The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle

by Catherine Astolfo

  The office, a medium-sized, windowless room, was immaculate. Files were meticulously stacked on a small desk. Portfolios were primly arranged in a display bin beside it.

  Every square foot of wall was covered with exquisite paintings. Country scenes, wild seas, birds, vividly fascinating human faces and towering cityscapes all rushed out at Charlie, bursting with colour, gorgeous imagery and flawless genius.

  The professor sat heavily in a chair in front of the desk.

  Charlie sat, too, in the only other chair, not trusting his legs, sucking in his breath, trying to stop his thoughts from running too far ahead.

  Tom perched on the edge of the desk facing the professor.

  "How did this happen?" Thompson asked, making it sound as though they owed him an explanation. "How did Linda get into my studio?"

  "That's one of our questions, sir," Charlie answered, rearranging his face, trying not to continue staring at the stunning beauties on the walls.

  Instead, he feigned a look of benevolence for the teacher.

  "Did she have a key, by any chance?"

  "No, no of course not. None of my students have keys to my studio."

  Peremptory. As though students were not worthy of the keys to the kingdom.

  "Okay." Tom nodded, as though thoughtfully contemplating a vexing puzzle.

  They let a silence fall, but Professor Thompson said nothing.

  "Well, obviously she got inside. It appears she died sometime last night," Tom finally said.

  Charlie caught a flicker in the teacher's luminous eyes, something like fear, or hesitation. He pounced.

  "Where were you last night, Professor Thompson?"

  "At home with my wife," the man answered, far too quickly, with a tone that was firm and practiced.

  "Where do you live, sir?" Tom's turn.

  He gave an address on Davie, which provoked some surprise in Charlie. The area was not a classy one. It was predominantly a working class section.

  "And would your wife be home right now?"

  "No. She's a teacher at Bidwell Public School. But I'm sure you could call her. Do you need to verify my whereabouts?"

  Charlie gave a silent rebuke. Of course we have to "verify your whereabouts," you arrogant asshole.

  Tom stepped in.

  "You can imagine, sir, as the occupant of the place where the crime was committed, you must be eliminated from our investigation."

  Tom pronounced occupant as though the professor owned the crime, which Charlie was becoming convinced that he did.

  "Of course. That makes sense." Silence. "I'm still so shocked. I can't believe something like this could happen here. I mean, the students are all wonderful people. I can't imagine one of them is a murderer. Linda is—was—a very talented young woman. She's won a number of prizes and she's still got so many years to…well, she had…such potential."

  "What makes you think one of the other students might be the murderer?" Tom asked.

  Professor Thompson folded his hands on his desk. Charlie noticed he did this to control the shaking that had begun to move through him. The teacher cleared his throat.

  "I…just assumed, I guess. Fellow students would be the likely ones to break into my studio with her."

  "The studio was not broken into, Professor," Haynes said.

  Bill Thompson looked up at Charlie, his deep brown eyes flooded with confusion.

  "I don't understand any of this. I still can't believe Linda Courtnell is dead, let alone murdered in my own studio. Do you mean someone got in with a key?"

  "Well." Charlie appeared to be considering. "Could you have left the door unlocked by accident?"

  "It's very unlikely. But I suppose it's possible."

  Jumping too quickly at any explanation, the policeman thought.

  "Does anyone else have a key?" Tom asked.

  "Just the manager, Mr. Jeffries. He's got master keys to all the suites."

  Fairburn nodded, as though once again considering this option.

  "Do you get along well with your students, Professor?" Charlie asked.

  "I like to think so. It's been my life dream to have a studio of my own and to teach other artists. I certainly have the motivation to do a good job. I'm not a full professor, though we use the title. I'm an assistant, working on my degree and tenure."

  As though he were being interviewed for a position, Charlie thought, trying to make a good impression. Which, in a way, he was.

  "What goes on in your studio?" Tom's question sounded innocent enough, but the teacher caught the undertone.

