A Burning We Will Die

By Betty Guenette

Nurses traditionally care for bodies; they don't find murdered ones. Erin Rine, a gutsy, thirty-year-old nurse, inadvertently steps into murder when she trips over her patient's body. With her headstrong Aries personality, a black belt in taekwondo, and only fearing the unpredictable bear population in her Northern Ontario woodland districts, Erin gets caught up in the investigation with the help of her best friend, an elderly neighbour who provides astrological influences, eerily apt psychic warnings.

Burned in prior relationships, Erin is disconcerted by her attraction to the handsome investigating detective, and strives to avoid a romantic entanglement despite the investigation bringing them closer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Renaissance Press
• Release date: Apr 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781990086366

Book preview

To my impulsive Aries friends and family members:

First, my eldest daughter,

Lori Guenette, a tall redhead, French teacher,

and to her daughter, my eldest grandchild,

lovely, auburn-haired Jade Gibbs, a budding writer.

For my dark-haired niece,

Lisane Ryan, a compassionate nurse,

and my late, sexy nursing friend, Bev Keminen,

who all cover the diverse characteristics

of the fiery and feisty Aries personality.

"The fire you kindle for your enemy

often burns yourself more than them."

—Chinese Proverb

1

Hey, Erin. Keep your jacket zipped up near that old Mr. Towser, when you check his vitals.

Marge grinned as she kept typing on the office computer. I heard he likes to rub his arm against the nurse’s boob when she takes his blood pressure, especially if she’s good-looking.

She winked at Erin. He won’t help but notice your figure.

No way! He won’t dare get fresh with me. You know what I’m like.

Erin knew her own red hair matched a fiery, Aries temperament. A daredevil gleam shone from her dark blue eyes as she grinned and waved her stethoscope at the older secretary before placing it in her bag.

If he tries any shenanigans, I’ll rap this over his head.

She donned her jacket and gloves, then waved to the other district health care workers packing up supplies in the cramped home office, before grabbing her nursing bag.

I’m more afraid of running into a lurking bear out in the boonies, Marge, than I am of one lusty old man.

Climbing into her beat-up car, Erin took the northwest route out of Northern Ontario’s largest city. Sudbury had a population of over 155,000 people and included numerous outlying rural districts that boasted an abundance of lakes and rivers—last count was 330 lakes and lots of heavily forested areas.

She drove up Highway 144, grimacing at the surrounding dark, dense evergreens and occasional patches of snow that the cool spring weather hadn’t melted yet. She had always been afraid of bears and could visualize them hiding in those thick bushy areas. She slowed down to eye the striking, pounding rapids cascading down the swollen Onaping River.

Forty minutes later, before the Levack turn, she veered off the main highway to travel the short distance along the thicker, forest-lined road leading into the small town of Silver Rapids.

Oh, damn! Erin rammed her foot on the brake pedal and swerved to avoid the crushed body of a porcupine, its quills barely discernible in the bloody mess. Crows cawed and squawked, flying up from the roadway to light on the encroaching trees, hovering while waiting a revisit to their decomposing treat. Her head turned slowly, her eyes strained to catch a shadow shifting in the thick evergreens, a stirring through the bare deciduous branches or movement on the clumps of melting snow under dark, shaded bushes.

She shuddered, muttering, That bloody roadkill could attract more scavengers, like hungry bears.

Erin raised her hand off the steering wheel to finger the indented scar on her forehead; the thought of bears compelled her to hyperventilate. She took a few steadying breaths. Her dread of those wild animals stemmed from a day out blueberry picking when she was a young girl. A bear had charged at her after she’d wandered a short distance away from the rest of the family.

For years afterward the nightmares plagued her. She still heard the bear’s ferocious growl and saw its crazed, beady eyes, mouthful of teeth, and gigantic paw. The claws of that paw had slashed down at her head.

Her father and brother raced to help her, yelling and brandishing sticks. Skip, their old mongrel, proved the hero of the day. He sped toward them and jumped between her and the attacking animal. His frantic barking routed the bear. Skip survived the encounter but lost a chunk of his ear when the angry bear swiped at him. Erin lost a piece of forehead.

