The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle

by Catherine Astolfo

  But a final wound sent us scurrying away. Instead of appealing, we went into hiding, wounded animals seeking sanctuary.

  We moved to Burchill, Ontario, in 1999 as Emily and Langford Taylor. We adopted a new life in our small community, living all these years in anonymity.

  For a time, we thought we could cope with the obscurity and distance we had to create between our new friends and ourselves.

  Even before we adopted Cate and Carly, I struggled under the weight of keeping our secret.

  Now, we had the children. We had to remove the last vestiges of doubt and disgrace haunting our past.

  Fortunately, even after our revelations, we had not lost the love and respect of our dearest friends, May, Alain, Frances and Edgar. Their support mattered deeply.

  We had very little choice other than to forge ahead with the appeal to the BC Minister of Justice. But I was struggling.

  I hadn't suffered the way Will had, but in some ways, my hell had been just as torturous. My identity was squashed and the life I had envisioned was obliterated. When I came out of the coma, I had to learn to walk, to speak, to remember. Most of my memories returned, but then I had to learn how to live without my husband and our baby, or any other future children.

  I had done it, but only with the love and support of my mother. I was still not sure I would have survived without her. Even after she'd returned to Ireland, she was a constant source of strength over the telephone.

  I immersed myself in my career, in the children whom I taught, and later took on any leadership role that came my way, until I was appointed principal.

  My free time was spent on my husband's case. When Will was finally released from prison, we planned to continue the fight to prove his innocence, but it had not worked out that way.

  At May's insistence, we were now flying to Vancouver in a private jet. Only in movies had I witnessed such decadence. The seats were luxurious and wide. We had individual televisions and telephones, a table between us for our papers, and our own steward to serve us drinks.

  The latter, I must admit, I indulged in quite liberally, to bolster my courage of course. The rest of the amenities, ironically, went untouched. During the five-hour flight, we read and discussed the myriad of reports that outlined William Thompson's case.

  For the five hundredth time, I scanned the lines of transcripts and briefs, as though I could wear the words away, make them disappear, force time to go backward and change everything. Like Superman, twist the globe by speeding up time until it reversed itself.

  My thoughts slid over to Cate and Carly. If I changed everything, would they be our daughters now? Would changing our lives mean theirs would have been less horrific, yet still intertwined with ours?

  While I was at it, why didn't I resolve hunger and hatred in the world? I smiled at myself and shook my head. Maybe the wine the steward was serving was far too good after all.

  At the thought of our girls, I had an urge to call them again. But they would be at school now, Cate at Burchill Public and Carly with her tutor. They were living with May and Alain for the week—or two or three, however long it took—we were away.

  Being with the Reneaux and living with their siblings for a while would be really good for them, I had to admit. I was feeling far lonelier than they.

  "I'd like to review everything from your initial points of view," Monty suggested and I snapped back to attention.

  When I first met Montgomery Cardwell, I was not predisposed to trust him. I thought back over the years to the people we'd hired, worked with, fought against, some with pretty impressive handles to suit their appearances. Out of all of them, only one had retained my complete confidence, while the others became the villains of my nightmares.

  Crown Counsel Robert Sedgwick-Wilson had prosecuted Will in the first trial. Portly, impeccably dressed, his face was round and soft, his hair nonexistent. He looked like someone's kindly uncle until his light-green eyes filled with anger and darkened.

  Judge Hajimi Lent, his Japanese roots manifested in a slight accent and a mixed-race visage, presided over that initial court case with a perpetually pinched, quizzical expression. He had decided my husband was guilty from the moment he stepped up on that bench, and struggled, often unsuccessfully, to present an objective, fair-minded façade.

  Our own lawyer, Phillip Shaw, whom I got to know far better than I wished, was a tall, thin man with grey hair sporting faultless black streaks. He was a patronizing, arrogant man who perpetuated the lawyer-as-shark stereotype. Yet he had made mistakes no experienced barrister should ever commit.

  The two key police officers in the case were Constable Charles Haynes and Detective Thomas Fairburn.

