Murder At Lake Ontario Page 8

  “Yes. I always read my clients’ files. His case seems flimsy on details. I would hate to see it happen again.”

  “We have nothing definitive at this time. But Gregory discovered the body.” Gibson paused when he noticed Brandon incline his head. “Which doesn’t mean a thing, but he ran off and hasn’t been seen since. That was a week ago.”

  “That’s a headache for you.”

  “We figured he may have breached his conditions of discharge. Well, not all. But...”

  “What condition?” Brandon asked.

  “The crime took place during a fireworks gathering at his dad’s house.”

  “Oh. Alcohol, drugs and maybe teenagers.”

  “I haven’t confirmed he was drinking or doing drugs. It was an adult party; no kids were there.”

  “So, the real problem is he’s missing,” Brandon said.

  “Yes. I suppose that’s it in a nutshell.” Gibson frowned at his lack of direction.

  “If Gregory has left the district, I can have him picked up. But you don’t know that for a fact if you can’t find him.” He grinned and looked back at his journal. “I’m not expecting to see him until...” Brandon flipped forward two pages, “Tuesday.”

  “He might show up at home today. It’s Sunday dinner day,” Eckhart said.

  “I have no reason to issue a warrant. But we have a legal right to go through his living quarters without cause. I could offer you approval for that.”

  “That would be excellent,” Gibson said. “But if we turn up anything that ties him to our case, we’ll have to apprehend him.”

  Brandon leaned back into his chair and set his palms behind his head, staring at the ceiling and said, “Do me a favour. Call me if that happens. I won’t retract his parole unless it is something incriminating. He gets a fourteen-day grace. Let’s see what you discover first.”

  “Fair enough.” Gibson reached over the desk and shook his hand. “We’ll be in contact.”

  The detectives scampered down the steps, reverberations of their footfalls bouncing off the marble as they launched out the exit. Eckhart’s eyes were alight with expectation. She wanted to waltz down the pavement.

  “This is it.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Gibson suspected he was marching into a tempest. His eyebrows were compressed together in trepidation.

  “It’s Gregory. I know it. Don’t be absurd.” Eckhart jabbed his shoulder and sprinted to the truck.

  Gibson raced behind her. Eckhart fired up the motor and ripped away from the curb before he had his seatbelt fastened. He seized the dashboard and held on for the ride. There wasn’t much traffic, so she tore down the street. Before she could flip a switch on the panel, he gave her a look.

  “We don’t need the siren and lights.”

  “Okay. If you say so.” Her mouth lifted upward, crinkling her dimples. The smile reached her eyes, the deep pools of blue. She giggled.

  Gibson pushed into the leather and closed his eyes. The growl of the tires on a metal grate alerted him to his whereabouts. He glanced to the side to catch the stern of the biggest ship he had seen so far. It sunk low. The wash left behind mushroomed out in a vast fan, striking the canal sides, and boomed back. The water bubbled in every direction.

  Eckhart turned down Lawsons Lane and deliberately inched down the roadway. She pulled into the entrance and shut off the engine. Her hands fluttered on the steering wheel. She drew in a sharp gasp.

  “Gregory’s here. I’m ready.”

  Gibson looked past the motorbike parked next to Felton’s vehicle to a figure in the dahlia bed. Margaret glanced up and bestowed a wave, secateurs in her grip. The straw hat perched on her frizzy hair was secured with a bow under her double chin. Someone had propped a bucket packed with dead flowers against a dirt pile. A slight grin screwed her lip. She ambled toward them, her clogs slapping on her feet.

  “What brings you out here?”

  “To see Gregory,” Eckhart said.

  “They’re inside.” Margaret trudged up the stairs, the two detectives right behind. She yanked off her hat and tossed it on the ottoman. Muffled voices and a wisp of smoke slipped through the screen. Margaret snatched the handle and swung the door open forcefully.

  “What did I tell you about smoking in the house?”

  “My leg aches.”

  “Put it out,” she growled.

  “There. Happy now?” Felton ground his cigarette in an ashtray and scowled.

