The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle

by Catherine Astolfo

  Emily was stunned and completely uncertain as to how to approach her. When she put out her hand to shake after Bill's introduction, Margaret waved her away impatiently, as though she had no time for such frivolities.

  Yet it was Bill who cooked the dinner, set the table, and served, while his mother sat imperiously presiding, a huge glass of gin beside her which her son faithfully kept filled.

  She grilled Emily throughout the meal, about her family, her marks, her ambitions for the future. But Emily felt more as though she'd been pinned like an insect to an examination board than questioned by someone interested in her as a human being.

  When Emily turned to Bill, asking him a question, and used the name Will, she felt the ferocity of Margaret's glare literally burn her skin.

  "Why on earth did you call him that?" the woman demanded, her tone sarcastic and belittling.

  It was the only time Will appeared to notice anything amiss.

  "Yah, isn't that cool, Ma? Emily calls me by Dad's pet name." But his tone was defensive.

  Emily thought she could immediately see the problem. Obviously, Will had taken after his father in nature and character, was perhaps close to his Dad in a way no mother could possibly understand. The jealousy radiating from Margaret was palpable.

  Emily tried to feel more sympathetic toward the older woman, but her attempt at a smile was squashed.

  "His Dad was always way too soft on Bill," Margaret sneered.

  Will didn't seem to mind. He began to clear the dishes, refusing Emily's offer of help.

  "Oh, Ma, don't be so nasty. You know I turned out all right."

  He chuckled so the admonishment sounded affectionate, as though his mother were an amusing tease. He continued to pick up the dishes.

  "Stay here Em and talk to Ma. I'll just clean up a bit and leave the rest for tomorrow so we can visit."

  Margaret's next words made Emily avoid her as much as possible over the following years, even through university, their wedding and the poor woman's death from liver cancer.

  "You better get to know the real William Thompson, my girl, if you intend to marry him," Margaret had sneered. "He's not the nice boy you might think. His temper could squash a little bug like you without a second thought."

  The pronouncement had come back to Emily last night, as she watched Will pace in front of her, his face flushed with anger.

  Emily struggled out of the covers and went to the bathroom. She was a little over two months pregnant, but other than feeling tired and urinating every ten minutes, she hadn't been sick at all. She felt wonderful, up until now at least.

  "I didn't do it on purpose," she explained to Will. "Really."

  "The pill has been around for years now and worked just fine for us all through high school, university and the first years in our respective jobs. Why should it fail now?"

  "Human error," Emily retorted.

  Will ignored her.

  Throughout the night, despite her entreaties to stop, slow down and think, he continued to rant. Even if they could make it through a maternity leave, it would have to be a short one. So who would watch the baby? How could they even afford a good babysitter? Where in hell would they even put a baby in this already-cramped little place? Why would she want to give birth when they'd just be forced to have someone else raise it?

  Suddenly she couldn't stand the sound of his voice any longer. She slammed the bedroom door and twelve hours later, she was still wrapped in her misery and shock.

  Will slept on the couch, she supposed, since she heard nothing until the outside door banged open and shut this morning. She presumed he'd gone to the studio, the source of his pride and joy, the place upon which he'd staked his ambition.

  Emily saw his desire to be a famous artist as an ambition, whereas he saw it as his wellspring, his inspiration and motivation. They'd had many pleasant debates about creativity, the process, the need for recognition and appreciation versus the purity of formation.

  Emily had ambitions too. She had a flare for leadership and envisioned a career in administration as her final goal. In the meantime she was enjoying the journey. She loved the teaching, the exchange, the beautiful flow of learning with her students.

  She felt Will leaned too heavily toward the end goal lately, ever since he received the position of assistant professor at The Three Arts Institute.

  Suddenly, he was addicted to competition, in a way he'd not been since basketball. She had seen that side of him, of course.

  He had competed in the sport throughout high school and university and continued, even now, to belong to a fairly high-level league. But Emily had always seen that attribute as a product of the sport, and not the other way around.

  Lately their debates were closer to arguments than their usual discussions.

  Emily told Will there was a dangerous light in his eyes, one that used to flare only on the basketball court when his team's score was down. He had laughed, not taking her seriously, but she meant what she said.

  In everything that happened to them over the years, in the course of growing up, including the loss of his mother in a painful excruciating way, her parents' move to Ireland and their entries into the workplace, Emily always felt completely connected to Will.

  As soon as she entered university, her parents began the process of moving to Ireland where a house awaited them, inherited from Siobhan's family along with a great deal of money. Combined with Grant's pension, they had more than enough to support them and still finance their children's education in Canada.

  Sean and Emily had only to decide what they wanted to do. Their parents, with innate spirits of adventure and global perspectives, felt no compunction about leaving their nearly adult children behind.

  There was no hesitation for Emily. She would stay put. The sole reason for Emily's decision to remain in Canada was Bill.

  The two of them journeyed as a unit, through every life crisis or event, laughing or crying together, always able to come home to their little circle of two. Eventually they chose to move to Vancouver, embrace city life in place of the quiet, peaceful pace of Langford.

