Murder At Lake Ontario

by KATHY GARTHWAITE

  Anatoe had given JT a heads up.

  “Come on in.” They strode along a well-rutted track across a brown yard, the two kids shoving in behind. “You guys go play.”

  “I want to see too,” the boy whined in a squeaky, high-pitched cry.

  “I don’t think so. Beat it.”

  Both children raced to the rear, shrieking and howling with delight.

  “Kids.”

  The interior wasn’t much better than the exterior. Patches of mold mottled the dirt-encrusted windows. The walls had turned from an off-white to an off-yellow from tobacco. The living room had three couches, each rattier than the next. They were wedged into an unbelievably tiny space. A coffee table held several ashtrays, not overflowing, but getting there. Eckhart scrunched her face, wiggling her snout. The place smelled bad, smoky and of dead stuff.

  “Have a seat.” JT punched out a puff of blue smoke toward the ceiling.

  Both detectives made their way through the toy trap and squatted on the brink of their chairs. Eckhart squirmed. JT plunged backward into his spot—front line to the television, remote on the arm of the lounge.

  “So, what’s up?” A red stone on his hand flashed even in the dingy light.

  Gibson recognized the ring.

  “You were at the fireworks? At Felton’s house, right?” he asked.

  “Yup.”

  “Who did you come down with?”

  “Logan, my buddy. He drove. Let me think. Joe and Ben.” He crushed his fag into the closest ashtray. A quantity of butts slipped onto the table.

  “Last names?”

  Eckhart scribbled in her journal, puckering her lips, trying not to inhale.

  “Are they all from the same fraternity?” Gibson asked.

  “Yeah, sure. Alpha Zee.” JT peered at Eckhart and presented a lopsided smirk. He crossed his tongue over his bottom lip. She ignored him.

  “We found this at the crime scene.” Gibson plucked a photo from his pocket and tossed it over.

  “Not mine,” JT said and flashed his ring in front of his face.

  “I see that. Anybody missing one?”

  “Not sure.” He picked up his pack of smokes, studied Eckhart, and then pitched them back onto the coffee table.

  “Any guesses?” Gibson asked.

  “How should I know? Maybe an ex-girlfriend or something?”

  “Have you seen Gregory lately?” Gibson thrust that in as indifferently as he could.

  “No. Not since the fireworks.”

  “How did you happen to even be there?”

  “Blinkers invited us,” JT said.

  “Who?”

  “Anatoe. We call him Blinkers. You know. His eye.” JT smirked.

  “Why did he invite you? Because you’re fraternity brothers.”

  “No. He’s a cousin of sorts. He shows up here all the time. Usually on weekends.”

  “When was he out last?”

  “A month ago, I guess?” JT replied.

  “Okay. So back to the fireworks. Did any of you guys leave before they started?”

  “No. What do you mean?”

  “Go down to the beach?” Gibson asked.

  “No.” JT narrowed his eyes. “None of us even knew Elsie if that’s what you’re getting at?” He hesitated. “I’ve met Todd though.”

  “What? Her husband?”

  “Yeah, he was here one day, hunting down Anatoe.”

  Gibson took a quick look at Eckhart and glowered. “When was this?”

  “A month ago. He paraded in, right after Anatoe got here.”

  Eckhart watched him light up another fag. JT trapped the smoke in his mouth. He blew swirls out between his lips into perfect rings that scattered when they hit the wall. She felt dizzy and coughed, trying hard not to let it turn into a long fit of choking. Gibson remained mum, letting the guy reveal the story his own way. When JT flicked the cigarette toward the ashtray, the ash sprinkled onto the rug. He inhaled another round and continued.

  “Todd confronted Anatoe. Told him to stay away from Savannah. Anatoe was chill though. Offered him a beer and they talked. Todd stuck around for several hours.” He crushed the butt and stared at Gibson with hardened eyes and a clenched jaw.

  Gibson gestured, giving permission to proceed.

  “Some ladies came over. It turned into a party. Todd became chummy with Sue. I think it was her. I was tipsy by then. He took off with someone.”

