Murder At Lake Ontario Page 4

  “Wow. That’s a nice view.”

  “Isn’t it though?” Eckhart took his hand and led him to the couch. “Have a seat while I get us a drink. A nice pinot gris from the peninsula?”

  “That sounds perfect.” Gibson sat facing the vista and wondered if he was ready to take the dip into the unknown. The couch was soft under his fingertips—exquisite buttercup yellow leather. Several creamy coloured armchairs faced a gas fireplace with a small flat screen above. There were a few original oil paintings hanging on one of the lengthy walls—red, blues and yellow in an abstract style. A scattering of oriental rugs broke up the dark of the hardwood and gave the space a comfy feeling. He stood up and walked to the window, looking down into the yard. The garden was tame with climbing roses at the back fence and an assortment of shrubs.

  “Do you like?” Eckhart whispered in his ear.

  Gibson turned around and stood inches from her, his primal desire stirred. He drew her into him and kissed her full on, open-mouthed, her lips trembling under his. The world fell away. They pulled apart and stared at each other—pale smoke to deep ocean blue.

  “I should go.” The water was too hot.

  Chapter 6

  The air had grown even heavier with a stifling humidity. Gibson breathed in deeply, sniffing the heady essence of rain. A stony grey belt on the horizon marred the velvet sky. A lazy breeze dragged the clouds across the lake.

  The café was full today. A couple stood up to leave, so Gibson snagged their place by the window. He had an hour to burn and ordered breakfast. A large woman swept by and jarred the table. The scalding coffee spilt over his hand. He yanked aside, holding his cell in the air. The liquid rolled along the surface and dripped to the floor just missing his pant leg. She looked at him with disdain and nudged her course down the aisle. He scooted out of the way as the waitress mopped the puddle.

  “Sorry.”

  “No problem. Wasn’t your fault.” She moved away, staring down the plump older woman.

  Gibson eased back into his chair, simmering over his actions the day before. Why hadn’t he called Katherine last night? She needed to know he was ensnared in a homicide case. Was he entangled in more? He rocked his skull, rattled his brain. What was going on with him? His glance darted to the other patrons as if they knew his inner turmoil. Had he cheated on her yet? Not really. It was just a kiss. He placed his fingers to his mouth. Well, not just a kiss. It was passionate. When he had leaned into her body, it had the perfect blend of serenity and tension. He couldn’t phone Katherine. His voice would give him away. He looked at his cell and cheated again, in a different way. He sent her a text and shut down his phone.

  The SUV snuck around the corner and sidled up to the curb. Eckhart’s gaze through the plate-glass window was subtle, her eyebrows narrowed. He flipped a coin on the table for a tip and walked out the door.

  “Hi. Have a nice sleep?” Her sultry voice caressed his face.

  “Feels like rain is coming.” He skirted the question because all he had dreamt about was her.

  “I think you’re right,” she said.

  “Okay. The first house nearest the beach landing is Felton and Margaret Cunningham’s place. Felton is Jonnie’s older brother. Jackie’s uncle. That’s where the fireworks and party were anyway.”

  He took a quick glance at his notes.

  “The house on the left coming up the steps. That’s the same address as Gregory. Must be their son,” he continued.

  “That’s handy.”

  * * *

  Felton’s lot was five acres of flat pasture. At the rear, a section of native plants severed his land from the neighbours. The left boundary rose into a bank that dropped down to the shore below. A tall hedge on the right closed off access to the house next door, except for a tiny hidden opening that someone could scoot through, if they knew it was there. The Expedition ground to a standstill in the driveway sending dust into the air. A newly painted hut near the road sported a fresh roof. Farther along, the open gate of the potting shed showed neatly stacked tools and a bench. The gardens appeared tended with an exceptionally nice exhibit of dahlias.

  The two-storey clapboard house seemed tired compared to the outbuildings with its peeling paint of a nondescript shade, perhaps a blue. A traditional veranda with rustic wooden scrolling stretched across the full facade. The steps leading up were broad and welcoming. Two wicker armchairs with floral cushions hugged a wrought-iron table. A mug stood empty on its glass surface. Someone had tossed a pair of well-worn garden gloves and a straw hat onto an ottoman.

