The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle

by Catherine Astolfo

  Next we drove up Davie Street. Wordlessly, we passed the apartment building where we used to live. It still looked tidy and comfortable, a place in which young couples might feel at home. For some reason, that made us both smile again.

  We turned onto Granville Street and over the bridge to the island. Despite the newness of the season, False Creek was dotted with sailboats, Aquabuses, ferries and small outboards. The water was calm here, a greyish blue with streaks of gold from the sunshine. It looked alive and filled with energy.

  Suddenly, in front of us on Railspur Avenue, was The Three Arts Institute. Across the way on Johnston, the new Emily Carr Institute looked stately and modern, while Three Arts had remained what it had been—a former factory, red bricked and ornate, but aged.

  "I'll be in the coffee shop just off Cartwright," Patrick said. "They're all one-way streets around here, so I'll be parking a little way off, but that'll make it easier for me to come back and pick you up. Just call my cell when you're ready."

  We got out of the car and stood hand in hand in front of the doors of Three Arts, almost afraid to move. Just beyond the school, we could see the pathway that led to the Marketplace and the studio. Then out of the corner of my eye, I caught a movement.

  Dennis Maloney, accompanied by an entourage of young men and women—could I really have taught these adults when they were so young?—came happily toward us, arms and hands offering hugs and shakes, everyone speaking at once. I'd had no idea all of these people could be rounded up at such short notice.

  I allowed the wave of people to carry me along as soon as I saw Rachel Ouellet on the stairs of Three Arts, she too accompanied by a group of men and women who were once young students.

  "Looks like I might be longer than I thought," I said to my husband, unable to keep the grin off my face. "If you're finished before me, come join us. Otherwise, I'll see you here in a couple of hours."

  Will and I parted after a long look of joy and satisfaction. If only we had known.

  The False Creek Pub was the same as it always had been—a big, wooden structure with wide oak flooring and weathered tables. It was warm enough to gather on the huge porch overlooking the restaurant's namesake, False Creek, although there were some upright heaters strategically placed just in case.

  As I lifted a large frothy glass of beer in a toast, I was almost overwhelmed by the emotion of this reunion.

  The conversation was loud and boisterous. Justin hadn't been able to come, but Laura and Fiona were there, both accompanied by their husbands. A large contingent of students and teachers from Bidwell Public School came and went, some just for a hug or shake of the hand, others to sit for lunch. There were some staff and former students from Abbotsford, too, many of whom had retired or moved to Vancouver for work.

  I felt wonderful. The presence of these amazing people made me realize that, despite the ongoing hell of Will's situation, I had managed to have friends and a satisfying career. I had cared a great deal about the children. Seeing them as adults, functioning and happy, was extremely uplifting. I imagined Will was feeling much the same way at that same moment.

  Remembering I had an important dinner date, I started to drink mineral water after the first beer. Besides, I had to keep my wits about me as the conversations bounced from topic to topic, from one particular period in my life to another completely different time and place. Adjusting to the faces of my students from young children to adults was disconcerting too. In Burchill, I had the privilege of watching them grow and change every day.

  One surprise was, at first, awkward and unpleasant. I noticed the hush in the room before I sensed the presence of a woman at the steps leading onto the deck.

  Elaine Martin still looked the same, though her red hair was streaked with grey. Those familiar green eyes were filled with tears, her face abject and filled with a tinge of fear. No doubt she expected me to reject her and that was exactly what I intended to do.

  The instant I saw Natalie, though, standing next to her mother, grown up and beautiful, a complete mixture of her parents, I changed my mind. There was no reason to hold onto the anger any more. The only person to whom I could allow myself to direct rage and even hatred was the real murderer of Linda Courtnell, and I might never know who that was.

  So I got to my feet, walked slowly toward Elaine, and pulled her close in a hug. She sobbed on my shoulder, clinging and shaking, whispering over and over again, "Please forgive me."

  I hugged Natalie too, then led them over to a spot at the picnic table. Elaine was still unable to staunch the tears. I grabbed her hand.

  "Elaine, it's okay." I realized this was actually true. "I do forgive you."

  "I don't know why I did it," she sniffed. "I got caught up in the drama. I don't even know if I thought it was real."

  "It's all right. I'm sure you know we're here to file the appeal and I have every reason to believe Bill will be exonerated. You have to live your life, Elaine. You can't feel guilty any more."

  Natalie squeezed my hand, tears beginning to slide down her face too.

  "Mrs. Thompson, thank you. My mother has never been able to forget her mistake. She needed your forgiveness. Thank you for being so kind."

  I'm not very kind. I only forgave her because you are here, so sweet and supportive of your mom, I thought. And because Elaine never did let the press find Emily Taylor.

  Chapter 24

  March 2009

  Margaret Thompson had not been wrong when she warned her future daughter-in-law about her son's bad temper. She had just been wrong about how it manifested itself.

  Emily had witnessed Will's temper only twice. On a visit to Langford Island, their favourite private place for exploring their physical attraction to one another, they had a ferocious argument over sex. Ironically, it was Emily who wanted to consummate their relationship. Will was arguing they should wait.

