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.