  "What goes on…? I tutor student artists. I go over techniques they've learned in class, try to correct any errors by giving them one-on-one advice. That kind of thing. That's what goes on."

  Intelligent bastard too. Recognizing the bait he returned the underlying, sarcastic tone, but made sure it was light enough to avoid mention.

  "Just visual art?"

  "Yes. I…I got to be fairly well known as an artist—mostly oil paints—so Three Arts recruited me."

  "Are these your paintings, sir?" Charlie waved nonchalantly at the walls.

  "Yes. I continue to do my own art, of course. It's expected, plus it's a…well, it's my passion."

  Though Thompson looked humble, Charlie saw the pride behind the words. The police officer scanned the paintings once again, his heart pounding with the sheer beauty of them.

  "Do you keep any of your paintings at the studio?"

  "Yes, but not many, at least until I get full possession of the place. They're either here or in a gallery if I have a showing."

  "We want you to come with us to the crime scene, sir," Tom said. "We'll need you to state whether or not anything is missing."

  "Do you think someone tried to rob the place and Linda just happened to be there?"

  The Professor looked almost hopeful.

  "Do you keep anything valuable there?" Charlie countered.

  "Not really. It's not exactly secure yet. So I guess it's unlikely to be a robbery…"

  The teacher's voice trailed off, but Tom didn't give him a lifeline. Instead, he abruptly stood up.

  "If you can come with us now, sir."

  "I should let the Dean know…they'll have to cancel my next class…"

  Thompson began to fumble with the telephone, but Tom put his hand on top of the other man's.

  "No need, Professor. We can walk past the Dean's office on our way out."

  Charlie noticed the teacher's hands had begun to shake again. Thompson reached for a cardigan and flung it over his shoulders, as though cold even in the stifling heat of the office.

  While the professor fumbled with his sleeves, Tom took Charlie's notebook out of the officer's hands and wrote, Go see the wife.

  Charlie nodded.

  "Are you sure you've still got your key to the studio, sir?"

  William Thompson nodded, holding up a crammed keychain.

  As they came down the sweeping staircase, Wendy Collins stood up at her desk, her face vivid with questions and fear. She hurried up to them, eyes already brimming with tears.

  "What happened, Professor? Is Linda all right?"

  Directing the question to her teacher, as though he alone could shield her from bad news, she placed a hand on his arm.

  Fairburn spoke before Thompson could utter a sound.

  "Wendy, we will let you know everything as soon as we can, I promise. How long are you working today?"

  She turned toward him, warmed by the sound of concern and friendliness in his voice.

  "I'm here until five."

  "I give you my word I will be back before then, Wendy. I'll talk to you personally."

  Charlie noticed the professor touched the girl's elbow, reassuringly. Or was the familiarity something more? Certainly there was more on the girl's part. Her eyes were filled with longing, desire and a glow akin to worship.

  Chapter 6

  September 1980

  Emily was exhausted. After the efforts of cleani
ng out the cupboard on Sunday, not to mention the emotional roller coaster she'd been on all weekend, she felt drained.

  That morning before the bell rang and the students began pouring into the room, she sat down heavily behind her desk, trying to write in her daily planner. Instead, she found herself gazing out the window.

  Since she was in one of the many portables that dotted the pavement, there wasn't much of a view. All she could really see was the red-bricked wall of the school. Her eyes were still swollen with tears from the night before. Staring off into nothing was all she could manage.

  After a while she gave up on the planner and began to write the day's activities on the chalkboard. Luckily, her grade-five students were enthusiastic and industrious, so she could design some very independent work for them while she was emotionally incapable of truly being with them today.

  Emily felt safe and isolated in her little portable, especially when surrounded by the students. They chattered obliviously through their morning routines, completely unaware of their teacher's emotional state, and for that innocence, Emily was extremely grateful.

