The Corpse With the Golden Nose (12 page)

As the couple approached, Ellen bubbled to them, “Come and meet Bud and Cait.”

“So you're the folks with that shiny silver truck?” asked Gordy Wiser, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
Ah-ha—the Curtain-Twitcher of Anen Close.

Bud was immediately engaged. “She's mine alright. This is her first Big Trip. Took a bit of a beating from the bugs, though.”

“Yep, that'll happen on the Coquihalla Highway,” replied Gordy Wiser sagely. “What was the road like? Bad?” Gordy struck me as a “glass half empty” kind of guy.

“No, not too bad. Lots of ploughings at the summit, but almost nothing as we swung down into the valley,” replied Bud, back to being Bud-like.

“Yep, snow's all but gone here, except the mounds in the parking lots,” observed Gordy. “Don't mean there won't be more, though.”

“Hopefully not before we get over the top, around lunchtime on Monday. They said it would hold off until at least then,” replied Bud.

“Oh, don't trust those forecasters.” The old man shook his head. “They don't know their arses from their elbows,” he observed dryly.

“Language, Gordy,” chastised Marlene Wiser. She uttered the phrase with such ease that it was clear she was used to encouraging her husband to watch what he said. I suspected she'd honed her skills on her brood of children.

“Well, it's true,” the man added, rolling his eyes.

“Gordy always thinks he knows best,” said Marlene, with such an indulgent tone that I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd patted him on the head.

She looked by far the older of the two, who were a spare and short couple. Her face was incised with those incredibly deep wrinkles that some people develop from a largely outdoor existence, a life well and truly lived—not as a spectator, but as a complete participant. Her body was small and slim, and gave the appearance of litheness despite her age. Her hair was like white candy-floss. Her husband was more bowed than she, but less wrinkled, with a narrow fringe of white hair around a bald pate. Despite his apparent negative attitude toward most things, he had a twinkle in his eye whenever he looked at his wife.

“That's only because I
do
know best,” replied Gordy, “like I know that the apricots they used for this drink came from that orchard down on the Naramata Bench where I wouldn't have planted them in a month of Sundays. They're facing north too much. He should have planted them full-on facing east. They'd get the sun on 'em first thing in the morning that way.”

“So you used to grow apricots, Gordy?” asked Bud.

“Sure did. And better than these. Apples too. Best in the whole valley. See, if I still had my land . . .”

Marlene seemed a little testy as she snapped, “Well, you don't Gordy Wiser, and we all know why. So let's not go there, dear. These nice people are here to enjoy themselves, not to listen to you talking about how it was all so much better back in the day.” She turned to Bud and me. “You
are
here to enjoy yourselves, right? Not to solve a murder that didn't happen.” She turned to Ellen. “You know very well that your sister killed herself, Ellen, and that's that. That's an end to it.” She turned back to us. “We loved Annette dearly, you know, Cait. With all the children gone, and her just up the hill there, we saw a good deal of her, didn't we, dear?”

Gordy nodded. “She was a good girl, that Annette. Always had time for us. Even had time for me. And I know I'm not an easy man to spend time with.”

“Exactly,” replied Marlene enigmatically. “She'd pop by with all sorts of treats for us. She very rarely just drove up to her house without stopping, right? She'd hop out of her little car to collect her mail from the mailbox at the foot of the hill, then she'd drop by.”

Again, Gordy nodded, sadly. “Except for those last few weeks. Seemed to be distant. Didn't bring me my bonbons then, did she, eh? Didn't even bother to collect her mail every day.”

Marlene nodded. “True. She did seem to avoid us for a while there, toward the end. And listen, Ellen,” Marlene turned her attention to our weekend hostess who was, by now, swaying more than a little, “I, for one, know that no one else was involved. No one could have approached her house without passing ours, and nobody did.
Nobody.
No people, no vehicles. You know very well, Ellen, that one of us is bound to look out of the window if we hear anything—anything at all, and neither of us did. Not
all
that evening. Not
once
. Well, not after Annette
herself
drove up to the house, that is. And then
you
, the next morning. Nobody
between
the two of you. I'm not a good sleeper, and I'd have been woken by anyone driving, or even walking, up, whatever the time. It
can't
have been murder. I'm sorry, dear, but you're just going to have to work harder at coming to terms with it. She might have been your sister, but you two were always as different as chalk and cheese, so she obviously hid something from you—something that made her so deeply unhappy that she chose to take her own life. People hide things. People lie. Often they think they're doing it for the good of those they love. So you'd better get used to it, dear—your sister lied to you. She killed herself.” She used a very matter-of-fact tone, which seemed to subdue Ellen so much that her swaying became quite pronounced.