  Margaret seized a tea towel and flung it around in the air, driving smoke out the door. Felton rubbed his thighs, muttering. “Can’t do what I want in my own house.”

  Gibson held back a smirk.

  Gregory remained frozen in his chair. His posture was rigid, his expression dull as he gazed at the worn linoleum. His breathing was virtually undetectable.

  “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Eckhart stood over him, fists on her hips.

  “I didn’t do anything.” Gregory squirmed, eyes everywhere except on the detective.

  Gibson pointed his chin at Eckhart indicating for her to take a seat. Felton plucked out his filthy handkerchief and coughed up phlegm. Margaret plopped herself down, arranging her secateurs on the table. The inspector sat next to Gregory, swung toward him and leaned in.

  “Where have you been?” Gibson asked.

  “At a friend’s house.”

  “In town?”

  “Yeah.” The lie slipped out, smooth and easy like an orange cello shot.

  “You found Elsie on the beach,” Gibson said.

  Gregory blinked.

  “Did you see what happened?”

  “No.” He shifted in his seat.

  “Was she dead when you found her?”

  “Yeah.” He wavered. “I...”

  Margaret bristled. Gibson held up a hand.

  “Did you touch her?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. What did you do after that?”

  “I ran up the stairs. Jackie was there. I told her Elsie was dead. Then I got the hell out of there.” He paused. “I don’t know why. Jackie yelled, but I couldn’t go back.”

  “Why is that Gregory?”

  “Because I knew you would blame me.” His voice went shrill.

  Margaret worked her mouth, gnawing on the inside of her cheek. Gibson shot her a warning.

  “Because you’re on parole?”

  Gregory formed fists, his lips clamped together.

  Gibson plucked the photograph out of his upper pocket and passed it to Gregory. “Is this your ring?”

  A weak squeak from across the table.

  “I don’t think so.” He flinched, jerking backward. Two crimson spots grew on his cheeks, a sharp contrast to his chalk-white complexion.

  “You’re not wearing one.”

  “I put it aside when I…” A thickness in his throat stopped him.

  “Should we go find it?” Gibson asked.

  “Are you allowed to look at my stuff?” His eyes popped with panic.

  “Yes, as part of your release conditions—”

  The detective didn’t finish the sentence before Gregory propelled his chair from the table and jumped up. His face was pale and blank. His motions perfunctory. The detectives accompanied him down the corridor. Gibson expected clothes to be scattered about and a locker-room funk to linger in the air. Instead, the quilt on the bed lay smoothed, folded down from the pillow. In a corner, a guitar was cradled in a stand. Nothing was pitched on the floor.

  “It should be here somewhere. I can’t remember.” Gregory rummaged through the drawers of a Tallboy dresser. He shrugged his shoulders and gave a slow shake of his head.

  “Could it be in here?” Gibson asked as he opened the closet door. A whiff of copper escaped. He glanced over to alert Eckhart that something was up. Gregory’s body slumped. Margaret forced herself forward, aggression building on her mouth. Eckhart barred the entrance and stood fast against the elbow jabbed into her rib cage.

&nb
sp; “What’s going on?” Margaret asked.

  Gibson snapped on gloves. He poked through a laundry basket and plucked up a shirt concealed at the bottom. It was discolored with a sticky substance. He dropped it back.

  “Eckhart.”

  “We’re taking you in for questioning.” She sailed across the room in one large stride, cuffs at the ready, twirled Gregory around and clamped on the restraints.

  “What the hell!” Margaret shouted.

  “Margaret, go sit down.” The explosive bark stunned everyone into silence. It was the first manifestation of Gibson’s pit-bull demeanour since his arrival east.

  “Gregory you have violated your conditions of release—”

  “No. I was trying to help Elsie.”

  “Shut up, Gregory,” Margaret snarled. She hovered in the background. Her clodhoppers clunking as she paced in front of the doorway.