  Young and somewhat overcome by her emotions, Emily yanked Will's school ring off her finger and tossed it in the air, fully expecting her boyfriend to catch it, beg her forgiveness, and carry her off into the bushes. Instead, the ring disappeared forever until it surfaced in a Langford Taylor painting.

  On that occasion Emily had been taken aback by the fury in his eyes and etched on his face. He literally transformed. Will was normally a quiet, attentive person whose sensitive brown eyes were legendary among women. When he lost his temper, his eyes blackened into deep holes of anger and red spots appeared on his cheeks. He then lapsed into a lecturing mode, ranting and raving about the ills of the world and the sins of the offender in particular.

  The second occasion was when Emily announced her unplanned pregnancy. That time, she had again been astounded by the change in his countenance, and had been subjected to a harangue that lasted two whole days.

  Will had lost his temper with his mother far more often, mostly because she was a bitter, disagreeable person who knew exactly how to push his buttons. Margaret always believed, when she observed the alteration of Easy-Going William to You've-Gone-Too-Far William, that he harboured a latent violent streak. She was convinced that he refrained from hitting her only because she was his mother. But Margaret Thompson was wrong.

  As a child, William lived in a house where the tension was always a living, breathing entity that sat amid the three occupants like a possessive cat. When he was young, Will had no idea why his mother was always unhappy. He spent a great deal of time trying to cheer her up, ignoring her negativity, keeping the peace.

  When he grew up, he realized his gregarious, generous father had been just as free with his love outside his home as he was inside it. Only two mysteries ever existed for Will once he discovered his father's numerous infidelities and the source of his mother's bitterness—why they stayed together and why Edward never got caught.

  After Edward died, Will had been far less patient with his mother, especially as she attempted to transfer her lifelong grievances from her philandering husband to her son.

  However, William Edw
ard Thompson was neither violent, as his mother thought, nor like his father, as most other people thought. He kept a very tight control on his darker emotions. On the whole he was a positive, optimistic person who took delight in life. Art was his outlet, his pride, and his joy, until Emily came along.

  Bright, cheerful and smart, Emily was his complement, his soul mate and his best friend. She kept him anchored, because she loved him so completely and because she was the polar opposite of his mother. Together, they were, for the most part, extremely happy and satisfied.

  When he was accused and convicted of Linda Courtnell's murder, Will's dark side emerged. He was enraged, frustrated and scared. Society, in the form of the legal system he had to depend upon, abandoned him. He lost his wife, his child, his reputation and his freedom. Margaret's philosophy that the world was a negative place began to overtake his inner self.

  Once imprisoned, inmate Bill Thompson spent most of his time in solitary confinement. The other prisoners followed the newspapers just like everyone else and had been stirred up by Linda Courtnell's horrific death. The girl was a student, little more than a child. She was the bona fide Princess of Vancouver—the city from which many of the prisoners came—with a blossoming talent that promised she would be the Queen before long. The sensational murder kept the prisoners just as enthralled as the general population.

  Therefore, threats against Bill's life were continually issuing forth from inside the institution. Truth be known, there were several guards who probably would have looked the other way had anyone made an attempt on Bill's life. Hence, William Thompson languished for nearly twenty years with little company but his own.

  In the rare circumstance when he did encounter the other prisoners, in the laundry room or courtyard or library, Bill was accosted and taunted. Most inmates, however, only hit him once.

  Unarmed, on the receiving end of the most vicious of his transformations, the aggressor quickly backed off and left Thompson alone again. It didn't take long before the entire population of Kent Institute declared him to be hands-off.

  However, Will never actually struck anyone. It was the suggestion of an underlying rage, a terrifying potential, which kept even the most hardened criminals at bay.

  As it turned out, solitary confinement was Will's saviour. If he'd been able to consort with the other prisoners without being killed, he might have become the violent person his mother envisioned. Surrounded by aggression and hatred, Will would probably not have been able to survive intact. His innate optimism would surely have been crushed.

  As it was, he spent hours reading, writing, painting and whenever possible, talking to his wife. He read philosophy, religion and art history, as well as legal texts that pertained to his case. He even made friends with a couple of the guards, who admired his artistic talent and came to appreciate Will's wise ability to listen and support.

  Through the long, oppressive years, especially after Emily had fully recovered, Will developed his own solid values and outlook on life. At his essential core, he believed in people. He decided he would give them his trust and affection unless they demonstrated their unworthiness.

  He appreciated life, in all its struggles and wonder, and had complete faith in Emily's love. He came to believe positive energy could overcome all battles and an individual could achieve any goal with deep commitment and hard work.

  When he and Emily moved to Burchill, he became Langford Taylor in every way. He savoured his freedom on a daily basis, particularly being able to touch and make love to his wife.

  Although they had some harrowing experiences in the little town, they had also developed a group of friends and supporters that was unparalleled. Cate and Carly were a gift that added indescribable joy to his life. Langford Taylor was now inordinately happy.

  The only thing missing was a declaration of innocence. He needed the justice system, which had so deeply wounded him, to give him back his name and his reputation.

