The Corpse With the Golden Nose (10 page)

He plucked from the tray a black porcelain Chinese rice spoon, laden with a mound of tiny, white pearls, topped with a delicate grating of something red and a sliver of something green. He poked it into his mouth. A loud “mmm” emerged from his closed lips.

“It's snail caviar, marinated in fresh, local herbs,” the server announced. “It's sometimes referred to as ‘pearls of Aphrodite' because of its aphrodisiac powers—you know, like oysters,” she added, failing to hide a smile as Bud tried not to show
his
disgust and embarrassment. “It's supposed to taste quite mushroomy,” she said disdainfully. She bent her head closer to Bud and me. “It didn't taste like that to me when I tried it earlier on, though. Tasted like dirt. Enjoy!” she called, as she took the tray to her next victims, and the three of us who'd taken a spoon but hadn't yet eaten looked at Bud for guidance. Serendipity had declined a spoon.
I wondered why.

“She's right,” said Bud. “Dirt. But not
bad
dirt. It's not gritty. It's just not—well,
I
didn't taste mushrooms. But you should try it. Especially you, Cait. I know how you love this gourmet food, right? And I'm guessing that snail eggs are
real
expensive, so this might be your only chance.”

He might as well have stuck out his tongue and shouted, “Dare you.”

Despite the fact that my last close encounter with snails had involved the sudden death of an old boss of mine, I popped the spoon into my mouth, let the eggs slip onto my tongue and squished them, like “ordinary” caviar. They were lovely: soft and yielding, each tiny little globe popped with a burst of woodlands, not quite a truffle and not quite mushroom flavor. I also noted hints of basil, tarragon, and cilantro. I knew what Bud and the server meant by
dirt
, but I quite liked it. It was certainly an experience I'd never had before. Though one serving was probably enough.

“It's delicious—go ahead,” I said, aware that all eyes were on me. Ellen and Raj popped their spoons into their mouths, and I watched their expressions.

“Yuk—not nice!” Ellen pulled a face.

Raj took a little more time and, when his mouth was empty said, “Sorry,” to Serendipity, “not my cup of tea. But I'm sure lots of folk will like it.”

Bud and I exchanged puzzled glances.

“It's one of the three canapés I contributed tonight,” explained Serendipity. “Sorry it wasn't to everyone's taste. I thought I'd try something new and different. But maybe snail caviar is a bit
too
different, even for this foodie crowd.”

“Oh,
I'm
not a foodie person, Serendipity,” said Bud quickly, trying to get himself out of a bind, “so please don't concern yourself about
my
proletarian palate. Cait liked it, and Cait knows her food. You should listen to her.”

Serendipity smiled. “Please don't panic, Bud. We chefs have to be able to take criticism, you know, otherwise we'll never grow and learn. Good chefs don't force food on people that they really don't like. I need to know how far I can go without pushing people
over
the edge. But if you're not a foodie, this weekend may not be quite the place for you. I know that Ellen's planning traditional breakfasts at her place in the mornings, and I think that's just super. Pat will do a great job, and I have no doubt he'll be using all the best, freshest local ingredients he can find. Quite a few of us—me, and the Jacksons for certain—will be pushing the boundaries a fair bit.” She looked a little concerned, and turned to Ellen. “I thought Bud was one of your foodie friends?”

“Oh no,” said Ellen, just at the point in the evening when all the chatter seemed to die at once, and only Ellen's voice could be heard echoing around the entire atrium, “Bud's here to find out who killed Annette, right, Bud? And I'm quite sure the killer's here tonight.”

I looked around in panic for another glass of wine, but there wasn't a server in sight.
Typical!

IN THE SILENCE THAT FOLLOWED
Ellen Newman's blunt accusation, you could almost hear people's heads swivel to look at her. A collection of open mouths and shocked expressions greeted my darting eyes, as I realized that spotting a fresh glass of wine had to take second place to watching everyone's response to her statement. Immediately, I wished that the lighting hadn't been subdued to such a low level by the party's organizers. Some people were just too dimly lit for me to read their expressions. I knew it was vital to observe everything I possibly could because, if Ellen was right and Annette's killer was in the room, the murderer might give themselves away. I also knew that Bud would quiz me about this moment later on.

