The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle

by Catherine Astolfo

  Fortunately, Jacob had taken control of the legal issues, because Will and I were somewhat overwhelmed. The enthusiasm and determination of the group Simon Callas had gathered were infectious, however, and we left the meetings feeling optimistic.

  The newspapers were filled with the sensational story once more. Old photos of both William Thompson and Linda plastered the front pages. The entire saga was reiterated in all its sordid detail.

  Unable to help ourselves, we bought up a bunch of the tabloids, which were now spread around the floor by the bed.

  Overall, to our surprise, we got the sense public opinion had moved slightly over to "our side." We didn't bother to analyze the results, however. We went straight to bed, both tired and amorous.

  Sated, a cold glass of lemony water propped on my lap, along with a bowl of salty cashews, I discovered the knot of anger had loosened just a little.

  "I couldn't believe all the people there last night," I said.

  Will murmured and turned on his side toward me, propped up on his elbow. His eyes held that shine left over from sex, infused with love, which always sent a shiver down to my toes.

  "It was quite extraordinary," he agreed. "Patsy and Gary haven't changed a bit. Still The Owl and The Pigeon."

  I laughed, thinking of the couple's attire, black leather and silver chains, Patsy's grey hair in its perpetual braid, her face still lean and pointy. Gary was completely bald now, more round than ever, his eyes blinking delightedly from behind his owlish glasses.

  "They actually had two kids," Will added, his voice infused with disbelief.

  "They adopted them," I said. "A sister and a brother. They were found in some tenement with the body of their mother. She'd overdosed and no one knew for two days."

  Will sat up straighter.

  "Oh my god. That's as sad as Cate and Carly's story."

  "It really is. We'll have to tell the girls there are bad things everywhere. But it's just like Patsy and Gary to take on a couple of kids who probably have even more problems than ours do. Patricia told me they've had some issues, but overall the kids are amazingly resilient."

  "Just like ours," Will said. "Can we call them yet?"

  I laughed down at him and popped a cashew into his mouth.

  "Not yet. They'll be in school. It's only a half-day, though. They've got an early release. So one more hour."

  "We don't have anything planned for tonight, do we?"

  "Absolutely not. I'm too hung over."

  I lifted my glass of water in salute.

  "I couldn't believe the nerve of some of the people who came either to the airport or even to the party last night," Will said, sitting up. "Detective Fairburn, for instance. What the hell was he doing there?"

  "According to Jacob, who was the only one to speak to him, he was in Vancouver on some business and wanted to stop by and apologize. When Jacob asked him what he was apologizing for, he said 'Just tell them I'm sorry for what happened to them' and left."

  "Weird. Almost as weird as Ronald Stevens showing his face at the airport."

  "It was good to see Teresa and Joseph again, though. They've got three other kids besides Joseph Junior and all of them seem to be doing well."

  "Yah, they've always been supportive. I kind of felt bad we didn't keep in touch with some of those people."

  "We couldn't. If you go into hiding, you've got to hide from them all, the good, the bad and the ugly."

  Will laughed. "I know. But before that. I wouldn't let anyone see me in prison, so most of them drifted away long before we left the west coast."

  We were silent for a moment, then Will cleared his throat, choking down the bad memories and moving into the present.

  "I really enjoyed talking to Rachel and Greg. Can you believe Rachel is still Dean of Three Arts? She's almost seventy and has the same energy she had all those years ago."

  I pictured the tall, willowy woman with her black and grey hair tucked behind her eyes, dark eyes clear, body strong and graceful.

  "I know. She's amazing. I can only hope to look like her when I'm seventy, which isn't that far off."

  Will stroked my naked leg.

  "You're still young, my dear," he said in a wicked voice, "and eminently fuckable."

  His hand slid all the way up to my thigh.

  "And always will be."

  "How romantic."

  I popped another cashew in his mouth to distract him.