  Down at the far end of the porch, a swing bench hung from a thick, rusted chain. A hedgehog boot scraper waited by the screen entry. Margaret stood in the doorway, an amiable smile on her fat face, the dark mole on her snout quite prominent. Her Brillo Pad hair was mousy brown overgrown with grey. Dingy sweatpants smeared with soil on the thighs were pulled up over her ample belly. The gingham blouse was a pinpoint of colour in her shabby appearance, like a blossom in a weed patch.

  “You must be the detectives?”

  He looked up. Really. How do they always know? He looked back at the logo on the passenger door. Right, it was an official vehicle. Not like his at home where he drove incognito in his own truck.

  “Inspector Gibson.” He pointed to his partner. “Inspector Eckhart.”

  “Come in. Are you thirsty? I have fresh lemonade.”

  “That sounds good. Thank you.” Gibson wiped his brow. “I haven’t been in this kind of hot weather for a while.”

  “Oh?”

  “I live in BC now. Just helping set up the Task Force here.”

  “That’s nice.”

  They followed Margaret to the rear of the house, her clogs clomping on the tired pine floor in the hallway. Bright light slanted through the windows into the kitchen. The enormous room boasted appliances from the forties. Or where they retro? No. He noticed several chips on the edge of the cooker. Definitely old. He perched on a wooden stool and grappled to get comfortable, launching a dart over to Eckhart. She concealed her face to cut off a laugh and alighted on the only cushioned chair around the table. Margaret poured two generous glasses.

  “Good stuff.” The drink ran down his parched throat smoothly and soothed his fiery mouth.

  “It’s the well water,” Margaret said.

  “Honestly. No water line down this road?”

  “There is, but we prefer the pure taste.” She hesitated and peered toward the hallway. “Right, Felton?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” A thin rack of a man hobbled into the gallery and rested at the head of the table, scraping his chair all along the linoleum. He inhaled a quick snort of air with a load of phlegm that sent him into a barking cough. It shifted into a fit of wheezing and hacking. He pulled out a handkerchief and spat. A small puff of smoke came out of his mouth. He rolled his tongue, sticking it out as if he was struggling to dislodge an object trapped in his teeth. The stench of burnt tobacco permeated the room.

  Eckhart wiggled her nose.

  “Felton, this is Gibson and Eckhart from the police.”

  Close enough Gibson thought.

  “We have a few questions.”

  “About the accident? We don’t know anything about that,” Felton said.

  “It wasn’t an accident. Someone murdered Elsie,” Gibson said.

  “What! I thought it was an accident,” Margaret shouted and plopped down into a chair.

  Felton grabbed a cigarette.

  “Outside with that, Felton.”

  “Ah, never mind.” He sat back, crossed his arms and grunted.

  “Who was at your party?”

  “Lots of people. Anatoe and his Grimsby friends. Felton’s younger brother from town with his troop.”

  “That’s Jackie’s dad, right?” Cunningham. He got the connection.

  “Yeah.”

  “What about Gregory? He found the body.”

  “I didn’t see him or his bike,” Margaret answered. Her eyes had narrowed,
the pleasantness in her voice knocked down to toleration. “He’s a good boy. He put a new roof on the pumphouse at the front. And he’s painting the house for us.”

  “Is he around now? We need to speak to him as well.” Gibson had only seen one car out front, but he had to ask anyway.

  “No. He went out early this morning.” Her eyes changed into slits.

  “Did you see Elsie?”

  “She was sitting with her sister, Savannah, and I guess that was Jackie with her, my niece. I thought she moved out west.”

  “Did you see Elsie leave?”

  “No.”

  “Any idea why she would leave early?”

  “Not really. No reason for me to know.” Margaret paused. “Maybe to check up on Todd.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He keeps the store open until closing time no matter what. So I suppose he was still counting cash or something.”

  “So, she might have been heading there?”

