The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle

by Catherine Astolfo

  They laughed and then Edgar said seriously, "You know, I almost hate to admit this, but I was in awe. I have never seen anything like this. You know me well enough to know that I like things that I can explain scientifically or tangibly. So I'm not saying I believe in the legend, but I must say I was...I don't know how to explain it. I just felt like I was in the presence of something awesome and wonderful."

  Basil nodded. "It reminded me of the stories my grandfather would tell. He said that any native who met a bear should greet it with the utmost respect, calling it Grandfather of Us All, and talk to it. He said it was a great sight to see a bear's head and ears moving as you spoke to it."

  Several of the others chuckled and someone said they didn't relish talking to a bear at any time, respectfully or not.

  "I know you don't really think it's Walking Bear, do you, Chief?" Edgar asked, sipping on the excellent whiskey, feeling the warmth calm him.

  Chief Dan Mahdahbee sipped on his drink too, filtering it through his teeth before he swallowed, and then spoke. "No, Ed, I have to admit I don't. The legends were invented to teach, not necessarily to reflect fact. However, I did know a few shamans who constructed large bear shields out of carcasses, then wore it as a headdress."

  "What was its purpose?" Edgar asked.

  "Sometimes it was simply out of respect," Dan said. "The Shamans of the Bear Clan were known for their knowledge of medicinal herbs. The headdress, which is also called a diadem, was to honour the wisdom of our ancestors, the most important of which was the bear. Other times it was to teach the people a lesson through fear. The Bear Clan was supposed to protect the environment. If the people were disobeying the laws of nature, Walking Bear would come to reprimand them."

  There was a thoughtful silence. "Do you think…?" Edgar, knowing Chief Dan's respect for Agnes Lake, hesitated before asking, "…this could be Agnes, trying to scare away Victor Reeves and his like?"

  Chief Dan turned his dark, intelligent eyes to meet Edgar's. "I've thought of that," he admitted. "I think it's possible. It's not something I would have thought she'd do, but if her Vision Quest moved her—maybe."

  No one mentioned Oona and Frieda, perhaps not daring to believe that they could be alive. Or maybe it was that they doubted the two women would be participating in something so spiritual, so entirely native.

  At the same time, out on the highway, Frances was going through some reflections of her own. She tried very hard to concentrate on the job, to use all her faculties to note and observe as she drove slowly past rock and tree silhouetted in the patrol car's headlights, but her thoughts kept straying back to Edgar.

  She was very irritated with herself, having been proud for so many years of keeping her emotions in check. For Frances, meeting Edgar Brennan had been both a blessing and a curse. She was all at once flooded with both warm feelings and sheer terror. Frances was the product of a childhood spent in the company of a distant, older relative, never feeling secure or completely at home. And though she'd worked it through with a caring psychologist, she knew that in times of uncertainty she reverted to throwing up barriers and icing up against the risk of hurt.

  She knew perfectly well that her spontaneous acceptance of Ed's marriage proposal had frightened her badly. Within the baggage of her insecure past, her little suitcase of things are going too well, we're going to get burned had spilled its contents once more. Yet despite knowing all of this in her head, her heart refused to allow her to confide in her newest best friend, her love, the one with whom Frances knew she could spend the rest of her life.

  "I will tell him everything, I will," she told herself, even mouthing the words out loud as though to ingrain them on her tongue.

  Purposefully she turned her thoughts to the case, to the incredible events that had unfolded in this little town. Frances admitted secretly that she was a superstitious person. She'd relied often in the past on crossed fingers, salt over the shoulder, avoiding black cats and horoscopes to make life more certain and reliable. The legend of Walking-Bear-come-true had, in her heart of hearts, thrilled her completely. She devoured the stories, delightedly recalling over and over again the image of that bear-human face in her mind. She listened to every word uttered by the villagers about the legends and conjectures. Inside her head, a whole drama played out. She fitted different pieces across the imaginary chessboard according to which suspect she selected—the visionary, the thief, the crooked land owner. Frances was enjoying herself immensely, even as she fixed her poker face and forced her trained eyes to zero in on the facts before her.

