Chapter 24
The medication avoided any dreaming, but when I awoke I didn't feel refreshed. I was depressed and sluggish, unable to conjure up any energy sources at all. My husband wisely said very little, providing coffee and food and newspapers (which hadn't got hold of the story yet, thank goodness).
I hadn't missed much weather-wise for sleeping most of the day. More rain drizzled down on Burchill, in keeping with my mood. By four o'clock in the afternoon, the sun had poked its way back through the clouds, bringing a silver tinge to all the raindrops and the lake.
A police car still sat in our lane way. I could almost feel the action that was taking place not very far from my little oasis. Puppies and mother dogs were being tended. Some had already been removed to veterinary hospitals and the Ontario Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.
The police combed through the property, looking for the names of the culprits of this devastation. In my imagination, I heard the questions and the whispers of the villagers. I heard the media jumping into their cars and heading back to our small town.
Angel slept, sat, or lay by my side all day, as if she felt my distress and was doing her best to comfort me. Every time I petted her and looked at her beautiful face, tears came to my eyes and I was thankful that somehow, somewhere deep inside, Nathaniel had cared enough to rescue at least this one little dog. 'She was his favourite,' Walter Ryeburn had said, but the sinister way in which he had made that statement now led me to wonder what abuses Angel had suffered.
Certainly both she and her mother/sister had been beaten with a flashlight, judging by the reaction of both animals when that instrument was produced, even innocently. The physical abuse of the older collie had turned her into a snarling, suspicious beast, where her younger version was sweet and affectionate. I wondered if any of the more elderly dogs were still open to love and kindness, or whether they had been damaged too severely to be able to make a healthy human contact.
Just after five o'clock, May and Alain came to the door, accompanied by the police officer, a huge bowl of chili and bannock, as well as several bottles of wine. Once they were admitted, I spent a long moment in May's embrace, tears flowing from both of us.
Over dinner, Will and I told our friends everything, assured they wouldn't tell anyone else until the media had the story and the police had done their research. It helped to lay all the dirty facts out in the open, to hear and see the reaction of these two dear people, and to be enveloped in their friendship.
May shook her head, as she would do many times during the evening, and said, "I just can't reconcile the Nathaniel we knew and the one who did all this. It's as if two completely different people inhabited his body."
"I think that's exactly the way it was," I responded. "Somehow, whatever there was in his childhood, all that rejection, turned him into a Jekyll and Hyde."
"But there are so many children who suffer worse and don't turn out that way. What made him so ugly, so twisted?"
I loved listening to Alain's soft French Canadian accent, the way he tripped over the TH's, his quaint formality of structure. "It's hard to say what triggers turn a human being into a monster, isn't it?" he mused. "You hear some of these stories of real heroes, who overcome such misery and abuse, who turn into exemplary people. Then there are the others who appear to have pretty normal upbringings, who then morph into killers. There's a lot to be said about being born with a certain disposition, I think."
Langford said, "I agree. For some people, the rejection that Nat felt would have made them more determined to prove everyone wrong, to become someone they'd have to look up to. But some weakness in Nathaniel, or some weird inclination, turned him the opposite way. He used power over animals to make himself feel like a man."
I took another spoonful of the delicious chili, perfect for a cool, rainy day, and followed it with a mouthful of red wine. I was beginning to think that I would recover. "I just wish I could help to bring closure to this whole thing. I can't seem to remember much already. Everything is blurring. I think my mind is rejecting the idea that someone in this town owned and operated that puppy mill and even worse, may have murdered Nathaniel and killed his pony. It's all so bizarre."
Will and I looked at each other, both wondering how our lives could have taken this turn—again.
The evening was soothing, comfortable, even fun. That night I cuddled in Will's arms, Angel sighing contentedly at our feet. The wine helped lull me into a deeper, more fulfilling sleep, despite the fact that at times it was filled with dreams of crying puppies, parents' nights at school, and Nathaniel cleaning blood off the floor. I knew it was healthier to let my mind digest and sort out the images and shocks that had bombarded it.
Shortly after we'd finished breakfast, and Will had disappeared into his studio, Constables Ducek and Petapiece and Ed Brennan came to the door. I was beginning to think of them as members of the family, I laughingly said as I poured coffee for all of us. When I asked about Walter Ryeburn, Ed told me the prognosis was grim. He'd still not regained consciousness.
The four of us pored over what we knew so far. If the diary were to be believed, Nathaniel Ryeburn had been involved in some form of severe animal abuse. Someone from Burchill had seen Nat going into one of the clubs that catered to demented people who desired greater, more twisted 'thrills'. What that unknown person was doing there, we still had no clue. Either he was also into that perversion, or he simply had deduced where Nathaniel might be found. At any rate, with the threat of having his mother learn about his proclivities, Nathaniel began a partnership with person unknown and his wife (or so we surmised from the voices I'd overhead) to operate a puppy mill.
The land where the mill had been located was registered to a numbered company whose director's name was listed as 'Patricia Sinclair'. Whoever this woman was, the search thus far had only revealed what she was not an Ontario resident.
