"And Nat, he would just nod and smile and not really say anything. Yet he had this reputation for solving problems, for being quite wise despite his simple demeanour. All the people really did was use him as a sounding board, because he never gave advice, and he never told any of the secrets that were told to him." May laughed. "And that's a rarity in this town, let me tell you. The people just solved their own problems by talking them out. They think they loved and admired Nat, but all they really knew about him was that he was always available, same time, same place every single day. He told you and shared more with you than anyone I've ever seen."
"Thanks for that, May. You always know how to make me feel better. Everything I hear about Nat makes it even harder to believe that anyone would want to kill him. He's just so sweet, always kind and helpful and…and the more I learn about him, the more it just confirms my impression of a gentle giant."
Just then Edgar's face appeared in the doorway. "What's the verdict, Emily?"
I told him that the Board personnel would call parents regarding closing the school for at least this week and perhaps the whole two weeks before the summer break. They had decided to tell the parents the truth about what had happened. A special board meeting would be held tomorrow to make decisions and formulate a plan to handle press releases.
He nodded his approval. "I think closing the school for two weeks is the only way to handle this. I hope that's what they decide to do. The Ottawa people are pretty much already in place around the school, plus some have headed over to the Ryeburns'. No one can figure out what the hell is going on. How did someone get a horse into the school for God's sake without anyone seeing it? So they're also going to go into the neighbourhood to ask everyone questions. We're going to publish a request in the paper for anyone who saw anything to come forward." Edgar ran his fingers through his hair. His normally calm face was lined with worry and more than that, I saw anger. "We've got to get this bastard who's ripped up our town. Excuse my language, Emily, May."
"It's more than appropriate in these circumstances, believe me." I stood up. "Was there any kind of a message, Ed? Or was the pony supposed to be it?"
"I found nothing, Emily. No written note, no message from the voice on the tape except to get to the school. I guess we're just supposed to figure it out. The press is going to go wild. Nothing like this has happened in the big bad city, let alone a sleepy place like Burchill." He grinned, a lopsided, sarcastic grimace. "Just imagine what a great summer we'll have with the tourists now."
"Is it okay if I search around? Downstairs?" I hadn't known I was going to say it until I'd finished. Edgar and May looked at me, astonished.
"I'll check with Ottawa, but I guess it'd be all right. You got a hunch?"
I glanced at May. "I just have this feeling that Nat would have left me a message. I think he tried to tell me something and I'm missing it. I don't think he'd leave without telling me what happened. I know that's irrational, but I seem to be quite irrational in the last few hours... "
"Once again, more than appropriate in the circumstances." Edgar led us through the door into May's office. "I'll be right back."
May sat at her desk and began to assemble the children's files. "I'll get the family lists and phone numbers ready to fax to the board office and start calling the staff. Emily, are you okay?"
For a moment, I considered. "I think so. At least, I'm calm. I was just thinking about what you said, about how Nat confided in me. If he had some time like Doc said—if he'd been able to think just before he died, in spite of the pain, he would have known that I would likely be the one to find him. Maybe he left me a message. I haven't spent any time thinking about everything and I need to, while the images are still right before my eyes. I think I need to look over the death scene. Maybe something will come to me. In the meantime, I'll help you wake the staff a little earlier than usual and then tell them to go back to sleep."
Later, when May and I were completing the calls to the staff, Edgar came back and told me that Ottawa had finished with the basement and had given their permission for me to go through it. As I descended the steps, the dread came back to me. I wondered what the hell I was doing.
The windowless room was cool and dry, like a wine or fruit cellar. The stains from Nathaniel's painful death darkened the floor and looked grotesque in the fluorescent lighting. I stood in the middle of the room, listening to the humidifier sighing inside the furnace.
I imagined Nathaniel, remembered his talking to me down here on several occasions as we surveyed the supplies, filled out maintenance requests or purchase orders. "Mrs. Emily..." He would never quite call me Emily, despite my requests to do so. "Looks like we need to order some paper towels. Have ya thought about puttin' in them hand blowers? Sure would save a pile o' money down the road."