  A ghost walked through Gibson. He shivered. “Are you claiming he left with a young woman?”

  “Yeah, that’s precisely what I’m saying.”

  “Oh, shit.” Gibson muttered under his breath.

  Eckhart placed her hand over her mouth.

  “So, you have a number or address?”

  “No, I don’t know her personally, but Cindy will,” JT said.

  Eckhart wrote in her notebook.

  Gibson stood up. He turned toward the door. When he got there, he looked back at JT. “Don’t call her,” he said stiffly.

  The guy lit up another smoke and shrugged. The kids came flying at the sound of the Expedition firing up. They pawed at the clean truck, leaving baby prints along the bottom panels.

  “Take us for a spin?”

  Eckhart rolled down the window. “Not today. Look out. Don’t want to run you over.”

  The boy snatched his younger brother’s hand and tugged him aside. Eckhart backed up warily and tooted the horn as they rode away.

  “Holy shit! Todd. Did he cheat on Elsie?” Eckhart said.

  “Let’s find out. Cindy’s place is just off Kerman Road. Not far from here.”

  After a few turns in the road, they made it to their destination. Gibson pointed to a modest dwelling adjacent to the freeway, massive power lines passing through the neighbourhood. “Bet you can hear those suckers buzz in the rain.”

  “Yuck.”

  “JT said on the right side. Basement suite.”

  “Okay.”

  Gibson rapped lightly on the doorframe. No answer, so he knocked again. A crack opened. A young girl with snarled hair and shabby clothes peered through the slim gap. She was scrawny as if drugs had a grip on her.

  “What do you want?”

  “Are you Cindy?”

  “Who wants to know?” She eyed them suspiciously.

  Oh brother. Gibson pulled out his badge.

  “Yeah.” She shrunk into herself.

  “Do you know Sue Reynolds?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you have a number for her?”

  “No.” She pushed on the door to close it.

  “JT says you do.” Gibson stuck his foot in the way.

  “My cell isn’t working.”

  “Address?” Gibson barked.

  She gave them an address and shut out the world with a bang.

  * * *

  The ancient wood-framed apartment on Parker Road was easy to locate because he knew someone that had lived nearby from that long-ago time. The rumble of a thousand automobiles resonated down the street from the highway barely a spit’s distance to the north. They slipped through the unsecured entrance and walked down a corridor that stank of a concoction of several countries. Gibson knocked on the flimsy door. A woman responded instantly. She lifted her eyebrows at his handsome face, flipped her mane and suggested in a silky voice, “May I help you?” She batted her lashes. Suddenly, she detected Eckhart standing at the side. She pouted, drawing her red lips down at the corners.

  “Are you Sue Reynolds?” Gibson flashed his badge.

  “Yes.” She reached back and gathered her locks into a bunch, twisting a scrunchy off her wrist to secure her hair into a high ponytail. “Oh, come on in.”

  They went down a tight hallway to a respectable living room, painted a pastel colour. The sliding door faced the freeway. The detectives sat on a pink lounge covered with a quilt made up of every shade of pink imaginable. Sue perched herself on the edge of a loveseat.

  “Do you know a Todd Webber?”
<
br />   “I don’t think so.” She batted her lashes.

  “He was at JT’s place. A friend of Anatoe—”

  “Oh, yeah. I remember him. He was kinda cute.” She flung him a perky smile.

  “Did he come home with you?”

  “No. That wasn’t me. Who told you that?”

  “JT.”

  “He’s wrong. That guy left with JoJo.”

  Gibson gave her a look.

  “Josephine Black.”

  “Are you certain?” Gibson grumbled.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I had to drive them. They were extremely drunk.” She paused. “We have the same colour hair. You know. Guess that’s why JT figured it was me.” She flicked her ponytail.

  “Got a number and address?”

  “Yeah, sure.” She rolled through her cell contacts. “Here it is.”

  “Thanks.”

  Eckhart jotted in her journal.

  They walked through the international corridor and headed back to the truck. Gibson glimpsed at the sky. The sun was already pushing west. He jumped into the Expedition and slammed the door. Eckhart stared at him curiously.

