The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle

by Catherine Astolfo

  Chapter 5

  Wrapped in scarf, hat, mittens and my big wool coat, I was fairly warm in the bitter cold, but I also managed to maintain a fast pace despite the icy surface. The snow was hard packed, crunchy and crackly beneath my boots, and quite slippery. Two nights ago it had snowed. Then last night the precipitation had turned to freezing rain, and now the sky looked full of snow clouds again. I slipped, slid, and shuffled as fast as I could, up and over the bridge toward Lakeview Road, my breath forming puffs of crystals above my head.

  Whenever I approached our house and saw it clearly from a distance, a mixture of emotions burst through me like adrenaline. It was a combined feeling of relief, pride, excitement and disbelief. Every single time, my heart actually pounded and a grin came over my face when I walked over that bridge and saw its rooftop.

  My husband and I lived in, what was known in the village tourist brochure as, the Beatty House. A turn-of-the-century frame-house, it had two beautiful verandas at both the front and back doors, overlooked Ogeechee Lake and was surrounded by lovely old trees. Painted a light blue with white shutters, the house was meticulously and lovingly restored by the former owners. They were careful to maintain its original grandeur, but cleverly modernized it at the same time. I loved Beatty House since the moment I saw it. It was my dream home come true.

  On this most unusual Monday, I had another surprise waiting for me. When I rounded the side of the house, I saw my husband just beginning to unload some frames and paintings into his studio, and my heart began to pound even harder. Langford was tall, loose limbed and lanky. His dark hair was shot through with grey and his brown eyes were wide and expressive.

  I know that my husband was deemed by many to be very eccentric. Until he was comfortable with people, he tended to be somewhat reserved and quiet. He had a very direct way of looking into your eyes that caused some to shy away from him at first. There was a certain tilt to his head, a way of widening his pupils, a habit of straightening and towering over you with muscles tensed, which could actually frighten anyone with a secret to hide. For those who got to know him better, he had an unusual attentive way of listening that inspired loyalty and affection.

  Many people attributed his eccentricities to the fact that he was a talented artist. I was aware, however, that most of his current habits were learned through hardship. I alone knew the hopeful, friendly, trusting young man who was almost obliterated in a prison cell.

  He turned at that moment and saw me, his face lighting up with a huge smile, deepening the crinkles around his mouth and illuminating his expressive brown eyes. Propping the load he was carrying against the studio wall, he hurried back out the door toward me. In the cold air our lips were hot and steamy, our kiss long and delicious. We stood there in the yard, oblivious to the ice and snow, focused only on each other. Langford and I hate separation. Any hours away only remind us of when we were apart for many, torturous years. We moved away from each other by a few inches, and after locking the car and the studio, we made for our front door arm and arm. If anyone had come into our house a few minutes later, they would have seen coats, boots, hats, scarves and mittens abandoned in a pile in the hall, and up the stairs, a mess of slacks, sweaters and underwear next to the bed.

  "I love you, Emily," Langford whispered in my ear and I returned his murmur, using his real name in the privacy of our bedroom, "I love you, too, Will."

  His lips were soft and warm against my neck, my breasts, my legs. I sighed over and over again, running my fingers through his thick hair, across his wide smooth shoulders, down his silky back. His tender mouth, his expert fingers—the touch of an artist whose hands convey layers of emotion and passion on canvas—played my body like a musical instrument. Strings taut, quivering, then bursting into waves of physical release and pleasure. The sounds of ecstasy escaped from me as I gave myself entirely to the orgasmic pulse of my body. When he entered me, whispering and breathing in my ear, I pushed back as though I could melt into him, become part of him. Holding him so close, moving so slowly and deliciously, feeling his body inside me, I was lost in a sea of passion and desire, all thought gone except of loving him so deeply. I could feel him gathering his excitement, his love, like a milkweed exploding from its pod, and I intensified my response. His moans and ecstatic breathing mingled with his endearments. Our hearts pounded against one another when the movement of our bodies had quelled, but for a long time we stayed cuddled close, letting the sweat trickle off, dry, warm and comfortable in each other's arms.