  Margaret shrugged.

  Yeah, except Elsie went the other way toward the beach. Was she meeting someone? Gibson wondered.

  “What were you doing all that time?” he asked.

  “I was helping Felton. Getting the guys beer and stuff.”

  “Did you see anybody?” He turned to Felton.

  “Too busy with the fireworks.”

  “Who were the men helping you?” Gibson asked.

  “Some friends.” He glared at the detective and gave Eckhart a sideways glance, admiring her good looks like most men did. Gibson waited.

  “A guy I met at the bar a few years ago. And his son.” He coughed into his handkerchief again and cleared his throat. “They live in a trailer park by the canal.”

  “Could we have names?”

  Eckhart poised her hand over the notepad and wrote down the info.

  “What about the store? Will they close it?” Margaret asked.

  “For now, I’m sure,” Gibson said and pulled at his sweat drenched collar.

  “It’s muggy enough to rain. I can feel it coming,” Margaret said, nodding with authority.

  Eckhart sat quietly.

  “Okay. Thanks for your time.”

  “All right, officer.”

  Felton ignored them.

  The detectives headed down the hallway, Margaret pursuing close behind.

  Gibson cast a backward look as they drove off. Ominous clouds shoved each other in the northeastern sky. They tumbled into larger foreboding masses as they raced across the lake on a wind Gibson couldn’t feel.

  “Yikes. We’re in for trouble.”

  Chapter 7

  “What should we do?” Jackie asked.

  “We better go see how Todd and Savannah are doing,” David answered.

  The tires hummed along the sticky tarmac, changing to a low purr when they hit the metal grid of the bridge. Jackie looked down the canal and gathered in a breath. A familiar friend in this hostile world. The essence of earthy loam from the lushness all around seeped into the car vents. A reminder of long summer days and wasted youth. She lowered her eyes and inclined her head backward.

  Jacobs Landing. No light glowed from within. It appeared deserted, shutters sealed to life. Flowers in the terracotta pots were limp beyond promise. David felt as wilted as the flowers. He was feeling the soaring temperatures more than his wife. They trudged down the narrow stone pathway, holding hands tightly. The one-storey house had a gabled roof and dark wood-framed windows. The porch had little embellishment except for the intricate wrought-iron railing. He knocked, paused and waited for a response, and tapped again. Savannah swung open the door. A huge yawn, splotchy skin and bloodshot eyes suggested sleep deprivation. She tugged at her greasy hair.

  “Is Todd awake?” David asked.

  “He’s in the kitchen. Better come in.”

  Heat punched them from behind, trying to invade the house. Savannah crossed her arms over her chest as if a chill had hit her. David hastened to the rear of the house, leaving the women standing in the foyer.

  “Let’s go to the beach,” Jackie said.

  “I guess,” Savannah answered.

  They ambled down the dusty lane, Grandma’s home on the right, the Underwood family residence on the left. A long tract of meadow grasses played in the faint breeze as they lumbered along. Past the fields, Felton’s place came into view. Below the bluff across the street, barely visible stood a house tucked behind a row of trees and native shrubbery. The neighbourhood bogeyman lived there—Mr. Hugh Tatlow. Jackie had seen him the other day, and he had looked the same as she had remembered him—a giant guy with black eyes and a piercing glare. Creepy. As a kid, she had invariably eluded his property and ran like hell if she encountered him.

  Savannah faltered on the beach landing, inhaled a breath and risked the first step. She skirted the depression at the bottom. The coast swept away into the distance, fading at a curve. As if drawn by a magnet, the girls wended their way to the lake, hot sand shifting under their feet. The water was chilly in contrast. Savannah wiggled her toes as the silvery bubbling crests curled past her naked limbs to strike the shoreline with softness. Overhead the sunlight pulsed down from a pastel blue sky. The seagulls screamed and whirled gracefully with the thermals.

