The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle

by Catherine Astolfo

  Henry spoke up. He resembled his sister so much in appearance that I wondered how May could look at his face. "We interviewed the entire family and no one has seen her since Saturday afternoon, when she delivered some food to our Mary." Mary was Oona and Henry's oldest sister, who had been in a wheelchair for several years. They all took turns bringing her food and companionship, since she refused to go into a health care facility. "As for Frieda, I hadn't seen her in a while before this happened. I have a feeling she and Oona had a falling out, though Oona didn't say anything really. It's just that Frieda stopped being her constant companion. I know she's supposedly out looking for Oona now, but I never saw her."

  "I saw Frieda at the initial search," offered Basil Fisher. "She was just standing at the edge of the crowd, listening. She never came into the forest with the rest of us. I agree that she's probably out searching now, but not with the team. Frieda likes to do things on her own."

  This last statement was not made with admiration. Basil's voice was thick with derision. I wondered briefly what had caused him to dislike the woman. I didn't know Frieda Roote well at all, having met her very briefly at community activities. She too was from the Ojibwa Bear Clan, or so tradition said, as May would've added. Frieda was a compact, wiry person, not quite as stocky or tall as Oona. She often wore her straight black hair in a loose ponytail, frequently tied with colourful bobs, and her clothes looked expensive. May told me that Frieda was an accomplished hunter, and that her small frame belied great strength, that she was Oona's protégé, but this was all I knew about her.

  A few months ago, Frieda had purchased a small home inside the village and outside of the reserve. It was a lovely stone house on the corner of St. Lawrence and Drummond, and must have cost her a fortune. I remembered wondering where she might have gotten the money for such a move, and I did remember some talk in the village about Frieda's choice to live outside the native community. Perhaps that explained the disdain in Basil's voice and the rift between Frieda and Oona.

  "I saw her, too," Ruth McEntyer spoke up.

  This statement surprised no one. Ruth was our town busybody and know-it-all. She worked part time as a waitress in the Burchill Inn and probably got most of her gossip and news from the customers. Ruth was tall and very beautiful. Her long red hair and flashing green eyes were extremely compelling. Her looks, combined with her friendly attitude and keen powers of observation, combined to make her a wealth of information about the latest gossip or event. However, despite her constant thirst for knowledge about everybody's business, Ruth was a kind, jovial person whom most people—myself included—quite liked.

  "Just as Basil has said," Ruth continued, "she was watching and listening, always on the edge of the crowd. When the search teams split up, she didn't offer to go with any of them. She just trudged back in the direction of her home."

  "Maybe she's just too upset," Peter Smallwood offered, to which Basil grunted and Ruth shrugged. Peter was a very tall, thin man whose grey-blond hair was thinning and whose mouth was always, it seemed to me, formed into a line of condescension. Most people found him hilarious, but to me his sarcastic wit and humorous anecdotes belied an attitude of superiority. However, I seemed to be the only one who did not think well of him. In this room, he towered over everyone except Langford.

  Henry broke the uncomfortable silence that followed. "If anyone would know that Oona was on a trip, it would be Agnes. And Oona has not been to see her in several weeks. Agnes is on a vision quest, but she came back to Mary's house to speak with me."

  The mention of Agnes Lake seemed to energize the group. Once again, I knew very little about Agnes, except that she was famous throughout the community and beyond. Even more than Oona, she was the most recognized and respected native woman in Burchill and Sahsejewon. She was similar in build to Oona and Frieda, fairly short and stocky. Her long straight hair was completely grey and she always wore it flowing over her shoulders. She had a kind, well-worn face, from which the beauty of her youth still shone through. She looked almost stereotypically wise and peaceful. Her light brown eyes were direct and seemed to look right through you. Agnes Lake was, in fact, one of the few remaining female Ojibwa shamans, and certainly one of the last of her generation to practice her craft. Her vision quests consisted of fasting, prayer, and, I thought, offerings to the spirits. But I was ashamed to say that I had not spent a great deal of time learning about what these rituals entailed.