  The only child to pick up on her aura was Justin, whose radar seemed to be enhanced by his autism. His little face was pinched into a worried frown. Every time she looked around, he was plastered to Emily's side, looking up at her with his expressive brown eyes, his intense scrutiny off centre as he carefully avoided direct contact.

  Once or twice that morning, she gently took his chin in her hand and directed him to look straight at her so she could smile and try to convince him she was all right.

  Laura and Fiona, one pure blonde with blue eyes, the other a brown-eyed mix of Oriental and Caucasian, both straight haired, almost always wearing ponytails, were mother hens to Justin.

  They soon began to zoom in on his tension and immediately connected it to the unusual lack of energy from their teacher. They were among Emily's absolute favourites. Kind, thoughtful and enthusiastic learners, they were mature little people, perhaps a bit too grown-up, but a teacher's dream nevertheless.

  "Miss Taylor, are you okay?" Laura whispered at one point, her voice so grown-up and solicitous.

  Laura's parents had saddled their daughter with three names plus a surname, all of which the little girl unfailingly used as her signature.

  Since Emily had retained her maiden name even when she started teaching, she now wondered if she'd hyphenate it for their child. Would they call the baby Something Taylor Thompson? Would their daughter be blonde and sweet like Laura Ann Barnett Cahill?

  "I'm not feeling too well, to be honest, Laura," she said, putting her hand gently on the girl's shoulder. "But don't worry, I'll be okay. We just have to convince Justin of that, don't we?"

  Laura nodded with precocious gravity. "Fiona and I will take care of him, so you can just sit at your desk, OK?"

  Emily smiled. "I would be ever so grateful," she answered in the same serious tone.

  Leaders in the way that females often are, the two girls somehow spread their magic throughout the classroom and the morning actually flew by.

  When the lunch bell rang, Emily remained in the portable nibbling at her sandwich. The children's voices outside flowed around her, as though the portable were a raft in the midst of a pleasant sea.

  Emily was beginning to feel much better when a knock startled her. The door was shoved open before she could answer.

  Elaine Martin was a large-boned redhead who filled the room with her presence. Quick to smile or laugh, she had a deep booming voice and a commanding face. Her eyes were green and lively. She homed in on a person with an intensity that was almost psychic.

  She taught grade one, constantly dancing around her classroom with an energy that was almost as vigorous as the six-year-olds'.

  Emily had become very close to Elaine in the three years since she'd joined the staff, admiring her colleague's ferocious love of children and the art of teaching.

  Lately, Emily and Will had been together for dinner numerous times with Bob and Elaine, and they'd enjoyed each other's company immensely.

  The moment Elaine entered the classroom, Emily's mood soared. She hadn't realized how much she needed to share her joy and her doubt with someone else.

  The Martins had two small children of their own and struggled financially due to Bob's penchant for changing occupations. Though Emily didn't usually confide in anyone other than Will, if anybody could understand how she felt just now, it was Elaine.

  Soon the entire story of the weekend tumbled out, resulting in Elaine's arm around Emily's shoulder, comforting and congratulating in turn.

  "Bill is going to be an amazing father," Elaine reassured her friend. "He was already warming to the idea after only a few hours. It took Bob about a month to be happy about Natalie and I still don't think he's adjusted to little Bobby."

  Emily laughed. "It's only that Bobby's two. It's a rotten age."

  Elaine chuckled. "Yah, I'm sure glad you like kids. The last time you were at our place for dinner, he certainly put on a show."

  They were still recalling Bobby's antics when another knock resounded through the portable. Once again, the door swung open without waiting for an answer.

  Principal Dennis Maloney ushered in a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in a Vancouver Police Department uniform. Both Elaine and Emily stood up as they entered, their faces mirroring concern, surprise and fear. Neither woman could say a thing.

  "Emily, this is Constable Haynes," Dennis said. "I don't want you to worry. He just needs to speak with you."

  "Is it one of my students?" Emily asked, sliding to a sitting position in a nearby chair.