I turned to look inside the electrical room. Here I found the remainder of his pictures, all pinned carefully to the bulletin board amid health and safety notices and warnings. In one, Angel looked up at the camera, her soft brown eyes wide. I could only think she looked frightened. Maybe she didn't like the flash of the camera. In another stood the pony, a beautiful brown and white, sleek animal. How could anyone have left it to die that way? Several photos were of cats, some birds, rabbits, and one of Nathaniel's parents, obviously taken a long time ago, for they both stood ramrod straight, faces unwrinkled by time.
They were several inches apart, not touching, unsmiling, and that frozen image told a story of cold, unspoken aggression and even hatred. Imagine growing up in that high-ceilinged, dark house with these unloving, icy parents. Was Nat ever hugged or kissed as a child? Had he found comfort in the solitary, repetitive activities of the bridge? Or in the companionship of animals that had been abused and discarded? Why had he left home all those years ago, and more importantly, why return after his escape?
I plucked one of the pictures from under its pin. Nathaniel was in the background, showing off the sheen of the little pony, the dogs and cats around his feet, and a ribbon of some sort that one of the animals had obviously won. I studied his big, flat face, his pockmarked skin, his unruly and always greasy hair, his wide, guileless eyes. I had shamefully been struck by Nathaniel's unattractive exterior when first I met him, but soon I'd forgotten that in the light of his peaceful, industrious, kind and giving nature. Now in the stark fingers of light that hit this old photograph, I could see the ill-formed features and misshapen nose that combined to make Nathaniel Ryeburn unappealing, even ugly, if one judged by looks alone.
"You know, Mrs. Emily, birds are actually very smart. Especially crows. After that crow's wing healed, he hung around people like he was one of us. I had to capture him again and take him way out to the reserve so he'd get used to the woods again. He looked at me with such hurt eyes when I told him to fly away. He turned his head sideways and listened to me talkin'. He knew what I said. He just didn't want to believe that I didn't want him around. But he was gettin' too close to the kids in the park and all the parents was complaining. I figured sooner or later someone'd shoot him. I hope he's happy out in them woods."
I, distracted, busy, thinking, would give some inane reply, such as "I'm sure he is." Then I'd ask, "Nat, what about salt? Do we have enough for the driveway for winter?"
"Look here, Mrs. Emily. I never showed this to nobody else. You won't tell, will you?"
Of course, Nat. I'll never tell anyone. I promise. Would I even remember this exchange? It seemed so inconsequential at the time.
"There's a secret little box right here. Don't know what the guy who built this place was thinkin'. Like you said, maybe it was one of them bomb shelters, and this little cupboard was for hidin' valuables. Look."
And one of the grey concrete bricks, which looked exactly like all the others, swung open at his touch to reveal a safe-size compartment tucked inside the wall. "I jes' keep some personal papers and special pictures in there, Mrs. Emily. Hope you don' mind. Ain't got much of a private place at home, doncha know."
&
nbsp; That's really interesting, Nat. Of course I don't mind. Lynda's complaining that her trash didn't get emptied last night. Are those part-time cleaners listening to you?
Had I really been that careless with him, or did the syndrome that May had been talking about cloud these memories? Am I too critical of myself?
Was the picture clutched in Nat's hand a signal to go and look inside his little hiding place? Or was it something else entirely? Or perhaps simply the last gasp of a man trying to hold onto his life, and the parents and animals he loved so dearly.
I went to the wall next to the electrical room, my fingers skimming over the brick surface, looking for something that would tell me where the safe was. After a few minutes, I found it. The mortar around one of the bricks wasn't actually mortar. It was a steel surface that, when pressed, acted as a spring that caused the 'brick' to swing open.
"I never showed this to nobody. You won't tell, will you?"