Nat's role appeared to be one of night watchman. From what I could remember, his diary indicated that he slept at the farm and indulged in his perversions whenever he felt like it. The pony had been killed presumably to close the school permanently so a search could be made for Nat's secret diary. This seemed to mean that the culprit had inside information that the closing of the school was temporary after Nat's murder. In addition, they (he/she) had to know that Nat had been keeping a memoir.
The diary had been stolen from our home. Someone had to have known I had it, but I insisted that I had told no one. Had someone been spying in our window? Had I been seen reading it?
Somehow Walter Ryeburn had discovered the puppy mill. Had he stolen the diary? The mill owner had caught Walter, beat him rather severely, and tied him up in the attic of the cottage. From the snatches of conversation I'd heard, they had planned to either 'finish him off later' or leave him to die. They didn't appear to feel any threat from me, as I hadn't seen them.
This line of thought prompted me to state that they couldn't have known I'd read the diary or they'd definitely want me silenced. Again, we were led back to Walter Ryeburn as the thief. But the police had discovered no diary in the bridgeman's house or at the dog compound. Where was it hidden and did it reveal the name of the culprits?
Chapter 25
The morning passed quickly in thought and discussion. A guard would remain stationed outside our home until the danger appeared to be over, which made me feel both relieved and anxious.
Edgar gave me a quick, uncharacteristic hug as he left with the Ottawa police officers. He also warned me that the media had begun to descend on Burchill. A press conference was scheduled for Saturday evening at the puppy mill. Our village would be spread out all over the television by tomorrow night.
Will continued to work in his studio throughout the afternoon. He had a few showings in July and August, and wanted to be prepared. I forced myself to make calls to parents, teachers, and Connie Cicero and Peter McGraw, updating them.
Despite the fact that the discovery of the puppy mill appeared
to remove all fears about the school being a target, the school board didn't revisit their decision to keep it closed. Burchill was under press scrutiny and the board members were of the opinion that it was best to err on the side of caution.
They did give permission to open the school for Wednesday afternoon and evening next week, the last week of June, for parents and students to collect belongings, for our Grade Eights to say good-bye, for class lists to be distributed. We would invite our graduates back to the school in the fall for a formal graduation. I worked on an invitation to be given to the latter and on a second newsletter to update and cheer our little school community.
All communication was posted for next day delivery. It hadn't been easy to put out comforting words and cheery invitations, but it helped to look forward to the future, to convince myself that September would really bring a new year. Hopefully the summer would serve as a buffer between the horror and our quiet village life. I could scarcely fathom that exactly one week ago today I had jogged to school feeling ordinary and safe.
Ironically, on Saturday morning, a memorial service was held for Nathaniel Ryeburn at the church he'd attended every week with his mother. The entire village was there, it seemed to me. Almost reverently, they spoke of his gentleness, his dedication to his aged parents, his work at the bridge and at the school. I held my head up and smiled, nodding to parents and others, putting on the best show I could. Having had a great deal of past practice, I could disguise my feelings well, though I didn't seem to be doing a good job of it lately. I was able to use my principal face to give away nothing but the appropriate flashes of grief, anger (at the murder in our town, our school), mutual admiration (of the Nathaniel these people knew at least). I sat with Will, May and Alain, and Marj. Bill was tied up at the Mill, she told us. They were preparing for the 'onslaught' of reporters and animal rights activists.
"Well, at least it's good for something," I murmured, partly tongue in cheek, as I squeezed her hand.
"What do you mean?"
"Just..." I looked into her eyes and realized I had offended her. "I just mean that at least it's good for business. I didn't mean you were happy about it, Marj. I'm sorry. I guess I will do anything to try and find a bright side."
She squeezed my hand in return, but it was weak and shaky. "I'm sorry, too, Emily," she whispered back. "I guess I'm frazzled by all of this. Our usual clientele are people we know, mostly come back year after year. This would normally have been a fairly quiet month. That sounds all pretty self-absorbed and lame, doesn't it?"
I shook my head sympathetically. "We've all experienced some very weird feelings, Marj. I don't think any of us can ever be prepared for something like this." I should know, I wanted to add.
We were quiet after that, listening to the pastor extol the virtues of this man everyone thought they knew. How would they feel when (or if) the truth was revealed?
May and I gave each other several meaningful looks throughout the service. I thanked my lucky stars I had her confidence. Alain was silent the whole hour. He looked devastated. I wondered what demons Nat's murder and subsequent revelations had awakened in him.
I knew Alain's family life, as a boy, had been harsh and often cruel. It was the reason they had decided on remaining childless. Alain was terrified of his own temper, afraid he'd repeat the sins of his father literally.
Although May had had some initial doubts about never becoming a mother, she once told me frankly that she'd put all those regrets past her years ago. She was far too selfish now, she'd said. She and Alain were too close to allow anyone in. Besides, they were busy with lives they cherished. All the excuses sounded plausible.
But sometimes, I'd watch May with a hurt little one at school and I'd privately mourn both our unborn children. Then I'd remind myself that, had we babies of our own, we might not have so much to give these other little people who really needed our support and affection.
