The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle

by Catherine Astolfo

  Cate was very different, more like Langford. He handled our past by becoming introspective, dignified, intense. He had a way of looking into you when he listened that exemplified the depth of his attention. In dealing with her own troubles, Cate had become creative, insightful and calm in much the same ways.

  Langford started giving her painting lessons and he was of the opinion that she showed great promise. Since he was an artist whose work has been admired by many, that was a terrific compliment.

  Another promising sign, which tingled through me every time I looked at her, was that Cate had straightened her shoulders to face life more eye-to-eye. She was no longer hunched over like an old woman as she'd been less than a year ago. She was a bough unbending in the sun.

  Though the report I was reading was not about Cate and Carly, they were the reasons for pursuing the next legal step available to us. Langford and I had been named foster parents for the girls. Though orphaned, they were not up for adoption at the moment, but that could change. In all likelihood, given their ages and disabilities, they would get to live with us forever as foster children, but we—and they—wanted our relationship to be legally permanent. None of us could bear the thought that some legal glitch had the potential to break up the loving family we'd become.

  However unlikely that scenario might be, we wanted to clear Langford's name so we could adopt Catherine and Carly Sanderson. With the assistance of our family therapist, we'd had long talks about the possibilities and we'd told them about what happened to Langford in Vancouver. Both girls made it clear they wanted to stay with us, even after hearing the story of our past.

  We wanted to be the kind of parents theirs had not been. We needed to leave them a legacy of pride and love. The girls were filled with shame and guilt surrounding the crimes and horrors committed by their biological mother and father. The Church of Leviticus, established with some sense of biblical thought, had been warped into a seat of power and madness by their parents and brother. Perhaps in time Cate and Carly would realize insanity is a type of illness. They might begin to feel pity instead of hatred.

  Certainly in the case of their brother Aaron, who was brainwashed from a young age, there might eventually be room for understanding and forgiveness. Therapy continued to help them cope in their different ways, but Cate and Carly would probably always suffer from the taint the Sandersons left behind.

  Ironically, since this was exactly what my husband and I had done years before, the girls and their siblings said they might opt for a change of name after the adoption. That could only happen if our court case went forward successfully.

  I smiled at Cate, bent my head to read once more, and found myself gazing out the window. The first snow had already hit us and today was one of those perfect early-winter days.

  This morning Langford, Cate and I had played ball outside with Angel. Or rather, she played with us. The sun glinted off the whiteness. Icicles dripped in rhythm. Our footsteps were just crunchy enough to keep us gliding over the tops of wavy ridges. Angel would catch the ball in her mouth, shaking her head as though deciding who would be honoured with the prize next, then she'd come flying at our legs.

  More often than not, we landed butt up in a snow bank, the ball still in the little dog's possession. Sometimes we made snow figures while we were down there.

  Angel often trotted over to Carly, sitting in her wheelchair at the edge of the lawn, and handed the ball over freely. Then the little dog chased it vigorously when it was thrown back. Carly actually smiled and clapped, though she still struggled with being unable to participate fully. Maybe next year, the doctors told us.

  Our house was my dream come true, even more so now it was filled. We always had four bedrooms, two of which previously stood empty, guest beds pristine without company. Now they swelled with feminine duvets and clothes and toys. Posters of idols plastered the walls. We allowed the girls to decorate any way they wanted. They needed the sense of a space belonging only to them. At first we would find Cate curled up with her sister in the mornings, but that had been happening less often lately.

  The room in which we sat right now was our den, lined with bookshelves, two sets of deep windows overlooking the street. Huge maple trees crammed the roadside and peered over the sidewalks. In summertime we looked down onto a bouquet of leaves. In winter, the branches cuddled fluffy pillows of white and in fall, the view was an artist's palette of red and yellow.

  Prominently displayed on one wall of the den was a famous Langford Taylor original painting of a mother and child, sitting near our own little lake, entitled Daughters. Though the depicted child's hair was a lighter colour than our strawberry-blonde girls', I still thought of that picture as prescient. A foretelling of my astonishing chance at motherhood.