  A few minutes later, we were forced to turn over and separate, as our small brown and white dog jumped up on the bed, her beautiful brown eyes full of excitement at seeing Daddy at home. We had acquired Angel two years ago under very strange circumstances, but there had been an instant rapport on both sides, and now we could not picture life without her.

  I sat up, one hand propping up my head while the other petted Angel. I told my husband all about Oona. "That's the damndest thing I've ever heard," Will responded, concerned but intrigued too. "Ed's got a search party out tonight?"

  I nodded.

  "Should we go help May keep vigil?"

  I nodded again, so all three of us got up, two of us showered, and two of us dressed.

  We hated to leave Angel all alone again. She looked so forlorn, her tail thumping sadly on the hardwood floor, but we were afraid she might not be welcome in such circumstances. Because of the extreme cold of the evening, we took the car over to May and Alain's place, so we were there in about two minutes.

  May and Alain Reneaux are our only real friends in Burchill. Our past has not exactly caused us to be very trustful of our fellow human beings, but May and Alain are special. May—a full-blooded Canadian native—descended from a group of Ojibwa who, about three hundred years ago, had defended and settled among the Hurons and Ottawayans in this area. Although there had been intermarriages among most of the tribes, May's mother had learned the Oral Tradition from her mother, who swore to being pure Ojibwa. May had been taught that they were descended from the Bear Clan, whose members were the strong and steady police and legal guardians.

  Traditionally, Bear Clan members were said to have spent a lot of time patrolling the land surrounding the village. In so doing, they learned which roots, bark, and plants could be used for medicines to treat the ailments of their people. Oona's skills in healing, based on her inherited herbal knowledge and her defence of the environment, were much admired.

  Alain Reneaux was descended from the legendary couriers du bois and was still strongly French Canadian. Alain's family life as a boy had been harsh and often cruel. It was the reason he and May had decided on remaining childless. Alain was terrified of his own temper, afraid he'd repeat the sins of his father, literally. Langford and I had never seen any sign of this infamous temper, however. Alain was quiet, but once he was comfortable with us we had known only a serious, intelligent person, not someone quick to judge or lose control.

  Although May had had some initial doubts about never becoming a mother, she once told me frankly that she'd put all those regrets behind her years ago. However, whenever I watch May with a hurt little one at school, I sometimes privately mourn both our unborn children. Langford and I had been denied the experience because of a hideous mistake that took twenty years away from us.

  Thus despite our outward appearances—May, rounded, almond eyes, dark skin, Alain, French speaking, wavy brown hair and green eyes, me with my short blonde hair and a waist that I worked hard to keep small, and Langford, tall and lanky—the four of us had much more in common than might have been obvious from observation alone.

  The Reneaux lived on Julia Street, in a home that had been here since 1815. It was a hodgepodge of architectural designs, as various portions were added over the decades. Peg and beam, clapboard, stone, wood frame and shiplap, brick veneer all combined to create a fascinating, if incongruent, structure. May and Alain had a flair for decorating which transformed the interior into a warm, rich environment, o
ne that paid homage to both their traditions and ancestry. If it had been later in the spring or in the summer, we would also have seen their gardening skills in full display.

  Langford squeezed the car into the driveway beside Alain's Dodge truck, avoiding the street where numerous other vehicles had taken up most of the space. Shaking off snow and ice, we removed our boots in the crowded front hall and followed the sound of voices to the living room.

  Frances Petapiece, Doc Murphy, Ruth McEntyer, Kathy Mills, and Teddy Lavalle were all seated in the large, high-ceilinged space, listening intently to Edgar Brennan outline the efforts to find Oona Nabigon. May sat in a huge armchair, her uncle Henry Whitesand at her feet, while Alain stood in a small circle with Basil Fisher, Peter Smallwood, and Chief Dan Mahdahbee. Langford and I joined the group silently. Most of them nodded solemnly at us. May gave me a weak smile.