  The latter was almost as tall as Langford, red haired, with a huge bulbous nose, as comical looking as a clown, although nothing he did or said was at all funny.

  Haynes did not resemble his inner persona either. He had an air of kindness and gentility. He claimed to want justice when all he really wanted was to prove his own theory of events.

  Montgomery Cardwell appeared to fit the stereotype of a private investigator. Handsome, tall, lanky, nappy hair cut short, he would have been Denzel Washington's twin, except his nose was crooked and his lips were fuller.

  Despite my hesitation, when I looked into his deep-brown eyes and his hand shook mine with confidence and warmth, I felt pulled into a circle of hope. Not only did his presence reassure me, but he also came highly recommended by the one person I still deeply trusted—our old friend, Simon Callas.

  My brother first introduced me to The British Columbia Association for the Wrongfully Convicted, an organization headed by Mr. Callas. Our initial appeal had been denied and, even if I'd been able to afford our former lawyer's services, I no longer trusted his competence. Thus Sean took me to meet with the BCAWC.

  Luckily for us, Simon took over our case himself. A short, balding man with piercing blue eyes, he was the antithesis of a stereotype. Those new to the courtrooms where he toiled often stared at him openly aghast, as if to say, this man is the famous Simon Callas?

  Disorganized, rambling, with a propensity to be sarcastic and to laugh at his own witticisms, he appeared to win his cases by taking everyone by surprise. He darted from the witness to the jury to the prosecutor like an angry bee. No one dared take their eyes off him.

  In a booming voice that belied his small stature, Simon gathered the facts and tossed them outward, and like pieces of a puzzle, they would suddenly land in a clear picture. He worked tirelessly for people whose lives had been destroyed by grievous error or incompetence.

  I'd also gotten to know Eileen Edwards, Simon's wife, who worked alongside him for BCAWC. They'd had no time for children, she told me, so they parented their clients, no matter the difference, or lack of, in age. For the remainder of my life, I would be grateful for her maternal instincts where I was concerned.

  They lived in a small home in West Vancouver, never amassing a huge fortune, since they took on so many pro bono cases. Nowadays, they were both retired, but just as parents are parents for life, they'd jumped when we contacted them about the appeal to the Minister of Justice.

  "Montgomery Cardwell is the best private investigator in the country," Simon told us. "He's done work for BCAWC for ten years now and I would trust him with my life. He's so good, I'd bet my life savings he'll uncover the stuff all the others—and I—missed. So when we file the appeal, it's gonna go like a knife through soft butter."

  Monty grew up in Seattle, Washington, and immigrated to Canada to marry a girl he'd met on a cruise.

  "Audrey's a nurse. She wasn't going to leave Vancouver, so he came on up. They're a great couple. He's tall and handsome and she's short and plain. But she's a dynamo."

  They had two young children, Simon reported, whom Montgomery adored.

  "It wasn't easy getting him to go to Ontario. He doesn't like to take many cases personally these days, especially any outside the city. He's moved into managing his company instead
of being out in the field himself. But I somehow convinced him."

  In other words, Emily, you better treat this guy well, I had thought, almost resentful at being set up this way.

  I learned, through Jacob's research on the Internet, Montgomery had a black belt in karate and he was extremely well known, and respected, throughout our country and the U.S.

  "He's intelligent and incredibly charismatic," Simon gushed. "He doesn't have to intimidate people, though he certainly can. Most of the time, they spill their guts to him as soon as he opens his mouth."

  Montgomery arrived at the airport in Ottawa, where our partnership began as soon as Will and I picked him up.

  When the man unfolded his long legs to approach me, spreading his fingers in a steepled greeting, and kept his eyes on mine as he spoke, I was sold.

  Although his questions were often blunt and very personal, we didn't feel awkward or embarrassed. He had a direct, soft way of drawing information from us we would never have told any other stranger. Suddenly I knew exactly what Simon had meant about the power of this man to elicit confession.

  Why'd you give up the fight? was one of his first questions.

