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“We’ve run out of suspects.” She glowered at him, awaiting the rebuke.
“Sometimes—”
“Yeah, I realize sometimes the case goes unsolved.” She mimicked him with a growl deep in her throat.
His cell sounded again. ‘Not Felton.’
Eckhart snatched his phone and glared at the screen. “Right.” She tossed it into his lap and reeled out of the parking lot. The Expedition rumbled down the street, taking corners with considerable velocity. Gibson pushed into his seat and kept his eyes and mouth sealed. She squealed the tires onto the tarmac and slapped the gear into park. He remained inert, waiting for the storm to ease. She glimpsed at him.
“Sorry. I’m so frustrated with this case,” Eckhart said. “How ungrateful of me after all your help.”
“I get it. We have one last shot. Then, we’ll write up a report,” he replied.
“Okay.” Her whisper tinged with humiliation.
Gibson barely noticed the heat as he headed to the building.
“When’s your flight?” Eckhart asked, the ruffles calmed. She strolled beside him and unlocked the door with her key card.
“The red-eye at midnight. Lots of time yet.” He gave a tiny quirk of a smile.
“It won’t be long. I put Margaret’s prints in already.” Frenchy stood in front of the computer, waiting for the results to appear. The three of them took vigilance, holding their breath. The hard drive whirled. The monitor went dark. It lit up. A positive match.
“What the hell!” Eckhart shrieked. “Are you kidding me?” She grabbed Gibson’s arm and jumped up and down. “Oh, my god. This is incredible.” She broke off and studied Frenchy. “Is this a false reading? A joke?”
“No.” The lab technician shook her head, utterly bewildered herself.
Gibson couldn’t express his bemusement.
“But why? That’s crazy.”
“Let’s go get her,” Gibson said.
Eckhart babbled as she raced to the truck. She chattered all the way down Lakeshore Drive, over the canal and to Jacobs Landing. A long string of vehicles rocketed down the road from Niagara-on-the-Lake. At the first opportunity in traffic, she zoomed across the yellow line to Lawsons Lane. Gibson glanced at the store as they flew by. It seemed desolate, devoid of soul. Eckhart continued down the lane, dust spilling out in the aftermath of the tires, choking off vision behind them. Flocks of sparrows fled from the shrubs on the roadway, dodging the mayhem. She slowed down and sneaked up behind Felton’s vehicle. Gregory’s motorbike parked on the grass had fallen on its side. Before Gibson got out, he patted her hand. She looked over. Her eyes had changed to an icy blue.
“It’s your play.”
Eckhart nodded and hopped out of the truck. Gibson followed her to the steps, waiting on the bottom tread. Felton sat on the swing, blowing smoke through his nose.
“What now?” He coughed twice, and then took another drag on his cigarette. “Margaret, you’ve got company,” he yelled. Felton hacked again, making fat tears roll down his face.
“For Christ sakes, Felton. Spit it out,” Margaret rebuked.
He shot a giant gob of phlegm toward the garden. It missed its mark and landed on the deck.
“Jesus. Just more work for me,” Margaret grumbled. She stalked to the kitchen and came back with a mop, slamming the door behind her. “Disgusting. It’s like cleaning the bathroom after you.” She brushed at the wood with little progress. “Damn.” She flung the mop against the railing and plunked into the floral cushions.
Eckhart waited for her opportunity to speak.
“Margaret Cunningham you are—”
“What am I?”
“You’re under arrest for the murder of Elsie Webber,” Eckhart said and stepped forward. “Stand up.” Her voice thundered with authority. Gibson lifted his eyebrows at the force of her assertion.
“Felton.” Margaret pressed into her chair.
“What?” He spat out another hunk.
“Get up.” Eckhart took one further stride forward.
“This is ridiculous. Felton, call our lawyer,” Margaret demanded. She rose, dragging her hands along her skirt to flatten the creases.
“Yeah, I will,” he said but remained seated as Eckhart clamped on the handcuffs and led Margaret to the Expedition. Gibson opened the rear door and eased her inside.
“Go away.” Margaret jerked his hand off. She sat up straight, a grandiose pinch to her mouth and dead eyes fixed forward.
Felton ground his smoke on the deck and lit another one as they pulled out of the driveway. Every once in a while, Margaret protested her predicament, but they couldn’t make out her words through the thick glass partition that divided the front and back space. When they reached the intersection, Gibson looked over to Jacobs Landing. There was a flurry of activity on the veranda. Gregory and Savannah were scrubbing vigorously at the windows to remove the filth, a soapy bucket of water between them. Their laughter streamed out and travelled down to the beach and across the lake. Gregory didn’t notice his mother in the police vehicle, having eyes only for Savannah.
