The Corpse With the Golden Nose (13 page)

Okay, Cait—get organized.

I pulled a notepad out of my suitcase, and immediately wished I'd brought my laptop. I didn't know why I hadn't, unless I'd been focusing on being with Bud and indulging in food and wine, rather than looking into a possible homicide. I suspected that was it—I, too, had been looking forward to a fun weekend.

I sat down, found a pen and my specs, and drew a line down the middle of the page. I wrote on one side, “Murder,” and on the other, “Suicide.” It's always sensible to take stock, before analyzing. Across the top of both headings I wrote, “Asphyxia, due to carbon monoxide poisoning, created by inhaling truck exhaust fumes,” as this applied to both theories of how this cause and manner of death might have arisen.

On the MURDER side of the page I listed everything I could think of related to the murder theory:

1. Method: Psychologically, no way she'd have killed herself
this
way

• Difficult to stage such a murder
  
• How did murderer get her into the truck?
  
• Drugs or wine to induce unconsciousness?
  
• What about lifting her when unconscious—strength needed
  
• Would there be any way to get her to sit there otherwise?
  
• Would Annette really type a suicide note? Was it a fake?
  
• NB
  : 20–30 per cent of suicides leave notes—how many are typed?
  
• Check autopsy for record of contusions, lacerations, puncture wounds
  
• Check autopsy for any signs of smothering prior to final asphyxia
  
• Murderer had to get to and from scene unseen
  
• Seems like no one
  could
  have done it!
  

2. Motives: Knew about cannabis wine? Sammy & Suzie Soul

• Raj Pinder wanted to get half of Mt Dewdney business (did he know about her will?)
  

I was stuck. Stumped. There didn't seem to be any more reasons for anyone wanting to kill Annette. I pretended I was Bud and raked my hand through my hair. It didn't help.

I scribbled, “Must find out more about Annette herself. Where's all her stuff? Is it here at Anen House? Build a VICTIM profile!”

Then on the SUICIDE side of the sheet I wrote:

1. Method: Classic suicide scenario—carbon monoxide, empty wine bottle for courage, note

• Classic female suicide method—passive, restful
  
• NB
  : need to see coroners' autopsy report—esp. Toxicology/drugs?
  
• Handwriting poor, so typing note was natural?
  
• Easy to arrange physically, borrowed truck: why?
  

2. Motives: None known, but note says “can't do my job perfectly”—why not?

• Acting oddly for weeks? (Raj, Serendipity, Wisers say “Yes,” Ellen says “No”)
  
• Missing meetings—why?
  
• Canceled tastings—why?
  
• Missed Moveable Feast events—why?
  
• Bought old clothes at thrift stores—why?
  
• Avoided the Wisers—why?
  
• Changed her will—why? What did it say,
  exactly
  ?
  NB
  : unlikely to get to lawyer at Easter, so have to find out other ways
  
• NB
  : coroner would seek psychological motives—also family doctor input—autopsy
  

It was clear I needed to see that autopsy report, had to find out more about Annette's will, and much more about Annette herself. Overall, what was becoming obvious was the need to not be swayed by the weight of evidence. Even though there was only the one reason why I felt Annette hadn't killed herself, it still, to my psychologist's mind, carried more weight than all of the unanswered questions about Annette's odd behavior.

I put the notes to one side, and made sure I was sitting comfortably. I screwed up my eyes to the point where everything starts to get blurry and began to hum. I've read dozens of books about memory, and I try to keep up to date on what neuroscientists are discovering about the way that our human brains work. There still isn't a single body of work or a clear set of theories that help me understand
why
I can do what I can do. So I'll just keep doing it, even if no one understands it—or, even if they say it can't be done.

With this method I can see again whatever scene I choose to see. I can be back at the place I was, and take a long, hard look around. I can't visually stop events in their tracks, as though I've pushed the
pause
button, but I can keep looping back to re-examine a moment. I can do this for any of my senses . . . so long as I experienced it in the first place.