  On the other side of the house, from the kitchen and above that, the master bedroom, we enjoyed Ogeechee Lake in all its moods and seasons.

  The beautiful Scarlett O'Hara staircase in the front hall was the only item in the household that did not respond nicely to the changes. The electronic wheelchair lift looked incongruous. Luckily, because the house was built a long time ago, the doorways were already wide enough. They'd once welcomed ladies' crinolines. We didn't have to make too many structural changes, though we would have gone so far as to leave this dream house if that had been necessary to accommodate Carly.

  These first six months postretirement from my position as Principal of Burchill Public School continued to astound me. For the most part I spent it close to home, working with the girls to establish their trust and security. This fall I taught Carly at home, as she was not yet ready for our local school. Maybe next year, when she was outfitted with her artificial limbs.

  For several weeks after the fire, Carly stayed in a respite residence, where she had full-time nursing care. Her feet had been so badly burned she'd suffered amputation to the knees. As both her teacher and foster mother, I used some of our time together to cover the final stages of grade five. Now we were tackling the grade-six curriculum.

  Carly was a very smart little girl, but the ordeal had taken its toll not only in a physical way. She worked very hard to overcome the tendency to lose her concentration, to be able to commit the ideas and facts to a memory that had also been burned.

  As for Cate, she was never at the top of her class, but that quiet introversion was a blessing at school. She listened well, concentrated and though her work was not inspired, it was steady. The area in which she shone was art. That was where her creativity had an outlet, one that can be accomplished all alone, yet surrounded by colour and imagination.

  She and Langford spent hours in the little workshop beside our house. Langford set up an area just for Cate, with her own easel, palette and brushes, right in the window where she could see the energetic corners of the lake.

  My husband continued travelling all over the province and even to the United States, to promote and sell his art. Langford Taylor was now a household name. For the two of us, his fame was an ironic twist. We'd tried so hard in the past to escape notoriety and remain hidden.

  When he was at home, his relationship with the girls had deepened and strengthened. My love for him had consequently soared. Looking at him and the fatherly tenderness that was obviously innate in Langford, my eyes often stung with joy and grief simultaneously.

  Denied the privilege of having our own children, I was both shocked and gratified we could fall in love so easily and completely. We adored these young girls. They were strong and fragile, needy and independent, grumpy and joyful, all the dichotomies of preteen angst.

  They were heroes. They were victims. With the help of experts and friends, we helped guide them as they progressed through anger, grief and slowly into acceptance.

  Lately, though, I'd felt the old stress seeping back in. Anger and fear were addictions that once more overtook me, so quickly I couldn't remember being without them. In the early fall, we started preliminary steps toward the court case. When I opened that Pandora's f
iling cabinet, which held all of the transcripts, reports and appeals, the wounds would be reopened too.

  But I was frightened at how easily the old emotions reasserted themselves. I was anxious, sleepless, scared and suspicious once again. I jumped at the smallest sound. I read double entendres into every person's remarks. Tears always hovered.

  I assumed that over the years, I had built a hard shell to protect me. Certainly I had played the part of the dedicated teacher who'd become a principal and had a very successful career. I appeared confident and calm. How little it took to plunge me right back to the young devastated victim I was in the 1980s!

  The rapidity of the change caused me to question everything…again. I would think my mind was going, except the same demons had hit my husband too. In the last few weeks, therapy sessions belonged as much to us as they did to our girls.

  Our best friends, the Reneaux, also held Langford and me together. We all took courage from the astonishing heroism of Cate and Carly and their surviving siblings, who lived with May and Alain.

  Trevor, Benjaman and Meghan were now nine, eight and seven, respectively, and progressing well. Both Carly and Trevor lost their twins, Devon and Tyler. They all lost their sister Jennifer. It was difficult, if not impossible, to accept and understand that their parents and eldest brother had caused the devastation that led to the deaths. The girls didn't mourn the loss of the latter. They were still angry and confused. Perhaps they always would be.