  She would never know later what led her to swing past the subdivision one more time. Perhaps she wanted to prolong her patrol. Maybe it was sheer coincidence. Nevertheless, as she rounded the corner from the highway onto the dirt road, Frances Petapiece was the first to see the huge column of smoke and flame that leapt into the starlit sky.

  Chapter 17

  Early on Sunday evening, Langford and I were huddled up in our bed. Despite the warmth of the days, the nights were still seasonably cool and damp, so we had a low fire sparkling in the fireplace. Langford was lying prone, his arms thrown up in complete relaxation, eyes closed and his breath even and contented, while half a dozen pillows propped me up so I could read. Angel lay fast asleep in her little bed in the corner.

  This was my favourite room in a house full of wonderful, welcoming rooms. It was huge, running the full length of the house, big enough for a fireplace and an ensuite bathroom. Wide picture windows and a balcony overlooked the lake. From our four-poster bed, we could hear the rocking of the waves all night long.

  We filled the room with early pioneer furniture and beautiful Langford Taylor paintings. Our decor was simple, but peaceful and comfortable. Each time I crossed the threshold, the love I had for Will and he for me washed over me, calming any storm, freeing mind and soul from any trouble. This room was the main reason I knew I was home the first time I saw Beatty House.

  Since we moved to Burchill, I never thought of British Columbia as home, especially after the hell we'd lived through in Vancouver. Now that my mother and father were both gone and my brother and his wife lived in Ireland, there were no ties out west. Any good memories were long ago obliterated. It took five minutes in this bedroom to give me a vast sense of peace and belonging, of happiness and contentment.

  I reached out with my toes and traced my husband's soft hairy leg. A few minutes before, I had lain out of breath and sated across his chest. Our lovemaking was sometimes almost rough, prolonged, our bodies craving one another with such force that we were often left panting and nearly embarrassed by the strength of our passion.

  I looked over at him, my eyes caressing his soft grey-brown hair, his long dark eyelashes, the five o'clock shadow darkening his strong chin, the soft grey hairs spread over his chest. Langford Taylor towered a whole foot over me at six foot four. No matter how much weight I might gain, I always felt dainty and small when I was beside him. I worked very hard at maintaining my petite figure and it was costing a little more each year to keep this blond mane, too.

  But it wasn't looks that guaranteed and strengthened our passion. Will and I always had a connection that was there in the meeting of our eyes, or in the electricity of touch. More than once I have heard my husband telling someone of a dream that had actually been mine, and several times a week one of us said aloud what the other was thinking. We laughed often. We were both lusty and irreverent. We looked dissimilar and approached the world from varied perspectives, but our differences only made things interesting. Underneath, I swore that we were the same soul.

  In the midst of my reverie, the telephone rang. It was both a testament to my more outgoing nature and to my job that the phone was on my side. I promptly picked it up, trying not to awaken Langford as I said hello.

  "Emily, it's Maurice Fournier." Mo Fournier leads the volunteer fire brigade in town, but I have to admit, that didn't cross my mind. "Can I speak to Langford?"

  I glanced over at my h
usband, who had propped himself up on an elbow and was nodding at me. "Sure, Mo, hang on."

  "Hi, Mo, what's up?" Langford's eyes began to widen almost immediately. "Of course. I'll be right there." He hung up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Holy shit, Em, the subdivision's on fire."

  At first I couldn't even picture what Langford meant by subdivision, and then it struck me. Victor Reeves' new houses, rows of wooden skeletons, dusty roads and piles of dirt and brick. I drew in a deep breath, thinking immediately of the quarrel outside the pub and wondering how the homes had begun to burn.

  Langford pulled on his jeans and searched for a shirt. "I never thought when I signed up for volunteer firefighting that I'd actually be called to firefight."

  My heart lurched. "Oh my God, I never thought you would either. Can I come with you?"