  At first, neither of us could formulate the words to explain. My mother and father, who'd been our source of strength, optimism, determination and love, had been killed in a car accident in Ireland just as Will was released from prison. How could I describe the depth of the wound, the hurt, the agony at losing them? I decided I couldn't. Just the facts, ma'am.

  "My parents were killed. They had been our source of resilience, our backbones. I was quite literally crushed. I'd survived my accident with the help of my mother, then I lost her in pretty much the same way. We—especially me, I must say—just couldn't face the court case. I felt as though my life had been a series of disasters to that point and all I wanted was peace."

  "All we wanted." Will grabbed my hand. "We had been through two appeals, both of which were denied. No new trial was ordered and I was left in prison. Then Simon made an appeal to the Supreme Court, only to have them throw my case back to the BC Minister of Justice. I was released then, but I had been in prison for nearly twenty years and was due to be paroled anyway. Emily and I had been through so much and frankly, I didn't have any faith the result with the Minister would be any different."

  "Ironically, I inherited some money from my parents, which gave us the means to either fight the case or disappear. We chose to disappear. We've been sort of hibernating for a few years," I said with a rueful laugh. "But now we have two little girls and..."

  Monty nodded, understanding without explanation, and I remembered what Simon had said about the man's love for his children.

  His instant rapport with Jacob was another sign Montgomery Cardwell was a gift. As I watched them now, I was struck by the phenomenon that sometimes happens when two strangers become instant friends.

  Montgomery continued to explain what he wanted from us at this stage.

  "Let's use the trial transcript to flesh out the players. I want you to cast your minds back and give me the impressions you had at the very beginning. Before the appeals and the Supreme Court decision, even the option of the Minister's review—all the stuff that came afterward. Emily, I know you weren't at the trial, so this part is mostly up to Bill."

  I noticed how quickly the men had reverted from Langford Taylor to Bill Thompson. If only the transition through this legal maze were so easy.

  "But where you knew the participants, I'd like to hear your impressions too," Montgomery said.

  The words echoed inside my head, a section of the transcripts that I had absorbed like a spore through my nostrils.

  Mr. Sedgwick-Wilson: Your Honour, I have a witness who can refute the written statement from the defendant's wife stating he was home at the time of the murder.

  Mr. Justice Lent: Is the witness ready to be questioned?

  Mr. Sedgwick-Wilson: Yes, Your Honour.

  "First, they called this woman, Elaine Martin. She was a friend, right?"

  "She was a colleague at work," I said. "Bill and I went over to their place a couple of times for dinner. They had two little kids who were really sweet. She was pretty much the closest friend I had at school."

  My friend, my confidante.

  "Did she tell the truth?"

  "To be honest, we're not sure. I never recovered that memory. But before the accident, I did tell the police I was sure it was around ten o'clock."

  "It was more the way Elaine presented her information that disappointed us," Will said. "She was actually proud to be the friend of a famous killer's wife."

  Afterward, when I was able to read the transcript and comb the newspapers, the eagerness with which she confessed to Detective Fairburn, the thrill she got from the notoriety, all combined to wound me deeply and very nearly permanently. She'd eagerly embraced Bill Thompson as guilty, because that made her part in the reality movie a far more coveted role.

  "There was disagreement about whether or not Mrs. Martin's testimony was hearsay?" Montgomery framed it as a question, which Jacob answered.

  "Despite some vigorous debate, the judge eventually decided in favour of the prosecution. He instructed the jury—and I quote—that they were to 'consider the evidence as instructive only as to what Mrs. Thompson stated. She was, at the time, competent and able to speak for herself, but her statement is not necessarily proof of what actually occurred.'"

  "The kind of doublespeak that drove me to mistrust our justice system," Will said.

  "But the sort of legal point that supports appeals and reviews," Jacob reminded us.

  The type of betrayal that led me to surround myself with layers of secrecy, equipped against intimacy and hurt, I thought. Once again, the stark words pounded in my brain, stuck there by grief and resentment, echoing through the decades.

  Mr. Sedgwick-Wilson: Mrs. Martin, I understand you taught with Mr. Thompson's wife.