  Whenever possible, Langford and I made certain we ended each night in one another's arms, always thankful for the ability to touch and make love. We'd learned from Agnes Lake, the village Shaman, that friendship and love would carry us through any ordeal.

  "Mem?"

  I smiled with pure delight at Carly. She and Cate both had a difficult time with Emily, because they'd known me as their principal, Mrs. Taylor, at Burchill Public School for many years. Mom was still laced with bad memories, so Mem suited us perfectly.

  "I'm just trying to write up this experiment. I don't really like science much. How come you do?"

  I smiled at her. "I didn't really like the subject when I was your age either. But then one day, when I was quite a bit older, I had to teach grade seven and eight science. So I had to learn about experiments, chemicals, things like that, and I started to really like it."

  "Maybe I will too, just like you."

  As she bent once more over the page, my skin goose bumped. Cate caught my attention next.

  "Stuck on something, honey?"

  "Not really, but I was wondering. Is May a Métis like Louis Riel was?"

  "Nope." I stood beside her as she tackled the project. "Riel's father's mother was a Métis and he spent a lot of time with his extended family. He came to believe the Métis were being mistreated, so he tried to fight for their rights. May, on the other hand, is full-blooded Canadian Native. Both her parents were Ojibwa natives."

  "Like Ms. Ogemah?"

  "Like Ms. Ogemah."

  "She says we can call her Indian."

  I laughed. That's Renae for you, I said to myself.

  "Ms. Ogemah is a special person. I think the correct way to speak of May and our other friends' heritage is to say Native or First Nation, because their ancestors were here before yours and mine were, so they are native to Canada. But Ms. Ogemah tells that story about Indian meaning In Dio, or in god, with god. She means we should respect all people and not judge, even with words."

  Cate nodded and scribbled a few notes. "I wish Ms. Ogemah was the social worker at North Grenville," she said, referring to the new high school she would attend next year, already worrying about another loss.

  "I know, sweetheart. There's no one like Ms. Ogemah."

  "She saved us," Cate said, the look in her eyes simple and complex at the same time.

  "Yes, she did, Cate. She's still saving us in a lot of ways. We'll keep seeing her, no matter what schools she goes to—don't worry. She's coming to the party on Saturday."

  "What about Alain's background?" Cate asked, pulling back to her assignment, yet diverting from it as well. "Is he a Métis? Or is he a coureur de bois?"

  This time I laughed out loud. "The people in Burchill called him a coureur de bois when they first met him. You know how he's so tall and big shouldered and strong?"

  Both girls nodded in agreement.

  "Well, when he first came to town, they thought he was from the woods. He never told them anything about his background, so they guessed. They told stories that he was either half native or that he had lived exactly like the coureurs de bois. These were men who traded fur illegally, so they spent their entire lives in the forest. Alain's descendents were French, but he never lived in the woods."

  Cate and Carly giggled.

  "Just imagine," Cate said. "The people in Burchill who thought he lived in the forest must be turning red! Now he's the richest man ever."

  "Alain said he was rich before," Carly added. "But he didn't have as much money as he has now."

  "I think he meant he was rich in other ways," I said. "Like rich in love."

  Cate nodded her head wisely. "Alain and May are so much in love, aren't they, Mem? Even though she's a lot older than he is."

  Again I laughed loudly. "Who told you that?"

  "May did. Benjaman was doing a class project about families and for some reason he asked when they were born."

  May must have loved that. Alain was twelve years her junior, not that anyone could tell by looking at them. "I don't think age matters when you love somebody," I said.

  "Like Frances and Edgar. He's a lot older than she is, but they're perfect together," Carly pronounced.

  I couldn't believe the insight from my two daughters. "They really are. And now that they have Faith, they're even happier."