  "Absolutely. I was hoping you'd want to. You can't miss the fun."

  In my opinion, Langford was not taking this incident very seriously. I could sense his excitement. It was probably ingrained in every boy-inside-the-man who had secretly wanted to be a firefighter. Angel looked up sleepily from her bed as we rushed around throwing on underwear and sweaters, but she settled back down with a sigh when I patted her head and told her not to worry, we'd be back soon.

  The air outside was a shock after the warmth of our bed and fireplace. It was dark and windy, the kind of air that slips right through your clothing with damp fingers. We both shivered as Langford started up the car and headed for the highway. As we turned onto Main Street, we could see the smoke and flames piercing the sky beyond the Mahdahbee Department Store. Its nearness emphasized the close proximity of the subdivision to our little town. As we approached the dirt road leading into the new houses, we could see the dark shapes of parked cars and flash-lit people rushing around in organized clumps.

  Langford sprang from the car and I found a spot down the road to park. My flashlight immediately hit upon a familiar red coat bobbing along the edge of the ditch ahead of me. "May!" I called, thrilled to see her here too.

  She turned and waited for me, clutching my arm as soon as we were side by side. "Isn't this incredible?" Her eyes shone in the moonlight. She was almost as excited as Langford. I guess it isn't just little boys who dream of firefighting.

  "Look at the flames." I exclaimed, astonished. The fire appeared to be licking the sky. "I've never seen anything like this."

  "I remember once when I was a little girl, the reserve dump went on fire. My dad took me out to watch. I even helped stamp out a grass or two. I think the whole reserve came to watch."

  We lurched along the roadway, finally stepping onto the dirt road that led into the subdivision, or what was left of it.

  "It looks like all of Burchill has come out for this one too." Throngs of people ran to and fro. The fire truck sprayed water furiously.

  The fire seemed to dance and flit from one group of wooden poles to another, chased by the water. Six or seven of the fledgling homes were stark black, the lumber whittled down to stumps of ash. Shouts, tarpaulins, pails of water, hoses, all flapped at once to squelch the busy flames and smoke. Faces were lit by the orange light and sweat poured down the volunteers' faces. Fire Chief Dave Milne stood barking orders in the centre of everything, his face dusted with ash and concern.

  It didn't take long for the fire to die out under the onslaught of the hoses. The subdivision was far too new to be much fodder. When it was over, a silence fell over the crowd. The hiss of the smoke and dying flames could be heard in the still night. Langford and Alain, covered in sweat and ash, came to stand beside us. It took a few moments before Chief Milne finally turned his round, reddened face toward all of us and signalled for the crowd to come closer in order to hear. It was only then that I could make out faces among the dark shapes. Mo, Edgar, Frances, Peter Smallwood, Teddy Lavalle, Basil Fisher, Henry Whitesand, Chief Dan, Steve McEntyer, and a host of other villagers. The only people I didn't see were Victor Reeves and his cronies.

  As if reading my mind, Dave Milne asked, "Does anyone know where Victor Reeves is staying?"

  Edgar answered immediately. "At the Inn, Chief. I'm surprised he didn't hear the commotion."

  "Okay." A thoughtful pause. "We are going to have to do some investigating now. Thanks to all of you for your help. But we need to clear all the volunteers out now. Please check with Mo on your way out so we can make sure everyone's got his or her volunteer hours logged. We'll let everyone know what's what as soon as we have any information." Dave Milne was a big man and his voice was loud and authoritative in the darkness with only the hiss of the embers as background. "Edgar, Frances, we'll need you to stay."

  May went over to Frances, whose face was drawn and tired, and gave her a hug before she moved off with the rest of us, who made do with a wave in the police officers' direction. As we trudged toward our cars, Langford and Alain talked rapidly, the adrenaline that still pulsed removing their usual reticence.

  "Why don't you two come over to our place for a night cap?" I asked. "It's not likely we're going to get to sleep yet and we don't have to get up in the morning."

  "Speak for yourself." Alain laughed. "I'm the only working stiff in this crowd this week."

