The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle

by Catherine Astolfo

  "I've always thought your car accident was not an accident. I believe this monster was the cause of that, as well. He'd ruined Bill's life. For some reason, he decided to take yours away completely."

  "If it weren't for Terry Somers, he'd have succeeded." I shivered, then straightened my shoulders and sucked in the air of determination.

  "We have to look at the paintings. If there is any chance we will recognize the person through their so-called art, we have to take it. We didn't come all this way not to be courageous. We certainly have overcome some horrible nightmares in the past. Viewing these atrocities will simply have to be one of them."

  I stood up.

  "I want to be standing when I look at them," I said. "I don't know why, but I think I'll feel less vulnerable. Can you hold them up for me, Monty?"

  "Of course."

  Montgomery, still wearing his gloves, lifted the small paintings out of the portfolio.

  They were nearly perfect squares of art board, six of them altogether, a pallid covering attached to each of the four corners.

  Skin. Dried and stretched. Pale where it folded around the edges of the wood, vivid with colour where it did not. Montgomery laid them out around the room, propped against chair and desk legs.

  As Monty prepared the grotesque display, Jacob refilled our drinks. I took long sips as I stepped closer to the canvasses the PI held aloft. Will joined me and we stood, shoulders touching, silently studying the art.

  I thought of a definition of art I had once read—"Human effort to imitate, supplement, alter, or counteract the work of nature." That final meaning fit this abomination perfectly. The artist was indeed counteracting the work of nature by abusing the outer protection of these poor, defenceless souls.

  One by one, Montgomery held the pictures up for us to scrutinize. At first glance, the pictures looked like typical country landscapes. There were trees, streams, ponds, hills and flowers. Gradually, the eye became aware that the underlying difference was the base upon which the painting had been accomplished—the stark canvas of human skin.

  Every bump, freckle, scar or other imperfection had been used as scenery props. The nuances of colour, whether brown or white or black, blended with the oil to give a shimmering quality.

  Over time some of the colour had faded, seeped into the decaying cells, rescued through the drying process. They were reminiscent of the animal skins some people used for clothing or decoration.

  "He used Eddie Pink," Will said suddenly, holding his gloved finger just millimetres away from one of the pictures, tracing one of the backgrounds.

  "Just like he did when he…when he painted Linda."

  Monty looked thoughtful. "Wasn't that mentioned in the trial?"

  "Yes. It's a special mixture of oil paints I developed," Will answered. "I never shared the formula with anyone. Before I went to jail I used it often to depict the sky just at that moment of dawn or dusk where the sun meets polluted air."

  He paused. "It was never meant as an environmental statement, though some people have attributed that sentiment to me. I just liked the colour."

  "Why 'Eddie Pink'?"

  "I named it after my father."

  Will smiled. "He was a colourful guy and I always thought of him when the sky lit up. He might not have liked the title, but he wasn't around by then to be insulted."

  "Didn't someone testify at your first trial that the painting on Linda Courtnell's body resembled your style?" Jacob asked.

  "You're right," Will responded. "It was Rachel Ouellet. Poor Rachel. She was practically browbeaten into admitting the colours were a special mix. I don't think she ever forgave herself, even though I kept telling her it wasn't her fault."

  "Couldn't someone have copied your formula by studying your paintings? Or would they have had to steal the recipe?" Monty asked.

  Will thought for a moment. "I suppose someone very clever at copying other artists' paintings could achieve the same colour mix. I always assumed the formula had been stolen. I kept a record in my studio."

  Jacob flipped through the transcript for the section he wanted.

  "The prosecution went so far as to state that the killer used a particular colour that no one else could duplicate. Yes, here it is. The prosecution asserted that the painter of Linda's body applied certain techniques only William Thompson could have used. Crown Counsel Sedgwick-Wilson makes the case here that certain colours are, and I quote, 'as distinctive as a signature.'"

  Montgomery placed the squares of death tenderly back into the bulging portfolio, then straightened up to sip from his drink once again. He was lost in thought for a moment.

