together—to just one outcome that made sense. “Should we search for Katie’s body at your place?” The pit-bull snarled at him.
“What? No,” Felton shouted.
“In the pump house?” Gibson bared his teeth.
Felton’s unsavoury pallor waned further. He spat on the floor.
Gibson stuck his head out the door and yelled, “Cooper.”
“What’s going on?” Eckhart looked up at the screeching and bustled down the hallway from her vigilance.
“They found some blue shorts in the pumphouse,” Gibson said as he stepped out into the corridor.
“So?” Eckhart said.
“A child’s size. Dilapidated.” He thought of the file and the description of blue shorts the young girl had worn. “It’s a long shot but what if Katie didn’t drown?”
“What? You’re kidding. Margaret?”
“No. Felton. Everything seems to be linked to that beach.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. But a DNA test will tell us if the shorts are Katie’s.”
“Why would Felton keep them? Some kind of souvenir?”
“That’s right. He has a history of sexual misconduct. Remember,” Gibson replied.
Eckhart nodded.
“Yes, sir.” The constable sprinted toward them and skidded to an abrupt standstill in front of Gibson.
“Call your guys at the house. Tell them to search further in the pump house.”
Cooper inclined his head in query.
“With shovels,” Gibson said.
“Sir.”
“They’ll be looking for bones. Old bones. Of an adolescent.”
“Whoa. Right away,” Cooper replied. He flipped a salute and was about to charge off when a commotion snared his attention. Felton had scraped his chair along the floor and lunged at Gibson, slamming him into the metal doorframe.
“Let me out of here. You, asshole,” he shouted.
“Get this man locked up first,” Gibson said. He seized the old man gruffly by the wrist and shoved him over to the DC. As Cooper dragged him down the corridor to the cells at the rear of the station, Felton howled, wailed and cursed.
“You can’t do this to me. She stumbled and struck her head. It wasn’t my fault...” Felton bit down on his lip.
Gibson ran after him.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. I did nothing,” he whined. His face glistened in the muddy light. His lips were chapped and raw, a dribble of blood stuck on his sharp chin.
“You did nothing all right. Not a thing to save Katie. You make—”
Cooper thrust Felton into a four-walled white box. The gate clanged shut, and with a flourish of the key the detainee was secured. He took a backward glance and snorted. Felton remained huddled on the concrete, coughing and gasping for breath.
“I’m going to die in here,” he whimpered. His body shivered in the midst of the heatwave.
“Die, you bastard,” Cooper mumbled behind his hand. He kicked at the floor as he left and headed to the house at the end of Lawsons Lane.
Gibson shook himself off and proceeded to the front desk.
“Get a doctor in there for Felton. We have to do it right. The man needs some medical attention,” he said.
“You bet,” the dispatcher replied and picked up the phone.
* * *
Eckhart leaned on the counter, already starting on the mounds of reports that needed to be done. She looked up when Gibson approached.
“Margaret won’t say a word,” she said.
“Felton made up for it.” His cell buzzed. “Okay. Yes.” He hung up.
“Keep me in suspense,” Eckhart said.
“They found bones.”
“That quick?”
“Felton didn’t stash them deep. The forensic anthropologist is on her way. We’ll find out in a few hours.”
“Oh, my God.” She held her palm to her mouth. “Is it Katie?”
“Not certain if the bones are even human at this point,” he replied. “My flight is still hours away. Should we go for a beer?”
“Sure.” She hitched. “Gibson.”
He looked at Eckhart.
“I’ll drive you to the airport. No problem.”
“Okay. Thanks. That would be really nice.”
They bumped fists. The walk to the pub was stifling, but they didn’t notice. They relaxed in silence, waiting for the call. After an hour, his cell chirped.
“Gibson.” He nodded several times before hanging up, a stern expression on his face.
“They discovered a gingham blouse in the potting shed. It was rumpled and bloodstained.”
“Margaret’s blouse?”
“Yeah,” Gibson answered.
“And Elsie’s blood?”
“Presumably.”
Eckhart clapped her hands. They had a bite to eat before the next call came.
“Gibson.” He listened attentively before hanging up.
“The bones are human from a young girl about ten.”
“Oh, shit,” Eckhart exclaimed.
“They’re collecting the bones now. Frenchy is there too. They’ll take them to the lab. But it’ll take some time before they can identify them as Katie’s,” Gibson said.
“I know.” Eckhart closed her eyes and looked in her heart. “If they are, I’ll have to notify the Underwoods. Won’t I?”
“Yes, no getting around that,” he answered. Gibson didn’t envy her that task. “Regardless. You have two murderers. Two cases.”
Eckhart buried her face with her hands.
“You’ll be okay,” he reached over and touched her arm. “You have excellent people working for you.”
“I do.”
They finished up and drifted back to the station. Brown-shoes was seated on the bench that Gibson had deserted hours before. His briefcase lay flopped at his feet on the dirty, cracked linoleum. He looked up at the swish of the door.
“Inspector.”
“Yes.” Gibson towered over the shrivelling figure.
“May I have a word with you?” Brown-shoes asked as he grappled to rise.
“You are?” Although Gibson knew who the lawyer was.
“Philip Smith. Margaret wishes to make a statement.”
STORM ROLL: a Canadian murder mystery series Page 34