  He wasn't aware of any other need in his present life until he heard the voice on the telephone the day they returned to Vancouver to renew old acquaintances.

  William and Dean Rachel Ouellet spent an hour or so with the former students who'd come to see him at Three Arts. He caught up on many of their lives, talked frankly about what prison had him taught about life, and boldly hinted they might want to be listening to the news tomorrow morning. When he and Rachel said their good-byes and retreated to her office, Will was feeling almost deliriously joyful.

  They sat down at her sumptuous Dean's desk, a huge old wooden structure carved with ammeters and voltmeters and other symbols of higher learning. Will had just stretched his legs out in front of him, settling into the soft leather chair for a long and pleasant chinwag, when the telephone shrilled.

  Rachel apologized and picked up the receiver.

  "Oh yes, of course," she said. "I didn't forget. The papers are right here."

  She listened for a moment, nodding and patting the pile on her desk as though the caller could see her.

  "By the way, I have a visitor in my office you might like to talk to—Bill Thompson."

  Even William could hear the enthusiasm in the response from across the expanse of her desk.

  "Sure, here he is."

  Rachel pulled the telephone cord taut and handed the receiver to Bill.

  "Bill, my dear boy," said the voice on the other end.

  At that moment William Thompson realized the other thing he needed. The phrase that had been repeated ad nauseum in the killer's letters pounded in his brain, triggering a rage so fierce he nearly screamed it aloud. "My dear boy" was said in such a light, cheerful voice.

  A violent desire for revenge surged through Will like an electric volt through water. He needed the real murderer to be punished.

  Chapter 25

  March 2009

  It was almost four o'clock before I looked at my watch again.

  "Holy shit," I said in ladylike fashion. "I told Bill we'd have time to change before our dinner date."

  "Where are you going for dinner?" Dennis asked.

  "The Bluewater Café."

  There were only a few people gathered round the table now. They all raised their glasses when I lifted my mineral water for a toast.

  "We're celebrating our return to the city we loved. I'm so thankful to all of you who came here today. Once the appeal is successful—which I'm confident it will be—we'll be back."

  We clinked our glasses.

  By the time I said final farewells, thank yous and see you agains, it was close to four-thirty. Dennis walked me over to Three Arts, which was mostly deserted. The big front doors, however, stood open and welcoming, both digesting and divesting themselves of a few straggling students.

  By now, the early spring sun was beginning to hug the mountaintops and slide through the valleys.

  I hugged Dennis again, thanked him profusely for the wonderful reunion, and headed up the stairs toward Rachel's office.

  As I passed the huge mural that graced the wall of the stairwell landing, I thought of how many times I had passed this picture without appreciating it. As beautiful as this painting was, it served only as background to the sweeping staircase. The landscape, now that I looked at it carefully, was both familiar and intriguing.

  Rachel was not at her desk, though the door was wide open. I stopped an impossibly young professor as he walked past me in the hallway.

  "Excuse me. Have you see Dean Ouellet?"

  He smiled, a friendly preppie smile.

  "Yes, as a matter of fact. She left a few minutes ago to go to a meeting. I was with her when she got called to discuss a student matter with another professor."

  He sounded proud he had been with the dean.

  "Was a man with her? My husband was visiting her and I was supposed to meet him here."

  "Oh, you mean Professor Thompson!" he cried. "I used to be one of his students. It's nice to meet you."

  We shook hands, although I was pretty distracted by that p
oint and wanted him to answer the question.

  "That means you met with him too?"

  "Yes…but that was before I met with Dean Ouellet."

  Now I was totally confused and must have shown the bewilderment through my expression.

  "A bunch of former students, including me, met downstairs in the faculty lounge with the professor and the dean," he explained in that same proud tone. "Then the professor came upstairs to the dean's office…"

  He pointed as though I wasn't aware the open door led to Rachel's domain.

  "I saw him leave about half an hour later."

  "Half an hour?" I asked, incredulous.

  "Yes. About two thirty, or quarter to three."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Absolutely! I stuck my head in the dean's door and asked if we could meet. She said the professor was headed next door and might be back, but I could meet with her in the meantime. He never did come back, so…"

  "Thanks," I rudely interrupted.

  The young man shrugged, gave me another of those smiles, and walked away.

  Will had left Rachel's office at two thirty or so, but never joined me in the pub. So what had he meant by "going next door?" Why on earth would he go anywhere else when we'd promised to meet here or in the pub?

  I went down the massive staircase slowly, while I made two calls. The first was to Will's cell phone, which told me "the customer was unavailable."

  Next, I talked to Patrick Ferris, who said Will had not returned to the limo. He also told me to take as long as we wanted. The reservations had been moved to seven.

  Had Will found out about the delay in dinner plans and decided to visit some old haunts? It seemed so unlikely. We'd promised to follow the plan exactly as we'd laid it out for Jacob and Montgomery.

  I stopped on the landing to think. As I did so, I turned and looked once again at the mural. There was something so recognizable about it, not just from my distant memories, but a technique, a method, a flow of the brush that made me hold my breath. Trees, streams, ponds, hills and flowers, ordinary scenes and yet…