Murder At Lake Ontario

by KATHY GARTHWAITE

  “Hello. Come in.” She signaled them to the living room. All the furnishings were spotless and tasteful. The essence of spices wafted from the rear. “It’s the detectives.”

  “Coffee?” Mr. Underwood rose from his loveseat and gestured to a couch by the window. He sat back down.

  “That would be nice,” Gibson said. He sat and looked out the window toward Grandma’s house. Eckhart perched next to him.

  “I won’t be a moment. Bear with me.” Mrs. Underwood scurried down the hallway, soft footfalls resounding in the small space.

  “She’s an excellent cook.”

  Gibson smiled. Eckhart reached for her journal, ready to take notes.

  Mrs. Underwood came back with a big tray. “I have sandwiches too.” She arranged the works on a table between the two seating arrangements. After everybody was established with a plate of food and steaming coffee, she sank into the loveseat. The couple remained close but not touching, linked by a force that flowed between them.

  “Did you make it to the fireworks?” Gibson asked.

  “No. We didn’t go,” Mr. Underwood said.

  “It was ten years ago to the date we lost our child,” his wife said matter-of-factly.

  Although he was aware of the story, Gibson felt his heart strike his rib cage.

  “Katie had gone out on her bike with friends. A day like today. Perfect.” Mrs. Underwood inhaled sharply and went on. “She was with Savannah from the store. Jackie was at her grandma’s house that weekend, as well.” She pointed across the street.

  Gibson’s heart darted around his chest, seeking for a place to stash his emotions. Eckhart sat straight, mouth drawn. It was painful to listen to Mrs. Underwood speak in such a neutral manner.

  “I presume the girls separated. I discovered Katie’s bike at the top of the beach stairs. The police suggested she had drowned.” She shrugged. “We never recovered her body. What could we do?”

  The detectives sat still.

  “It’s okay. We’re okay.” She reached over the coffee table and touched Gibson’s sleeve. He was reluctant to look her in the eye. When he did, he didn’t see the emptiness he was expecting, but hope—hope that Katie was at peace. His heart settled into its appointed spot.

  Mrs. Underwood squeezed his arm and smiled a smile that brought memories back. Gibson swallowed hard. This was what heartbreak felt like. He had experienced it once before when his younger brother had committed suicide. A tear threatened to expose him. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” He perched on the brink of the couch.

  Mrs. Underwood glanced skyward and exhaled. Mr. Underwood patted her hand.

  “Thank you for your time.” He pointed a chin at Eckhart and rose. “And the snacks.”

  Gibson wasn’t certain what he was feeling when they left. Despair? Hope? Guilt?

  Eckhart looked distressed.

  “Late lunch?” he asked.

  “Yeah. How about the Mansion Pub? I love their Reuben sandwich.”

  Eckhart fired up the engine. The drive downtown was quick. The traffic had thinned considerably. She discounted the ‘No Parking’ sign in front of the pub and parked with the truck’s nose touching the sign. They ordered the same as the last time. Gibson rested back in his chair and looked at the mirror behind the bar, thinking things over.

  “Anatoe claimed he was getting a beer from Felton’s house,” Eckhart said.

  “And nobody noticed him.” Gibson took a taste of his burger.

  “That’s right, but David told us he thought Anatoe and Elsie were arguing by the landing. Although he wasn’t a hundred percent positive, Mr. Tatlow was. Anatoe doesn’t have an alibi. None that we have found yet. Why would he be quarreling with Elsie? Why go to the beach to start a fight with her? What would be so important?”

  “That’s a lot of questions,” he said.

  Eckhart wiped mustard off her mouth with a napkin and looked over at him. “Could it be that he just wanted to go out with her sister? That sounds so lame.”

  “We’ll ask him again.”

  “He won’t tell us.”

  “We’ll see,” Gibson said.

  “Maybe the ring is his?”

  “Could be.”

  “What about the Grimsby guys? Are they connected?”

  “We’ll check them out, too.”