Inside, I could see some loose papers, a handful of pictures, and a small brown book. The papers proved to be pay stubs, holiday time sheets, seniority notices and so on. The pictures were more of the same—dogs, cats, ponies, birds. I reached in and drew the book out. It was an old leather diary with a snap that was locked.
"If anythin' ever happens, Mrs. Emily, would you get rid of this here stuff for me? Wouldn't want nobody readin' my personal stuff, doncha know?"
I understand. I promise. Now, what about those loose tiles in..?
I closed the safe and went back to the electrical room. Several keys hung neatly on hooks, mostly labelled. One hook held a few unlabeled, smaller keys. I tried each of them in the diary lock. The last one, a small gold key, opened it immediately. Inside, I glimpsed the tiny, cramped scrawl that resembled Nat's writing. I locked it again.
Although I could never later explain why, even to myself, I placed the diary and the key in my pocket. There was no conscious thought of hiding anything from Edgar, or the law. It was only a desire to keep Nat's secrets, whatever they were, safe. He'd given his trust to me, and I was bound by a promise. I was convinced there could be nothing significant in Nat's scribblings. Or so I told myself later.
Chapter 10
At the time, I simply went to the electrical room and began to remove the pictures without much thought at all. Flattening them out, I studied each one more carefully. To my biased eye, one influenced by the murders, I thought I could see terror and hatred in every animal's look. A current of fear shot through my spine and I swung around, staring into the empty basement. Shaking myself, I took the pictures and hurried up the stairs.
Edgar and Constable Ducek stood at the end of the hallway.
"I brought Nat's pictures up with me. I hope that's okay. I thought his parents should have them." The diary weighed heavily in my pocket, but I ignored it. I knew I sounded breathless, wondered if I sounded guilty. But Ducek only nodded absently.
"Good idea," Edgar said, patting me on the shoulder with uncharacteristic affection. "No clues have been found, Emily. Ottawa is stumped and so are we. Haven't even been able to get anyone in the neighbourhood to say they saw a pony, or even a truck that could've carried a pony. So either they arrived in the middle of the night or so early in the morning no one happened to be up."
"They?"
"Or he, she, I don't know. Seems likely the pony was given some kind of drug to make it pass out and lie down, or else it was well trained. Did Nat train the animals as well as care for them?"
"His father mentioned that he trained his animals well. And Langford and I have taken in one of his dogs and I must say, she's amazing." Those animals are really smart, Mrs. Emily...
"Interesting. So it could be that we have a very well trained, compliant animal that would have been easily and quietly led up the street and through the front door. Or else was obediently loaded into and unloaded from a truck. We'll know more about the potential use of drugs when the autopsy's finished on the horse," Constable Ducek said. "I hear the school's to be evacuated for the week at least, and maybe for the summer. That's probably a good idea, I guess."
"You sound doubtful, Constable Ducek," I prompted.
"It's just that it may make it very difficult to come back here. The summer might actually blow everything out of proportion rather than allow the fear to abate. Plus it may be exactly what our murderer wants."
"Surely it wasn't done in order to evacuate the school."
Ducek shrugged his big shoulders. "Anything is possible, believe me. I have the feeling the pony was a message. Maybe the killer was looking for something and didn't find it. Maybe the pony was killed the way it was and placed where it was in order to deter re-entry for a while. The culprit would have to know that in a small town like this one, pressure would be put on to evacuate, despite a loss of two weeks of school."
"But wouldn't that just draw attention rather than the opposite? Wouldn't the culprit know that the school is going to be watched?"
"We won't have the personnel to give it round the clock supervision though, believe me. Once again, the culprit must be familiar with small town budgets and politics. If a couple of days go by and nothing happens, you can bet the night watch is going to be drive-bys only, probably left up to your little staff, Edgar."
"This might be the one time I hope the press makes a big deal out of everything," Edgar said.
