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“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.”