She tweaked a lock of hair over the grafted scar near her hairline before driving on down the desolate roadway. The almost unconscious habit of pulling her hair down to cover the slight disfigurement had developed during her vulnerable teenage years.

Erin checked for her cell phone and tapped her waist pouch for the whistle hanging from her purse.

With bravado, she spoke aloud to gain reassurance to counteract her long-standing fear of bears, If I encounter one, a few loud blasts from my whistle will scare it away. And I’ve got the big jackknife I bought at the tackle shop.

The ageless shopkeeper had shaken his head and told her in a croaking voice that the jackknife was no defence, not even against a small animal. He sold her a can of bear spray—similar to pepper spray—saying it guaranteed much better protection against problems with the increasing bear population.

She figured that, with her luck, an erratic wind would blow the damn spray right back at her and she’d become bear bait. She grimaced thinking of the reaction of burning eyes and mucus membranes swelling her breathing passages, choking her, rendering her body vulnerable to another nightmare attack.

She drove over the bridge and turned onto River Road, driving slowly to watch for the address before she spotted a bent, metal mailbox. She must have arrived. The place sure looked bleak. After checking the man’s name on the mailbox, almost obliterated by time and neglect, she eased the car into the rutted driveway.

At the end of the lane, she parked near an old black truck. Dents and holes dotted the body of the ancient vehicle and rust had eroded much of the lower metal. Someone must have spray painted it, trying to make the wreck look saleable, hide the defects.

That heap looks older than me, she muttered, and deserves its rest in the scrapyard. I doubt it even starts.

When she was parked in front of her elderly client’s cabin, Erin looked around the area, peering toward the far bushes and stunted trees before stepping out of her car. This wild and desolate area sure was different from the northern district of London, England, where she’d worked the last four years. She’d grown up here in Northern Ontario, but couldn’t deny that she’d had a bit of culture shock on returning. There was no finesse in the bush.

Squinting in the weak rays of sunlight, she kept glancing around at the treelines before picking her way around broken branches and rusty car parts strewn about the yard. A wobbly, cement block served as a step by the pitted cabin door.

Geez, I wonder if he takes potshots at the door for target practice.

After knocking a few times, she turned the knob, pushed open the squeaking door and called out, Hello, Mr. Towser. Anybody home?

She peeked into the darkened room and flipped on a light switch she spotted by the door. Scattered magazines and newspapers lay on every surface. Her elbow brushed against a shelf causing dust motes to flutter in the air. Her nose twitched and she sneezed, sending more puffs of dust flying before sneezing again. After blowing and wiping her nose on a tissue, she edged through the living and kitchen areas.

Pausing at the open bedroom door, Erin shivered in the damp, chilly air. She entered and poked her booted toe at a mound of clothes on the floor. She glanced at the crumpled blankets hanging down from the side of the mattress.

Hello, Mr. Towser? she called out again. At least he hadn’t died in his bed like that old fellow did last month. Still, that wasn’t a bad way to go, so she’d been told. But who knew?

She backed out of the bedroom, knocked on the partially closed bathroom door, then edged and scraped it open along a groove worn in the linoleum. The shifting of the cabin must have warped both the floor and door. The clammy, cluttered space was empty. She went to check outside in case the elderly man had fallen or become ill.

Back outdoors, Erin scanned the yard and took a deep breath of the crisp country air. She wrinkled her nose and caught a hint of a lingering whiff of smoke.

I wonder if the man’s burning brush. The sound of her voice echoed in the quiet.

She needed to check around the cabin, but wouldn’t go far, not near those deep woods, anyway. There were a couple of lean-tos, possibly for wood storage. She presumed that was an old outhouse off near the farther bushes.

Erin kicked at the debris littering the front yard and grabbed hold of a stout branch. Since noise often kept bears away, she blew two shrill blasts on her whistle and strode off behind the house, belting out a sporadic song of saints marching in.

Her eyes continued to flick around, searching the far bushes for movements of wild animals. With this distraction and the intense focus on her distant surroundings she kept stumbling over fallen branches and boulders along the pathway.

Damn!

Erin yelped, tripped, and pitched forward when she edged around a pile of lumber near a leaning, dilapidated shed. She landed flat on her stomach, hearing her jacket sleeve rip against the woodpile on her way down.