  “As I was saying, a suspicion of being implicated in a crime is all I need to hold you. Your parole isn’t revoked yet, and you aren’t under arrest. However, you’ll be in lockup downtown until further notice. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Gregory answered. He swallowed hard, sucking his lips inward.

  Gibson drew out his cell and called Frenchy. “We’re at Felton and Margaret’s place. We discovered some bloodied clothes. Could you get here ASAP?”

  “On my way.” She hung up.

  “I’ll alert Brandon,” Gibson said and perched on the bed to wait for the forensics.

  Eckhart steered Gregory past his mom.

  “You can’t do this,” Margaret hissed, spit flying from her twisted mouth as they pushed out the door.

  Gregory remained on the rear bench of the Expedition, slumped so low he sank from sight. Frenchy tore into the driveway forty-five minutes later. Eckhart leaned against the hood of her vehicle and signaled to the house. With a case fastened to her side, Frenchy vaulted up the steps. She gave a quick rap on the door and strode right in.

  Felton blew smoke rings across the room. Margaret sat fixed, a scowl tracing lines along her face. Frenchy cracked a modest grin and called out down the hallway.

  “Gibson?”

  “I’m back here.”

  She followed the sound. “Tidy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You seem kinda put out. What’s up?” she asked.

  He shrugged with one shoulder and pointed to the closet. “In there.”

  “You bet.”

  “Catch you later.”

  Margaret shrieked at them as Eckhart backed out of the driveway. Felton hobbled to the porch and lit another cigarette. Gibson was worried. What motive did Gregory have to kill Elsie? Nothing came to mind. His partner sure thought he was guilty. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. In the back, Gregory had retreated into a blackness he knew well.

  * * *

  The RCMP depot was next to the Parole Board at the rear of City Hall. All the church-goers had fled home for lunch, leaving bunches of parking spots. However, Eckhart had phoned ahead and the steel barrier to the lot was unlocked. Over the door, the stone lintel was engraved ‘Police Headquarters’. They marched into the station unfettered.

  A big old clock hung on the wall behind the desk sergeant at the front reception. The second hand swept smoothly around and around, ticking away the lives of the people in the building. The sergeant greeted them with a gruff smile. A leather-bound book lay on the counter in front of him. He recorded their arrival taking note of the person in custody and the detectives’ badge numbers. He wrote with a flourish, proud to be doing things the old-fashioned way still.

  The large room was an open-plan space with two rows of battered oak desks facing each other. A few of them were currently occupied by uniforms that were busy typing or on phones. The sergeant motioned for an officer to take Gregory into custody. With hands still cuffed, he dragged his feet down the long hallway, not glancing back even once. Eckhart chatted up the sergeant, leaning into the counter with her hip. Gibson rested on the bench against the wall and dialed the superintendent. Despite Rodney’s office being located upstairs, it was Sunday, so he would be somewhere else having fun. After giving Rodney an update, Gibson hung up the phone. He struggled to get comfortable on the hard, wooden surface.

  “Inspector.”

  Gibson looked up.

  “Hi, Brandon.”

  “I take it you uncovered something.”

  Gibson gave the parole officer the details.

  “It’s sketchy. Gregory could have gotten blood on himself by leaning over Elsie to check her pulse, to see if she was still alive.”

  Gibson nodded in agreement.

  “No. He did it. Gregory has a propensity for violence. And he fled the scene of a crime like a guilty person,” Eckhart said, her voice rising with each accusation.

  Nevertheless, Gibson recognized that more evidence would be needed—his fingerprint on the rock would do.

  “And the ring,” Eckhart added.

  “Can I speak to him?” Brandon asked.

  “Yeah. Tell him to get a lawyer,” Gibson said.

  “Thanks. I’ll keep in touch.”

  They shook hands. Brandon strode down to the holding area with a police officer. The detectives left. Nothing more for them to do here.

  Eckhart danced down the sidewalk, humming a secret tune. Gibson walked casually along, too many conflicting notions on his mind. He stubbed his toe on an irregular section of concrete. “Shit, that hurts.”

  Her sweet, joyful laughter echoed off the niches and gables in the glut of churches.

