THE EMILY TAYLOR MYSTERY BUNDLE
THE BRIDGEMAN
VICTIM
LEGACY
SEVENTH FIRE
Catherine Astolfo
THE EMILY TAYLOR MYSTERY BUNDLE: THE BRIDGEMAN, VICTIM, LEGACY and SEVENTH FIRE
Copyright © 2014 by Catherine Astolfo. All Rights Reserved.
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FIRST EDITION eBook Bundle
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December 14, 2014
ISBN: 978-1-77223-009-3
THE EMILY TAYLOR MYSTERY BUNDLE and SEVENTH FIRE covers designed by Ryan Doan, www.ryandoan.com
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
THE BRIDGEMAN
VICTIM
LEGACY
SEVENTH FIRE
About the Author
Imajin Books
THE BRIDGEMAN
An Emily Taylor Mystery
Catherine Astolfo
This book is dedicated to my family, friends and colleagues, who bought me the desk and encouraged me to realize my dream.
Acknowledgements
My husband Vince, my best friend, my heart, and my soul mate. Without him, I could never have accomplished any of this. Vince also did a lot of the research on policing in Ontario—any errors are completely mine.
Kristen is not only my beloved daughter, but she is my friend and my inspiration. Writing has always been my dream and she has been the key in realizing it. She has such a talent for promoting others—I hope she appreciates how special and amazing she is, too.
James, my adored son, is a gifted, intelligent source of delight and pride. He will continue to make a difference in the world. His wife, Meredith, is my second daughter, ma belle-fille, my heart.
Without my mother Maureen's encouragement, support, and love, I'd be lost. My sisters and families, who love me and whom I love so fiercely in return, I will always be grateful for your influence in my life.
My stepsons and families have given me such happiness with their acceptance and affection.
My beautiful grandchildren are such a source of joy and wonder; they keep me balanced and in awe of this wonderful life.
My best friends have been my first editors, readers and supporters—they are family, too.
Thanks to Brian Pemberton, of the Ontario Society of the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and my niece Megan Straw for information regarding puppy mills. Any errors are strictly mine.
Thank you to Cheryl Tardif and Imajin Books for believing in Emily and me, and for her indefatigable support of Canadian writers.
Somewhere in this book is a hidden “Easter Egg,” a link to 3 FREE Qwickie novellas by 3 bestselling authors. This is a time limited offer, so happy reading and hunting!
Prologue
Discovering a dead body in the basement of a small school in the midst of a quiet village is not something anyone would expect, but that's exactly what happened to me. Not that most people ever envision finding a dead body at all.
But I, Emily Taylor, was not exactly most people. This sleepy little town was our haven, our sanctuary, to which my husband and I had escaped from a notorious, tragic past.
Not to mention, I was the school principal.
That's why, when I descended those basement stairs of my school that morning, I was more than shocked at the grisly discovery. I felt utterly violated.
I should have known better. I was feeling secure, lulled into a sense of normalcy, life going on at a steady pace. No surprises, kind of dull but satisfying. I marched down those stairs that day with the kind of confidence that comes from usually being in charge, of having control. An assumption that you are safe in a small town, especially in a respected building such as a school.
Although no one could have predicted what I found at the bottom of those stairs, I, of all people, should have known that nothing in this life is definite.
That you can never say never.
Chapter 1
The local school was located at the corner of, appropriately, Read and Main Streets, not too far from the canal. The kids went on tours to the locks and made the history and the geography of Burchill very much a part of the curriculum. At least, it had been that way since I became the principal.
Every morning, I jogged up Lakeview to Main, around St. Lawrence to Drummond, and circled back to Read. At first, the villagers were somewhat shocked to see their principal jog to work, but they soon got used to it. I'd always had a weight problem and I was determined to stay fit. Since I wanted to have a quick shower as soon as I arrived, I was always there early, sometimes even before the caretaker, Nathaniel Ryeburn.
Passed by during the industrial era, Burchill remained largely as it was envisioned in the 1890s—a waterside community, quiet tree-lined streets, canal-centered. Walking or jogging down the street was an occasion. You waved, smiled, nodded or talked to everyone. Homes still bore the names of the first families who lived in them and even people who had restored these old houses honoured the original architecture. Most people were in bed at a decent hour, but if you wanted to take a midnight stroll, you always felt safe.
On that particular morning, I spotted Nat's truck in the parking lot as I chugged the rest of the way up Read Street. As I told the police later, there was no other sign of movement. I used the key around my neck to open the door and noted that the alarm had been turned off. Everything was normal. I shifted my backpack to the front, shook out my dress, and headed for the small shower room next to the gym.
