On the other hand, Michael Lewis was a small, bespectacled, sandy-haired man with the fine, delicate hands of an artist. He also had the mathematician's attention to detail that was required when you drew a complex scene and then added colour. He was the perfect companion for Edgar and me as we prowled the school looking for anything out of the ordinary. Answering Mike's numerous questions kept me occupied and alert. I was able to forget the fatigue that sometimes accompanies shock and nervousness.
In the midst of parents arriving and toward the end of our school tour, the team from Ottawa, the school board Superintendent, and the local Trustee all descended upon the scene at once. The OPP officers arrived in two marked cars, two unmarked cars, a coroner's station wagon, and an emergency vehicle. The entire front yard was filled with vehicles. That should rouse the parents, I thought, as Mike Lewis went out to join Barry in directing the confused mothers, fathers, or baby-sitters to the back yard.
At first it was chaos as the Ottawa people and the school board officials jockeyed for power. A short, stout man with a beard, Peter McGraw belonged in the fairly isolated school board office. He was organized, knew all the rules, regulations and memoranda, but was completely without people skills. Connie Cicero, the Trustee, was pretty well ignorant of the rules and regs, but she could collect anyone's vote with her dazzling smile and empathetic blue eyes.
I had never met any of the Ottawa police before. In the confusion, I simply had an impression of big—big men, mostly, in uniform or suit, some with equipment, all quiet and hovering, except for one who immediately began asking questions.
In the end, it was Edgar who assumed command. He did it by first introducing everyone with our names and position, thereby establishing our roles. Next he informed Peter and Connie that the 'accident scene' was no place for anyone but the trained experts and he was 'certain that Emily did not want to go back down there'. He suggested, nicely but firmly, that they stay with me to review what the school personnel had done so far and to plan strategy for what must be done next. The Ottawa team fanned out from there, most toward the basement, some to inspect the rest of the building. At that point, Edgar deferred to Constable Ducek, the man with all the questions, murmuring answers as they proceeded down the hall.
I took Connie and Peter into my office where we all had coffee first, clucking over the incredulous occurrence. Once we got to work, our team turned out to be quite compatible. Peter, with his knowledge of the rules, was able to guide us through the proper procedures that the board and the parents should be able to expect. Connie, concerned with appearances and public relations, gave solid advice about how to handle the press and the parental reaction. My concern was the emotional stability of both the children and the staff. Eventually, we were able to put together a step-by-step plan that included calling the Burchill Banner, sending home a carefully worded letter, and calling on the services of a trained psychologist and child and youth worker from the main board office. When we were finished, and Connie and Peter gone, I actually felt much better.
By the time we emerged from the meeting, most of the parents and students had dispersed. The staff had been permitted to take the few remaining children into the gym out of the quickly heating sun. Teachers were taking turns entertaining them. The rest of them were sitting in pairs or groups of three whispering to one another. There was a shocked quietness about their movements. They still couldn't believe this was happening in their little town, and the thought of Nathaniel lying dead in the basement was beyond imagination.
I hadn't flashed back to that scene during the meeting with Peter and Connie. Now, in their wake, images of blood, Nat's sprawled and lifeless body, his clenched fist and staring eyes, kept darting through my thoughts like a film on ultra speed, startling me every time with their clarity and their power.
I knew I had to keep busy. I checked with May and found that six families couldn't be reached for various reasons. She was working on emergency alternatives. Barry and Mike had left, Barry to the restaurant to prepare for the day, Mike to answer any calls that came to the OPP office. I found Edgar near the basement door, talking to some of the Ottawa team. His face opened up with concern when he saw me.
"Emily! I see the kids have mostly been sent home. How did the parents take it? How was your meeting with Peter and Connie? How's the staff holding up?"