Abruptly, it seemed as though everyone in the room exhaled at the same time. An embarrassed hub-bub of “Oh my God,” and “What does she mean?” and “Let's get another drink,” rolled around our little gathering.

Raj Pinder shut his mouth, then opened it again and said, “What do you
mean
, Ellen? Annette wasn't
murdered
 . . . she killed herself. I miss her, of course, and no one can understand why she did it, but she
did
do it. You know what the coroner said. What the police said. It couldn't have been clearer. You found her yourself, in the truck. Dead. With that note. Ellen, you don't know what you're
saying
.”

People were shaking their heads and whispering. Ellen threw back her shoulders. She grew two inches.

“Raj, I know
exactly
what I'm saying. She wouldn't have killed herself. She was my sister. If she'd been that unhappy, I'd have known. You can't work with someone every day and not know how they're feeling, even if they don't want to talk to you about it. You can sense that something's wrong. And there wasn't anything wrong with her
at all
.”

“Oh come on now Ellen.” It was Serendipity's turn to speak. She looked quite cross. “That's not true. Everyone knew that Annette had been acting oddly for weeks!”

This was the first I was hearing about Annette acting oddly before her death, so I listened and watched intently.

“No she hadn't,” snapped Ellen.

“Okay then,” responded Serendipity sharply, “so why did she pull out of four tasting events before she died? Events she'd committed to months before, including a really big one at my restaurant? Why did she miss the all the Moveable Feast functions last year? Why did she change her damned will and force Raj to leave SoulVine Wines? Eh? Answer me that, Ellen. And why, if she was acting so
normally
before she killed herself, did she start haunting the thrift stores downtown and buying up loads of stinky old clothes? None of that was
normal
, Ellen, not for Annette.”

“Garbage. All garbage,” was Ellen's indignant reply.

“You have to admit, Ellen,” Raj said in a more sympathetic tone than Serendipity's, “Annette weren't her usual self those last few weeks. She seemed very short-tempered with everyone, and she kept wandering off, missing meetings at the local vintners' association, and, like Serendipity said, she pulled out of several events. People were depending on her. She were a big draw at tastings. I know for a fact that I didn't value my wins as much because
she
wasn't in the competitions. I mean, it's grand to come first, of course, but not when you only win because you're main competitor in't there.”

“Raj is right. Poor Annette was acting irrationally in those last, tragic days. I tried to help her, but she wouldn't talk to me. She wouldn't
connect
. I failed her.”

The voice came from behind me. I jumped.
Preacher-like intonation, Canadian accent, scent of lemon and sandalwood.
I turned, and found myself eye to eye with the short, almost emaciated man wearing a Nehru jacket that Sammy Soul had referred to as “Grant.” From Ellen's notes I knew him to be Grant Jackson, owner of the downtown Kelowna Faceting for Life store and restaurant, a devotee of the Sedona-originated dogma, and a man who, according to Ellen, was too pious for his own good.

His wire-rimmed spectacles, soul patch (
oh dear!
), shaved head, and burgundy, high-collared brocade jacket all told me he was keen to portray an image of spiritual studiousness. I wondered what the man himself was like.

“Oh, shut up, Grant,” retorted Ellen angrily. “You hardly knew Annette. She avoided you like the plague. All that Faceting stuff you're always pushing, she couldn't stand it, and neither can I.” Ellen was clearly determined that everyone should hear her, and she wasn't pulling any punches. I was beginning to wonder just how much she'd had to drink. I also noticed that Bud was suddenly more alert, ready to employ his professional tension-defusing techniques at a moment's notice.

Grant Jackson looked shocked. To be more accurate, he adopted the appearance of shock, because that's how I read him. His expression was anything but natural.

“Hey, Ellen, let's not talk
shop
, eh?” chuckled Bud, aiming to lighten the mood.

Grant chimed in with, “Come now, Ellen. You're blocking me. Connect. Facet and Face It.”
Catchy mantra.