  “Sorry. I guess I’m getting hungry.” He blew out a huge breath. “This better be the very last one.”

  “No kidding.”

  He grew quiet, his eyes focused on a mark on the carpeting. Eckhart turned toward him, but said nothing. She drove to Slessor Boulevard. It was a newer high-rise building. In the lobby they scanned the directory. Gibson pressed the intercom.

  “Hello.” A pleasant voice answered.

  “Hi, Josephine Black? It’s the police. May we come in and speak to you?”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Todd Webber?”

  “Oh.”

  The line made a buzzing sound, and then the door squawked. He grabbed at the handle. They entered a decent hallway and took an elevator to the seventh floor. A woman who looked similar to Sue stood in a doorway half way down. Her hair was braided into two plaits, hanging on either side of her oval face. She wore Bermuda shorts and a short-sleeved blouse. They were led into a living room with plush furniture and a great view of the water to the north. He looked across the lake to the skyscrapers of Toronto silhouetted against the sapphire sky. A cat strolled into the room and wove itself between Eckhart’s calves. He purred softly, and then leaped onto a platform near the window. There was a slight smell of kitty litter wafting in from the kitchen.

  “Have a seat.” Josephine sank onto the couch.

  Eckhart plunked in an armchair beside a thin, sleek TV screen mounted above the fireplace. Gibson sat with his back to the vista.

  “Are you having an affair with Todd?” he asked.

  “Ah. Sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  “We met at a party a few weeks ago. At JT’s. We hit it off right away, and he stayed the night. I realize he’s married, but he said he would call.”

  “You mean leave his wife,” Gibson snorted.

  “Yeah, I suppose.” Josephine looked down, unable to face his steel-grey eyes.

  “Did he?”

  “Did he what?”

  “Call you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you phone him?” Gibson raised his voice.

  “Once.”

  “Once?” he said, sounding unconvinced.

  “Three times.” She hoisted her chin.

  “What happened?”

  “He said to stop calling him.”

  Gibson stood up unexpectedly. The rapid movement alarmed the cat. The animal bolted out of the room, nails scratching the floors trying to get a purchase on the polished wood.

  “Someone murdered Todd’s wife. I suggest you don’t call again,” he snapped, a sharp edge to his warning.

  “Oh, my god.” She gulped a mouthful of air.

  Eckhart stiffened in her chair. Gibson rolled his eyes toward the door. They took off without ceremony, riding the elevator without speaking. He wasn’t positive whom he was more furious with. Todd or Josephine? However, Todd had some explaining to do. Could he have murdered his wife?

  “Lunch?” Eckhart asked, cutting off Gibson’s reflections.

  “Yeah.”

  She parked on Centre Street beneath a massive steel banner that spanned the road. It announced they were in ‘Downtown Grimsby’. The Number Five Pub was a rustic tavern with a cozy atmosphere. They sat by a large window with swags for curtains. The tables were spaced close together to accommodate the weekend crowds, although it was a little slow right now. The bar took up a full wall, with the expected mirror behind. Toward the back, there were several booths with red cushioned seats. A family of four with rambunctious kids scooting under the table and generally fooling around, was a little distracting. In the next booth, a pretty brunette nearing the fifty mark was sitting alone. Her hand fingered the book on the table with deftness. He wouldn’t have recognized her except for the soulful brown eyes that radiated warmth and made you feel at home.

  He had his answer and dropped his gaze.

  Eckhart turned to look at the lady in the booth. Her eyes flashed a spark of green.

  “Do you know her?”

  “No.” But he did.

  They ate their meal in silence, the first sign of awkwardness between them.

  “Are you ready?” Eckhart asked.

  “Yeah, let’s get going.”

  She cruised down the freeway in the fast lane. Gibson leaned into the bucket seat, glancing at the speedometer with the corner of his eye—the Expedition sneered at the speed limit. He watched the scenery blur past his vision, the pattern of traffic lights mesmerizing. The truck snaked down the side roads and climbed the curb at his motel.

  “Pick you up at nine?”