  "So, it looks as though there might be two of them missing now," Edgar was saying. "Frieda Roote apparently went out this afternoon to look for Oona and has not returned, according to Scott Ashkiw, who was supposed to meet her at her house around five o'clock to discuss decorating plans. But she could still be searching. Frieda is an experienced trapper and hunter and I'm not ready to say that she's missing just because she didn't show up for dinner. However, we will keep an eye on the situation as night closes in."

  "Speaking of dinner," May said, sounding tired and sad, "there's food on the table in the kitchen for everyone. Just help yourselves when you're hungry. The neighbours have already started supplying all kinds of goodies, so make sure you eat it. Don't leave it to go to my waist!"

  We all smiled back at her and my stomach rumbled in response. I realized I hadn't had anything to eat since early this morning, so I quickly went and filled up a plate of vegetables and crackers and cheese, which Langford helped me nibble on as we continued to listen.

  "There's still a bunch of volunteers out searching in the forest around Bahswaway, using some dogs and searchlights. Chief Dan, you've got more info on that, they're mostly your team."

  Chief Dan Mahdahbee was a formidable presence in our joint communities, yet he stood only five feet tall, and perhaps as wide. His pudgy brown face was always wrinkled up, sometimes with frowns and often with smiles. He was a true symbol of the mixture of Burchill, with his First Nations colour-weaved shirt and his Gucci watch.

  Dan owned a highly successful department store at Main and Charlotte, just on the edge of the First Nations Community, which was known as the Sahsejewon Reserve. He lived on the reservation and had added a great deal of prestige, political persuasion, and hope to his peoples' lives. It was his influence, as well as his father's and grandfather's that had contributed to the stable, mutually beneficial partnership between native and non-native interests. As a result, there was a complete amalgam of first nation and white cultures.

  The village of Burchill had remained largely as it was envisioned in the 1800s—a waterside community, quiet tree-lined streets, preserved architecture and wide-open spaces. There was a canal and a system of locks that provided a bypass over the wildest sections of the Kanawhe River, which sliced through the town and the reserve. Sahsejewon, in fact, meant rapids in Ojibwa, referring to the tumbling, turbulent waters that race off to the St. Lawrence River and into Lake Ontario. Lake Ogeechee, which graced Burchill's outer edges and lay next to our own house, was still clear and calm, with soft sandy beaches and healthy fish.

  The provincial park spanned one side of the lake, native land another, so Ogeechee's shores remained somewhat private. For years now, the provincial government, Native Council and Town Council had agreed on a ban of motorized boats. Thus the lake was dotted with sails and canoes, while the ships and motorboats used the locks and the river. North of the lake, stretching all the way to Ottawa, were over a thousand hectares of beautiful mixed forest.

  Burchill was an artists' town. In fact, the name of the village was given in honour of a local sculptor who became famous in the 1800s. There were many artists who made their homes here, which were more often than not combined with their workplaces. The old mill had been converted into the Burchill Inn, which also had an excellent restaurant. In the summer the town was inundated with tourists, who arrived by boat, car or bus. They stayed at the Inn or various bed and breakfast accommodations, spent money on crafts, gifts and souvenirs in town, and ate in the restaurants and pubs. Even the edges of the reservation were dotted with beautiful shops which boasted of the artistry and creativity of the native peoples. Many in Burchill made a good living from the tourist industry.

  There was a museum that provided testimony, factually and respectfully, to both native and non-native histories. While the street names and homes demonstrated a largely British influence, the lakes and rivers and natural settings proclaimed proudly native roots. Many people took the walking tour, from the museum to the locks, to the historical homes and to the reservation sites. It was a kind place, peaceful and pretty, a place that welcomed tourists and the occasional new villager—like us—alike.

  On the outskirts of town just to the east of Sahsejewon, along Main Street, which turned into Highway 54 just shortly outside the village limits, there were several subdivisions being proposed. This was the most contentious political issue in our town at the moment. The Chief, the Mayor and their respective Councils had been campaigning to stop the encroachment of this civilization on the surrounding forests and farmland. The entire eastern area was largely crown land, while a small number of acres were privately owned.