  The conversations kept going around and around, in small groups, across the room, between couples. Peter Smallwood kept the whole group mesmerized and even laughing out loud once or twice, with his tales of following his native friends through the bush when he was a child. We waited until well after ten o'clock before news finally came from the search teams that had all given up and regrouped to report to Edgar. No one had found any sign of Oona. They were all heading home for a good night's sleep. Many intended to assist again the next day. When Langford and I left May and Alain's place, there were still a few people lingering, but all seemed to be in the process of going home to bed. Langford was going to join the search tomorrow, while I—feeling, I must admit, frustrated and ineffectual—was going back to work.

  It was strange to be going about my regular duties when a crisis was swirling all about me. With Gillian Hubbard's cheerful assistance in the office and lots of indoor recess due to the weather, the week began to pass more quickly than Monday had. As events continued to build in the community, my school soldiered on as usual, the little details of everyday life managing to seem as important as always. We were heading into March with spring break scarcely three weeks away, and winter had decided to arrive at last.

  The promised snow thudded in around us later that first week, making continuing the hunt for Oona next to impossible. The search parties, Langford included, had done their best each morning. Trudging through the fields and forest, bundled yet still frozen, for hours in daylight, then forced to give in long before dusk. At the end of the week, a couple of divers arrived from the Ottawa USRU, due mostly to Frances Petapiece's influence, but they were driven away by ice and snow. The water of Bahswaway turned into an icy sludge, too chunky and dark for a successful search. And the snow kept piling up, forming treacherous hills all around the pond.

  By the second week the snow had stopped, but the air had turned absolutely frigid. Warnings were posted over the weather advisory channels and students had to keep huddled inside the school for a couple of days in a row. It wasn't until the following Sunday afternoon that the sun shone through, increasing the temperature to more pleasant numbers, bringing people outdoors again, to face the fact that not only was Oona Nabigon still missing, but her friend Frieda Roote had never returned from the search either.

  my earth, my fate, my woe

  Chapter 6

  When Frieda woke, she first felt the sweat pouring down her skin through the parka. At the same time, the icy cold crept into her mind and sent uncontrollable shivers through her body. She stared up at the trees and saw a patch of night sky through the thick branches. It was then that the pain hit her again.

  Somewhere near her right foot, she felt gnawing, pounding agony come in waves that threatened her consciousness. With tremendous effort through gasps and cries, Frieda pushed herself up on her elbows and looked. At first it was hard to believe. It seemed that she was gazing down at someone else. And then pain rolled in. Her head thudded back onto the ice. Her foot and part of her leg had become a tangled mass of blood and bone gushing between ripped boot leather, snapped in the jaws of a huge bear trap.

  Frieda's mind began to swim. She pictured the animals—the large, gentle-eyed deer, the small mink, the little cub—all writhing in her bear traps, waiting for her to end their misery. She saw her garage, full of skins—hanging, drying, smoking, brushing—ready for the buyers. She saw their eyes when they looked at the skins, hungry, admiring. She saw the money in her hands.

  Frieda's body jerked spasmodically with pain and fear. She had on
ly wanted the good things she saw other people enjoying. She had only desired that little stone house on the corner, to live among the others, to go for lunch at the Inn, to have nice clothes. Her guilt coursed through her with each wave of pain. She saw the little packet hidden in the dusty corner. She imagined the man's eyes as he lit up with his greed. She felt again the power of knowing that she could, when or if she chose, answer his craving.

  There was no one here to end her misery. She was now the victim, without a deity who could decide her fate for her. Frieda squeezed her eyes shut, felt the tears crystallizing in the cold. She tried very hard to reassert control, but she had never felt such agony and she could not regain any sense of the cold objectivity needed to think her way out of this situation. She allowed herself to drift again, welcoming the waves of darkness, the dulling of the pain. Somewhere in the back of Frieda's mind, in the files of her hunter's training, she knew that lying here would bring death, but she was unable to force herself to care.