Burchill Public School was built nearly thirty years ago, replacing the old school house on Lewis Street, which now served as a bakery and home to one of the local merchants. Due to the fact that the architect worked closely with the principal at that time, it was a cleverly designed building. It even had a convenient, though small, shower for a physical education teacher, if the school had one.
For now, it doubled as my own personal 'beauty' room, where I kept some soap, deodorant, a hair brush, a towel and a little make -up. I didn't use much more than eyeliner and eye shadow. My blond hair was shoulder length with a body perm that allowed a quick brushing after a jog to return it to a lovely shine, turned up a little at the ends. I'd been told that I did not look forty-eight. I thought it was my oval face that gave the illusion of youth. In some social circles, I got obvious looks of approval from other men, or so my husband proudly told me.
After a quick look in the mirror, I headed for the staff room, where Nathaniel always
has coffee waiting for me. When I first arrived as principal, I told him not to spoil me like that, but he had given me such a look of disappointment that I allowed the practice to continue. Now and then I made sure to thank him, telling him how much I appreciated that first gulp of caffeine in the morning. His big, innocent face always crinkled in a grin and I was embarrassed to see how much my approval meant to him.
There was no inviting aroma that morning. In fact, the door was locked and the coffee pot was cold and clean, testimony to Nat's absence from the room. Puzzled, I made the coffee myself. While I was waiting for it to drip into the pot, it occurred to me that there was an eerie silence in the building. Normally, there would be the sounds of Nathaniel puttering around, maybe even starting the vacuum cleaner. Without waiting for the rest of the coffee to drip, I headed out into the halls to look for him.
Until then, I hadn't really noticed that a lot of the lights weren't turned on and that many of the doors had been left locked. Nat's usual pattern was to open all the doors first, turning on the hall lights as he went, to make the building bright and inviting for the first teachers to arrive. The outside doors were usually the last to be opened, at about seven-thirty, when one or two of the staff often drifted in. I normally arrived by seven, which was the case that morning. Often Nathaniel got there by 6:30 if he had extra things to do.
Now nearly 7:20, I had still heard no sounds of Nathaniel Ryeburn going about his business. The school was L-shaped, with the office area at the corner of the L, and the staff room and gym at the end of the longer wing. Walking from the staff room, I passed the office, which was dark and locked. I called out at this point, thinking Nathaniel might be in one of the rooms at the other end of the building. As I walked, I opened doors and turned on the hall lights. By now I was a little concerned, even disconcerted. There was something about a deserted building that was unsettling. Especially one that was normally filled with talkative little people. As I rounded the corner, I spotted the open basement door.
Because the school had been built in an era of bomb scares, the architect had designed a basement that could be used by a small number of people. It wasn't clear if he thought that the staff would hide and leave the students to face the bomb, or whether they'd select all the favourites and take them with them, or what he had in mind. In any case, the school had a wonderful storage area right below the short wing of the school. Very few people had been in the basement besides Nathaniel, who was always running up and down the stairs getting supplies. The door, for safety reasons, was absolutely never left open or unlocked.
I poked my head around the open door and was met with semidarkness and silence. The light at the top of the stairs had been turned off, but there seemed to be a dim light somewhere down in the recesses of the basement. Clearing my throat, I called Nat's name twice. No answer. I convinced myself that he must have been down there working on something and couldn't hear me. With that confidence which I was not to feel for a very long time afterward, I descended the stairs.
The steps were rather narrow and steep, which was why the door was supposed to be kept locked at all times. In fact, this was the first time I'd ever seen it ajar. I assumed that Nat hadn't thought it would be a problem leaving it open because it was so early. I crept carefully downward, calling his name as I went.
There was absolutely no answer. The silence felt heavy and ominous. Now I was sure there was something wrong. Maybe Nathaniel had had a heart attack or was hurt and unable to move. He was a very big man, and a twisted ankle could have rendered him helpless. But why doesn't he call out? Is he unconscious?
There was a little electrical room in the corner, where all the wires in the school seemed to gather and multiply. A dim light shone from there and the door stood open. As I walked toward it, I suddenly saw two long legs, clothed in the standard issue blue linen pants that the school board made its caretakers wear. Sprawled on the floor, Nathaniel was completely still, lying in the open doorway.
He's fallen, I thought. He's badly hurt. I'll check and then run for the ambulance. "Nat," I said, softly, concerned.
I was within a couple of feet from him when I saw, in the dim light that left his body in shadow, what was clearly wrong. A gaping hole in the middle of his back had poured a river of blood onto the basement floor all around his hips and waist. I could see a path of brownish red liquid to my left all the way to the door of the electrical room.
Something was clutched in Nathaniel's hand. His head was twisted sideways. His open eyes had once stared at whatever he held. Absurdly, I looked up and noticed the pictures of all of his pets, lovingly placed on the small bulletin board inside the room.