“
Now
might not be the time, Grant.” Another voice entered the fray from behind me.
Calming tones, patchouli oil.

“It's
always
the time, Lizzie,” Grant replied firmly, “it's
always
the place. Faceting
is
Life. Life
is
Faceting. It can help us when we're up, or when we're down. We should all seek to connect every day. Facet and Face It.”

As Bud and I managed a quick eye-roll in each other's direction, he gave me a quick wink, which assured me he was on top of the whole situation. I mentally referenced Ellen's notes: Lizzie Jackson, Grant's second wife, five years his senior; a transplant from Phoenix, less pious than her husband, but a Faceting person too. She's a hypnotherapist, waves crystals about the place when she says she's “healing” people, and looks like she's wearing clothes she's patched for years. They met at some sort of Faceting camp about five years ago, in Sedona.

I looked at the woman Ellen had described. Taller, and with a good deal more meat on her bones than her husband to say she wasn't wearing the best put-together outfit I'd ever seen, it was true (lots of royal blue crushed velvet, with a yellow scarf, and several crystal necklaces), but Ellen's get-up wasn't much to write home about either. Lizzie Jackson's long white hair was trying to break free from some type of bun arrangement at the back of her head, and she stared at us all through heavily horn-rimmed, totally round spectacles that gave her the air of a constantly surprised owl.
Very theatrical.

“Grant, Ellen's clearly not well. I can sense it. Her chi is not flowing properly. Let her alone. Here, Ellen, take this, it'll help you communicate more effectively.” She pushed a small, turquoise stone into Ellen's hand.

“Oh, she's communicating just
fine
,” slurred Suzie Soul as she tottered towards our growing group. “She let her sister fight all her battles for her when she was alive, and now she's got her own cop to back her up, right Ellen?” All of Suzie's earlier coquettishness had dissolved, and we were in the presence of a cat with her claws out. Partially for Bud, it seemed. “You're a lush, Ellen Newman. Put your glass down and go home to your sorry, pathetic little life. And take your damned cop with you.” Suzie Soul ranted on.

Bud had stepped forward, ready to keep the peace and to stop the situation from getting more than testy when Raj Pinder surprisingly took matters into his own hands.

“I think we should all calm down,” he suggested firmly. “There's nowt here to be getting hot under the collar about. Come
on
.” He was almost pleading. “We're here to start a weekend of celebrating all that's good about the area: its food, its wine—
and
its people. We're all old friends here. If
we
can't get along, who can?”

“And what would you know about us all being
old friends
, Raj?” spat Suzie. “Didn't wanna be no friend of mine when you had the chance, didya!”

I sensed a slippery slope, with Suzie half way down. Bud looked alarmed, but clearly decided to give ground to the woman's husband.

“Suzie, Babe, you gotta let it go.” Sammy Soul had followed his unsteady wife across the room.

It seemed as though everyone was drifting toward our immediate circle—which was handy for me, because it meant I could see them much better. Quite often, a hostile environment is a wonderful way to see people at their most honest. I was quite enjoying it all. From an academic point of view, of course.

“Let it
go
?” Suzie squawked toward her husband.

“Yes, Babe. Let it go. He didn't wanna be your lover, and that's that. I don't
get
it, but that's that.” He'd reached his wife's side and put his arm around her shoulders.

Bud watched them intently. Could he sense a nasty domestic incident in the making? If so, he was ready.

The folks who'd started to move toward our group did so with more purpose: clearly it was where the action was. And what action. It was pretty obvious that Sammy's comments had surprised and shocked everyone as much as Ellen's had. I suspected that anyone with two brain cells had pegged Suzie as a man-eater, but it didn't look as though they'd considered that Sammy knew as much as he did about her habits.

“Yeah . . . well . . .” Suzie's anger seemed to be subsiding as Sammy rubbed her back, then, rallying, she shot back at Raj, “just as well your replacement's up to the job, right, Vince?”

All eyes turned toward the man I quickly identified as Vince Chen, the new vintner at SoulVine Wines and, apparently, its owner's lover. He looked horrified, as did most of the other people in the room. Except Sammy Soul.