We were silent for a moment, each of us contemplating the situation. Then as if by agreement, we moved apart, I toward my office, Edgar down the hall, and Ducek to speak to his partner. I arrived at the office just as the pony's body was being loaded into a large black truck at the front door. May came out and followed my gaze as the Ottawa officers and coroners struggled with the ropes and pulleys that held the large carcass.
"Everything's in place, Emily," May said gently. "The school board officials are calling all the parents. I don't imagine too many of them will be upset by the closing. They'll be scared to death to let the kids out at all, let alone come to the school. They'll probably wonder about report cards, though, just in case we stay closed the whole two weeks."
I felt dazed, distracted, and had to pull myself back into the conversation with May. Often she amazed me. Her thinking was so clear and she was able to pick up on details that overwhelmed me. "You're right, May, I will have to do something about the report cards. Particularly if we end up being closed early for the whole summer. The staff will have to be allowed to come in and complete all the records, sign the reports, get the..."
I mumbled to myself, walking into my office, and put the wheels in motion. Once I had the telephone in my hands, I began to feel in charge again. Arrangements were made for staff to come into the school and get their computers and any records they needed to work at home on report cards. Ed, obviously feeling embarrassed, had to accompany them to their classrooms.
The rest of the morning sped past. It was well past one o'clock when May's small dark face peered around at me. "I'm starving, Em. I'll buy you lunch at the Inn."
Realizing I was starving, too, I smiled up at her from my laptop and sighed. "May, that's a marvellous idea. Except we'll let the school board pay for it. Dealing with a situation like this is absolutely above and beyond the call of anyone's duty."
After talking to Will, gathering up my papers and computer, and stuffing everything in the car, I drove us to the Burchill Inn. The day that had begun cloudy and grey had turned into a solid stormy one. The rain was falling straight down, puddling in the dry grass, soaking the budding flowers, giving no sign of letting up. June was still off-season for tourists in Burchill, but the townspeople had obviously decided to spend their rainy lunch hour at the Inn, for the dining room was almost full. May and I sat down at an empty table for two, just below a Langford Taylor painting, a little wet, a lot tired. I sighed and looked around, appreciating, even more deeply than usual, the ambiance of this room.
The colors were pastel, mostly mauve and pink, with lace tablecloths and dark blue napkins. The furniture was fashioned af
ter the 1860's. Some of the pieces were even dated from that time. Paintings and knickknacks graced the walls and mantels (of which there were three), all native or local artistry. One of my husband's best oils had a prominent place above a marble mantelpiece. All of the fireplaces were electric, but in the winter, the glow of the 'fake' fires was still romantic and cozy. The soft lighting was welcoming and comforting after the horror of the pony's death and the relentlessness of the pouring rain.
"Bill and Marjory have done a great job with this place, haven't they?" May sighed as I nodded in agreement.
We said hello to the many people we recognized and they all gave us their sympathy at our loss of Nathaniel. Kindness prevented them from asking questions and once again I appreciated the true friendship of a small town. Diane West, our resource teacher, and an author of note in the community, was sheepishly taking advantage of a free afternoon to meet with her agent. Teddy Lavalle, the much-loved chef of the Inn, was out front talking and laughing with his customers. Michael Lewis, artist/police volunteer, smiled sympathetically at us. Dr. Ron Harrington, the town vet who seemed to love animals far more than humans, appeared haggard and gave only a feeble greeting.
Most of the other tables were filled with familiar faces such as Peter and Ellie Smallwood, Nick and Mary Jo Samuels. They all glanced at May and me often, but their looks were supportive and empathetic, I thought, and not once did they approach our table with a query.
Only Nick Samuels came over and stood by the table. He talked quietly and, I thought, with true concern.
I had forgotten about Nat's diary until I sat down, feeling it bulge against my thigh, my skirt flaring out unnaturally. Feeling a flash of guilt and an electric spark of excitement at the same time, I patted it down while my leg slid under the tablecloth.
The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle Page 6