  She could not tell whether she had her eyes open or closed when she saw him. Semiconscious, she was not frightened or surprised by his appearance. She was unable to feel any emotion. She was blank, waiting, ready to be used.

  The figure seemed very tall, standing above her, shaking that bear head. Not completely covered in fur, part of a red parka showed through. The claws were clamped over boots and mittens. Walking Bear, Frieda thought, half human, half bear. The legend is real and I have been caught. I am now victim. The pain shook through her as Walking Bear bent to investigate the trap.

  "I am sorry this happened to you, but now you know how it feels. You are as helpless as the hundreds of victims you have caught here in these woods." A pause. "Caught you on the big bone. You are fortunate."

  Frieda's mind ached at the sound of Walking Bear's words. The voice penetrated her consciousness, so familiar, the words of the ancient ones, of her father, of her aunts and uncles as they sat around the fires, as they spoke of important issues.

  "There are four orders in creation," the legends said. "First is the physical world. Second is the plant world. The animal world is third. Last in the order, the human world. Never attempt to put the last first or you will destroy the harmony of our existence." The Legend of Walking Bear had spoken of moments like this one, Frieda thought.

  The human bear walked around her body, investigating, pulling and tugging at her. "You will recover," the voice intoned. "I will help you. You will recover in every way. It was known that you were doing evil all along. But no one could stop you. The greed had filled your spirit." The voice droned on and on, pushing through the pain, pounding through Frieda's agony. "How does it feel now, to be a victim?" Walking Bear bent and began to work at the trap.

  The pain seared up Frieda's leg, burning through to her mind. The legends of the old ones, told to her as she sat by the fire at night, continued to swirl past her eyes and ears. Each lined face would be serious and fierce as they told of the punishment that a hunter would suffer if he or she broke Walking Bear's ancient laws.

  "Remember the words of the old ones," Walking Bear said gently in her ear, as if Frieda had spoken her thoughts aloud. "I, too, am an old one now and I tell you again, the forest is given to us to use for need, not for greed. If you break the ancient law, you must be punished."

  Frieda's eyes no longer focused. She felt, rather than saw, her body being lifted onto a sled.

  "Sometimes the spirits choose the punishment. Sometimes we are conduits for it to happen. I think this punishment will be enough. You will heal, but the time with me will be long. You will stay here in the woods where you will be able to think about and see the stories of the old ones, where you will learn to live the truth."

  Shock and misery squeezed more tears from Frieda's eyes as she was dragged through the woods, each bump and movement a wave of pain.

  Chapter 7

  As had been the rule in Ontario over the last few years, there were no constants in our weather. We no longer appeared to enjoy four distinct seasons, but could in fact, experience all four climate patterns in one day. Our newest joke was, 'Don't like the weather? Wait fifteen minutes,' which used to be reserved for other parts of the country. Thus when it suddenly turned very warm that Monday and Tuesday, no one was greatly surprised. This winter had been a hodgepodge of temperatures, precipitation and extremes. Dire warnings from environmentalists that these changes were going to become the norm had largely gone unheeded.

  In Burchill, an even greater symbol of danger to the environment was the new subdivision. Our residents constantly complained about and lamented over the encroachment of new homes and roads into the fields and forest. For the last couple of weeks, both the weather and the facts about the native women's disappearances had served to divert everyone's attention. But by Wednesday of this week, the sun had melted most of the snow and ice in the field where the subdivision was being ploughed. The area looked bald, scraped of its vegetation, scarred by ribbons of dirt that marked the future streets. Victor Reeves, anxious to fulfill promises to home buyers and perversely determined to defy the villagers, had his excavators in full swing by Friday, when two days' worth of unseemly sunshine had melted the surface freezing of the ground. Thus, the villagers were once again consumed with talk about the subdivision.