  "How is Greg? I noticed you had a long conversation with him. I didn't get to do anything but say hi. Monty's report was really positive about how he's doing these days."

  I pictured Greg Hughes, as tall as Will, perhaps a little thicker in the chest, his ruggedly handsome face somehow at odds with the flamboyant checkered suit and bright red scarf at his neck.

  "He seems to be doing really well. Still teaching music at the college, still painting. Monty was right. He's got quite a following for his landscapes and he plays with his band every weekend at the Merriam Pub. I don't think he has a partner, but he's certainly come out of the closet."

  I laughed.

  "That's for sure. His outfit was so trite, it's almost as though he was shouting 'I'm gay and I want everyone to know it.'"

  Will got up and padded over to the bar on the far side of the suite.

  "I'm going to have some hair of the dog. A Caesar. Want anything?"

  "Oh yah, a Caesar would be perfect."

  When we were settled with our drinks, pillows stuffed in behind us, Will continued.

  "Greg is a different kind of guy. I agree he's overstating his sexual preference. I think he does because he's just soo atypical…I mean, he's tall and rugged looking, the opposite of what most people think when they think 'gay guy.'"

  "You must have been amazed at the number of students who showed up," I said, sipping my excellent drink, perfectly spiced and salty.

  "I was. Gratified too, because they all told me I'd been a good teacher. Missing that career is one of my biggest regrets, as you well know."

  We fell silent for a few minutes and I felt that knot once more, a blaze of such fury that my face flushed red with the intensity.

  Returning to Vancouver, however hopeful we might be for a positive conclusion, was bringing back all those feelings of frustration, despair, hatred and resentment.

  The emotions were almost uncontrollable because there was no one to take it out on. I couldn't rail at anyone because we still had no idea who'd taken Linda Courtnell's life and ours while he was at it.

  I tried to shift my focus, for my husband's sake.

  "I was really surprised to see Dennis Maloney and his wife. And Terry Somers. I'm glad his company has done so well, almost like payment for saving my life."

  "Trust me, there could never be enough payment for that," Will said, squeezing my hand.

  "Will, I almost forgot!"

  How could I have forgotten? Was the bad overcoming the good in my mind the way I'd allowed it to in the past?

  I shook my head and focused on my news.

  "Did you notice the tall young man standing with two women near the door?"

  Will thought for a moment.

  "Not really, honey. I guess you were surrounded and I was surrounded and…"

  "True," I said, warming now to the happy memory. "It was Justin! And Laura and Fiona had brought him."

  Will looked quizzical.

  "Remember the little autistic boy in my class—the last one I ever taught in Vancouver? Before the accident?"

  Was everything always going to be "before and after Vancouver," I wondered briefly, then pushed the thought away.

  "Laura and Fiona were such wonderful little girls. They took very good care of Justin. He was sweet and smart and funny. Now they're all adults of course."

  "Both Laura and Fiona are married with children of their own and Justin is amazing. He can make eye contact and was appropriately social. It's almost a miracle. Laura told me they'd all remained friends over the years and they'd never
forgotten Miss Taylor. It was incredibly sweet."

  My eyes filled with tears. Will grabbed my hand and I just let them roll down my cheeks.

  "Oh, Will, this is so hard."

  "I know, darling, I know."

  He laid his hand on top of mine and kissed my nose, while his other hand wiped away my tears.

  Suddenly I looked at the clock as though it were a life raft.

  "We can call the girls now," I said, joy suffusing through me "But we better get dressed first!"

  Face washed, tears whisked away by a dash of powder, I looked far more normal than I thought I would. Both of us dressed once more, we went into the separate office area to start up the computer. We sat side by side in front of the laptop at the desk.

  The Skype image was clear and interference-free. Cate's beautiful freckled face, her long hair tied into a ponytail, grinned happily over the screen.

  "Hi, Mem!" Cate's voice was joyful and enthusiastic. "Hi, Daddy!"