  Eckhart plucked out her journal again and found the name she was looking for. “John Terry Henneberry. He’s the president of that fraternity club. Should we phone ahead?”

  “No, I think we’ll make a surprise visit,” Gibson replied, a small smile playing on his lips.

  “Where has Gregory been? That’s a problem. Don’t you think? It’s been a few days since anyone has seen him. Is he the killer and we’re just letting him go?”

  “I haven’t forgotten about him. Maybe he went to Grimsby,” he said.

  “He should know that we would want to talk to him. After all, he found the body.”

  “We’ll track him down. One way or the other.”

  “Okay. What about Mr. Tatlow?”

  “He seemed harmless enough,” Gibson said. “Or is he the monster the kids insist he is?” He didn’t really think that was the case.

  “Right. Who do you truly know?” Eckhart tempted him with her deep pools of blue. “You deserve a nightcap after listening to all that stuff about death on Lawsons Lane.”

  “I do.” He knew what he was about to do was wrong, but he wanted this.

  Eckhart chattered as she drove. Her laughter was like a songbird. He drank it all in, savouring the moment. She parked in the driveway and they scampered up the steps two at a time. A moon hung over the lake, spilling a silver light into the room. She held out her hand, and he took it. The kisses were long and deep. All thoughts of the future melted away in the heady lust. Afterward, he lay beside her and let himself dream of a different life.

  Chapter 10

  It had been a warm night with barely a breeze to cool his fevered body when Gibson stole his way out of the townhouse. He had taken one last glimpse before he closed the bedroom door, the moonlight shimmering on her smooth skin. Now he waited in the café for the Expedition to come round the corner. Eckhart smiled at him as he hopped into the truck.

  “Hi, handsome.” Her voice had a trace of huskiness that wasn’t there yesterday.

  Gibson felt at ease. She would always know what to say.

  “It’s time to see what the husband has to say,” he said. Even to his own ears that sounded weird.

  “I agree.” She giggled like a school girl and glanced at him sideways, a faint curve of her mouth lingered.

  Eckhart drove out of town and shortly after pulled into Jacobs Landing. She lined up the Expedition in front of the general store. Someone had ripped dead flowers from the terracotta urns and thrown them on the ground. They strolled under the covered passage—honeysuckle and purple-flowered clematis vines clinging to the lattice trellis—to the small forties bungalow at the back. It was isolated from the house next door by a tract of meadowland. He punched the buzzer. The peal reverberated inside. There was no other noise until the slapping of rubber echoed along the hallway. Savannah opened the door.

  “May we come in?” Gibson asked.

  “You’re the detectives?”

  He nodded.

  They accompanied her down a short corridor, pictures covering the walls with their life. Gibson swept his eyes over the black and white and sepia photographs. Savannah led them to the kitchen, the sweet smell of coffee brewing. The room was bright and cheery, painted a bold yellow. Behind the glass-fronted cabinets was a mishmash of chinaware, doubtless collected since the fifties. A simple folded tea towel dangled from the oven handle. The rustic table took up most of the tiny space with old chairs crowded around. Probably antiques now.

  Todd sat at the head of the table and nodded in their direction. He was dressed in the uniform of the grieving—sweat pants and a T-shirt. His hair was unruly, but he had shaven. A weighted look dragged his skin down in pa
le folds. Gibson hauled out a chair and sat down, glancing out the window to the fields beyond. Eckhart perched on a seat beside him. Savannah plunked down and brushed at her forehead.

  “We’re sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks.” Todd’s lips were drawn in. A glassy look told them his spirit had retreated inward as well. Where else could he flee?

  “Did you make it to the party?” Gibson asked.

  “No, I was working on the books. I planned to make it before the fireworks started, but...”

  “Someone heard Anatoe and Elsie arguing. Any idea what that would have been about?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she told him to stay away from her sister.”

  Savannah dipped her chin at his remark and plucked her bangs.

  “Would he have hurt Elsie?”