I smiled at his unusual verbosity. "The meeting actually went better than I expected. Peter and Connie were really helpful and I think we have a sensible plan in place. Barry and Mike were great with the parents. They're confused, but Connie's on her way to the Banner to file a well-worded report for this afternoon's paper, so that should help. It's vague enough but truthful enough to keep parents calm, I hope. The staff's still waiting in the gym. I just came to ask you if we should be doing anything else at this point. Also, do you think they can go to the staff room? I'd like to fortify them with some coffee if I can and it's right across from the gym. They could take turns."
The OPP officer from Ottawa answered at Edgar's gesture of inquiry in his direction. "Sure, let them get some coffee and a little fortification. I'll send an officer down there to supervise. We'll need to question all of the staff members, especially you, Mrs. Taylor. After that, we can start letting people go home. We'll start in about fifteen minutes. Okay?"
"Sure, no problem. Since this is the weekend, we won't need a further closing of the school, will we?"
"I don't see any reason to do that at this point. We may need to reassure parents that their kids are in no danger, that this is an isolated incident, etc."
"The newspaper article we composed does that well, I think. We're also planning to send a letter home with the kids on Monday to reinforce that. We might even figure out a way to deliver them on Sunday."
"Let's talk about all of this a little later. I'll fill you in on the investigation. I think you need more information than the rest of the population." The officer smiled at me and turned back to the basement door.
I went to my office and shut the door. It was time to call my husband. Langford Taylor was a prominent artist in Ontario. He painted watercolours mostly, of scenes in and around Burchill. He'd been compared to Tom Thomson and some of the Group of Seven and in fact, made a pretty good wage these days from his talent. Few people know that his first name was actually William. For me, 'Will' had become an endearment, one I used only when we were alone, a reminder of a time when we were so close yet so far apart. I thought he might be out in the studio, but he answered the telephone right away. As soon as I heard his voice, my composure left me and I began to cry.
"Em, what's wrong? What is it, honey? Should I come over?"
I managed to choke down the sobs then. "No, no, for god's sake, don't do that, Will. I have to look like I'm handling this." I gave a short, unamused laugh and dabbed at my nose and eyes with a tissue, trying to stem the current of feeling that was leaking out of me. "Honey, something terrible has happened at the school. Nathaniel Ryeburn has been murdered. I found his body in the basement."
He was silent for a moment, digesting the information. "What? Oh my god. Emily, this is incredible." His voice held all the emotion that I felt—the violation, the fear, the disbelief that murder had followed us to this little haven. I was in danger of dissolving into tears again.
"The OPP from Ottawa are here investigating. Edgar's been great and so have the staff. I'm just waiting to be questioned." Again, that shaky laugh betrayed my nervousness and fear. Was our life about to change again?
"Emily, don't worry. There's no connection between this and Vancouver. Don't be afraid, darling. It's going to be all right. Are you sure you don't want me to come up there?"
"I'm sure. I really will be okay. And, Will, I never thought there was a connection to you. It's just that Burchill is our sanctuary…" To my chagrin, my voice broke a bit again.
"I didn't mean that you would think there was a connection with me," Will said almost angrily. "I just meant…it's not the end of our life
here."
He was always reading my thoughts. But right now communication wasn't the best. We were in danger of isolating one another, and I knew it. I needed to be face to face, to touch his hands, to look into his eyes. This is the man I have loved for more than twenty-five years and I knew better than to short-change this conversation by submerging any of the feelings that we would have to deal with in the next few days. It was a conversation for home, for the lake, for the swing on the porch.
"I know it won't be," I said, trying to sound as though I had conviction, determined to have the strength to get through the rest of the day. "I love you, Will."
"I love you, too, Em. Will you be sent home early?"
"I think so. All the kids are gone now. I'm sure the staff and I will be next, after they question us…" My voice stuck on the word, the questioning, the relentless asking, the flashing of camera bulbs, the…My husband's words brought me back to the present, to Burchill, to here, in this school of this little town, where I was in control.
"If I'm not here, I'll be in the studio. I've got to finish some of Silver Lake before I lose the inspiration or the light, whichever comes first." He laughed softly.