  Will's face lit up. The girls had had no trouble with the word Daddy. They had no previous experience with that word. In their former household, Carl Sanderson had demanded sir or, once in a while, Father.

  "I'm here, sweetie."

  He leaned in to make sure his image was in the camera, our faces cheek to cheek.

  "Is Carly there?"

  A chorus of voices sounded in the background. Cate picked up the laptop and swung around to her sister, waving from her wheelchair, her red hair with its lustrous strands of white forming a cloud of curls around her head.

  One by one, each of the siblings waved or danced a hello. Even May did a two-step for us.

  "We're all here, see? Except for Alain. He's taking Angel for a walk."

  For the next twenty minutes, we talked to and laughed with all of them in turn, then had a good conversation with May. In the interim, Alain came home and held our little dog up to the eye of the computer.

  Everything was going well, though the girls missed us. We told them we missed them too, gave kisses and hugs, lips to lips through cyberspace. We both felt reenergized when we ended the call.

  Almost as though it were deliberately timed, the telephone in the suite rang shrilly the second the laptop's screen saver appeared.

  "Hey, Monty," I heard Will say. "Sure, of course. Yes, absolutely. That's fine. Do you want any dinner? Okay, yah, sure. I'll take care of it."

  My husband turned to face me, his face puzzled.

  "Montgomery and Jacob want to meet in our room. Monty sounded odd. I wonder what this is all about. I told him I'd order room service."

  We wandered around anxiously, busying ourselves with orders, setting up the space we were using as a temporary office so it could accommodate four instead of two. When the room service arrived, we arranged food and drink for easy reach and waited.

  To distract myself, I played with my e-mail and paid a couple of bills online. At last, the knock at the door resounded through the suite.

  William let Jacob and Montgomery in and ushered them to seats in the office. The PI carried a large black portfolio puffed out at the sides with hidden contents. He placed it carefully on the floor beside his chair.

  "You guys look like you could use a drink," Will said carefully. He scanned their eyes.

  They both looked nervous, almost shocked, yet the atmosphere between them was tinged with an edge of excitement.

  "Absolutely," Montgomery answered, his handsome dark face crinkling in a wide smile. "Scotch if you have it. On the rocks, please."

  Jacob looked up gratefully from the depths of the armchair in which he sat. His deep blue eyes and wavy black hair gave him movie star looks, although he looked a little tired just now.

  "I'd love a beer, Langford…Bill," he said, laughing at reverting to the name he'd known for years.

  When Will had poured their drinks and refreshed our Caesars, we sat expectantly staring at Montgomery. He took a long, satisfied sip and placed his glass on the side table. Once again, he took his favourite stance—the steepled fingers, elbows resting on his knees, his face intent.

  "I went to visit former Constable Charles Haynes today. He's now a full-time artist. A very successful one I might add, and his work is, to say the least, unusual. He told me all about what he termed 'sins' he committed when he was investigating your case, Bill. He manipulated Ronald Stevens into being definite about the time in his story. He used poor Shirley Johnson. He made sure the tattoo issue was passed over and he convinced his friend Dr. Sato to narrow the time of death to fit you."

  "None of that is much of a surprise, we know," Jacob interjected, when he saw the disappointment cross our faces. "But Charles Haynes had an explosive revelation. Monty's just setting the context."

  Montgomery nodded. "He admitted he only wanted to regurgitate his sins. He's dying of cancer."

  "I hope he doesn't expect forgiveness," I interrupted, giving more force and anger to the words than I meant to. Out loud, at any rate.

  "Nope, not at all. Doesn't expect it and didn't ask for it. He just wanted to get it all off his chest before he dies. Then he showed me what he really wanted me to see in the first place. He wasn't sure what to do with it, he said."

  "Take it to the police?" Jacob suggested with more than a bit of sarcasm.

  "That would've been my choice, as I told him. But he said it's more appropriate in the hands of the defence and he didn't know whom to trust at the police department. Former Chief Webster still wields a lot of power. Personally, I think that's a load of crap. He just wants to be left out of the equation as much as possible. But I'll tell you his requests later."