  “No, not really.” Todd sucked in his breath. “But I think Gregory would.” His sidelong glance toward Savannah spoke volumes.

  Savannah stared hard at him and then narrowed her eyes.

  “What makes you say that?” Gibson asked.

  “Because of his prior behavior,” Todd said.

  “What behaviour?” Gibson shook his head not following.

  “He was in jail for raping a teenage girl.” A haughty laugh escaped his lips.

  Gibson shot a look toward Eckhart. Oh, shit. How did they miss that? Was it because he had other things on his mind?

  Savannah sunk into her chair, sticking her fist to her mouth.

  “His mother isn’t much better either.”

  “Todd, stop that.” Savannah lashed out. “Gregory didn’t do anything. He didn’t rape that girl. It was—”

  Todd slammed his palm on the table. “He did two years for Christ sakes. What’s the matter with you?” His voice cracked. The air was thick and heavy. A premonitory chill ran down Gibson’s spine. The silence was like a shroud. It stretched thinner and thinner, ready to rupture.

  “Did you see anything, Savannah?” Gibson pressed on.

  “Like what?”

  “Did you see anybody leave?”

  “I guess Gregory left before the fireworks.” She paused. “But so did a few of the other guys. So what.”

  “Anything else?”

  Todd shrugged.

  “No.” Savannah looked up at him.

  “Okay. Thanks for your help. Take care.”

  They trudged down the pathway to the truck. Gibson studied the shuttered windows of the store. “We have a dilemma.”

  “What?” Eckhart asked.

  “Presumably Gregory is on parole.”

  “Oh.”

  “He may have breached his parole in several aspects.”

  “Such as?”

  “Hanging out at a party with alcohol available. Alternatively, were there any adolescents present? We don’t know his conditions of release.”

  “And he seems to be missing,” Eckhart said.

  “Yeah. Maybe that’s why he’s taken a runner. Let’s go to the station.”

  “Maybe catch a snack on the way.”

  “Sure,” he replied.

  She fired up the Expedition. They stopped at a local takeout and snagged sandwiches and coffee. He ate his veggie roll on the road. There wasn’t a soul in the office. The constables had taken off for the day.

  They headed to Eckhart’s office. It was painted a light shade of yellow with cream coloured baseboards. Limited edition prints hung on one wall. A naked oak desk faced the door, a power position for the boss. The floor-to-ceiling window behind it overlooked the same row of maples as the other offices. A bookshelf bursting with law books took up the rest of the room.

  “Nice.”

  “I’m partial to it.” Eckhart pulled a laptop out of a top drawer and placed it on the desk. It fired up but there wasn’t any internet access. “My computer isn’t hooked up yet.”

  “Oh.”

  They headed to the lab, brushing hands as they squeezed through the doorway.

  “Nothing yet,” Frenchy said before they asked.

  “Can we use the computer?”

  “You bet.” She punched in her password. “There you go.”

  Gibson sat down and logged into the RCMP database. He scrolled through a few pages before he found Gregory Cunningham.

  “Yup. He’s on parole.” He looked up at his partner.

  “What are the conditions?”

  “The regular. He can’t leave the city. He must keep the peace. Be of good behaviour and obey the law. Duh.”

  Eckhart giggled.

  “Abstain from alcohol and illegal drugs. Forbidden to contact victims or children. Stay away from people involved in criminal activity. Not allowed to keep any weapon. That’s it.”

  “Has he broken any of the conditions?”

  “If he consumed beer with the guys,” he answered.

  “Okay.”

  “One further condition I see here.” He passed his finger down the screen. “If you have been arrested or questioned by the police, you must notify your supervisor immediately. That doesn’t help. We can’t question someone we can’t find. So, has Gregory made himself scarce because he’s afraid of being involved – because of his parole? Or the worst-case scenario we have to consider is, did he kill Elsie?”

  “Oh, god,” Eckhart said.

  “His parole can be suspended for up to fourteen days even if there’s a suspicion he has violated his release conditions.”

  “I would hide from us too.” Another giggle erupted.