One thing the experts do at least agree upon: we humans encode, or remember, much more of what's going on around us than we think we do. To prevent our brains from drowning in a sea of stimuli, we select those things we choose to perceive and ignore those things we don't feel the need to notice at the time. It's called selective perception. We've all done it: we obliterate the sound of a clock ticking in a room; we don't notice the airplanes overhead when we live under a flight-path; we stop noticing the music in the background at the supermarket. It's natural. It's what allows us to function. For me, while I might ignore certain inputs when they are happening, I can go back and experience the whole thing once more—which can be very handy when you're helping with a crime, as Bud quickly discovered when he first saw me perform.

I took myself back to the moment when Ellen exclaimed that someone had killed Annette, and that she was quite sure the killer was in the room.

Okay—get blurry, Cait, and hummmmm . . .

I'm standing so close to Bud that I can catch his aroma—Eternity aftershave balm. The wineglass I'm holding is the same temperature as my body, the roundness of its bowl resting comfortably in my left hand, and in my right hand is the still-chilled china spoon from which I've just eaten the snail caviar. Its taste is lingering in my mouth.
It's pleasant. Unusual. Earthy.
Beside me stands Ellen, across from Bud. She's almost spilling her drink as she gestures. She's breathing heavily as she speaks.
Her face is set in an expression of . . . satisfaction. Odd. She's gloating. She's showing off.
She speaks. Just as she does, the sounds that have been echoing in the room die down. It takes only a second. Her voice rings against the glass above our heads. She's speaking more loudly than when she was talking within our group.
She's making an announcement.
Even though the other noise in the room has stopped, she still keeps her voice at a high level.
She wants people to hear her—the silence that befalls the room is a lucky break for her.
“Bud's here to find out who killed Annette, right Bud? And I'm quite sure the killer's here tonight.” She tosses her head in triumph. Her breaths are shorter now,
she's exuberant
. Her eyes are shining.

At the end of her first sentence, there's a sound from Raj. He's facing me, standing beside Serendipity. They are blocking my view of the rest of the room. A definite “Oh” from him as he sucks in his breath.
His face says . . . surprise. Surprise at the idea that Annette was killed, or surprise that Ellen knows? It makes a big difference. Look closely, Cait, read him. No, I can't tell what he's surprised about. When Ellen speaks again, does his expression change? Yes. Now he looks disbelieving.
His mouth is forming a silent “No,” there's a shadow of a shake to his head. Okay. Raj's micro-expressions are the key.
He's really surprised at first, then his disbelief is colored by something. I can see the expression in his eyes change. Got it! It's pity. He's feeling pity for Ellen as she speaks her second sentence. Interesting.

Now I look at Serendipity: Ellen's first sentence brings an expression of surprise and horror to her face. She clenches her glass more tightly, she leans back from Ellen a little. She's literally taken aback. But she's not just leaning away from Ellen, she's leaning toward Raj. At Ellen's second utterance, she glances sideways, rapidly, at Raj, then back to Ellen.
Is she seeking a cue from him, and is that just because these two are a couple? Or is it because she suspects Raj? Her eyes flash a momentary rounded stare: she's frightened about something, a thought that's slipped into her head, and maybe it pertains to Raj. But, at the same time, her grip on her glass relaxes. Odd. She's releasing tension by looking at Raj. She's receiving comfort just by seeing him. They're obviously very close. I believe she's comforted by the expression she sees on his face. She's relieved that he doesn't believe what Ellen is saying. Interesting.