  “Late lunch?”

  “Sure,” Gibson replied.

  They walked down the street to the Mansion.

  “I feel positive. My first case solved. How about some free time for tomorrow? We have to wait for the processing anyway,” Eckhart said. Her lips puckered, hinting at something more.

  “I agree. I have something to do.” His eyes brightened. A spin in a kayak sounded promising. He wasn’t as sure about Gregory though, but he pushed that thought aside for another day.

  Chapter 13

  “It’s all your fault,” Margaret howled. The sound warped down the line like a boom of thunder.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Savannah screeched back.

  “They’re your friends.”

  “Who?”

  “David and Jackie.”

  “So?”

  “So, they said it was Gregory who killed Elsie. Now he’s been arrested.” Margaret slammed down the phone.

  Savannah moaned and slithered down the wall, rubbing at her face, tears forming. Whom could she call? She wiped the moisture from her cheeks.

  Todd’s footfalls made no sound at all. He stood over her crumpled form.

  “What the hell?” Her watery eyes widened.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “You scared me.”

  “What are you doing on the floor?”

  “Gregory’s been arrested.”

  “Oh, my god.” Todd sniffed deeply, an edge of his lip trembling. He collapsed into the nearest armchair. “Why would he...?”

  “It can’t be true.” Tears welled up anew. “I don’t believe it.”

  “He was there.” His voice became icy.

  “Todd.” Her chin thrust high, an unblinking gaze resting on his face. He couldn’t make eye contact.

  “I’m sorry. I realize you like Gregory.” He put folded hands on the table. “But if...”

  “Let’s leave it for now.” Savannah stood up and set the kettle on for tea.

  * * *

  Gibson took an Uber to Henley Island. He had been a spectator at the Royal Henley Regatta long ago, but now he wanted to test the waters for himself. He wandered over to the clubhouse. Racks of rowing shells hung off the outer wall. He glanced through the wide shop door. The crews had packed rows of shelves with oars, floating devises and jackets to the roof peak. A few people milled around looking busy.

  “Can I help you?” A
n energized lad darted over.

  “Sure. Where are the kayak rentals?”

  “Just follow the path. There’s a shack by the dock.” He pointed to the left.

  Gibson skipped diagonally over a grassy field shaded by huge trees. Visitors were picnicking on rough wooden benches, the kids playing tag. Two teenagers were attempting to fly a kite with no wind. He followed the track down stone steps to the water.

  Martindale Pond shimmered in the sunlight. Several teams were skimming across the pond in eight-man boats, practicing for the upcoming events. Luckily for boaters, the reservoir created during the development of the original Welland Canal had been abandoned for their enjoyment.

  Gibson set himself up with a kayak and shoved off to explore. He dipped the paddles from side to side and traveled east. Following the shoreline, he observed interesting canal ruins and a dam. He swung the boat west to Richardson Creek and stayed for a snack, leaning against the backrest, letting his face catch the full beam of the sun. From there, he paddled to the south toward Twelve Mile Creek. It was more dangerous in this section with currents churning up the water. After five hours, he was confident he had discovered the entire area and headed back to the old dock.

  Gibson stopped in Port Dalhousie at Harry’s Diner. Fish and chips, a beer and a view of Lake Ontario was a good way to end a perfect day. After dinner, a friendly Uber driver took him to his motel. It was getting late, and suddenly he wondered what Katherine was up to. Why hadn’t she phoned? He picked up his cell and stabbed at the speed dial for home.

  “Hello.” She was panting.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I had to rush for the phone.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you? Heather had a showing at a gallery in Vancouver.”

  “Honestly? Good for her. She makes beautiful watercolours,” Gibson said. “Did you go?”

  “Yeah, we stayed downtown. I had a manicure and pedicure. Naturally, after that, I roamed the stores for new shoes.” She laughed. “A lady knows what she likes. Right?”

  “That’s great. We have some progress here, but I’ll be a few days further.” Gibson thought to himself, don’t make it a whopping lie. “Maybe a week.” He sucked in his breath and waited.