The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle

by Catherine Astolfo

  A couple of hours later, when Ted took one cab and Charlie and Tom hopped into another, his suspicion was confirmed.

  "Do you want to visit a tattoo parlour with me first thing tomorrow, Charlie?"

  "Nah."

  Charlie gave Tom a friendly, victorious punch on the shoulder.

  "We won't need to mention the tattoo stuff, Tom. We got the time of death."

  Chapter 8

  September 1980

  A gathering of a similar nature took place at the same time on the other side of the city from Flip's Bar.

  Emily and Will sat at their small dining table, across from Patricia and Gary White. The detritus of a simple meal was strewn in front of them—chicken bones, salad leftovers and several mounds of cooked vegetables congealing in the cooling butter. Two bottles of red wine and one still half full explained the heightened conversation and atypical disclosures.

  Emily's glass looked the same as the others', but was actually filled with grape juice.

  Gary White was a short, rotund man whose Italian ancestry had provided him with a butterscotch skin colouring that contradicted his last name. At the end of this fairly warm and certainly sunny summer, he was deeply tanned. His large brown eyes blinked owlishly from behind the black-framed glasses. He always appeared to be analyzing everything his dinner companions had to say. Although not yet thirty, his receding hairline gave his round face greater maturity.

  His wife, whom her friends had all known as Patsy, began insisting she be addressed by her full name when she passed the bar. Patricia was an exceptionally tiny woman whose waist Will could probably have surrounded with two hands. She wore her dark hair long in a perpetual braid that lay on her back like a horse's tail.

  With her pinched chin and severe black eyes, she reminded Emily of a pigeon. The owl and the pigeon. Yet both Emily and Will genuinely liked this unusual couple.

  Six of the Langford group of friends had crossed over to Vancouver to stay, the Thompsons, the Whites and the Lams. Although they didn't see one another often, they kept in touch as a result of shared interests and roots.

  Emily had called these friends at the last minute, giving in to a longing for support and advice, but only the Whites had been able to come.

  Intelligent, driven, with a wide knowledge about a huge number of topics, Gary and Patricia were enormously interesting conversationalists. Tonight their discussions had been strictly focused on Linda Courtnell's death and the impact on Bill and Emily.

  The week had been horrific. The studio remained closed, despite being released by the police department two days ago. Will was unable to face going there. The idea Linda had been tortured and murdered in his own space was far too raw for him to set aside.

  Not to mention the fact that the media had parked itself outside the old factory on a twenty-four-hour basis. They had not yet discovered where the professor and his wife lived, thanks to the fact that everything was in Emily's maiden name.

  All week reporters had followed Will's movements to and from Three Arts. He'd literally ducked down side streets or jumped into several cabs to avoid being followed home. It was, as they'd told the Whites, like being in a formulaic movie.

  Every single day, the televisions and radios had blared facts and photos about the murder and the victim. A sweet, innocent picture of her as a cute six-year-old with a pixyish smile had flashed on the news constantly.

  If not that image, then the one of her as an award winner, a beautiful blonde with a stereotypical bombshell figure, standing next to the painting that had proven she was also a talented artist.

  Every fact about her father's real estate prowess, his financial successes, his political savvy, had been printed, preached about and memorized by the public.

  Linda was the exquisite only daughter of a dynasty that had been crowned Vancouver royalty by virtue of the daughter's appalling death. Up until recently, Randall Courtnell had been viewed with suspicion fuelled by jealousy.

  Suddenly he was the grieving head of a picture-perfect family. They appeared on television, poised and upright, even as tears flowed, asking for anyone with information to please come forward. To please respect their privacy, contrary to the fact they held daily television interviews.

  Randall II and Harrison, the two sons, always stood behind their parents, staring solemnly into the cameras. Their faces were inscrutable masks, slightly quizzical, like animals in a zoo uncertain about why everyone's attention is suddenly focused in their direction. In appearance eerily similar to their sister, they had no identity of their own as far as the media were concerned. They were, from now on, strictly Linda Courtnell's younger brothers.

  Facts began to emerge about the "crucifixion," the painting of the body, and even the cadaveric spasm. The police department was forced to admit there was a leak.

  Chief Webster appeared in several television interviews with and without the Courtnells. Ostensibly, he was trying to curtail the gossip, but his regular appearances only heightened interest. Soon everyone knew he was the victim's godfather and his passion for finding her killer had reached obsessive proportions. The media were in a frenzy.

  Yesterday, however, the Chief had suddenly announced he was unavailable for further comment.

  Patricia White expressed the opinion that the Crown had told him to bring it down a notch.

  So far this evening, the conversation had mostly been a debate about whether or not Bill really was a suspect.

  In response to the Thompsons' frantic call on Monday, Gary White had secured his boss's promise to represent Will if necessary. Phillip Shaw was lead counsel in Gary's highly regarded firm. Experienced in criminal law and several high profile homicide cases, he was considered an excellent choice.

  Their only hesitation in engaging Phillip Shaw as their potential advocate had been financial, until Emily's very difficult, but rewarding call to her parents.