  The policeman was a large man, but handsome in a way, his face wide and innocent, his eyes sympathetic.

  "No, ma'am, it's not one of your students. Do you…want some privacy?"

  Emily was startled. A cold shiver ran down her spine, a premonition that something terrible was about to shift her world.

  "Privacy? I don't think so…Elaine and Dennis are…please, they can stay. Just tell me. What is it?"

  "Nothing has happened to anyone you know, at least I don't think so," Haynes said obscurely.

  He straightened his shoulders, as though strengthening his resolve, then began again.

  "I just need to ask you a question. Where was your husband last night?"

  The sound of the door shutting, the empty bed, the darkness of the living room, all flashed through Emily's memory.

  Instinctively, she answered, "We were at home last night. Why would you ask? Is he all right?"

  She felt Elaine's eyes shift questioningly toward her, but Emily didn't move. She kept her gaze on the officer's squinty eyes, searching for an answer, terrified of hearing the words, your husband has been killed in an accident…

  Emily's heart was pounding so loudly that, when he did offer some information, she could barely understand the statement.

  "I'm afraid a young woman was killed in your husband's studio some time in the last twenty-four hours," Constable Haynes announced.

  Elaine was the first to react.

  "Killed? You mean she fell or something?"

  "No, ma'am, it wasn't an accident. However, I can't say much more than that. We are speaking with your husband right now, Mrs. Thompson, and just needed to verify his whereabouts with you."

  The officer scribbled a few lines in a tiny blue notebook.

  "I don't know if we will need to ask you any more questions, but we'll be in touch. It's good we know where to find you."

  "Who was the young woman who died?" Emily asked.

  "I'm afraid I can't tell you that, at least not until her family has been informed. You understand."

  With that obscure statement, the man turned and placed his hand on the doorknob.

  "Before you leave, Constable Haynes, can we have your badge number and full name, please?" Dennis asked politely.

  Emily was to be forever grateful for this man's attention to protocol. He would be her model in years t
o come.

  "Of course," the policeman answered stiffly, as though the request was an affront.

  Once again, he scribbled a couple of lines and tore the page from the booklet. Then, as abruptly as he had entered the portable, Constable Haynes was gone.

  Dennis came over to where Emily still sat.

  "Emily, why don't you go home?" he suggested, his light-blue eyes kind and concerned.

  "I haven't much on my plate this afternoon and I'd love to teach for a change. You need to be with Bill."

  Tired, shocked, Emily couldn't stop the tears from streaming down her face.

  "Thank you, Dennis, thank you. I…I didn't do much of a plan. I wasn't feeling that well this morning…but I wrote this outline on the board…"

  After much cajoling and assistance from both Elaine and Dennis, not to mention reassurance that Justin would be fine, Emily was in her car, heading for Granville Island just after one o'clock.

  The sun, which had maintained the unusually high temperature throughout the morning, sat atop one of the lower mountains, blinding Emily's eyes as she carefully steered the car. As always, the sight of the Rockies soaring into the sky, ringing the city with majesty, gave her a sense of hope and wonder.

  She felt as though her destiny—reaching Will—would have drowned her, overwhelmed her, had she not been able to raise her eyes to those peaks.

  At the Three Arts reception desk, Wendy Collins sat red eyed and weepy. As Emily approached, she leapt from her chair and came to embrace her.

  Emily almost recoiled. She had instantly disliked this young woman the first time they'd met. There was something sycophantic, an overt flirtatiousness with Will that made Emily feel uncomfortable.

  Sometimes Emily was filled with guilt that she was capable of a tawdry jealous streak, but Wendy was a young woman she didn't trust, didn't seem to be able to like, despite knowing her for two years.

  "Oh, Mrs. Thompson! The police came. It's something to do with Linda. You know, Linda Courtnell?"

  Emily nodded, once again getting the impression Wendy said things to make her feel like a much older woman, exaggerating the five or six years between them. She gently extricated herself from the girl's embrace.