Now I must look outside our direct circle, into the dim room beyond. Closest to us, and therefore the best lit, are the MacMillans.
This is before I have met them face to face: what are my initial impressions?
They're standing apart from the rest of the guests, and they're very close together. They're standing side-on to me, about twenty feet away. I cannot hear anything they are saying before Ellen's exclamation, but just as Ellen opens her mouth, Sheri MacMillan's expression is clear: she's upset. Nostrils flared, lips squeezed tight, corners of her mouth turned down, chin puckered, brows drawn together:
hurt, and angry
. Her eyes are downcast, her face is toward me as she turns away from her husband. Her shoulders are down, her head's down,
she's down: she's lost one of their skirmishes
. Rob MacMillan, standing opposite her, is a picture of cruel dismissal and anger: sneering upper lip, one nostril flared, staring eyes, glaring at his wife.
He's won. He hates her. He sees her as nothing. I know that look, Angus used to look at me like that just before he would raise his arm to hit me. That's the expression I learned to flinch from, all those years ago, in that loveless, destructive phase of my life—in those months before he lay dead on the floor one morning, and the police dragged me into a car, protesting my innocence, which I continued to do until they had to agree with me. It's a truly terrible look. And she knows it too—I feel sympathy for Sheri. But I mustn't. I must focus. Now's not the time to think about Angus. He's dead. He's gone. I'm here, doing this. I push the thoughts of him from my mind.

As Ellen speaks, what do they do? How do their expressions change?
He whips his head to look at Ellen. His dismissive expression doesn't change immediately:
he doesn't like Ellen
. As she speaks, his face shifts subtly to show that he's now expecting her to say something that's not worth hearing, and, as she finishes, his eyelids become hooded and he rolls his eyes.
He's thinking she's a stupid woman.
On the other hand, Sheri's snaps up and she gives her attention to Ellen. She looks frightened.
Is that a hangover of an emotion she feels for her husband? No. She clasps her drink to her body: she's frightened for herself, but not because she thinks her husband might strike her, I can tell that because, as one hand recoils toward her breast, her other reaches toward Rob. She's seeking his protection. She's frightened that what Ellen has said will somehow harm her.
She looks away from Ellen and her husband, toward the other people in the room. Now I can't see her face, but her shoulders hunch, and I wonder if she's trying to do what I'm trying to do—
see if there's a killer in the room
.

The folks she's looking at are the Souls, the Wisers, the Jacksons, Vince Chen, and another man and two women I never got to meet. I can't see the three unknown people at all—they all have their backs to me before Ellen speaks, and only turn their heads as they realize that something is being said. I can only see the sides of their faces, and then very dimly.

By the time Raj speaks, his pity for Ellen has subsided, and now his entire body is telling me that he's totally amazed that Ellen has just said what she's said. His body is rigid, his neck is taught, he's confused, almost angry. He's frowning as he speaks, his eyes show disbelief that Ellen could have spoken that way. As he speaks I glance at Ellen. She's looking
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
triumphant.
Wow! She's almost gloating at Raj's amazement. Very odd.
Now she straightens herself up, like a warrior going to do battle, and tosses her hair in the most feminine motion I've seen her yet make. Her eyes are ablaze.

As she speaks to Raj, assuring him that she knows what she's talking about, her nostrils are flared, her eyes glittering in the dim light.
Her manner is shocking to Raj,
I can see the change in his eyes.
He's more confused.

Now Serendipity speaks. She takes a half-step toward Ellen, and her manner matches Raj's original stance:
she's angry
. She's telling Ellen off when she speaks to her.
Her face says . . . exasperation
. When she says that Annette had been acting oddly for weeks, her shoulders settle a little,
she's being dismissive
.

At Ellen's rebuff, she doesn't falter. As she's listing the different examples of Annette's odd behavior she's counting them off on her fingers, angrily waving her hands in front of Ellen. Because she's taller than Ellen her hands are right in front of Ellen's eyes. They follow Serendipity's fingers, until Serendipity makes her final point and throws up both hands.
Yes, she's frustrated, angry.

Now it's Ellen's turn to be dismissive.
As she says the word “garbage,” she tosses her head again, juts out her chin, and her lips form a sneer.
She's rubbishing Serendipity. Garbage.

Now Raj steps in, literally trying to move between Ellen and Serendipity, who have moved close to each other. His tone is soothing, more gentle than before. His eyes are pleading with Ellen, to see his point of view. To accept what he and Serendipity are saying. His hands are raised in supplication.
He's trying to ratchet down the tension, while still making his point.

Then the Jacksons butt in, and I'm not seeing any specific reactions to Ellen's point about Annette's death anymore.