  Mrs. Martin: Yes, we were very close friends.

  Mr. Sedgwick-Wilson: Please recount the conversation you had with Mrs. Thompson the day after the murder.

  Mrs. Martin: She told me they'd had a fight over her pregnancy on Saturday and Bill stormed out the next morning. She said he didn't come back until night.

  Mr. Sedgwick-Wilson: And what did she tell you about the timing of his return? Specifically the time he reappeared on Sunday?

  Mrs. Martin: She told me she didn't know what time it was. She said it was very dark and she found him lying on the pullout…

  Mr. Phillip Shaw: Objection!

  Mr. Sedgwick-Wilson: Brief answers are fine, Mrs. Martin. Is that your objection, Mr. Shaw?

  Mr. Phillip Shaw: Thank you, Mr. Sedgwick-Wilson.

  Mr. Sedgwick-Wilson: To reiterate, Mrs. Martin, Mrs. Thompson told you she had no idea what time her husband came home Sunday night? A yes or no will suffice.

  Mrs. Martin: Yes, that's correct, she said she had no idea what time he came home.

  Even after all these years, I could see the smile on her face, the one drawn by the Vancouver Sun illustrator, her hair perfectly coiffed, her mouth lipstick ready for her red carpet photo op.

  The only thing she hadn't done, mercifully, was to tell the media I was known as Emily Taylor at school. Perhaps she hadn't considered it.

  Oddly, after her testimony, after her picture appeared in the paper for several days, Elaine Martin suddenly disappeared from the stage. A one-hit wonder.

  "What time did you come home, Bill?" Montgomery asked.

  "I left the studio just after nine. Unfortunately for me, I made a really stupid decision to walk home. If I'd only taken a bus or a cab, someone would've seen me. But no, I still wanted to walk off my mood. I was feeling like such a shit. It was like a re-evaluation of my whole life. I was developing a whole new vision."

  "You didn't know you'd need an alibi," Jacob said.

  Bill smiled. "True. But I'd already let off enough steam. I'd already decided I was an asshole. I should've just gone stra
ight home to Emily. But I wallowed in self-pity instead. I thought she'd never forgive me."

  "How long would it have taken to walk home?" Monty asked, steering him back on track.

  "About an hour. I wasn't going slowly, but I wasn't rushing either."

  Monty scribbled in his notebook. "So you did get home about ten. Which means Emily's original statement is correct. Which also means you couldn't have been the guy who was seen through the windows or coming down the stairs from the art studio at ten or ten thirty. What about Linda Courtnell? What time did she come by?"

  "She arrived about five to nine. I was packing up to leave. She said she saw my lights, decided to say hello and pick up her portfolio."

  "Did she say why she wanted her portfolio that late at night?"

  Will lifted his head. "You know, I don't think anyone has ever asked me that question."

  He was silent for a moment, thinking. "She said she had to show it to someone. Something about proving a point."

  "Interesting."

  Monty steepled his fingers again, a habit I noticed he adopted when he was deep in thought, or studying a new acquaintance.

  "Try to think about exactly what she said. Don't force it. The memory's there. It's just been buried for nearly thirty years."

  The steward came by and refilled our drinks. We sipped silently for a moment.

  "What about the testimony from Linda's friend, Wendy Collins? What did you think about her?"

  Will didn't need to pause this time.

  "I thought she was a flake. I have no idea why Linda hung around with her. They'd been friends a long time and I think it was just habit. Linda Courtnell was extremely gifted. She would've had a very successful career as an artist. Wendy, on the other hand, was a spoiled rich girl who really had very little talent."

  "Wow," Monty said. "Harsh."

  Will laughed mirthlessly.

  "I've had a lot of time to think about it, as you can imagine. As a teacher, I tried to encourage any spark, but Wendy was impossible to nurture, mostly because she was self-centred, expected everything to be handed over on a silver platter. Her parents were trying to teach her some responsibility by insisting she earn her own spending money, but they started too late to un-spoil her. She took the job at the institute's reception desk, but it was mostly for show. I think she spent all the money on nail polish."