  “He can be arrested and returned to jail.”

  “We better talk to his parole officer.”

  “Maybe there’s a number online.” He searched through the webpage. “Nope.”

  “Call the central switchboard.”

  “You should do that. You have the right badge.” Gibson chuckled.

  She stabbed in the numbers and waited. “Hi, there. This is Inspector Rene Eckhart. I’m looking for a contact number for a parole officer.” She rattled off her badge number and Gregory’s full name and address. An elevator song trumpeted into the earpiece. She yanked the phone from her ear and pouted. The operator returned within a few minutes and provided her the info. Eckhart hung up and shifted to Gibson.

  “Brandon Sullivan.” She dialed, but the call flipped to an agent. Brandon was out of town, so she made an appointment for when he returned.

  “We have an appointment for Sunday at ten.”

  “We need to find Gregory. Where would he have gone?”

  “I think you might be right. He’s gone to Grimsby.”

  “If we find him there, that would be an infringement of his parole,” Gibson said. “We’ll go tomorrow.”

  “Right. Early morning then?”

  “Pick me up at seven?”

  “Okay.” She bit her tongue.

  They cruised down the service road to the main street and through Port Dalhousie. She pulled into the motel’s circular driveway and shifted into park. She watched him go in the front entrance and drove home.

  Chapter 11

  The grim twist of Gibson’s mouth revealed his sombre mood. He stood outside the café waiting for his ride, leaning against the building, hands in his pockets. Not even the sun-kissed sky caused him to smile. He watched as thin, feathery clouds drifted lazily through the forget-me-not blue.

  Eckhart pulled up in the truck. What attracted him to her beauty, her silliness? The doubts had started to creep in. The last few years had been challenging. Was he burned out? Or looking for a way out? He wasn’t certain. Yes, he loved Katherine, but something had become buried in the struggles. He slid into the passenger seat.

  “Hi, cowboy. It’s been a few rough days.” She tapped lightly on his sleeve and lifted her eyebrows mischievously.

  Gibson flashed a quirky smile and stretched out for the run to Grimsby, gazing out the window. She turned around in the motel parking lot and took Ontario Street to the Queen Elizabeth Highway West, four lanes in each direction. Large trucks shook the Expedition as th
ey rocketed past. Gibson sank deeper into his seat and tried to enjoy the ride. The road ran parallel to the shoreline with scenery that replayed itself every so often: trees, fields, houses; repeat.

  When they reached Jordan Harbour, the highway converged with the lake. Gibson looked at the never-ending expanse of light-dappled water. Just as he had focused on the horizon, Eckhart swung the truck inland. Ten minutes later, Gibson spotted the turnoff for Beamsville.

  “There’s our exit. I haven’t been out this way for thirty years.”

  “Really?”

  Eckhart took the off ramp and circled round the overpass. She zigzagged through the back roads. They passed several vineyards, acres of greenhouses and apple orchards before Lincoln Avenue came up at a crossroads.

  Gibson considered the signpost. The numbering was faded. Which way to go? “Turn right.” Just before some railroad tracks, he saw a mailbox on the roadside with the address they were searching. He pointed to the run-down house. “Here.”

  It was more like a shack, black stains running down the siding, moss on the roof.

  Eckhart pulled behind an old Ford Escort with rusted-out fenders. Two kids came shooting around the corner, torn shorts and dirt covered knees. They stopped and gawked at the gleaming new truck. She shut off the motor. “What’s this guy’s name again?”

  “JT Henneberry,” he said, reading from his notes.

  They stepped out into a drier, warmer air than the city, away from the water. A skinny boy ran straight at Gibson, head down like a battering ram.

  “Whoa there, big fellow.” He chuckled.

  “Are you a friend of my dad?” the boy asked, swaggering on a pinpoint, fixed to rumble.

  “Ah. Could be.”

  The front door lurched open. A skinny guy stood there with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He wore jeans tattered at the hem and a T-shirt with a label from some rock band.

  “You must be the detectives.”