Eckhart reached for the switches on the dashboard. She glanced toward Gibson before flipping them on. His quirky smile gave the okay. The drive to the downtown station was speedy with the accompaniment of the siren and lights. She had phoned ahead to give instructions. Two officers waited at the entrance for the Expedition to arrive. Without any fuss, Margaret was taken into custody, the steel door clanging behind her ample body.
Chapter 21
Gibson phoned Cooper and told him the news. “Go visit your favourite judge. Get a warrant for Felton’s place. Everything. Not just the house.” He assigned a few more directives and signed off.
“Lunch while we wait?” Eckhart asked.
“Perfect.”
They ambled down Church Street to the pub. A fresh breeze had sprung up and blew gusts of cool respite. They settled into their preferred spot and ordered. It wasn’t hectic so the refreshments came right away. Gibson chugged his beer, wiping the foam off his lips.
“I was parched,” he said. “You did fine.”
“It’s hard to believe. What the hell happened between Margaret and Elsie?” Eckhart asked.
“I don’t know, but we’ll unearth the truth.” He pressed to his temple. An image had come and gone.
They chatted while they dined. Gibson sat back in his chair and polished off his drink.
“We should mosey on. Ready?”
“Yup.”
Gibson settled the bill, and they walked down the shady side of the street to the station. Margaret’s lawyer hadn’t arrived yet so Gibson rested on the bench in the foyer. He leaned against the hard wall painted a nondescript green, like slime, and passed the time with a game of solitaire on his cell. Eckhart leaned against the wall, too anxious to sit still.
“How much does Felton know about all this? We should pull him in for a chat,” Gibson said, looking up at his partner.
“You’re right.”
Gibson punched the redial button. “Cooper. Could you bring Felton in? He’s not under arrest.” He hung up. “On the way.”
Sultry air slinked in when the main door opened. A man dressed in a brown suit and elegant brown shoes stepped inside. His bushy brows bent over droopy eyelids like a basset hound, and his beaky nose was drippy. Fat lips bunched into a harsh frown down to his double chin. His teeth moved as if he was chewing cud. He peered at Gibson as he tottered to the counter. With a loud harrumph, he cleared his throat and said, “I’m
Philip Smith, Margaret Cunningham’s attorney. Where is she?”
Gibson glanced up. The man clung with wrinkled hands to a briefcase that looked traumatized from years of scraping under courtroom benches. The officer at the desk led the way down the corridor. The elderly man moved unsteadily after him, his hard-soled wingtips making a disturbing clack on the linoleum. Gibson tossed his chin toward Eckhart. She stealthily shadowed the two figures to Margaret’s lockup. A metal chair just outside the door shouted her name. She sat down on the cold surface prepared to wait it out for the long haul. The officer pitched her a grin and headed back to his post. The lawyer snarled, a short fizz escaping his parted lips.
Another sweltering rush of air whistled in. Two constables stepped into the station and crossed the lobby with their quarry sardined between them. Cooper turned and winked, hoisting his chin with a sniff. Jones took a wide stance at the counter and anchored his free hand on his hip. Felton gawked at Gibson with an outraged frown, his forehead furrowing into cavernous creases. After the constables clocked in their detainee, Gibson rose to accompany the parade down the corridor. He seized the steel handle of an interview room and yanked on the weighty door.
They all piled inside the tiny square room painted a shiny gunmetal grey, designed to instill apprehension. The fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed when Gibson flipped the switch revealing four orange plastic chairs and a plywood table. Gibson gestured to the far side of the narrow table. Felton sat and placed his fists on his knees. His shoulders took on the configuration of the non-ergonomic chair, forcing his shoulders to sag forward. He looked ghostly in the bold light.
“Thanks guys. I’ll take it from here,” Gibson said. The constables saluted as they scooted out, amused grins pasted on delighted faces.
“We’ve arrested Margaret.”
“Yeah, I know. I was there,” Felton said. “What for?”
“For the murder of Elsie,” he answered, although the man already knew.
“Why am I here?”
“I have questions. Do you want a lawyer, Felton?” Gibson asked.
“Why? I didn’t do anything.” He coughed.
Gibson pushed the recorder on.
