Murder At Lake Ontario

by KATHY GARTHWAITE

  A pickup ripped into the entrance and came to a halt with a skid in the dirt. It was a classic 1950s Chevrolet, a no-expense spared restoration with an awesome turquoise paint job that popped.

  “There’s B… Anatoe,” Grandma said. She had almost called him by his nickname, Blinkers, but thought better of it.

  A long-limbed man in his early thirties hopped out and walked by the Expedition, glancing at the official logo on the door. A crooked smile quickly flashed and retired. He sauntered up to the stoop and set a foot on the lower tread. Grease stained his coveralls and encrusted his palms. He stood as tall as Gibson. He had beefy square shoulders and a tense square jaw with earthy brown eyes, a spark of soul showing and a wariness hiding behind. He was a dead ringer for the lady Gibson had known so well long ago. Gibson looked at the ground and rubbed at his face.

  “Just checking up on you,” Anatoe said and smiled at Gran. Not his grandmother, but it felt like it.

  “I’m fine. These are the police.”

  “Hey.” He remained on the bottom step and placed his hands on his hips.

  “I understand you run a repair shop,” Gibson said.

  “Yeah.” His eye ticked ever so slightly.

  “Nice truck. Did you fix it up yourself?”

  “Yeah.” Anatoe stared at Eckhart.

  “Someone murdered Elsie,” Grandma blurted out. Anatoe took his gaze from the inspector and looked at Grandma instead.

  “Huh. I thought she tumbled down the stairs.” His glance bounced toward Gibson.

  “I’m afraid it wasn’t an accident. Did you see anything?” Gibson said.

  “What? I don’t know anything.”

  A flash ripped in the eastern sky. A crack in the air followed closely. The thunder rolled across the blue-steel grey expanse like a non-stop train. Gibson raised his gaze to black clouds sweeping in quickly. The next strike of lightening hit moments afterward. Another explosion sounded near to where they stood, the rumbling echoing off the lake.

  “What about the fight?”

  “It was nothing. That was just some jerks being nasty to Elsie. I tried to straighten them out. She didn’t deserve that.”

  “Where did you go after that?”

  “I went over to the fireworks pit. Then I grabbed a beer from the house.”

  “Did anyone see you in your wanderings?” Gibson asked.

  “I don’t know. They were all busy getting things set up.”

  “David saw you arguing with Elsie on the landing.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Wasn’t me. He’s mistaken me for someone else,” Anatoe said.

  Gibson hoped that was true. Besides, David didn’t seem clear about what he saw. He took a photo of the ring out of his pocket and handed it over. “Are you part of this fraternity?”

  “Yeah, Alpha Zee.”

  “Where’s your ring?” Gibson rubbed at his finger.

  “I gave it to a lady last year.” He grimaced. “Never got it back after we split.”

  “Who are the members?”

  “Just a few guys from Grimsby.”

  “Have names for us?”

  “Sure. No problem,” Anatoe said.

  Eckhart wrote as he called out the individuals.

  “Anything else you can add?”

  He shrugged a shoulder.

  The next brilliant zigzag of light crashed down by the shore almost simultaneously with a crackle of thunder. A patter of raindrops fell and then lashed down in torrential sheets. Anatoe bounded up the stairs to avoid getting drenched. Gibson moved away from the railing. Tree boughs swayed and groaned in the sudden gale.

  “Thanks for your help.” Gibson shot a glance toward Eckhart. He bounded off the porch and made a mad dash for the truck.

  “Let’s hunt down Felton’s firework buddies,” Gibson said.

  “Okay.” Eckhart drew her pad from a pocket and flipped through it, searching for an address. She tapped the page. “They live by the canal. On this side. I know the place.”

  He nodded.

  “Should we grab a quick bite before we go?”

  “Good idea.”

  As Eckhart turned into the first market she encountered, the rain stopped as quickly as it had started. That was pretty typical for this part of the world in the summer.

  There were plenty of bins of fresh local fruits and vegetables. Looked promising. They grabbed a couple of cold drinks and sandwiches from the cooler. Gibson bit down on his tuna sandwich and stopped mid chomp. It hadn’t been his first choice of fillings, but there hadn’t been much selection. He swung to his partner and saw she had the same look on her face. He tossed most of his lunch into a bin just outside the entrance of the store.

