The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle

by Catherine Astolfo

  I even attempted at one point to speak to Gillian Hubbard, our school council chair and emergency office secretary, about Mrs. Sanderson and how she was fitting in with the other volunteers. Gillian was effusive and extremely comfortable with me. She told me every detail about each of the volunteers, usually in a positive way, even if she managed now and then to criticize or alert me to some negative behaviour. Gillian would normally, by now, know everything there was to know about Mrs. Sanderson—where she'd been born, who her friends were, what her husband did for a living, which of her children was giving her trouble, whether or not she liked her mother-in-law.

  "Oh, she's great. Very responsible. She never misses her days like some do. She's a really nice person, very adept with all of the tasks and works hard. Quiet, but she gets along with everyone."

  Gillian was never this brief. Her reports on people were usually overenthusiastic, detailed and almost always touching on gossipy. Most of the time, I had to gently discourage her from telling someone's intimate confessions that were not within my realm of need to know. I began to think that Mrs. Sanderson might, contrary to her timid demeanour and self-effacing manner of speaking, be a very clever and perhaps even manipulative person.

  Gillian, who normally could elicit an instantaneous intimacy from even the most reserved parent, wasn't even aware that Dorothy had admitted next to nothing about herself or her household. This situation never changed for the entire two years that the woman volunteered in the school.

  In the beginning, the school staff assumed that the Sandersons were having difficulty supporting such a large family financially. When our CAS caseworker, Renae Ogemah, went to the house initially, it was in response to the fact that several of the children did not have appropriate winter clothing. Their coats were either far too light for the cold weather or several sizes too small. In addition, a couple of the boys came to school in running shoes in the depths of the central Ontario snows.

  Renae reported to me on her return that she'd met only with Mrs. Sanderson, despite having made the appointment days before. All of the children and the father were, so Dorothy told her, in church. She explained proudly that they spent most Saturdays in the presence of the Lord, the only time during the interview that the woman appeared animated and lifted her eyes to meet Renae's. The remainder of gentle questions resulted in short, soft answers delivered with head lowered and eyes downcast.

  Mrs. Sanderson told Renae that she and her husband had been talking about the problem of their children's clothing, that they hadn't had the opportunity to go shopping, that no, they didn't need any financial assistance from the community.

  The following Monday, the children appeared at school with new coats, boots, beautiful scarves, hats and mittens.

  One lovely fall morning, I was wandering the halls, turning one of the corners, when I suddenly, and literally, bumped into Cate Sanderson as she careened out of the washroom doorway. A slight wraith of a person, she almost fell as she bounced off my more substantial weight, except that I was able to steady her with my arm.

  I smiled into her eyes, but she quickly lowered her gaze. Not before I caught a glimpse of terror that set my heart pounding in sympathy.

  "What's wrong, Cate?" I asked gently, my hand feeling the bones protruding as it rested on her thin back.

  Her head was bent, her eyes completely downcast. The slope of her shoulders in their familiar curvature made her look like an old woman hunched over with osteoporosis. She was trembling.

  "Nothing, Mrs. Taylor," she whispered, her words precise, no hint of fear in her voice. "I was just startled when I bumped into you."

  Her explanation made sense, but I continued to stand with my palm on her back and she remained rooted to the spot, afraid to disconnect. It was as if an electrical current were passing between us, one line alive with fear and the other with a passion to reassure.

  I tried to give a soft, comforting chuckle. "I don't blame you. I guess I was coming around that corner a bit too fast. Are you sure you're okay?"

  She shifted her eyes a bit then, looking up at me briefly. I could see they were shiny with tears.

  "Absolutely fine, thank you, Mrs. Taylor," she said. "I am just…"

  We both looked up at the sound of footsteps. Dorothy Sanderson had come out of the duplicating room. She smiled tentatively as she approached.

  "Catherine," she said softly, holding her daughter's gaze. "Mrs. Taylor. Is there anything wrong?"

  "Not at all, Mrs. Sanderson," I said, returning her smile. "Cate and I just bumped into one another coming around the corner. We were having a little chuckle about it."

  Dorothy Sanderson's thin lips were pursed in a straight, unbelieving line. "Oh."

  She looked down at the papers she was holding. "Well, I guess I'd better deliver these to the office."

  She waited deliberately until Cate excused herself, leaving my palm warm and worried from her touch, and then they both left me standing in the hallway.

  The moment they had disappeared, I was startled to see Aaron Sanderson exit the boys' bathroom next door. He did not turn his head to see me standing silently, so he missed the puzzled look on my face.

  So many Sandersons, so little time.

  Chapter 13: Brynstan

  She was kneeling with the toothbrush at the fireplace. Her hand was still stinging from the hot stove. She could not think beyond the pain searing through to her fingers as she tried to scrub the sticky residue from the bricks.

  She reached too far into the dark hole of the grate and a puff of ash filled the air, making her choke. She tried to stop the tears and sneezing, but she began to gag from the effort.

  She saw his shoes, shining and black, as they planted themselves on the gray brick of the hearth, now smudged with the cinders that she had stirred up.