Raising her upper body on her elbows, she jerked up, alarmed, as she turned her head and stared into the partially hooded, sightless eyes of a dead man. She froze, stopped breathing for a minute, then leapt up in one fluid motion.

Oh, God! He must have had another stroke.

The palpable silence around her beat along with her accelerated pulse rate, compelling her to swivel around and scan the immediate area again. Nothing stirred. She looked back down and eyeballed a small section of scorched, blackened ground near the body. The faint odor of stale smoke still drifted around the area.

The man, tufts of grey hair sticking out of a black wool cap, lay sprawled on his side between stacks of piled logs; one arm stretching out into the pathway among the rows of firewood. That arm had probably been what tripped her while she kept glancing off in other directions. He had dressed for the outdoors in a black-checked fleece jacket and a wool-edged cap with the earflaps snapped up. The mottled colour under his face showed he’d been dead a while.

Though familiar with death, Erin stripped off a glove, took a steadying breath and bent down to press her fingers against the extended wrist checking for a pulse, not looking again into the dead man’s eyes. She thought he had possibly suffered a heart attack instead of a stroke.

Presuming this was her intended patient, she thought he looked peaceful lying there, his legs curled up against his abdomen as if to keep warm. The body’s classic fetal response, except for the stretched-out arm—a hand held out in supplication?

She shook off the morbid thoughts and turned, saddened but shrugging in resignation. She jumped and squealed when a bird flew squawking out of a far bush. A branch snapping off in the deeper forest caused her to spin around and stare in all directions, but she couldn’t spot shifting shadows anywhere.

A wave of apprehension descended over her, more a feeling of weight pressing against her chest. Her body twitched and she clasped a hand against her fluttering heart.

Her other hand reached up to finger the scar again, her mind fearing a stalking bear in the bush, but glancing about she saw only the slight sway of the trees in the faint, morning breeze.

2

Erin shuddered, grabbed the stick she’d dropped, and scurried back to her car. She checked left and right along the pathway, dropped her body down into the car and locked her doors. She used her cell phone rather than re-enter the dark, empty cabin to use the landline.

Of course, there’s the bear spray I forgot to bring, she muttered. Good planning, Erin!

She dialled 911, stated the dire problem and slouched down in the driver’s seat to wait. Then she sat up and rummaged for a safety pin to hold the torn edges of her jacket sleeve together. She tried using her bottle of disinfectant and alcohol swabs to clean herself up, but she couldn’t rub the smudges of dirt off the knees of her pants.

Her thoughts whirled, mixed up with what another nurse had said to her about her patient’s life. How sad to like being alone and cranky all the time. Erin talked out loud to rid herself of a sense of nervousness at hearing no sounds from the quiet countryside.

Many people live alone and seem okay and prefer it, but I know many others who need companionship. I wouldn’t want to be alone for too long.

Her jaded outlook on men and love, due to unsavoury events in past romances, put her off matters of the heart. Her one torrid affair with a minor member of the British aristocracy had ended with suspicions about her own integrity. And other men she’d dated overseas sure weren’t into exclusive relationships.

But she liked being with people and had close female friends. This Mr. Towser lived alone, but from what she’d heard he didn’t seem to be a happy individual, more likely a troublemaker. Lise, the other nurse who took care of him the year before, had remarked on the man’s vindictive and carping nature.

How could anyone live that way and seemingly enjoy such a twisted and hateful existence?

About ten minutes after her phone call, a police car drove into the cluttered yard and parked beside her vehicle. Erin slid out of her car, prepared to explain the situation that she’d found and to direct the policeman to where she’d discovered the elderly man’s body.

Hello, Officer, she said, I’m the community nurse for this area. I think the dead man must be my new patient, Mr. Towser, but I’d never met him before.

The young, acne-scarred policeman followed her to the back area. He eyeballed the man’s position before circling around behind the body. He bent down and peered at the back of the head then turned and surveyed the surrounding area, his gaze resting a minute on the old truck.

She spoke to him again, I know from our records that he had two previous strokes, I imagine this was a fatal one.

The policemen nodded, moved a distance away and pulled out his cell phone while taking in the surrounding woods and sparse weedy fields.