  "Darling, naturally we'll help in any way possible," Siobhan had reassured her daughter, the lilt in her voice more pronounced since she'd returned to Ireland. "We've been so lucky here as you know. We won't let you down. But I'll pray it'll not come to that, Emily."

  Both her mother and father were of the opinion that Will could not possibly be charged with any crime, let alone a murder.

  It was the same faith Gary and Patricia continued to express all evening.

  Bill remained the most adamant that he was the prime, and perhaps only, suspect.

  "You didn't see their faces during that interview," he told them. "Both Chief Webster and the other two policemen looked at me as if a rat had crawled up their sleeves. They were begging me to say I'd killed her and when I wouldn't, they looked mad enough to kill me instead."

  Emily felt her stomach lurch at his words. Her hand went instinctively to her still-flat belly, thinking, poor darling, I haven't even told your grandparents or uncle or any friends about you. What kind of a world are you going to come into?

  Chapter 9

  September 1980

  At seven thirty on Monday morning, Emily and Will were just about to leave for work when a heavy pounding resounded through the apartment.

  Will's face went still. He threw the door open and stood as though bracing himself for a hurricane.

  The ferocious wind entered their lives in the forms of Constable Haynes, Detective Fairburn and several other unknown faces, each one of them towering and grim.

  "William Thompson, you are under arrest for the murder of Linda Courtnell," Fairburn announced, unable to completely cover a hint of triumph. "Do you understand?"

  Both Will and Emily simply stared, frozen in dread and shock.

  "Do you understand?" Fairburn repeated. "Please answer yes or no."

  "Yes," uttered Will.

  "You have the right to retain and instruct counsel without delay. We will provide you with a toll-free telephone lawyer service, if you do not have your own lawyer. Anything you say can be used in court as evidence. Do you understand?"

  Fairburn
continued his relentless rant as he stepped inside the door.

  "Yes. Emily, call Gary, okay?"

  Will's voice was quiet and tender as he gazed down at her pale face.

  She raised her eyes, already filled with tears of grief and anger, to stare at him, drinking in his presence, afraid to let go of his hand.

  "Okay," she answered.

  Taking a deep breath, she turned to look at Haynes and Fairburn, as though they were friends who had utterly disappointed and betrayed them.

  "Where will my husband be taken? We have a lawyer and I want to tell him where to go."

  "He will be held in the city jail until the court hearing. His lawyer can visit him there," the Detective answered formally, as though still reciting Will's rights.

  Will bent down to kiss her, gently holding her head against his chest. For a moment, their eyes held onto one another, the energy between them alive and connecting, as though they could keep touching even as they were being torn apart.

  Then Haynes bent Will's arms back, snapped the handcuffs together, and led him out the door.

  Emily couldn't bear to watch. Her hands shaking so badly she had trouble holding onto the receiver, she dialed Gary's office number from the card he'd given her. She got through the reception, and the secretary, but when she heard his voice, she dissolved into tears.

  Gary waited patiently, talking to her all the while, until she was able to answer him and give him the information he needed.

  "I'm going into Phillip's office right now, Emily. He's put Bill's case down as a priority. I might even be part of the preliminary stuff, on the team. Let's hope we can get some bail going. You said your parents would help?"

  "Yes."

  "OK, I don't know what time it is in Ireland, but whatever, you need to wake them up. There isn't much else to do besides sit and wait until you hear from me. They won't let you come with me."

  Emily didn't plan what she said next, but her response, at that moment, seemed to make sense.

  "After I call them, Gary, I'll just go into work. It's a bit late to get a substitute and besides, I don't think I can stand being here on my own."

  "Okay, don't worry. He'll likely be back for dinner."

  Emily hung up and dialled her mother once more, dreading putting their worst fear into words. As she talked to her parents, her father joining in on the extension, she felt as though she were reading lines from a script. Someone else's life. A fictional account that couldn't have anything to do with a couple from a small town in Canada.

  Siobhan and Grant Taylor were equally dismayed, but they were loving and supportive of their daughter and son-in-law. They had already been in touch with their banker and were ready to transfer the funds as necessary.

  When the conversation was over, Emily sat heavily on the sofa. The silence was a live thing, ringing in her ears, pressing down on her shoulders. She took several deep breaths and leaned back, hand on her womb, talking to the baby.

  "I'm going to be strong because of you, baby," she said. "Your Daddy will be home soon, don't worry. We'll get him back. We must."

  Once again, Emily found herself floating among her students, not fully present. This time, she forced herself to act as though she were fine. Smiling, nodding, putting enthusiasm into a voice that was nearly choked with fear.

  She alerted the secretary, Adeline, to buzz her through the P.A. immediately for any calls, but by recess, there had been no such call.

  Fortunately, Emily was on duty, so she had very little time to worry. She walked through the yard accompanied by Justin, Fiona and Laura. The girls chattered away happily, while Justin clung to Emily's hand.

  Elaine flew by the portable a few times to check on her, but Emily couldn't bring herself to let her friend know what had happened. It had been difficult enough to acknowledge the reality to her parents.