Marlene wasn't finished. She turned to Bud, patted him on the arm, and said, “You know, young man, I think your time here would be much better spent enjoying the glories of the meals we're all about to enjoy, rather than trying to help this poor woman find a murderer who doesn't exist. Tell her to stop being silly and to face facts.
No one
came up that hill between the two of you sisters. Oh my dear me . . . !”

Bud was lucky to catch Ellen before she fell. As it was, only his glass, and hers, hit the floor, rather than Ellen herself.

“Oh oops, I'm so sorry!” Ellen looked embarrassed as she pulled herself together. “I'm fine, I'm fine . . .” she rambled, as servers approached to pick up the shards of glass, mop up the spilled drinks, and wipe down Ellen's badly stained shirt and skirt.

Bud made eye contact with me as he himself was patted dry, and he nodded his head toward the exit. I nodded back.

“I think maybe we should be going,” I said as firmly as possible to the flapping Ellen.

“Would you like us to drop Ellen at her apartment?” asked a suddenly close Grant Jackson. “I'm driving. I haven't been drinking,” he added sanctimoniously.

“
No!
” cried Ellen. “I'm fine. Just
everybody
leave me alone. I can manage by myself. I'm quite used to it—managing by myself. However wonderful you might all think Annette was, and however perfect you all might think she was for the business, it was always
me
who ran it.
Me
who balanced the books,
me
who knew what we could and couldn't afford.
Me
who had to do all the dirty work, making sure all the machinery and equipment was fixed, and everything worked out in the fields when we couldn't afford mechanics or engineers.
Me
who had to make sure we both had a roof over our heads for years before we were a success.
I
looked after
her
, not the other way around. And now she's gone, I've got no one to look after. No one to make a success for . . .”

Raj Pinder approached, looking worried and confused. As he murmured to Bud, “Bit too much?” he tipped his hand up in the universally recognized sign for “drink.”

Bud nodded.

“Leave it to me,” he whispered to Bud, then, to Ellen, he said, “Right-o, Ellen, me dear. I'm going to get you into a taxi and home to that apartment of yours before you know it. Just pop your arm around me shoulder . . . oh, right-o then, me waist, and off we go.”

Ellen looked pathetic as she tottered toward the exit, supported by Raj, but she managed a weak smile and a quiet, “See you in the morning,” as she left.

“Time for us to go too, I think,” said Bud.

“Look forward to seeing you at breakfast,” I said to the Wisers. A thought suddenly occurred to me. “Would you two like to share a cab with us? We'll be going right past your door, as you know.”

They both smiled. “What, and miss all the fun of talking about Ellen, and the Souls, and of course you two, when you've gone? Oh, you must be kidding!” laughed Marlene.

I felt my eyebrow shoot up my forehead. I wasn't used to such honesty.

The woman smiled again, and this time she patted my arm. “Oh, go ahead, don't panic, there's nothing very interesting to say about you two . . . but the others? Just you go on, and we'll be fine. There was a rumor earlier on that they've got a rhubarb eau de vie next, and Gordy and I know our rhubarb, don't we dear?” Gordy nodded. “I used to grow a lot of it in my day, and I've made my fair share of rhubarb jam, and rhubarb wine too. Ah yes, happy times. I'd like to see what the professionals do with it. Go on, off with you young things now.”

Bud and I waved as we left, then sat in silence during the taxi ride back to the
B&B
.
I
was reveling in being referred to as half of a young couple. Bud's expression was tough to read, which, given what I do for a living, was unusual.

