back toward the OPP detachment. Smith had just finished his call when his phone rang again. He said a few words, looked at his watch, then hung up.
“What’s up?”
“That was Howard. Gravelle — the dishwasher — called. He’s on his way to the station. Howard’s going to meet us there,” he added.
They were less than a hundred feet from the detachment, almost at the crosswalk, when the air filled with the throaty roar of a sports car’s engine.
“There he is now,” Smith said, turning to see the shiny new Mustang pull up at the light.
“Thanks for coming in,” Smith said as he took a seat between Marshall and Howard. Stephen Gravelle sat opposite, looking decidedly hung over, and nervous.
“Do you prefer Steve or Stephen?”
“Steve’s fine.”
Smith pointed to the little black ball affixed to the wall by the door. “Just so you know, that’s recording video and audio.”
Gravelle shrugged. “Uh, okay.”
“I understand you work at the Hard Luck Cafe, is that right, Steve?”
“Used to, yeah.” Gravelle was dressed in shorts and a checkered shirt, and Smith’s well-trained nose picked up the smell of stale smoke from the cotton.
“You don’t work there anymore?”
“No, I quit. I’m going to Trent now.”
“When did you quit?”
“I don’t know. Around the beginning of May, I guess.”
“Summer off, huh? Nice. What are you studying at Trent?”
“Psychology.”
Good luck finding a job with that one , Smith thought, as he made a note. “But you did work at the Hard Luck, back in the spring of this year?”
“Yeah.”
“And you did witness an altercation between Curtis Ritchie and John Ridgeway ?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you tell us about that?”
Gravelle fidgeted in his chair. “Look, is this to do with Curtis Ritchie’s … murder?”
“Yes, as we said at the start, we’re investigating his death.”
“Should I have a lawyer here, with me, I mean …”
“Steve, we might be getting a little ahead of ourselves here. You signed a statement regarding the incident at the Hard Luck. That’s what we want to ask you about. You’re not a suspect in his murder, and you don’t need a lawyer, but if you want one, you’re perfectly within your rights to call one right now if you’d like.”
Gravelle’s shoulders dropped a couple of inches and the tension in his posture seemed to flow out of him.
“Would you like to get a lawyer, Steve?”
“No, that’s fine.”
“Okay, why don’t you just tell us what you saw?”
“Nancy and Curtis Ritchie came through the kitchen doors, yelling at each other. I guess it had started out front.”
“What were they yelling about?”
“She was crying,” Gravelle said, leaning back in his chair. “Saying why don’t you love me anymore, that sort of thing. He was calling her names.”
“Like what?”
“He called her a slut, and a whore, I think. He said the baby wasn’t his and she was just a gold digger. That’s when Johnny came in.”
“Her brother, John Ridgeway?”
Gravelle nodded. “He must have been out front when they started arguing, and followed them in.”
“Go on,” Smith prompted.
“He and Ritchie had some words, and then Nancy was saying something and Ritchie shoved her and called her a whore again. That’s when Johnny lost it.”
“How’d he lose it?”
“He took a swing at Ritchie, but he missed. I think he was kinda drunk. Ritchie just shoved him to the floor and pinned him down.”
“What was Nancy doing?”
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