  Oona and Frieda had been missing for nearly three weeks. Most of the searches had been abandoned. The USRU from Ottawa was scheduled to arrive next Monday to search Bahswaway Pond. A rumour had gone around Burchill that had led many to expect that both bodies would be discovered, drowned in some kind of weird suicide pact. Lately, however, their disappearance was not the main topic of conversation, and I was glad some of the talk had subsided.

  I knew the rumour had hurt May deeply. She had insisted on returning to work last Monday, stating that she couldn't stand being at home just waiting and listening to idle talk. Whenever we had a chance, we sat in my office and discussed the situation in detail, trying to come up with all kinds of theories.

  "Oona would never kill herself," May said firmly, struggling against the tears filling her eyes. "She is so strongly religious, in her own way. She believes in the sanctity of life. I can't imagine she would ever do that. She and Frieda used to have a strong friendship, but there was nothing destructive about it, in the way that some people seem to be implying. They'd fallen out lately, which would seem to prove that they wouldn't be involved in some mystery that led them to a suicide pact."

  I agreed with May to make her feel better, but I must admit that I had my doubts. I had learned the hard way that people wear many masks. On the surface, they went about their lives in ordinary and even boring ways, while underneath a whole other world seethed. I considered my husband and myself, who respectively held positions of admiration and trust, who appeared to be a couple whose lives served as models to the community, yet who'd both so far led a life that sounded like fiction. I thought of the police officer in Vancouver who'd hidden a burning hatred for, and jealousy of, the young man who was now Langford Taylor. An officer who'd seemed in every way to be understanding, empathetic and objective, when in reality he'd plotted, schemed, lied, and resorted to extreme violence. I remembered clearly—the hurt and shock still fresh to me—the murder of Burchill's bridgeman and our school caretaker, the discovery of hidden lives filled with depravity, perversion and abuse.

  Could Oona have been hiding a pact or a relationship with Frieda that led them both to suicide? Could they both have some other secret that had caused them to run away or drown themselves in the pond? I thought it was entirely possible.

  Of course I expressed none of this to May. She was suffering and I would never add to that hurt. May loved Oona fiercely, and it was my friend's loyalty that so endeared her to me and to everyone else. I could only silently hope that her loyalty in this case had not been misplaced. I could not imagine what a discovery of some terrible secret might to do her. Each day I responded to her with words of encouragement, sympathy and belief. Plus, although I had t
aught myself to avoid outward, physical signs of affection, I had learned from my loving friend over the last four years to once again give a hug or touch a person's hand as ways of lending support.

  The last week before spring break went by fairly slowly in the school, mostly because we were all anxious for the holiday, but also due to the unseasonable weather conditions. Mud appeared in the yard, temperatures caused students to shed their coats prematurely. The influenza virus resurfaced, causing coughs and sneezing throughout the halls. Behaviour deteriorated as the children became impatient for freedom and in response to the spring-like wind that blew in from the south.

  These factors contributed to a busy office. May and I were active all day long, cleaning dirty hands and faces, lending clean clothing from the lost and found, calling parents to come and get sick little ones, or dealing with discipline issues. Since these were not exactly intellectually challenging tasks the hours appeared to crawl by, and the staff was all physically exhausted by the end of the week.

  On Thursday evening, I suggested that we adjourn to the Main Street Station Pub to celebrate only one more day to go. Nearly the whole staff responded, twelve of the fourteen of us, and I almost regretted saying I'd buy the first round. Even May, with not too much urging from Alain and myself, decided to join us. Any vehicles that had been brought to school were left in the parking lot and the entire group of us walked up Read Street to Main, talking and laughing, the late afternoon sunshine buoying our spirits.

  Our staff was a cohesive bunch, but they welcomed me into their fold almost immediately, and over the last four years we had grown to be a true family. We had our problems, as all families do, but we were always able to talk it out or come to a compromise. There were some villagers who believed it unseemly for the staff to gather in the pub, but we grandly ignored them until they were silenced. We were a team that liked to celebrate and we were always careful not to drink and drive. It was fairly easy to do in a village this size, because one could always walk home and pick up the car the next day.