  “You bet.” Gibson slipped off the soft leather and into the warm night. Fireflies flicked off and on as they darted through the air. The black and white checkerboard tile in the lobby seemed out of place today. He trod wearily down the corridor to his room and collapsed onto the bed. His unmoving gaze looked inward. Should he call Katherine? It was invariably a crapshoot guessing what mood she would be in. That was part of the problem. He shut his eyes and released his breath. He sensed the stress drain from his body as he drifted into the limbo of dreams.

  Chapter 12

  Gibson was at the coffee shop at eight. The blues twisted his heart, plagued by the past and troubled by the future. He sipped his drink with intent, thinking of an adage he had heard long ago. ‘If you don’t know what to do. Do nothing’. Something like that. Kind of made sense. The status quo was safer than stepping off the cliff. Then Eckhart moved into his field of view, the light dancing on her bronzed skin. He moaned and grazed his forehead with his fingertips.

  Eckhart appeared relaxed when he hopped into the truck. She turned and faced his way. There was laughter on her mind. A sweet smile with just a hint of shyness curved her lips.

  “What?” Gibson asked.

  “I have a sense about today.”

  “About Gregory?”

  “Yes. It’s Sunday. I think he’ll show up at home. Should we—”

  “Stick to the plan. See what Brandon has to disclose,” Gibson interrupted. At this point, he realized she was very keen to pin this on Gregory before the facts.

  “You’re right. Our appointment first.”

  They cruised downtown to Church Street. Vehicles were plodding slowly down the road, lots of hesitation and testing out possible parking spots. Some trying to manoeuvre into a tiny space, others vacillating and moving on. Six churches within two blocks on a Sunday morning.

  “There’s a parking lot at the back of the station,” she said.

  She pulled around the corner. A substantial metal barrier closed the entrance. “Oh, shit.” She drove another block before encountering a space.

  They strolled down the sidewalk enjoying the cooler day. Gibson scrutinized the distinctive architectural styles of the buildings. A dedicated flock emptied from a creamy white church, streaming down
massive stone steps in groups of three and four. The copper spires on its roof gleamed in the sunlight. He stopped to admire rose-coloured gargoyles on lofty perches on an ancient brick structure set back from the road. It was almost ten by the time they arrived at the parole service.

  The Government of Canada Building was a two-storey edifice of Federal Heritage designation near City Hall. Its exterior veneer of yellow limestone and black granite was intriguing. The central entrance had an arched facade with a metal Canadian coat of arms mounted on the wall: A Mari Usque Ad Mare—From Sea to Sea.

  Gibson seized the magnificent brass handle and hauled on the weighty glass door. They entered a vast main vestibule, light ricocheting off the white, polished marble surfaces. Eckhart’s shoes clicked on the terrazzo tile. As they walked up the granite steps, he passed his palm along the sleek chrome railing. A broad arrow pointed them in the appropriate direction. They advanced the length of a wide corridor to room 206. An older black man hunched over a tiny pressed wood desk appeared busy with his elbows leaned on top and jaw in hand. He looked attentively at the pages as he flipped through the folder. At the sharp rap on the doorframe, he raised his head. Brown eyes sparkled in a wizened face. A genuine smile made him look approachable. He vaulted out of his chair and moved round to receive the detectives.

  “I’m always glad to meet up with the police.” An upper-class voice rang out. His grip was cool and firm. A self-assured man who had been around the block more than once. He maintained a well-timed eye lock with Gibson, and threw him a modest nod.

  “Have a seat.” He gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. “Just leafing through Gregory’s file. The clerk informed me you have issues with my newest parolee.”

  “More a worry,” Gibson replied.

  “He was an ideal inmate at the detention centre. I like the guy. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “We’re investigating a homicide on Lawsons Lane.”

  “Okay. That’s the street I have for Gregory,” Brandon said, tracing his finger along the sheet.

  “The incident took place on the beach adjacent to the Cunningham home. Felton and Margaret’s house.”

  “I understand.” He furrowed his eyebrows. “So how does that connect to my guy exactly?”

  “Do you have a specific interest in Gregory?” Gibson studied the officer. He needed to learn how much Brandon would defend.