Reverend Whitmarsh's voice rolled over me like waves on the ocean. I sensed the overall feeling he meant to convey, but I found myself unable to listen to the details. I couldn't bear to see Nathaniel Ryeburn again as the town 'counsellor', the revered bridgeman, the kind and gentle caretaker. My heart couldn't take any more hurt, confusion, anger and grief at the moment.
I thought of Walter and Annie Ryeburn lying in separate hospital beds. What was going through their minds at this moment? Was Annie even aware that a service was being held and what did that mean to her? Did Walter's mind still function? I closed my eyes against the murmur of the pastor's voice and the answering mutterings of the crowd gathered in this small, hushed place.
Who had murdered him? Who had been his partner in that hellish business? Who had broken into my home and read that diary?
I sat up suddenly in the pew as though someone had poked me from behind. For no apparent reason, a fragment of memory followed the diary and me to the Inn that day for lunch. I pictured the small brown book on the floor of the restaurant. I watched May pick it up. I saw Marj, Michael Lewis, Teddy Lavalle, Diane West, Dr. Ron, Basil Fisher, Peter and Ellie Smallwood, Nick and Mary Jo Samuels, couples and singles, filling the tables, all staring at me, staring at it, watching as I fumbled and apologized.
I groaned. One of these people had to be part of a couple that had formed a partnership with the devil—or were devils themselves.
Chapter 26
Over the weekend, we watched our little Burchill being surrounded by television crews and cameras and lights. We saw with dread the surreal images of dogs and puppies being hauled out of their prison at last, some of them snarling and crying, some of them sedated, some of them meek and afraid.
Our community did not fare well with many of the reporters. The fierce opinion that 'people must have known. This place has been here for years' was insulting and hurtful. It was shocking to discover through television reports that the compound had existed for a very long time, but how long it had served as a puppy mill had not yet been determined.
'Investigations were continuing' was an oft-repeated phrase. They were 'following a lead' that might give them information about the pet shops who'd bought puppies from Burchill. They had not yet discovered who the salesperson or persons had been.
'Someone had information,' the reporters repeated and we were besieged with police PR voices over the radio and television asking that someone to come forward.
An anonymous tip line was established. The first tip, that an 'unnamed' man and woman had been discovered at the compound but were not thought to be part of the operation, had cost Langford and me a sleepless night. How long before I was identified? How long before our life here was over? So far, no one had found Walter Ryeburn, or me or connected the murder of the caretaker to this new event, but it didn't seem possible that it would be long before someone connected the dots.
After the service on Saturday, Will and I had spent the weekend huddled once again at home, mesmerized by the flashing lights of the television set, our window blinds uncharacteristically pulled tight. When we were not sunk into the couch with Angel at our feet or snuggling between us, we were each doing our separate best to keep depression at bay. Will spent several hours in his studio, 'just cleaning', he admitted later, because no inspiration could break through.
I spent that time in front of my computer, staring at report cards, trying to see the children behind the words, trying to remind myself that the world, indeed, was still spinning and carrying on the way it was for most people. We both were mourning the loss of our safety, our security, our haven. Our unspoken lament—for us, will things ever go back to what they were?—kept us preoccupied and even silent. We couldn't put the feelings into words just yet. The idea was too scary, too bruised, to touch.
Monday and Tuesday dragged by in the minutiae of details. I finalized report cards, made and answered phone calls about Wednesday's arrangements, ensured that staff were kept up-to-date. I typed, read, wrote, organized. Wednesday's social busyness came as a welcome relief.
&
nbsp; Langford had an important meeting with a studio in Merrickville, a small town to the west of us, which was the site of his July showing. He was reluctant to leave, as he would probably not arrive home until after midnight. I assured him that I would be immersed in the school until late this evening and would have Alain escort us home.
May and I had a ton of report cards to print, not to mention setting up for the reception of parents and students from 5 p.m. to 9 p.m. at night. We had purposely given parents a four-hour window in which to get home from work, pick up kids, or take care of other tasks and still have time to visit the school. I had pulled some funds from my budget, unspent on the many events that should have taken place in June, and hired Marj and Bill to provide munchies, juices and coffee. I wanted everyone to feel welcome, comforted, and normal in the school again, even if I myself wondered if I ever would.
The day passed in glorious, almost 'mindless' trivia. The only startling reality that stopped us in our tracks was the cleaning crew who'd been sent by the Board to give everything a scrubbing, a crew that no longer included Nathaniel Ryeburn, not to mention the brand new carpet in front of our offices.
May and I gave each other a long look, but didn't speak of it. We rolled up our sleeves and went back to work, as if delving into physical, menial work would distract us until all of this horror went away.
By the time 5 p.m. arrived, May and I had the school ready, decked out with pictures and trophies and flowers. Report cards were stacked in the classrooms. Teachers had their spiels rehearsed, along with an appointment schedule for those who wanted interviews over the next few days.
Marj and Bill had provided a huge assortment of sandwiches, cakes, cookies, fruit and vegetables with dip, all grandly delivered by Teddy. Marj and Bill had even offered to pick everything up after nine to avoid any cleanup for the staff. The tables were covered in blue and gold cloths to represent the school colors.
The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle Page 14