She presumed he was calling headquarters, but he sure didn’t talk much. 

More relaxed now that she had the company of the large policeman, Erin moved back and studied the surroundings, not the body. She thought that the elderly man had been chopping wood. The axe leaned drunkenly against the woodpile by a shed, while a rifle lay tossed on the ground beside a packet of matches and cigarette butts. She sniffed again at the faint smell of smoke hovering in the air and frowned at the sight of the scorched ground around the body.

The policeman strode back to her. Central is sending out a detective. They need confirmation that the man’s death is from natural causes. Let’s go back to the cars. The officer walked with her to their vehicles. I’ll need your ID and information.

I’m Erin Rine, a nurse from HCN—that’s Home Care Nursing. I work out of the satellite office on Durham Street. She pulled out her driver’s license. I phoned Mr. Towser yesterday to arrange an initial visit after his hospital discharge.

I’ll need to check the ownership and insurance for your car. 

Erin dug in the glove compartment and handed over the requested paperwork before checking her watch. She frowned, realizing she was now way overdue for her next appointment.

The policeman took the cards and returned to his vehicle to run a check on her.

She tapped her fingers on the hood of the car, glad she’d paid that ticket last month for forgetting to snap on her seatbelt. Imagine how criminals must sweat if police checks made an innocent person feel guilty.

Her full name would show up on their screen—Anne Erin Jane Rine, but everyone called her Erin. The name suited her best and she did look like her namesake, an old Irish aunt.

The policeman returned shortly and handed back her credentials as the ambulance pulled in behind the police car. She opened her car door to leave.

He started to move toward the ambulance. Miss, you’ll have to wait here for the Inspector to question you.

Erin’s eyebrows stretched halfway up her forehead. I’m sorry, Officer, but I can’t wait around any longer. You have my statement, but my next patient is critically ill and overdue for his pain medication. You wouldn’t want the responsibility of letting the sick man suffer longer?  

The young policeman shifted his feet. But—but they’ll have questions, Miss.

I don’t know anything else. She shrugged. Look, I’m driving back this way in about an hour and I’ll stop then to see if I’m needed. She smiled at the policeman and slid into her car. I’ll take an early lunch break in case there are more questions— She added an undertone, muttering, —that I won’t know the answers to anyway.

Shutting the door, she started the car and reversed down the driveway before he could think and react with a negative response. As if a big guy like that needed her help, along with two ambulance attendants, to watch over the man’s body.

Erin drove to her next patient’s home and sat in a chair beside Mr. Grover. His face scrunched up as he lay in bed holding both hands against his abdomen. Mrs. Grover had called the office that morning, anxious because her husband had overtaxed himself. She said that the pain machine wasn’t helping him enough.

Erin injected an extra morphine dose for the man’s breakthrough pain before checking him over. Though he was in the final stages of terminal abdominal cancer, Mr. Grover wanted to spend his remaining time at home. He had hated being away and his wife said he had suffered more from loneliness than pain in the isolated hospital environment.

Mrs. Grover managed the permanent needle site under the skin and helped her husband administer more medication if needed. Sometimes it wasn’t enough, even with the continuous, monitored IV drip.

I can get the dosages increased for you, Mr. Grover.

Not yet, Nurse. I did too much yesterday. Oh! His features contorted in pain and he leaned back on the pillows. I felt so good in the morning.

Are you able to eat better now?

Some, mainly porridge and soup, but that at least stays down.

The chemotherapy was hard on him, his wife said, sitting down and taking his hand. I’ve looked after him for fifty years. I know what he likes.

I told them doctors, enough. The man winced and pressed his hand to his side. No more treatments. No more feeding tubes.

His wife’s eyes filled with tears. She squeezed his hand and watched him fall back asleep.  

Erin touched the woman’s arm, stayed a little longer, then smiled and said she’d be back in a few days. Family members often needed someone to talk to, to share their sorrow and feel they weren’t alone.

3

Arriving back at Towser’s place, she parked her car on the side of the weedy yard away from other vehicles, surprised at the number of them. She eyed the tall man in a long trench coat marching toward her car. When she stepped out, he stopped in front of her and spoke in a brusque voice, his eyes travelling casually over her face and body.