  They found a shaded patch against the dunes where timbers had sailed in from winter storms. The driftwood bleached by the summer rays sat pale in their current home until the next squall reclaimed them. Jackie pushed backward into an arched hollow on an auspicious log. She passed her fingers over the ridges that swirled along its surface. She was undecided what to say to her grieving companion. Savannah remained quietly beside her. The melody of the wash licking the sand made it tough for Jackie to hold her eyes open. The sun stabbed a tunnel through the shivering leaves and touched down on Savannah’s fiery red hair. The same ruby hue as Elsie’s locks. Jackie’s moan of sadness was not lost upon her friend.

  The restless night had weighed on Jackie’s resilience, and she nodded off. The squealing of gulls startled her from her nap. Savannah was gone. She felt alone. A sharp wind sent goosebumps along her arms. She glanced up at the black clouds hurrying in and sprawling across the sky. A brilliant force of lightning shocked her to her feet. A boom made her jump. The squall unleashed itself, lashing the top of the water, hurling spray into the air. Drops of rain changed into casks as she tripped up the stairs. Each lightning crack and rumble of thunder sounding closer. When she reached the landing, a flash lit up all around. The detonation came moments afterward. Jackie rushed forward from peril straight into the arms of a stranger. She hollered, wrenching herself loose from his powerful grasp. Black evil eyes glared at Jackie, making her run as fast as she could. She careened down the lane, tears cascading down her cheeks. A hand captured her. She screeched wildly, and whirled round to face her fear.

  * * *

  Todd had gone back to bed, so David wandered outside to the store. He stood on the stoop with a lit smoke, staring at the gathering storm. The sky had dimmed, but the heat hadn’t let up. The clouds bunched together closer, blacker and steeper. A spark of lightning split the sky, and a deafening boom crackled overhead. He butted out his fag and decided to look for the girls. As he headed down the roadway more forks of lightning and thunder rolled over him. The clouds broke free and dumped rain onto his hurrying figure. An Expedition whipped out of Grandma’s driveway almost colliding into him. He continued moving quicker, his limbs working overtime until he spotted Jackie. She was running blindly down the lane with her eyes lowered. He grabbed at her arm to slow her down. She struggled to get away.

  “It’s me.”

  She looked up and fell into his body.

  “Mr. Tatlow. He tried to…”

  “It’s okay. Let’s get out of this downpour,” David assured her.

  Chapter 8

  “Who’s next on our list?” Gibson studied the list. His finger paused at Mrs. Mary Cunningham. “We’ll visit Grandma. If it’s at all like my family, people will just show
up. Maybe Gregory is there.”

  Grandma’s home was adjacent to the roadway. The two-storey white building had an expansive wraparound veranda on both levels. It was the perfect grandchild playground. Lots of space to run and bike. Apple trees, their gnarled branches weighted with fruit spurs, peppered the grassland on the right. Jacobs Landing stood out across the field. The hedge on the left blocked out Felton’s dwelling.

  There were rose beds here and there about the house and along the driveway. Lavender and marigolds weaved in with the shrubs. Katherine would treasure this, Gibson thought. He shut his eyes for a flash and sighed. Grandma rested in a rocker by the front door, hands on lap, gazing at the darkness rolling in. Bobby pins, stuck in randomly, barely kept the puffs of silvery hair in control. Her skin was weathered and wrinkly.

  “Good afternoon,” Gibson said as he walked to the porch.

  “Are you the detectives?”

  “Yes. May we ask a few questions?”

  “What a dreadful affair. Poor Elsie.”

  Eckhart picked a basket weave chair opposite the elderly woman and sat. Gibson leaned on the railing and crossed his arms.

  “Would you like some water? Not as good as Felton’s. But it’s icy.” The rocker groaned as she broke its motion with feet stuck on the ground. She reached for the glass beside her.

  He shook his head and smirked at the dig directed at Felton and his well water.

  “Did you notice anything at the party? Anybody follow Elsie out or anything?” Gibson asked, figuring Grandma didn’t miss much.

  “I’m not so young anymore. I went home before the fireworks started. I really can’t help you.” Her head had bobbed up and down as she listened, her mouth twisted into a frown.