  “Yuck. Definitely not the Mansion Pub,” he spat.

  “Touché.” She followed suit and pitched her sandwich in the garbage.

  They headed to a service road that ran parallel to the canal. A wire fence circled the trailer park. Eckhart drove down the muddy track between rows of mobile homes. The truck bounced in the wide ruts. They discovered the place they were seeking at the top of the second row, just as Felton described it. A hoarder’s paradise. Junk filled the meager lot in front: a sink, some irrigation pipe and a jumble of tangled metal. An old fridge stood vacant at the side of the mobile home, accompanied by a rusted-out water tank. A tarp attached to the flimsy aluminium wall flapped in the breeze. The whole yard looked like a fire risk. He glanced at the neighbour’s garden. It was respectable, even had a wooden tub of geraniums.

  Gibson had run both their names through the system with the equipment in the Expedition. The father was clean, but the kid had a possession charge from three years ago. It didn’t matter anymore though, because weed was now legal in Canada. He thought he’d never see the day. He shook his head.

  The structure rattled when Gibson tapped on the door.

  “Yeah, what do you want?”

  “It’s the police.”

  May as well keep it simple. A chair scraped along the floor, and heavy footsteps caused the trailer to shake. An old man in a greasy plaid shirt with jeans that hung below his waistline stood in the entrance. He hiked them up, hauling on the frayed belt.

  “Nothing to say to the police,” the old man said.

  “Don’t worry. We just want to ask a few questions about the fireworks.”

  “At Felton’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  Some banging reverberated from the back.

  “Is that your son?”

  “Get over here,” the old man whooped. A scruffy looking individual came around the corner and froze when he spotted the detectives.

  “What?” the kid snapped, jutting out his jaw.

  “They want to know about the fireworks.”

  “What about them?” The kid forced his lips together into a scowl, and made an offensive gesture with his yellowed fingers, gunk under his broken nails.

  “You were both helping?”

  The old man nodded. The kid lowered his angry eyebrows.

  “Who was there besides Felton?”

  “Margaret. She served us cold beers,” the old man replied. Not quite as belligerent as his offspring.

  “That’s right,” the kid said. The tone of his voice revealing his dislike of cops.

  “Did Felton leave the site at all?”

  “Just to take a piss,” the kid said, laughing so hard he doubled over at his own joke, almost pissing his own pants with the effort.

  “Did you see anybody else?”

  “Anatoe came round. Said hi and went in the house for a beer. He never came back. Then we lit the fireworks. That’s it.”

  “I’m kind of busy. Can I go now?” the kid asked.

  “Thanks for your cooperation.”

  The kid spat on the ground and stalked off. The old man offered a half-hearted shrug.

  They hopped into the truck. Eckhart steered through the park, dodging children playing in the muck. She pulled into a narrow path off the main road, the bumper
pushing through the unmown grass. Gibson had a pretty good idea where she was headed.

  “Have you been here before?” she asked and pulled to a stop in a small clearing overlooking the canal.

  “Yes. It’s been quite a while.”

  Eckhart stepped out and leaned on the hood. Gibson got out and stood in front of her. He brushed her hair back from her shoulders and nuzzled her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of her perfume. The kiss was hot, fiery and passionate. He could feel the beating of her heart against his chest. He stopped and looked into her eyes. Their fingers grazed as he moved away. He knew it was just a matter of time before it happened, but not today. She stayed where she was for a moment, turning to look at him through the windshield. Then she returned to the chill of the truck and started up the engine.

  “That rain sure cooled things down.” Eckhart sucked her lips in.

  “Yeah.” That was a clever reply, Gibson thought. His mind was doing flip flops.

  She fiddled with the radio knob until she found a soft rock station playing a song by a local group that had made it big. The silence between them was effortless and pleasant. He settled into his seat and looked out the window. Clouds drifted across the sky with the gentle breeze. Aspen trees bordered the service road that ran alongside the canal. Their quivering leaves intercepted the sunlight periodically. Two ships met and passed each other. One rose high in the water. It would be empty, heading back to the St. Lawrence River and to places remote. The other one was heavy, fully loaded. Small waves licked the Plimsoll line stamped on the hull. He speculated what the payload was. He closed his eyes, sensing Eckhart peeking over to him. At the motel, she threw the gears into park and turned to him.