Without thinking, I moved toward Nat and picked up his right arm, which was splayed out toward me. It was cold and clammy. There was no life, no pulse, no sign of the man that had been Nathaniel Ryeburn.
That was when the horror hit me. I straightened up, paralyzed with fear and the sensation that I had been violated, robbed of my security and serenity, bereft and angry and terrified at the same time. While I could only mostly think of myself, the tears began to stream down my face as the loss of this dear man's life slammed past my over developed sense of self preservation. As though peering through a broken camera lens, the scene around me went in and out of focus, zooming in and out, in my numbed head. My heart pounded in my ears and in my mouth. My breath came in clumps. Nausea threatened to overturn the small breakfast I'd had much earlier.
I probably stood there no more than ten seconds, but the shock seemed to last hours. Suddenly I heard a loud banging in the distance and the sound frightened me into action. I raced up the stairs and confronted a face in the side doorway.
Chapter 2
Lynda McLeay looked at me quizzically through the window, a fist raised to bang once more on the door. I could tell my face was flushed and my eyes wide with shock and fear. Tears still slid unbidden and unchecked down my cheeks. Lynda froze and simply stared at the sight of her normally composed principal. I opened the door and nearly dragged Lynda inside.
"Lynda, something terrible has happened." My voice croaked and shook. I had to clear my throat to push the words past my lips.
Lynda McLeay was our Grade 8 teacher. She was a big woman, at least six feet tall, probably well over two hundred pounds, with hands that could encircle a small child's waist. Her large, impassive face waited patiently for me to explain. Only her eyes, blinking behind her glasses, showed her surprise.
"Something has happened to Nathaniel. I think he's…I'm sure he's dead."
"Dead? How…?"
"I'm not sure. It looks like he's been shot."
"Oh my God. But...but this is Burchill! We're in a school." Lynda's face was white, almost angry. She felt the violation, too.
"I know. Exactly." Lynda's pinched face and wide eyes were having a calming effect on me. I took both her hands in mine and tried to behave as the principal, the one who always made the tough decisions, the one in charge and in control. I sniffed away the tears and straightened my shoulders.
Taking a deep breath, not planning ahead but thinking as I went, I said, "I'm going to lock the basement door and call Edgar Brennan at the Ontario Provincial Police (OPP) Office. I'll give you my outside door key. Go and unlock the front door. Tell the first person you see about what has happened, and then both of you arrange to meet all staff at the front and side doors. Just let them know there's been an accident. Warn them that an ambulance or a police van may be showing up shortly before bell time and that they are to keep the kids outside and occupied. I want as few people as possible to know about this for now."
Lynda nodded, took the key, and proceeded toward the front door while I locked the basement. For a brief instant I felt as though I were abandoning poor Nat, but then reminded myself that he no longer knew pain or loss. In my office, I began to feel somewhat under control. I was no longer nauseous or dizzy. The shaking had stopped and my voice was steady as I called Edgar Brennan.
I knew that
he arrived at the little OPP office on Mill Street at seven every morning, because in the winter, when I walked to work and got there later, I waved at him through the window as I passed by. A quiet, tall, and rather handsome man, Edgar was someone who had the kind of assurance and calm manner that you needed in a police officer.
As soon as I heard his deep, reassuring voice, I felt tears at the back of my eyelids. "Edgar, it's Emily Taylor. I'm calling from the school."
He must have sensed the effort I was making to remain calm, as he was immediately businesslike.
"Edgar, there's been a death at the school. That is, Nathaniel Ryeburn has been shot and—"
He didn't wait for more. "I'll be right there. Have you called Doc Murphy?" When I told him no, he said he'd do that and bring the doctor with him.
After he hung up, I debated about whom to call next. The school board covers a very large area geographically, with the result that the board office is a long way away in a larger city. The school superintendent should certainly be notified, but should I call the local trustee first and have her call the superintendent or vice versa? My thoughts were swirling, getting caught like a flood of water on little bits of flotsam and useless detail. There was nothing in the emergency procedures to cover dead bodies in the basement. In the end, I decided to wait until the Doc and Edgar had looked at the scene.
When I first moved to Burchill, I couldn't believe that the country doctor really did exist. It was like something I'd read about or seen countless times on television or in movies. Doc Murphy was in his fifties. His father was the town doctor before him. There were many rites of passage in Burchill and handing the family business over to your son (or daughter nowadays) was certainly one of them. In the case of the Murphys, Ronald Murphy had left to study in the United States and make his fortune, but had returned when his father suffered a stroke. Ron had never left, even after his father died. Lucky for Burchill, because Ron Murphy was an excellent doctor, one of the best we had ever seen. Like those heart-warming family movies where a village doctor is featured, Ron Murphy was always referred to as 'Doc'.
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