  May punched him playfully. "Give me a break. You can get Joey to open up for you."

  "I promise not to keep you up that long," I said, not really meaning it, as we drew close to the Reneaux truck.

  When Alain finally relented, I suggested that Langford go back and ask Edgar and Frances to join us if they were finished early. Alain was able to do one better. He called Edgar's cell phone and got an affirmative. Eventually we drove off to Beatty House.

  Through the nervous watch of animals

  I have become what I am.

  Chapter 18

  The man's head jumped and thrashed from side to side, as though consumed with fear. Negative energy pulsed from his body. Frieda could feel the waves of confusion, anger and hurt flowing from him. He appeared to be weak and unable to walk. His arms curled strangely at his sides, as if he could not lift them. Walking Bear and the Other hovered over him, their ministrations tender and solicitous.

  "Aaniin," Walking Bear had said formally, greeting the man as if he had voluntarily walked into their cave home, as if they had some business to transact between them, as though he were not twisted in pain and fear, but could respond with a hearty hello in return.

  Frieda's heart had sounded a drumbeat in her ears when she heard the man awakening. She was able to sit up on her bed now, though her leg remained firmly in place in front of her, bound by wooden slats and poultices of healing herbs. Listening in silence as Walking Bear and the Other attended to him, she heard the murmuring and chanting, the grunts of displeasure and resistance in response. It was eerie in the dusk of the cave, smelling their nearness, seeing shadows dance on the walls, hearing the disjointed communing.

  Frieda had an odd sensation of jealousy as she perceived the outline of those healing hands as they passed over the man's body. She longed for the fur and skin, the electricity of healing, the proximity of kin. She clung to Walking Bear's promise, "Giga-waabamin," I shall see you—see you for more than the pathetic human being she had become, see her for how she had been born, pure and innocent and beautiful. See her as friend, as sister, as lover.

  "Miigwech," she had whispered to Walking Bear, saying more than thank you. I am unworthy of your friendship, your love, but I will try to show you that I have changed.

  Frieda realized in some recess of her brain that she was exhausted, that her sleep was not restorative, that a fever still raged as her body attempted in vain to heal her wounds. A tiny part of her kept insisting she was being duped. She was waawaashkeshi—a trembling, frightened deer, a coward, pliable and usable.

  But that voice had grown dim, infrequent, almost silent. Walking Bear had known all of her sins, her betrayals, her weaknesses. And Walking Bear had forgiven her, healed her, raised her up to be proud and strong and hopeful once more.
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  She lay back on the bed and listened to her saviours, joining their chants, wishing the man would be still so they would turn to her.

  Chapter 19

  We were into our second bottle of wine, having laughed about our heroes the firefighters, discussed seriously the origin of the blaze, and laughed again about Angel's insistence on jumping into Alain's lap, when Edgar and Frances came to the door and knocked timidly.

  "We weren't sure you'd still be up," Edgar said. "Plus, we're covered in soot and dirt still, but we're in dire need of friendly company."

  "Come in, come in," Langford said, grabbing hold of their coats and ushering them into the family room. "There's plenty of friendly company here, and even some friendly wine, not to mention a friendly fire." Of course, it being the end of the second bottle, we all burst out laughing at that, too, while Frances and Edgar grinned at our silly foursome with something like envy of our condition. "Don't worry about the soot. We're still covered in it too, which is why we're all huddled up here in the family room. This furniture is virtually indestructible."

  They were soon all resettled in our huge, two-person, fluffy chairs, while I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, Angel cuddled in my lap, leaning against my husband. The fire was golden and blue, crackling and spilling its warmth into the damp night. Langford put some soft music on for background.

  As we all sipped our new or refilled glasses of wine, I felt a finger of happiness and contentment creep up my spine. Along with that tentative appreciation of Burchill, our friends, our home, our sanctuary, came that same shudder of insecurity and forbidding. These are our friends, I thought, but they don't really know who we are. As though they knew what I was thinking, everyone was suddenly more serious.