  "Okay. We have the evidence that Bill couldn't have murdered Linda Courtnell. We confirmed this killer used Eddie Pink on several other victims, none of whom you could have killed. Somehow, this murderer got access to your formula."

  As I thought about signatures, an image abruptly floated into my mind.

  "Monty, can I see that third painting again? The one that has a stream running right through the middle…"

  Montgomery had obviously studied the paintings well, for he knew exactly which one I meant. I had to lean in very close to see the object my brain had flashed on.

  "Right here. Is this the signature?"

  Monty nodded. "Yes, Emily. That's it. Good eye. In fact, in every one of the paintings, there is either the entire signature or at least a part of one. As I told you, he made sure the signature was included in all the photos, but in the paintings, they are more obscure. Maybe because they are just pieces of…"

  Monty trailed off, the horror of what he was saying settling like a cloud in the room.

  Will bent toward the painting, a stance artists often take, looking at every drop of oil and its unique contribution towards the whole.

  "I see it now," he said, his voice trembling with astonishment. "It's very cleverly disguised as part of the rivulet, here…"

  Once again, his gloved finger almost brushed the canvas.

  I wondered if my husband was unconsciously trying to connect directly to the other victims. We were the only targets we knew of who had suffered a different kind of fate. The only ones alive. If, in fact, "The Artist" was responsible for my accident, I was alive only through sheer luck and the courage of Terry Somers. For Will, the killer had designed out a different scenario, one that cost Linda Courtnell's life and resulted in a lifelong torture for my husband.

  As Will continued to hover near the painting, I kept probing into the edge of my recall. Something peripheral, heretofore relegated to a file in my brain marked "unimportant information," was misting in and out. I had seen that signature somewhere before, I was sure of it. But the memory would not surface.

  Suddenly I was exhausted. I felt as though I could easily say goodnight, gentlemen and crawl under the soft blankets. The emotional roller coasters were taking their toll.

  In fact, this was the way it happened. Will, Montgomery and Jacob stayed in the office, talking and getting well and properly drunk.

  I, on the other hand, did exactly what I thought about doing earlier in the evening—said goodnight, gentlemen, closed the bedroom door and crawled under the soft blankets.

  Some time later, Montgomery took a taxi home, while Jacob went to his own suite.

  Will awakened me as he slipped into bed beside me.

  "Sorry I woke you, honey," he whispered in my ear.

  I turned over to face him and he cradled me in his arms.

  "I'm so excited I don't know if I'll be able to sleep."

  "I'm afraid to stay awake and think positively." I looked up at him. "As though I might destroy the good Karma."

  He smiled at me, his deep-brown eyes sparkling with a fire that had almost been extinguished years ago.

  I thought about how very much I loved him, admired him and would never again let him go. I felt a shiver of anticipation, tinged with fear.

  "Hey! I think I know a way to put us to sleep," he said, giving a sexy chuckle.

&
nbsp; His soft warm lips sent my body and my heart to a soothing place of ecstasy.

  As it turned out, our lovemaking gave me the strength I needed to deal with the terror the next day would bring.

  Chapter 23

  March 2009

  That morning Vancouver was doing her utmost to remind me of better times and convince me that the best was yet to come. The weather was perfect. Clean, salt-scented air, warm sunshine, the cloudless sky a deep blue.

  All around, the mountains were encouraging spires, pointing toward hope and possibility. I no longer felt hemmed in. In fact, I felt a tremor of freedom.

  What would it be like to no longer hide my married name? Would we write about our past some day? Wouldn't it be wonderful for Will to travel everywhere with his art, unafraid of discovery?

  As soon as Will saw the sun glinting through the windows, he became fully conscious despite the lack of sleep. This was the day he would prove his innocence and he was full of energy.

  Jacob, Will and I splurged and took a limo to our lawyers' offices, driver in cap and all. It wasn't entirely selfish. Jacob and Monty were worried for our safety and wanted us to be accompanied by the driver all day. Once the news got out, which might happen despite our vigilance, we would have to be on guard.