  Montgomery took a breath.

  "This evidence is going to completely exonerate you, Bill. Inside this portfolio is the real killer's complete, detailed confession."

  The silence was so deep in response I could hear the clock tick, the laptop hum. Someone talked loudly as they hurried along the hallway outside our door. My heart hammered.

  The air in the room was suddenly stifling. If I'd been able to take a breath, I wasn't sure I would feel refreshed. My thoughts ground to a halt.

  "Who?" my husband croaked and a hundred faces flashed through my mind.

  Monty stood up, unable to contain his agitation.

  "That's the only thing we don't know. But the killer has told us in his own words why and how he murdered Linda Courtnell. He has also revealed there were many other victims. It's horrific, absolutely horrific."

  The PI crossed over to squat in front of us, placing his hands gently on ours, trying to soften the blow.

  "The killer has provided us with paintings and photographs. Dates, times, and places of burial for the others besides Linda."

  He stood up, and, returning to his seat, took another long gulp of his scotch as Will and I tried to digest his words.

  "Of course, we will be bringing everything to the police. First we have to consider whether or not you should look at the evidence or be content to hear it from me, and Jacob, who has seen it too. Secondly we must consider whether or not we expose Charles Haynes."

  "Expose him?" I asked.

  "Yes, expose him for tampering with witnesses, withholding evidence and any number of relatively minor crimes. Relative at least to being a rapist or a murderer, which he is not."

  I was having difficulty understanding anything at the moment. I was also fighting to keep the anger from bursting through the dam. Why the hell wouldn't we expose him? Those "relatively minor crimes" had contributed to a major offence against my husband and our families.

  "Can I make a suggestion about how to proceed?" Jacob asked, sounding weary.

  My husband looked at me, searching my eyes. Then we both nodded, still too numb to speak.

  "To be perfectly honest," Jacob continued at our assent, "I am starving. I feel a little lightheaded as a matter of fact. Do you think we could eat? And while we eat, as nasty as this sounds, we could outline the new evidence and what it's going to do for your case. Afterward, you can decide whet
her or not you want to look at the paintings and pictures."

  Thus we found ourselves incongruously munching on sandwiches and crisp vegetables and French fries as we listened to a horrific tale.

  "Three months ago," Montgomery related between mouthfuls, "a series of deliveries began arriving at Charlie Haynes's business address. His company is called Haynes & Hands Inc. and is primarily online order and delivery. His daughter does book showings of her father's work in various galleries, but they don't run a studio of their own. He keeps the inventory at his house, so they don't need storage. The office is rented out by one of those virtual centers—basically, you pay for a large post box and an address."

  "Grace Haynes works from home, picks up paintings, gets them framed if they need it, and ships them from a local postal depot. Charlie gets his art supplies delivered to his home and does all his painting there too. As a result, they don't go to the virtual office very often. Mostly, Grace checks the box for orders that have been sent by snail mail as Charlie called it. Once in a while, he also receives fan mail or advertisements and so on."

  "After Christmas, Grace went on an extended holiday with her family and didn't come back until the middle of January. Charlie was very ill by this time and hadn't been doing much painting anyway, so business was very slow. When she finally went to the office, there were two large brown envelopes addressed to Charlie. One had been delivered at the first of January and the other at the beginning of February. A third one arrived at the beginning of this month, March. So there are three sets altogether."

  "Do you think there are more to come?" Will asked.

  Montgomery shook his head.

  "No. The sender claims these were all he had."

  Jacob took up the tale.

  "Inside the envelopes, there were several small canvasses, or what appeared to be canvasses, I should say. There were also photographs. Accompanying each delivery was a letter, which rants on and on while giving details about the crimes."

  Montgomery reached into the portfolio and withdrew a long white envelope, on which someone had written "Constable Charles Haynes."