  He was silent, but she could smell his body odour, the sweat of his anger. She could feel the heat of his displeasure.

  She tried to swallow the cloud from the ashes but her throat closed and she vomited on his shoe.

  His cane split her soft skin. She bit her fingers to keep from choking. She tried hard to obey, but her head was pounding and she was gasping for breath.

  Repent, repent, she heard in her head as the darkness closed over her. Repent, repent, eternal damnation, all ye sinners. Repent before it is too late.

  Chapter 14: Jacob

  The job interview took place the next morning in the breakfast room of the Burchill Inn. When Jacob asked for May Reneaux, the maitre d' pointed him in the direction of an attractive Native woman, dressed in a fashionably long purple skirt and a lacy white top.

  She stood as he approached and put out her hand, giving him a skin-soft but firm handshake. When she smiled, her brown eyes sparkled and she was, momentarily, strikingly beautiful.

  The breakfast room was surrounded by windows, which looked out onto a spectacular garden. Even at this time of the year, late summer, the flowers and bushes were still blooming. The inn had been decorated in pastels, mostly blues and yellows, and furnished with lush dark chairs and tables that he guessed were Victorian. All around were paintings and knickknacks. The room gave him a feeling of comfort, luxury and quiet. He began to feel very grateful to May Reneaux already. This was the perfect place for an interview.

  The waiter came right over with coffee. Surprisingly, there seemed to be no one else in the place.

  "Breakfast is actually over and they're just preparing for lunch, so we won't be disturbed," May said, as if she'd read his mind. "However, Teddy insisted on providing us with some baked goodies."

  Just then, a basket of muffins and tea biscuits and scones, wafting odours that made Jacob's mouth water, was swept onto the table along with pats of butter, jars of jam and a bowl full of English cream.

  The tall man in the chef's uniform grinned at May. "Yes, but I didn't have to insist for long, now did I?"

  With a pleasant, hearty laugh, May gestured toward Jacob. "Teddy, this is Jacob Finch. I'm hoping to conv
ince him to come work for Oona. Mr. Finch, this is Teddy Lavalle, owner of our inn and famous head chef."

  Jacob stood and put his hand inside the big man's outstretched paw. Teddy placed his other hand on top and looked straight into Jacob's eyes with his own startling gray. "Welcome to Burchill, Jacob Finch. I hope to see you here again."

  With that, he left them with rich dark coffee and buttery baking that melted in Jacob's mouth.

  May began talking casually right away. Soon Jacob had forgotten about his formal portfolio and rigid briefcase on the floor beside him. They discussed everything, including their families, their childhoods, their points of view about the environment and school. An hour later, they still had not mentioned the job to one another.

  Finally, after stating that she hoped she wouldn't scare him away, May began to describe the situation. Her tale of what had happened two years ago in Burchill, though shocking, was not enough to make him change his mind.

  Already, the combination of the beauty of the village and the company of May Reneaux was irresistible.

  When May related the story, she was dispassionate and concise, but Jacob could read the emotional toll it had taken in both her voice and her eyes. A fraudulent subdivision developer had set a series of events into play that nearly cost Oona Nabigon, May's aunt, her life.

  A Native legend, a human-bear that appeared to come alive, terrorized the village. May's Aunt and her friend disappeared. Emily Taylor, the local school Principal, and Constable Frances Petapiece, along with the local shaman, Agnes Lake, concocted a dangerous resolution to the conspiracy of murder and duplicity. When it was all over, two people were dead and Oona was left in a wheelchair with very few of her faculties remaining.

  On the positive side, if there could be a positive side, the results of the case included a stunning revelation. Oona was the de facto owner of a rare gold vein streaking through the land that had been purchased by her ancestors decades before.

  As May was the sole beneficiary and currently power of attorney over her aunt's affairs, she wanted to take steps to protect Oona's wealth and secure her future. Oona, and therefore May, would soon be multimillionaires. The Native woman, proud and compassionate and careful, needed someone she could completely trust with running her aunt's business and personal affairs.

  Luckily for Jacob Finch, May Reneaux chose him as her confidant and representative that very day.

  Now Jacob's dream of living in a small town had been realized. He spent each day working diligently on the Nabigon land and gold mine dealings, but he was not expected to work all night or on weekends as was de rigueur in the city.

  May became a good friend. She quite quickly became privy to all of his dark past and thoughts and he to hers. They gave each other solid support and advice.

  As if that weren't enough, Jacob found the legal issues challenging and fascinating. Never before had he dealt with mining rights, land claims, housing, negotiations with mineral and construction companies, research on the environment, contributions to charities and community organizations and a myriad of other issues.

  He was, for the most part, happy and content, although he continued to ache for Laura. He was finding it easier to accept the grieving process though. Not obsessed by worries about work or his children, he was more understanding and compassionate. He actually took the time to be sorrowful in order to keep marching toward complete healing. He had even, to some extent, forgiven Laura and in the process, he had almost absolved himself. And then he met someone who took him to the edge of forgiveness and beyond.