  Emily was totally herself with him—confident or devastated, joyful or frightened—and he with her. Late night talks, whispers in bed before passionate reinforcement of their love, were routine and necessary.

  As much as they were both independent, able to function entirely well on their own, they were also one another's breath and muse. Though they had some friends, singly as well as in couples, Emily and Will had no need of another confidant. Friendships tended to be somewhat distant.

  Real intimacy was something neither of them had ever experienced before, so they learned together, intellectually, spiritually and physically.

  Will wasn't a virgin when they met, thanks to one of his parents' friends, who'd been his "Mrs. Robinson." She'd been a good teacher, though, so Will was able to ease Emily into lovemaking with tenderness and skill. He had long, gentle fingers, accustomed to translating thought into creative image, so his love for Emily vibrated from his fingertips as he stroked her body.

  When they became practiced, it was like a familiar dance, but they added steps as they went along, choreographing just a little bit differently each time. Sometimes ferociously passionate, sometimes slow and tender, they often talked all through and always at the end, making sure the other one was satisfied, though by now they could tell what the shuddering, the trembling or the exclamations meant. Even when they were going through terrible times, or perhaps especially then, their passion sustained them.

  Now, as Emily turned in the tiny bathroom to wash her face, and tried to staunch her tears, she reflected that last night was one of the first to end without being in Will's arms.

  In fact, now that she thought about it, the last few months had been strangely different. It crept up on her slowly. The knowledge that Will had become distant.

  They'd been so busy that year, each with their burgeoning careers, she hadn't noticed. Over the summer, they
'd both taken courses that forced them to be on completely different schedules for the first time in their relationship.

  While Emily's classes started earlier in the day and ended in the afternoon, Will's began around 3 p.m. and weren't finished until 9 at night. At first they ate dinner together, but soon figured out having their meal that late didn't suit either of them, so after a while it was breakfast they shared most often.

  When Emily thought back, she pictured the two of them silently reading the paper as they wolfed down a bowl of cereal or some eggs. She suddenly saw clearly a lack of touch, talk and sharing she had not experienced before.

  Emily washed her face and made the bed, determined to put things right.

  Perhaps she should have an abortion. The unbidden thought didn't really shock her, though she considered the unborn child as conceived in love and therefore entitled to life. But she had not been raised in any kind of religious atmosphere, so she had some fairly liberal notions. A couple of her friends had had abortions and she never condemned their decision. She wasn't sure she could seriously get rid of her own child though.

  Her brother Sean was newly married. He and Susan had no children as of yet, so there was no one in her family who could help with childcare. But there were a couple of women in the apartment building who babysat. Maybe Emily could approach one of them.

  She went out into the kitchen, a tiny galley style that led to a very small dining room. They normally ate off TV tables in the living room, because the real dining table was usually piled high with books and paper. Today, however, it was witness to the detritus of a disastrous meal.

  Emily began to robotically clean up, still thinking through her options.

  Linking their bedroom to the living room was a long narrow closet, from which the doors had long since been removed. Perhaps she could make that into a little nursery.

  Emily stared at the heaps of clothing and other items that filled it, a basketball, rubber boots and raincoats, tennis rackets, big summer hats. If she got rid of some, and stored the rest downstairs in their locker, a crib could easily fit inside. Maybe even one of those change tables. They might come out into the hall a bit, but it could work. Other people managed with a lot less.

  She thought of her parents, who were thriving in Dublin. Her father was training young pilots again and her mother's family had left her an astonishing amount of money. Surely they would be thrilled to be grandparents and perhaps, help out while she was on maternity leave.

  Bolstered by her meanderings, Emily finished cleaning and then looked through her teacher file. The contract with the school board stated that teachers could have six weeks of paid pregnancy leave. After that, they were entitled to ten more weeks on unemployment insurance. Four months, Emily thought, to find a good babysitter. It could be done.

  Energized now, Emily spent several hours cleaning the apartment and putting some of the paraphernalia in the cupboard away. The storage space in the basement of the apartment building was fairly large. After a little rearranging she was able to make room for all the new items.

  Back upstairs after several trips she was shocked to see it was after five. The day had been such a grey drizzly one that time had been impossible to notice. And still no sign of Will.

  The enthusiastic high that had carried Emily all day suddenly dissipated. What if he left her?

  Feeling more than a little self-pity, she nibbled on some soda crackers and drank a huge glass of milk. Then she crawled back under the duvet and promptly fell into an exhausted sleep.

  In the pitch darkness, Emily awoke with a start. Something was wrong. She felt the emptiness of Will's side of the bed and all the wretchedness came flooding back.

  Slipping out of the covers, she realized she hadn't even bothered to undress. She crept into the living room.

  Will was fast asleep on the couch, his feet dangling over the end, snoring lightly. Emily couldn't help it. She started to cry and threw herself onto his prone figure.

  His long arms immediately reached for her, pulling her on top of him. He held her tightly and gently kissed her face.