  “I—”

  “Pick me up at eight? Same place?” He grabbed her hand and squeezed.

  “You bet.” She gave him a demure smile.

  * * *

  After a dinner alone in the motel restaurant, Gibson went back to his suite to unwind. He settled on top of the tousled bed sheets fresh from a shower. He was intoxicated with a sense of freedom that he had never felt with Katherine. Was it real? He had been tempted to jump in and find out, but—the fact that there was a but had stopped him. His cell chirped. It was Scottie, Sergeant Cruickshank, his partner in Victoria.

  “Hey, I was just going to phone.”

  “Sure.” Her laughter reverberated through the line and overflowed into the dreary room. Like birdsong, it created brightness.

  “No, really.” He sat up, fluffed the pillow and melted into its softness. He spread his limbs out and crisscrossed them at the ankles.

  “Will you be back by the weekend? You thought—”

  “No,” he answered quickly.

  “Oh, matters aren’t progressing smoothly then.”

  “The worst. A homicide was thrust onto the Task Force, and the unit isn’t set up properly yet.”

  “Yikes. So, what are you looking at?”

  “I suppose I’m here for at least another week,” he said. “How’s it going there?”

  “Nothing exciting happening here. Just catching up on some reports.” Scottie paused. The tone of his voice made her curious. “Have you spoken to Katherine?”

  “Yes.” The lie slipped out fast and easy.

  “She’ll be fine,” Scottie said, her voice equivocal.

  “I’m sure. Got to go. I’ll call again soon.”

  “Guess what, Billy? I phoned you.”

  The giggle was ear splitting this time. He yanked the cell from his skull. Why did she persist with that nickname?

  “All right. See you.”

  His phone chirped as soon as he hung up. He looked at the screen and groaned. It was the call he feared. Should he answer? Of course. He had to. No. He would let it go to voice mail. Collect himself and call back. Coward.

  “Hi, sweetheart.” He answered on the seventh ring.

  “Hello.” Katherine’s pitch was charming with a hint of amusement. “Only three more days.”

  Gibson studied the print on the wall, a hotchpotch of colours. A meadow? Flowers? After merely a moment’s hesitation, he announced in his most dismal voice, “I’m trapped here longer than expected. There’s been a murder.”

  “What? You can’t. It’s not your problem.” Her tone drew tight with controlled irritation.

  “They’re counting on me. You don’t miss me anyway,” he said in his dreamiest voice.

  “I do miss you.” Her intonation thawed. “I suppose it’s okay. I am awfully busy.”

  “What’s up?” he asked, immediately suspicious, his guilt playing at the back of his mind.

  “I have interviews.”

  “Oh.” He relaxed and slumped heavier into the bed.

  “Yeah, wish me luck.”

  “You’ll get the perfect job. Don’t you fret.”

  “Okay. Talk to you later.” Katherine disconnected the call before he could respond.

  That was a first. Usually she dragged the conversation on, refusing to disengage. He closed his eyes and descended into an uneasy slumber.

  Chapter 9

  Gibson woke up early, leaped out of bed and rolled his neck back and forth making it crack. He got ready to face the day and stepped outside to a splendid morning. The deluge had turned the thermometer down. He relaxed at the same table in Just Roasted Cafe and ordered a coffee and a toasted bagel with cheese. After his second cup, he glanced at his watch. The Expedition showed up soon after. Eckhart greeted him with a gentle smile.

  He jumped into the vehicle and settled into the soft leather. Two sheets of paper were balanced on the centre console. He glanced at Eckhart.

  “Not a lot of detail. It’s just the basics. The top one is about Mr. Hugh Tatlow.”

  “Anything out of the ordinary?” Gibson asked as he glanced at the page.

  “He was in the armed forces. A career man.”

  “Married?”

  “Yes, but his wife died. And the baby too.”