  Chapter 15: Alain

  It was after the sixth or seventh steamy encounter that May discovered some of Alain's source of stamina. He was only twenty years old. At first she was aghast, embarrassed, angry—until he began to remind her of his past and how it had aged him, how much he had experienced. She was quiet as she listened to him, following not only the words but the cadence as well. Responding to the life that had been lived, rather than the chronology, she decided at once that age had nothing to do with their relationship.

  Another time in her life, May might have worried that he would get tired of her as she grew older, but at that moment, at that very second when he spoke into the darkness and then took her again in his arms, she realized that nothing mattered more than being with him. She knew him so completely. She knew that sometimes he was decidedly more mature than she and that they took turns as the nurturer, the elder.

  They began discussing marriage shortly after their relationship became physical, but it was always Alain who began the conversation and always in a negative way. Adamant about never having children because of his past near-diagnosis of psychotic tendencies, Alain constantly questioned whether she should agree to marry him.

  Gradually, Alain divulged what he knew about his past and his potential mental health problems. May convinced him that she completely accepted the fact that they would not be parents, a decision she came to with some difficulty. However, having reached her early thirties with the conviction that she would never even marry let alone become a mother, May was more amenable than someone younger might have been.

  She had never seen any evidence of his alleged temper or aggression, so May might have argued with him if she had not seen the depth of his pain. It was the one topic that brought him to the brink of tears each time. He was terrified of what he might do to a child's own psyche or what he might pass on through his genes.

  May's experiences with Oona and Agnes as they went on vision quests had taught her that there were old souls in this world, people who carried the wisdom and experience from their other lives into their new births. She believed firmly that Alain was an old soul and that somehow their spirits had been reunited. She was going to live with him for always and if that meant being childless, so be it. Her work with the children at school was extremely satisfying.

  All of their shared history rushed through her mind in segments as she continued to stroke his face. The muttering and twitching began to subside. Calm and relaxed now, he turned in his sleep and placed a damp hand upon her breast.

  Whenever she envisioned having to live up to the 'in sickness' component of their wedding vows, May always imagined it would be Alain, so much younger than she, who would have to be the caretaker. She never pictured herself looking after him. He was always straight backed and strong, treating her like a queen or a little girl as the situation warranted. It was disconcerting to see him tossing and turning and moaning, childlike, in his sleep.

  As for Alain, he had initially tried to ignore the dreams. He was convinced at first that they had some other meaning. Too many violent shows on television, too little sleep, the incidents that had occurred in Burchill over the last few years, too much coffee, not enough exercise.

  When they continued to haunt him and grew in detail and proportion, he found it impossible to deny the feeling of fear that raced through him. He was tempted to go to Doc Murphy for sleeping pills, anything to block out the pictures that were flashing through his mind all night. The nightmares began to take on more definition and as a result, he was physically reacting to them even as he slept. Two similar scenarios always repeated themselves, two films running back to back through his mind.

  In the first, he would start out running in a field, terrified, his heart pounding, sweat pouring down his face. After some time, during which he would twitch and struggle against the sheets, the field would end and give way to a dark forest. Behind him, hot on his neck and choking him with its noxious odour, was an unformed cloud. Somehow he knew it was not smoke, but a monster in disguise, for every once in a while, he got a flash of a face covered in blood as it leered at him from the fog. He would turn back every once in a while as he ran and throw things at it. Rocks, sticks, anything he could get his hands on. Shortly, he would come to the well.

  Sitting on the edge, dangling its feet in a manner of perfect ease, would appear a small child of indeterminate gender, its face hidden from him, head down, gazing into th
e depths. He could tell it was smiling. In every dream, despite the desire to stop himself, Alain would go up to the baby and shove it into the well. He could hear the screams as it careened down the damp, dark hole.

  But what disturbed him the most, as he listened to the pitiful shrieks of that child as it fell to its death, was the elation that he always felt.

  Sometimes he would even laugh out loud in his sleep.

  Chapter 16: Doro

  Seconds later, Doro thought, she was awakened by a rattle of teacups. She sat bolt upright, embarrassed. Cynthia was quietly sipping her tea, sitting in the other love seat, her legs tucked underneath her. The apron was gone and the woman was leafing through a Home and Garden magazine.

  "I'm so sorry," Doro stumbled, mortified that she had to wipe saliva from her lips. "I just dozed off for a moment there…"

  "You've been asleep for half an hour, dear," Cynthia replied, laughing. "I'm the one who's sorry. I woke you up getting a fresh pot of tea."

  "Oh my God, how rude!"

  "Not at all, Doro, don't worry. I slept every afternoon around this time when I was pregnant."

  Doro was stunned. She knew that her little mound was far too tiny for anyone to notice yet. "How did you know?"

  Cynthia leaned over and poured a steaming cup of tea, responding to Doro's nod for milk. Then, bless her soul, she handed over a lunch plate of small sandwiches and delicious looking cookies. Once settled with their goodies, the older woman replied.

  "I can just tell. There's something about your aura. Your face, your skin, the way your hand falls instinctively and protectively on your womb when you walk. I've had six kids of my own. They're all grown up now, except for Kimmy, even though she thinks she is."