"Get to work, then. I'll probably see you early this afternoon." We said good-bye, almost as if this were a normal day, and hung up. For a few minutes, I could do nothing but stare at the telephone, thinking nothing and everything at once. Images flashed through my mind without thought or logic. My heart pounded heavily. I couldn't help myself. I was afraid.
Chapter 4
A knock at the door cleared my head at once. Guiltily, as if I'd been derelict in my duties, I leaped up and threw open the door.
Edgar stood there, almost apologetically. "Constables Ducek and Petapiece want to start the interviews with you. Then they'll just ask the staff a few questions about when they arrived, where they live, stuff like that, and then everyone can go home. I think they've been under enough stress. They need to get back to their own children, their own families."
"Would my office be the best place for the interviews?" I asked, appreciating for the umpteenth time the soft colours, the large curtained window, the comfortable chairs, the large desk.
"Sure. I'll get Ducek and Petapiece in here now. Do you want me to stay?"
"Definitely."
Constable Ducek arrived with a younger female officer, presumably Petapiece, and several note pads. He sat at my desk, while the rest of us spread out in the chairs. "Okay, Mrs. Taylor, just lead us through your steps this morning."
I told them about my morning routine, about arriving at seven. I felt my face flush at the thought of taking my usual quick shower while poor Nat lay bleeding downstairs. Then I retraced my thought process as it led me to the basement stairs. I described as dispassionately as possible the scene that I had come upon, talked about the blood, about touching Nat's wrist to feel for a pulse, pretending it was a story I was telling about someone else.
There is something about speaking from the principal's chair that infuses authority. I was far calmer and more in possession of my faculties than I'd been all morning. "He didn't even feel warm to the touch," I said, still feeling the surprise and shock, but becoming more objective as I remembered to whom I was speaking. "But it's funny, because Nat doesn't usually get here until six thirty or seven himself."
Constable Petapiece spoke. "It looks like Mr. Ryeburn had been dead over an hour when you arrived. The coroner can't determine that for sure until there's an autopsy, but Dr. Ogilvy is uncannily accurate, and his opinion is backed up by Burchill's own doctor."
"So Nat must've come here really early. That's very unusual." I began to picture him, lumbering through the dusky hallways, making his way to the basement in half-light. Why? "What was clenched in his hand?" I knew they were supposed to be asking the questions, but I needed to know.
The Constables glanced at one another. "It was a picture of his mother and father and his pets," Constable Ducek said, the tone of his voice displaying a mixture of pity and curiosity.
I nodded my head. "I'm not surprised. Nat is very devoted to his parents and the animals that he cares for. His place is like a small zoo. Any hurt or stray animal is immediately taken to Nathaniel to be looked after. It doesn't please our local vet." Then it flashed into my mind that the situation would be different from now on and I felt my face colour in shame at having smiled.
"I need to know one more thing, and then I'll be quiet. Could I have...if I hadn't come in and spent time in the shower and making coffee and opening doors...could I have saved him?" I tried my best to hold my head up, to perfect that icy principal's stare, in order to avoid having my voice break and losing my dignity.
Constable Ducek looked at me thoughtfully, directly into my eyes. The clench of my fingers must have belied the feelings behind the question. I had to look away before tears came. "No, Mrs. Taylor, it doesn't look that way. Mr. Ryeburn was shot with a 30.30 calibre rifle, with a soft-nosed hunting bullet. Unfortunately, that meant almost instant death for the poor guy. He caught it in the stomach area, so he lived maybe fifteen minutes, probably in agony, only long enough to stagger to the electrical room and grab that picture. I can't imagine what was going on in his mind at that moment. But no, Emily," his use of my first name was meant to be comforting, "you couldn't have saved him. He was dead when you arrived at the school."
My mind drew back to my arrival (was it only four hours ago?) and the thought of casually going about my regular routine with Nathaniel's body so close by made me shiver. I doubted that I'd ever again feel so secure and safe in my own school.