“Penny for them?” I said, as we stood at the front door of Anen House, watching the taxi wind its way back down the hill.

“I tell you what, Cait,” Bud replied thoughtfully, “given what's running about in my head right now, you'd have to pay a lot more than a
penny
for my thoughts.
What a night!
I wasn't expecting that. Well, okay, I don't know quite
what
I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't
that
!”

I looked at my watch. “It's not eleven o'clock yet, Bud. How do you fancy a bit of a chat? You know, pool our thoughts? Run through the suspects, and so forth?”

Bud wandered to one of the plastic chairs that surrounded the little table on the smoking porch and sat down, heavily.

“Are you going to smoke before we go in?” he asked distractedly.

“Sure, I'll join you there,” I replied, digging around in my purse for my ciggies. I lit up and puffed away.
Lovely.
The only improvement would have been more chocolate.

“It's all wrong, Cait,” Bud said. “With everything we've learned so far, I just cannot bring myself to believe that Annette's death was anything other than a suicide. I can't. You
have
to agree. Surely you must see it my way now?”

I thought carefully about what to say next. I, too, had been mulling over the events of the evening: what I'd seen, heard, and read among people at the cocktail party. And I knew what I had to do.

“Okay, Bud. I'll shut up about it entirely until I see the paperwork that you asked Ellen to rustle up for us. I won't press my case, but I will continue to dig around. When I've seen those papers, then we'll discuss how to progress with matters.”

Bud stroked his chin. I lit another cigarette.

My comments seemed to satisfy Bud, who turned to glare at my glowing cigarette. “You're going to finish that, are you?” he asked acidly.

“My addiction, my body, my time,” I replied. Immediately I'd said it, I was angry with myself.

Bud leapt up from the little chair and exploded, “This is
not
the weekend I'd planned, or hoped for, Cait,
not at all
. It was supposed to be fun. Okay, a bit of prying, a bit of helping Ellen to come to terms with some tough stuff. But these people . . . they're . . . they're all
off
! Everyone's dysfunctional. Everything is off-kilter. That place was a powder keg tonight. Nothing's
right
!”

Wow. He's usually the calm one, and I'm the one running on emotional, gut response.

“Are you coming in now?”

I stubbed out my smoke. “Yep, coming with you, right now.” I trotted after him.

As we stopped between our doorways, Bud turned to me and held me close. “Look, let's get some sleep, and we'll talk in the morning,” he whispered, kissing my forehead.

“See you before breakfast?” I asked, hoping he'd rally and say yes.

“What time is breakfast again?” he asked. He sounded exhausted.

“Pat said it starts at eight, so I guess we should be down and ready to mingle by seven forty-five, don't you think?”

“Sounds about right,” he replied. “I can't see me being ready for much of anything before that. So I'll see you here, at seven forty-five. Okay?”

“Of course,” I said, as he closed his door.

AFTER I'D LEFT BUD ON
the landing, I shut my door behind me, and went into the spacious, sparkling bathroom to take off my makeup. It's not my usual habit, but I try to make an effort when I'm sleeping on pillowcases that someone else will have to launder. Besides, staring at myself in the brightly lit bathroom mirror allowed for a few moments of self-reflection—figuratively and literally. The former can sometimes be uplifting; the latter, not so much. I might not mind the idea of having an interesting landscape etched on my face late in life, like Marlene Wiser, but I'm not enjoying the journey toward it one little bit.

Comparatively fresh-faced, I clicked off the lights in the bathroom and the bedroom to get a better view of the moon that poked out from behind a cloud in the black sky and caught the ripples on the lake. It was delightfully tranquil. I just stood and drank it all in for a few moments, which allowed me to calm down, and to decide that sulking and being cross weren't going to get me anywhere. I wasn't really tired—so I might as well be positive, and get on with analyzing the evening's events.

I stepped away from the distracting view beyond my window and sat at the little desk to one side of the room. All the furniture at Anen House was old: you got the impression that each piece had been lovingly polished for many years. I wondered if these were all original Newman belongings, which immediately brought me back to reality. Did Annette Newman kill herself, or was she murdered? And if she was murdered, who did it, and why?