  "Did they name Faith after Alain and Frances's sister? The one who died?" Cate asked.

  "They did." It was a bit disconcerting Catherine could speak of death so easily, yet a good sign, too, I supposed. "They're coming on Saturday too of course."

  "I'm so excited about the party I can hardly concentrate," Cate said, sounding very mature. "I'm glad we're having it at our house for a change. Are you excited too, Mem? Are you nervous?"

  "I am very nervous, to be honest."

  At the ceremony of declaration, all the people we'd come to love would learn of our past. Soon afterward, all the people of Burchill and beyond would know the real identity of Langford Taylor.

  On Saturday, we spent all afternoon decorating. May, Alain, Meghan, Benjaman and Trevor arrived early to help. They brought May's Aunt Oona in her wheelchair. The elderly woman had lost many of her faculties, but she was smiling and happy and thrilled with the noise of the children. She kept patting Carly's hand, as though reassuring her that being in a wheelchair was not the end of the world.

  Carly and Cate were ecstatic to have their sister and brothers on their turf. Most of the time, we held our celebrations or meetings at the Reneaux domain, not really on purpose, but because their place was so much larger than ours. The Reneaux had built an enormous house on a beautiful plot of land that was once the site of a puppy mill. All of that horror had been erased by the wealth from a quirk of nature.

  Oona had inherited land that held a very rare gold streak. Not only rare in our part of the Canadian Shield, but also atypical because the resultant gold mine proved to be worth millions. As Oona's only heir, May was now a very rich woman.

  The house the Reneaux built was spectacular. They were able to easily accommodate Oona, the children and many guests. The barns where so much pain had been suffered were razed and transformed into kennels and animal hospitals, along with acres of flowers and crops. May and Alain shared their largesse with everyone.

  We were benefiting, too, through the financing of our legal battles. At first, we'd resisted, but May and Alain convinced us our collective foster children needed the stability and this lawsuit was one way to ensure that.

  May called the company she own
ed with Alain and Oona, "Bezhig Asin," one rock, which had far more meaning than the obvious one. Bezhig Asin's lawyer, Jacob Finch, was now our lawyer too.

  Meghan Sanderson was barely distinguishable as the once-mute little girl who literally suffered in silence as her family disintegrated. Her enormous blue eyes now danced with the sparkle and vigour of any eight-year-old. Her witty, animated personality was captivating as she danced into the house, a wave of energy flowing over everyone she touched.

  Trevor, still reed thin and climbing taller every month, mostly overcame the slouch he and his older siblings, especially Cate, had adopted in defence. He met another person's eyes more often. Now he let me give him a hello hug. Still somewhat lonely, still quiet and fearful, Trevor had a long way to go yet.

  Benjaman, his innate spunkiness and affectionate nature set free, leapt into my arms, his wiry body almost knocking me over. In the circle of May and Alain's love, he had blossomed the most. He was mischievous and inquisitive, and he caused ripples of laughter wherever he went.

  At three o'clock the guests began to arrive. Frances, Edgar and little Faith were the first. Cate, Carly and Angel immediately absconded with the baby. Frances sat gratefully in one of our armchairs, accepting a hot chocolate and a well-deserved rest.

  Edgar Brennan was not just one of our best friends. He was the Chief Superintendent of Police for the Ontario Provincial Police Department in Burchill.

  Frances had taken an indefinite leave from her job as a police constable. She and Ed wanted two children and because they were a little older when they began, they wanted to raise a family immediately. In fact, Frances suspected she might already be pregnant again.

  I felt guilty about Edgar and Frances. Today they would learn our story, lumped in with the rest of our guests. Langford and I had lied to them really, by omission. We didn't tell Frances and Edgar who we were, even when they became very close friends, even when we confided in May and Alain. The most compelling reason for not telling the other two, I had to confess, was their profession. Despite all that we went through with them, despite the emotions and the intimacy that developed, we allowed the badge to intervene.