  It seemed to me that every time we crossed through an intersection over one of the long, sloping streets, I caught a hint of the harbour, winking at me. I imagined the waves splashing against the shore in noisy celebration. If I wasn't careful, I thought, I just might begin to really hope.

  At the door of the tall glass-eyed building, sun sparkling off the tinted windows, we met Montgomery, portfolio in hand. The smiles we shared were profound and intimate. A momentous change was about to take place.

  The visit to our lawyers was indeed a joyful coup. Our team summoned members of the Vancouver Police Department, along with some forensic advisors from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, to act as witnesses.

  Before we shared the information, Jacob convinced the appropriate officials to sign a written agreement that Charles Haynes would not be charged with obstruction of justice. Jacob was articulate and, although he was not completely honest, he was able to argue that Charlie's age and illness were extenuating circumstances.

  I wasn't surprised it was my husband who had insisted upon the agreement, hammered out during the conversations of the night before. Although I didn't completely concur with Will, I could certainly respect his desire to absolve the man who would now be responsible for his exoneration. Luckily for Charles Haynes, the decision was not mine to make, nor my pardon to give.

  It was a tedious morning. The initial exhilaration became somewhat buried under a mass of paperwork, ceaseless questions and endless streams of bureaucratic personnel.

  The only sector deliberately left out of the negotiations was the media. Our team had decided immediately that it would be premature to make any announcements until the minister of justice had agreed to view the evidence, or appointed a judge to handle the matter.

  Later in the morning we received a call that the Honourable Claudia Belle would be acting for the minister, which was an astonishing development. A meeting in the judge's chambers was arranged for two days hence. In effect, she was agreeing to read and view everything in an unprecedented forty-eight hours.

  Our lawyers decided a press conference could wait only until the next morning at the latest.

  "We don't want to take the chance the news will leak out," Jacob told us. "We want to be able to exert some control. And Emily, Bill…this will surely be the end of your privacy until the next big news item comes along and takes your case off the front pages. I know you had a touch of the attention when you arrived at the airport here."

  "But after tomorrow morning, your case will be publicized through every kind of news media all over the world. They're likely to flash your pictures. Old photos if they can't snap new ones. The sensational news about a serial killer is going to open a huge Pandora's box, but at least it will eventually deflect the spotlight from you to the real killer."

  "I went through that years ago, so I know how bad it can be. Do you think it's safe for us to go ahead with our plans for today?" Will asked.

  That lump of anger, the one directed at the "unknown subject," the lump that continued to have nowhere to go and no one to blame, still sat inside my stomach. It began to outweigh the touch of fear I'd felt last night. Instead, I started to feel incensed, bitter that, despite this morning's triumph, we were still victims.

  Montgomery's words did nothing to dampen my burgeoning desire to scream or stamp my feet.

  "I was going to talk to you about your safety," he answered. "To be blunt, no, I don't think you're safe. Even though the killer delivered a confession, he made certain not to identify himself. We're still focusing on Harrison Courtnell and Ronald Stevens. You only have until tomorrow morning before the culprit knows we have the evidence."

  Jacob agreed. "The murderer might believe that Charlie, to avoid trouble, decided not to show the proof to anyone. Our monster didn't demand that he turn it over to the police. He just wanted to make a confession to someone."

  "The forensic psychologist from the RCMP has been really helpful," Monty added. "She thinks Jacob is right. The culprit is disintegrating and perhaps quickly. He wanted to confess and maybe get caught. But he is conflicted about that, too, so he pretty much left the decision in Charlie's hands. But she is also of the opinion that the killer might have some other plan in mind, just in case Charlie didn't tell."

  "In other words, we have one afternoon and evening left in anonymity," I said, biting back my anger. "Then you think this asshole might be coming after Bill."

  Our two friends nodded, but Montgomery added, "Emily, you might consider Jacob's theory that your car accident was deliberate. The killer could also come after you."