You had no business leaving the area. You’re the nurse, Erin Rine, I presume?  

Erin turned away and shut her car door, twisted her body back around to stare at him and replied in a frosty tone, And you are?

The man shoved both hands in his coat pockets. I’m Inspector Landry. Do you think we should just wait for you to return and answer questions about the investigation?

I chose to tend the living, Inspector, not oversee the dead. She crossed her arms, glowering at him. Why should I wait around for your department to remove his body?

Okay. This man, who appeared in charge, spoke in slow measured words, Let me start again. I’m presuming that you’re the nurse, Erin Rine, who found the man’s body and then left the scene of the murder.

"Murder? Erin gasped, flung out her arms, then choked out, I thought he had a stroke. Why are you saying he was murdered?"

The original officer at the scene noticed streaks of dried blood behind the man’s neck. Can you tell me how he managed to cave in the back of his own head?

Well, um, he had a cap on—no, I can’t explain what I didn’t notice. His head lay facing me. Couldn’t he have fallen backwards, banged his head and then rolled over?

Only a deadpan look answered her question.

No? Well, you must be wrong. She pondered some more. What if a bear swatted him on the back of the head? It looked like he tried to reach for his rifle.

Oh, you did notice that? Well, could you manage to take us through your movements before discovering the body? He pointed around the area. The ground’s too hard for prints but we can eliminate where you walked and what you touched.

I went inside and touched lots of things, but I was wearing my gloves. And I ripped my sleeve and dirtied my knees when I fell by the woodpile.

The inspector’s eyes glanced at her jacket and scuffed knees, then he stared at her and gestured forward. After you, Miss Rine. Let’s go.

"Oui, Capitaine," She raised her arm and saluted.

What if he thought she was ridiculing him? She turned to point out the route and almost missed his inadvertent response to her sassy title. He seemed to control a chuckle and hid his twitching lips by rubbing a hand across his mouth.

She swung ahead, fuming anew that now she noticed him laughing at her. Erin retraced her route through the cabin and outside area and pointed at the big stick that she had grabbed for a weapon.

Did you want the branch for protection from a sick old man, or did you expect another kind of trouble?

I have a fear of bears, especially in the spring when they come out of their dens with cubs. She waved her arm around the area. This mess is why I tripped and fell. I kept looking around, watching for wild animals while I searched for my patient.   

That’s when you said you tore your jacket and smudged your uniform?

Erin chewed on her lip. "Yes, that’s what I said. She glared at him. And that’s exactly what I did."

The inspector surveyed the dismal, grey scene. Erin also scanned the area, noting again a dilapidated trailer further over and up the hill. He turned back to look at her.

There are cigarette butts all around the woodpile. Do you smoke?

No, and I don’t play with matches either.

He narrowed his eyebrows at her flippant reply. On your rounds, did you notice unusual vehicles? People? Anything out of the ordinary on the roads?

No, except for that disgusting roadkill. She wrinkled her nose, thinking about it. Not unusual, but I should’ve figured I was receiving an omen or a death warning.

Truly? Are you an oracle in disguise, Miss Rine?

Not me, but I’ve a friend who dabbles in psychic lore. I keep an open mind.

Right! Inspector Landry’s voice waxed sarcastic. Why don’t you ask your magical friend to conjure up a few clues? Or produce the murderer out of his hat?

Erin didn’t correct his use of the male pronoun or his confusing of psychics and magicians. She assessed the inspector when he moved aside and spoke to the police photographer; notable sensual appeal but a definite air of knowing it. Wavy dark brown hair, dark eyes.

Oh, well, too bad.

Since she was five foot eight, he’d be about six feet tall. He glanced back at her with a cynical frown, his gaze cool and assessing. Now he acted like the typical irritating male, checking out the lowly female. She figured he would play around if he was married, but if single, no way he’d commit to a long-term relationship. Whatever—his love life was not her concern.

Inspector Landry motioned for her to follow and blew on his gloveless hands. Let’s go inside the back of the van, I want to take notes.

I’ll grab my lunch. Her look challenged him. That is, if I’m allowed to eat?

He nodded while observing