  There was very little the collective council members could do about the latter areas. These parcels of land were under provincial law, which allowed them to be zoned for housing. Demonstrations, petitions, and legal wrangling had slowed construction, but not stopped it, although the crown seemed to be responding more favourably of late. Cynically, we had observed that a federal election was due next fall, which may explain their reluctance to cause a huge problem right now. Given the history of broken agreements between the aboriginal people and the government, most of our First People did not trust the federal representative's promise that the issue would be handled carefully and consideration given to halting some of the sale of the land to contractors.

  One builder who had purchased crown land had been very aggressive about sticking to his own time lines, regardless of the spirit of unwelcome emanating from the village. In addition, he had been rude and belligerent with anyone who attempted to explain the other side. While I could understand his point of view from the business outlook—he had, after all, purchased the land in good faith—I was too fond of Burchill the way it was to feel much sympathy. It had been this way for about a hundred and fifty years and it had existed as a native settlement far longer than that. It was pretty tough for someone to insist that change was a good thing, when all we could see were the wide-open spaces and the majestic rise of the forest being eaten up by noisy machines.

  Victor Reeves' subdivision, therefore, was the only site currently ploughing ahead, literally, with trees careening to the ground and dirt flying in filthy clouds everywhere. Except for the last three days, this winter had been unusual. We had very little snow in comparison to most years and the temperatures had been oddly warm. Throughout January and February, the moist, cool weather caused all kinds of influenza and colds throughout the village, especially in the school. It also allowed holes to be dug and trees to be felled. Burchill residents were suffering from a double dose of depression and anger.

  Chief Mahdahbee was speaking. "The search teams are going to have to stop by dark. Plus, the wind is whipping up and it looks like more snow is on its way. We'll continue early in the morning, with as many volunteers as we can get. So far, we've been fanning out in straight lines on either side of the pond. But there is a great deal of forest to cover and the snow is coming. There has been no sign of Oona so far."

  Edgar took up the tale. "The OPP in Ottawa have an Underwater Search and Rescue Unit (USRU). If we find nothing in the surrounding area
, we might actually be able to get them to do some searching in the pond." He looked over and saw May's face. "Sorry, May. I..."

  "You're just telling the truth, Ed, and I appreciate that."

  "Is there any possibility that Oona would go on a trip without telling you, May?" Frances Petapiece asked.

  May smiled fondly at the young blond woman who was seated next to Edgar. Frances, an Ontario Provincial Police Constable, had come into Edgar's life two years ago when she was investigating the murder of our school caretaker. Since then, she had transferred to Burchill, where Edgar had become both her boss and her significant other. So far, they seemed to be very happy with the situation, and were planning on marriage.

  Frances was a warm, giving person, hidden behind a cool, intellectual front. May and I often mentioned that there was an at-home Frances and an Officer Frances. She looked too tiny to be a police officer. She was only a couple of inches taller than I was, but then you noticed the muscular frame and the solid way she had of walking toward you. Perhaps her size was one of the reasons she assumed a tough, aggressive exterior when she was on the job. Her small, thin face and lovely grey eyes formed an attractive, though not-quite-beautiful picture. She had become a good friend of May's, despite twenty years difference in their ages.

  "It's possible, I keep telling myself, but it's so improbable that I can't imagine it. I haven't much hope that she would do that to all of us. She would at least have told Henry, or Agnes, or Frieda. And she hasn't gone on many trips lately. She's become more of a homebody than I've ever seen. Besides, the footsteps around the tree and into the pond—" May stopped abruptly, unable to continue without breaking.

  "I agree that it's improbable. But I still think we should keep hope alive on that count." Frances shifted to face everyone better. "I have a couple of contacts with Ottawa, so if we don't find her in a few days I think I can make a case for a search of the Bahswaway by their USRU. In the meantime, have we questioned all her friends and family?"