  "Emily, I am so sorry, so sorry. It's okay, honey, it's all going to be okay."

  She struggled to speak, gulping back the sobs of fear, gratitude, love.

  "I figured out some ways we can do it, Will. I'm sorry it happened now, when we didn't plan, but…"

  "It's our baby, though, Em. We love each other. I don't know how I could have been so selfish. We will adore our little one. We'll make it work, sweetheart. Don't cry now. The baby will hear you."

  They talked a while longer, then Will carried Emily into their bed and made love to her, tenderly, gently, leaving them both sated and at peace.

  Just before she fell asleep, cradled in his arms, she heard him say, "Everything is going to be wonderful, Em."

  If only she'd known how wrong her husband could be.

  Chapter 5

  September 1980

  The activity at the scene was slowly winding down. Photographs had been snapped. The room had been dusted for fingerprints, paint samples, hair, fibres.

  At one point, the room had been darkened, the blinds pulled, the lights out and the crime scene specialists had sprayed Luminol everywhere. Instantly, the entire area lit up with a bluish-white glow.

  Charlie could hear the coroner and his assistants tsking and whispering their way through the scene, but he was having difficulty concentrating. The presence of the girl splayed on the wall made his heart race and his eyes blur.

  Eventually, any trace evidence was bagged and tucked away. All but four of the police officers left, their immediate part of the task completed.

  The homicide squad was scattered throughout the room. They had arrived along with the crime scene technicians and specialists.

  Two crime scene technicians remained. One was busily scribbling on a clipboard as he followed the pathologist around the site. The room was quiet, while outside, life still buzzed in the background.

  The four officers assisted the coroner in removing the nails from the body's hands and feet in preparation for lowering her from the wall, each holding one limb. The concrete nails had been fastened at the mortar lines but were deeply embedded.

  Suddenly two things happened in rapid sequence—one unsettling, the other horrific.

  First, Chief Constable Kenneth Webster appeared at the door, his face uncharacteristically expressive.

  Webster was a huge man, most often described as beefy. His broad shoulders and equally wide, round face gave him the girth of a small truck. Opaque eyes, almost hidden by flesh, added to his inscrutable countenance.

  At this moment, however, he was uncharacteristically pale, the normal splotches of red missing from his cheeks and nose. His eyes were actually wide with horror. When he saw the girl splayed on the wall, he looked as though he might vomit.

  The forensic pathologist, whose full name was Takumi Sato, had worked with the chief for several years, before and after Webster's appointment to the highest command in the city. Normally, the coroner would have been attendant at the scene, but this case obviously called for a "higher authority."

  Sato was not timid about asking the obvious, but pro forma, question.

  "Did you know the victim, Chief?"

  Webster nodded slowly.

  "Her name is Linda Courtnell," the big man croaked.

  The Courtnells must be very good friends indeed, Charlie thought. Webster was known as a cold heartless bastard and Charlie had never seen anything to contradict the sentiment until just now.

  The second event was so unexpected, so appalling, that the trained policemen had a very difficult time holding their poise, particularly as their boss loomed so formidably in the centre of that room.

  Just as the last spike was pulled from her small delicate foot the girl's legs jerked. A poignant sigh whistled from her mouth, which was pulled in a straight line, lips bluish white in the morning sun. The sound was high-pitched, vibrations of agony, as though Li
nda railed at the violence of her death.

  Although the officers still clung to her body, they all jumped, so she landed somewhat inelegantly on the floor, arms and legs stuck out in their crucified positions. The holes in her wrists and ankles gawped like hideous mouths, red tongues and white bone teeth. A horrified jolt quaked through the room.

  Charlie would never forget that sound. He would always picture this beautiful child desecrated and humiliated in death, lying askew on that white sheet.

  The destruction of this girl's angelic appearance was intermingled with the bastardization of his venerated art. The injustice seeped into Charlie's being and transformed into anger so fierce he felt like a balloon ready to burst.

  The pathologist let out a sound, an oh tinged with curiosity, as he stepped toward the body.

  Chief Webster also moved closer to her, his face a dreadful shade.

  "She can't be—"

  "No, no, Chief," Sato said quickly, afraid the man would further embarrass himself.

  "This happens in cases when death has occurred quickly and the body is placed in extreme positions. Very rare. The gases will escape when it is moved, rattling the vocal cords and jerking the limbs."

  He spoke rapidly as he knelt beside the dead girl's body, tenderly touching her, trying to restore some dignity. Her arms and legs were stiff, flung out as though she were waiting for a lover.

  Charlie turned from the sight of her. The small breasts, the labia, painted and grotesque. The colours were incongruously sharp and bright. The picturesque scenery, the obvious skill of the artist, lent a horror that was particularly demeaning.

  Known as Ted to his friends, Charlie among them, Dr. Sato was the most experienced forensic pathologist in the province. In all likelihood, the chief had insisted on his presence. He took Linda's temperature and muttered to himself as he felt along the corpse, his fingers expert at detecting information from the dead. Once in a while, he would sit back on his haunches and scribble in his notebook.