After a few more perfunctory questions, I was dismissed, and the officers began their short interviews with the staff. As each meeting concluded, the teachers were sent to the sanctuary of their homes. I waited, with May for support, until everyone was gone. In the meantime, almost surreptitiously, the Ottawa team removed Nathaniel's body, whisking it away in the coroner's hearse. I stood at the window of my office and watched, wondering, not for the last time, who on earth would have wanted to kill Nathaniel Ryeburn, one of the mildest, sweetest men I'd ever met.
"I'll call you later," May had said, and then she waved at me as she traced her steps back along the walkway, her face crumpled with concern, her eyes holding onto mine for as long as she could before she straightened and headed for home.
The Ottawa team was still investigating, hidden in the depths of the basement, when they released me. They knew 'where to find me,' Edgar told me, squeezing my hand for reassurance, so I could go home for now. He couldn't know how those words affected me. Edgar couldn't hear the echoes of my past that made this particular expression so threatening. Where he thought he was being funny, and therefore supportive, he had chosen words that caused those waves to begin crashing once more against clumsily piled rocks that form my wall of security, control, peace, hope.
Chapter 5
The weather hadn't cooperated in reflecting the horror of this day. It was beautiful—sunny, dry and breezy. Friendly white clouds drifted in the light blue sky. I walked quickly, afraid that at any moment a parent would come up and start questioning me. I kept hearing those words, so innocent and yet so ominous: we know where to find you. For a moment I almost wished we were living in a big, anonymous city, but then I reminded myself that even there, they had known where to find us. I don't remember much about that walk home, except that as I passed close to the Ryeburns' residence, I thought that I should go in and see the old couple, but couldn't force my feet in their direction. There was nothing I could do until I had felt Will's arms around me.
My husband and I lived in what was known as the 'Beatty House'. A turn of the century frame house, it was lovingly restored by the couple who lived there before us. It had two beautiful verandas at both the front and back doors. The back porch had been screened in and enlarged. Best of all, it overlooked Ogeechee Lake and was surrounded by lovely old trees. We were right at the end of the street, which was, naturally, called Lakeview Road. Th
e house was painted a light blue with white shutters, looking somewhat Cape Cod-ish. It had been modernized just enough to suit a professional couple's tastes, but not enough to spoil its original grandeur. Though listed in the 'Walking Tour' book sold to tourists, it was too far from the main street for most people to bother coming by.
I cannot tell you how stunned I was when I first saw Beatty House. It was as though someone reached into my dreams and built the one place in which I would feel completely, totally, at home. I loved it then and I loved it now, two years later.
What I pictured in my mind as I walked home that day was the front porch surrounded by the purple flowers that I've never learned the names of, lovingly planted there by Will. I imagined the front door with the brown straw bonnet welcome sign, its bright silk buds around the rim, and the curtains, which trim the windows so perfectly. I saw the living room, the comfortable chairs, the stereo in front of which Will and I spend so many nights just listening.
And as I walked, the distance seemed to grow longer, the house further away, and my heart pounded with panic. I saw him through the glass of a prison meeting room, through the bars of the prison doors, through the cement of the prison walls. It seemed that I would never reach him, never feel his arms around me. I walked faster, my back ramrod straight, my eyes unblinking behind the sunglasses, feeling as if I were starring in a bad horror movie.
I caught a glimpse of Will watching for me from the studio window. Half his mind still lay with Silver Lake, I could tell. The other half of his consciousness was suddenly with me, probably wondering when I'd come around the corner of the house. When he saw me, I was walking swiftly, almost running. I was certain he could feel my panic from here. No one else would have been able to tell. Only he would know that within the straight-backed posture, the purposeful stride, lay panic and distress underneath. The rest of the world would see a not unattractive, slim blond, every hair in place, dress unwrinkled despite the long hot day, shoes sensible but fashionable. The local school principal—in control, a friendly enough person who was firm, capable and efficient.
The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle Page 3