  "Precisely. I do wish you'd stick around the hotel. The killer might not know about Charlie's decision. On the other hand, if he has some alternative plan, we don't know what that might be," Jacob warned. "What if you are both targets?"

  "If you do insist on going out, make sure you are in public places. Don't be alone with anyone. Even very good friends," Monty said, noticing our dismayed looks.

  Will and I had some loose ends to tie up and people to see "before we slept." Plans had already been made. We gazed at each other, assessing the advice. Clearly, Will was more concerned than I, but he was also determined to end our time in Vancouver without stones unturned.

  "This monster has had control over our lives for more than twenty years," I said. "Surely we can keep this quiet and have one day to enjoy the city that we lost."

  Monty and Jacob did not look convinced.

  "Okay," my husband said. "Let's compromise. Emily wants to meet with some friends at noon for lunch in the False Creek Pub on Granville Island. I want to speak with Rachel Ouellet, who was my mentor and friend while I was at Three Arts. I'll be meeting her at the school. There are a few former students who are coming by too. So both of us will be in very public places."

  "As long as you take the limo to the island," Jacob responded. "You know May had you promise to spare no expense where safety and success were concerned, so the driver has been hired to go wherever you go."

  I smiled at the mention of my smart, funny, beautiful best friend, wishing she were here at this very moment.

  "We'll take the limo, Jacob," I agreed. "Will, I'm pretty sure you'll take longer talking to Rachel and the kids—adults now, I should say—than I will with my friends at lunch. I'll get someone to walk me over to Three Arts, then we'll both take the limo back to the hotel. Okay, everybody?"

  "Okay," Montgomery said, "sounds like a good plan."

  "I'll make sure the limo driver stays on the island waiting for you," Jacob confirmed. "Can you give him an approximate time so we can coordinate everything?"

  "No problem. That'll keep Rachel on track, too. The woman is a ball of fire and can talk all day," Will said. "
Do you want to meet us back at the hotel for dinner?"

  "I have something even better in mind. How about dinner at the Bluewater Café?" Jacob suggested. "It's in Yaletown on Hamilton Street, and I've heard it's just about the best place in the city."

  Will and I laughed.

  "We've heard of it, Jacob," I told him. "But we've never been there!"

  "Somehow we never had the time," Will said, provoking a laugh from all four of us.

  I could scarcely believe we were joking about twenty years in jail.

  "I'll get us reservations," Montgomery offered. "How's six o'clock?"

  "Can you bring your wife?" I asked.

  "Sure. Thanks, Emily, I know she'd love that. I'll give her a call so we can arrange a sitter."

  "Our last day of anonymity for a few weeks," Will said, grabbing my hand. "Let's go, sweetheart. We'll be saying good-bye to Vancouver once again, but on a happier note."

  The limo driver, whose name was Patrick Ferris, cheerfully drove us through the sunny streets, taking the long way around at Will's request. We held hands in the back seat, watching the world go by through tinted glass. Will smiled at me and I felt the knots begin to loosen. Maybe he was right. Everything was going to be wonderful.

  Little did we know, Charlie Haynes had already received two telephone calls. He had spoken quite candidly to both men, whom he'd known for a very long time.

  Meanwhile we drove down Robson, away from the shops and offices, and hit Lagoon Drive. Stanley Park was in early bloom, trees majestic and green, towering over our heads, sentinels of happiness. People were out enjoying the air, the way they do every day in Vancouver—walking, jogging, biking. Babies on shoulders or in carriages or flying along in a carrier behind their parents' bicycles.

  Stanley Park Drive took us to Beach Avenue, where the inlet was early spring wild, a strong breeze kicking the water onto the rocky shores, tossing sand in the air.

  When we reached Bidwell, Will asked Patrick to turn. Bidwell Public School looked the same, a classic style with a wide-open paved playground and green yard. Children were racing back and forth, screaming and laughing, freeing the energy they held back in the classroom.