  “Whoa. That’s brutal.” Gibson thought about Katherine’s miscarriage with her ex-husband. Not entirely the same, but still. He picked up the second sheet. Plenty of tragedy lived on Lawsons Lane.

  “Should we go to the station first?” Eckhart asked.

  “Let me call Frenchy,” Gibson replied. He punched in the lab number and waited. She didn’t answer. He cradled his cell in his palm. “What do—” A chirp interrupted him.

  “Gibson.”

  “I was in the midst of something,” Frenchy said.

  “That’s okay. Any news about the prints?”

  “I can’t lift them yet.”

  “Okay. What about the software program?”

  “My guy is still working on it. Uncertain what the issue is, but...”

  “Okay, Frenchy.”

  “Don’t worry. It’ll happen.” She hung up without waiting for a retort.

  “Nothing new.”

  “I figured that,” Eckhart said. She inclined into the bucket seat and glimpsed at the wispy clouds gliding along peacefully, non-threatening. She looked down the road, her thoughts wandering elsewhere.

  “So, Lawsons Lane?” Gibson asked.

  “Okay.”

  The trip down the lane wasn’t dusty this time, but a light wind was kicking up from the lake. Eckhart cruised to the end, swinging into the last entrance. The house loomed up ahead. It was a grand two-storey Queen Anne Revival building with a turret at the front corner overlooking the lake. The hipped roof with cross-gables reached toward the sky. Elaborate fish scale siding covered nearly the entire exterior facade. Several windows on the lower level had stained glass. A sweep of steps led to a veranda with lacy spindles adorning the posts and railings.

  Gibson punched the bell. A melodic song rang out. The door was opened by a broad man with grizzled hair. His brown eyes were kind with a hint of sorrow on the margins. Not as creepy as the kids made out. The furrows etched on his features supported his tragedy—a profound loss. The lines softened when he smiled.

&nbs
p; “It’s about Elsie,” he said, gesturing them into the formal vestibule.

  The walls were embossed with velour to the wainscoting. Someone had created mahogany built-ins. The parquet flooring was polished to a mirror finish.

  “This is a lovely house,” Gibson said.

  “I bought it for my partner and...”

  “Sorry for your loss.”

  “It was a long time ago,” he said and flapped it off with a toss of his hand.

  Nevertheless, it still hurt, Gibson guessed.

  “I expect you heard that Elsie was murdered. It wasn’t an accident.”

  “Mary mentioned it. Across the lane.”

  Grandma.

  “Did you see anything?” Gibson asked.

  “I was returning from my nightly stroll when the fireworks started.”

  “From the beach?”

  “No. Down the street and back.” He paused. “I was hiking up my drive when I overheard some squabbling. It was Elsie and Anatoe.”

  “Did you hear what they were talking about?” Now we know it was Anatoe for sure, Gibson thought. He glanced at his partner. She smirked.

  “Something about Savannah. It was none of my business.”

  Gibson waited. Eckhart scratched in her journal.

  “They both left. Not sure who went where. I saw another fellow come along, but he split right away.”

  That would have been David.

  “That’s all I can report. If I had realized...” Mr. Tatlow sighed.

  “How could you have possibly known what was going to happen?” Gibson said, his soft intonation giving the man some solace.

  Mr. Tatlow made a noise of acknowledgement.

  “Thanks for your help. We may talk to you again.”

  Gibson walked down the drive, suddenly aware that the wind had dropped altogether. They hopped into the truck and headed down the lane.

  * * *

  “The Underwoods lost their only child ten years ago. Katie. Apparently, she drowned. What a shame.” He fingered the paper.

  Eckhart spun into the next driveway. It was an ordinary clapboard dwelling as divergent from Mr. Tatlow’s place as day to night. Large trees loomed over the yard and heavily shaded the lawn. The gardens were pleasing with bundles of annual colour. Climbing roses on the face of the house blossomed in a rich pink blush. The front entrance didn’t have a portico and stood open to the weather. There were no fancy scrolling or railings on the scant landing. Chairs dotted the grass in groups, for the most part in the shade. He knocked on the door. Mrs. Underwood answered, glancing at the emblem on their vehicle.