  Emily continued to imagine what Will was going through. Was he at the courthouse? She'd only seen the building from the outside, sitting placid and self-righteous downtown with its drab, blank windows staring sightlessly at the world.

  Was he in a courtroom, everyone staring at him, shackled hands behind his back? She imagined Gary at Will's side, speaking for him, telling the black-robed judge they had made a terrible mistake.

  Or was he sitting in a squalid jail with the kind of criminals they'd only seen on television?

  Just before lunch, the P.A. box in the portable squawked loudly. Emily was reading a story to the class and they all jumped as the buzzing tore into the quiet. Justin yelled out and covered his ears.

  Emily's voice shook as she asked, "Yes?"

  Adeline's voice was hollow and strident.

  "Ms. Taylor, that call you were asking about has come through. Mr. Maloney is on his way to look after your class while you take it."

  "Thank you," Emily answered.

  She looked at her students' young, puzzled faces and felt a surge of affection. As she assured them she would be back in a few minutes, Emily could not have known she would never see any of them again.

  Chapter 10

  September 1980

  The Artist

  He was very displeased. Ever since The Professor and His Wife entered his sphere, he had not experienced the joy, that pure wonderful adrenaline rush, from any of his creative activities. Once or twice, he almost wished he were back on Hastings Street, making the rounds of the tattoo parlours. Almost.

  Those who can, do, those who can't, teach, he mumbled to himself over and over.

  The Professor and His Wife thought they were superior to everyone. So superior in fact, they truly believed they could teach people how to create, how to learn, by standing in front of them in a classroom and spouting platitudes, curricula, talk talk talking. What arrogance.

  He, on the other hand, was a doer. He created on a daily basis. His pictures evolved from simple ink designs to paintings that rivalled the masters.

  In fact, he discovered he could copy anyone's watercolour or acrylic print, ink drawing, charcoal, anything really. He had a deft hand and a photographic eye that, working in partnership, could mimic the lines, the colouring and shading, the very inspiration of the original artist.

  Long ago, he mastered The Professor's extraordinarily simple creations and landscapes. Easy peasy. This was the man who had judged The Artist's entries and found them wanting! What a crock.

  Three times he entered their contests, waiting for them to acknowledge his brilliance, his genius. But did they? No.

  Each time, they returned his offerings, saying they were "not what they were looking for." Sometimes they even gave him some feeble encouragement or advice. They had no fucking idea what was great and what wasn't.

  He did some research and found out that one Professor William Thompson was Chair of the Adjudicator Committee.

  But The Artist was a fair man. Maybe The Professor really did have something to offer. Maybe he did know something The Artist did not.

  Once or twice he sat in on The Professor's lectures, pretending to consider signing up for a course.

  But he'd been barely able to contain himself for the full hour. Such drivel, such absolute nonsense as the man droned on about the "creative process." What the hell did that idiot know about true creativity?

  Somewhere in his past, he'd made a decision to take his artistic experiments a little further, and that had made all the difference.

  He learned he had a powerful technique for teaching people about vision, inspiration, and most of all, the high that came from going to the summit of your most vivid imaginings.

  He discovered it was pain that awakened someone to the limitless genius of genuine mastery.

  He gave his students an experience that literally defined their lives. He didn't talk or spout.

  He did things to them that brought them to a creative, explosive and significant death. Thus his pupils experienced the heights of beauty mixed with the depths of pain, which allowed them to see, to understand, everything. Those moments just
before they died were a gift, because without the pain, there could be no true awakening.

  His precious pupils slowly, eventually, came to the realization that nothing beautiful can be created without pain. Just like birth, death rolls out in waves of agony. Their anguish released them from their restrictive earthly bodies, allowing them to be exquisite. He took them there and made them one with Art.

  By the time he met The Professor, he was extremely skilled at his own form of teaching. The human body was an exceptional tool for creative expression.

  He worked exclusively on prostitutes and other derelicts, sometimes already half-dead junkies or drunks. He delighted in the cornucopia of skin colours on which to practice the paint combinations that worked best.

  Then he branched out to the canvas, discovering his techniques were well honed and his pictures were quirky, yet mesmerizing. He could sell them for huge amounts of money, but he had to make a name for himself before any galleries would take him. Hence, the Three Arts Institute, the contests, and The Professor.

  He attended each of the presentations of the prize he coveted, waiting with shallow breath as they announced third, then second, then first place winners.

  At the initial reception, a gilded phony affair, he actually shouted aloud when the announcements came, his breath punching through the air before he could control it. Everyone turned to look at him. After that, he was far more careful.

  But at the first ceremony, he did make a discovery he found quite useful—Mrs. William Thompson. She was standing in the hallway outside the auditorium, the florescent lights suffusing her blonde hair with gold. Short, at least in comparison to her lanky husband, she was trim, blue eyed and frankly, gorgeous.

  When the Lord and Master came down the stairs, walking blithely past the mural he ignored each and every day, The Wife gave her husband such a look of adoration The Artist wanted to puke.

  Surrounded by his sycophantic and panting students, who didn't just want art lessons from the look of them, The Professor made it very clear through his gestures and endearing glances that he only had eyes for The Wife.