The Corpse With the Golden Nose (16 page)

As we made our way upstairs, I could hear Colin tell his Mom that he'd like to stay for the luncheon at their home later that day, after all. Her reply gushed with gratitude, and they left with her all but patting him on the head.

It wasn't until I was leaving my bathroom that I realized that Bud and I hadn't made arrangements for someone to drive us to Ellen's office, as she'd suggested. I crossed the landing and knocked on Bud's door, which he opened so quickly I suspected he'd been standing right behind it.

“We didn't organized a lift to Ellen's. I'm sorry, it slipped my mind,” was my very reasonable opening gambit. He pulled my arm, and the rest of me, into his room, and shut the door. “We learned a lot about Annette this morning,” I added brightly.

“Now you're trying to put lipstick on a pig,” he observed wryly. “As far as I can see, the only things we learned about Annette were that, a) for some reason, she once took her garbage downtown, b) the day she died she had a row with someone and was upset, and c) she collected little boxes. The first two point to unusual behavior immediately prior to her suicide, the third . . . well, I guess it just tells us she had a hobby.”

“Okay,” I replied, trying to slide into the topic graciously, “I see where you're coming from, but I interpret those pieces of information differently. For example, the garbage thing: what was it in her garbage that she didn't want anyone to find?”

“Who would
find
anything in her garbage?” was Bud's sharp retort. “I mean, who would even
look
at her garbage—except the garbage collectors?”

I nodded, but wouldn't be dissuaded. “We don't know, though maybe we can infer that the assiduously attentive Wisers might have hazarded a peek. But
she
obviously thought it was important, so it should be important to
us
. And the argument she had. Who was she arguing with, why was she reduced to tears, and what might it mean in terms of a possible murder?”

“Cait, let it
go
!”

“No, I won't, because what that tells us is that she was upset . . .”

“Exactly,” interrupted Bud. “And maybe upset enough to kill herself . . .”

“. . . but we don't know
why
, so we should look into it.” I was
not
going to be sidetracked. “There's also the collection of snuff boxes. If she had a good, large collection, especially of silver boxes, it could have been very valuable. We need to find out if stealing that collection, which Colin says has disappeared, might have been a motive for murder . . .”

“Oh come on, Cait. Colin's a kid. Just because he hasn't seen the collection since Annette died doesn't mean it's ‘disappeared.' It's much more likely that Ellen's put it into storage with the rest of her sister's stuff—though that is an interesting point, in its own right.”

I recalled how Bud had pressed Colin about the possibility of Ellen hauling her sister's belongings to the old apple store. “Yes, what was all
that
about?” I asked.

Bud scratched his head. “Well, when you were cooing about the canapés to someone last evening, I asked Ellen about the furniture in this place—you know, it's nice, old stuff?” I nodded. “She told me that she'd kept as many family pieces as she'd needed for setting up the
B&B
, but that she'd ‘got rid of' the rest of Annette's things. I was really asking on
your
behalf, because I know how good you are at building a profile of a victim from their belongings. I thought that, you know, if you could root through Annette's stuff, you'd be able to build a better picture of her.”

I pounced. “Ah, so you
do
think she might be a ‘victim,' after all!”

Bud tutted. “Last evening I was still prepared to give you some benefit of the doubt, but that was it.” He scratched again. “Why wouldn't Ellen just tell me she'd
stored
it all? Why would she lie about that? It makes no sense.”

I gave it a moment's thought. “Okay, I'll play devil's advocate here, and suggest it might just be a sign that she can't let go of her sister. You know what I'm like with my parents' ashes, the way they're still sitting in urns on my mantelpiece . . .”

“Yeah, that is a
bit
odd, Cait, you have to admit. I mean, it's been a long time now.” Bud shifted from one foot to another as he spoke.

“I know it's been a long time, and I also know that they are where they are
because
I can't let go. I don't actually
want
to let go, and I am fully aware of that fact. It's not unhealthy. It doesn't mean I'm nuts, or even odd. Plus there's nowhere
for
me to put them. They never visited me in Canada, so there's nowhere here that was special to them. I didn't want to leave them behind in Wales, where there'd be no one to tend to a memorial. My sister, Sian, didn't want them with her in Australia, which was fine by me. I think that having them on my mantelpiece is just the right spot for them, for now. And don't let's even go to the place where you heard me talking to them about you: you were supposed to be asleep and it was your fault you heard anything. But we're not talking about me. I'm just using that as an example of how people choose to hang onto things. Maybe Ellen wasn't ready to get rid of Annette's stuff: Colin said she made those trips to the old apple store very soon after her sister's death, so maybe that's how she dealt with the issue of belongings.”

“Why would she
lie
about it? She said she'd ‘got rid of them.'” Bud repeated.

“What if she thinks you'd see that as an indication that she hasn't come to terms with her sister's death?”

“You're saying that Ellen lied to me, to stop me from thinking that she
really
believes her sister killed herself?”

I nodded.

“I guess it's a possibility,” said Bud thoughtfully. “I still think that the right thing to do is to confront her with that.”

“Okay, but look, don't forget that now we know there's a
back
way that someone could have got to or from Anen House, without anyone who lives in Anen Close being any the wiser, and that's a big game-changer. One of my major stumbling blocks, on the murder front, was how anyone could have gained access to the scene of the crime. Now I know how that could have happened. All I need to do
next
is work out how someone could have got her to sit in the truck until she was dead—that's where the autopsy will come in handy. How about we get ourselves to Ellen's office, then we'll see if she's got the papers we asked her to hunt out, and I just get one more chance to see if there's anything concrete to go on.” I wasn't pleading, but I was using my “pretty please” voice.

Bud smiled. “You can stop the super-cute smiley face, Cait,” I did, “and tell me why you've shifted from agreeing with me, earlier on, that Annette probably
did
kill herself, to being back to believing she was murdered.”

“I had a moment of weakness this morning,” I sighed. “I was feeling pretty low. I doubted my instincts, which I shouldn't do. I thought I had learned that. And now I'm beginning to get a little insight into Annette, I realize we don't know the woman, the woman she
really
was, at all. Initially, you had a pretty thinly drawn picture of her from her sister, no more than a sketch of a perfect woman, whom no one would want to harm. And what have we learned about her so far? She liked science fiction and fantasy; made fun of people who lacked her own skills; collected expensive snuff boxes and read extensively about history; even chose to spend time mixing, thoughtfully, with the young and the old. She was acting out of character for the last several weeks or so of her life, and she actually spent a lot of time with Raj Pinder, to whom she willed her half of the family business. We haven't even been here a day yet! I think we're doing okay, but we could do better. Surely there are enough odd facts coming to light that it's worth spending just a little more time digging around, before you do your big ‘grief buddy' thing with her sister?”

Bud had moved his scratching hand from his head to his chin.
A good sign.
“Okay, I'll give you that,” he said, almost grudgingly. “If we're going to go visit Ellen, why don't we just take my truck? I know she said to get ourselves a ride, but maybe everyone with a vehicle has left by now. What do you think?”

I shook my head. “I don't know who's still downstairs and who's gone, but I can see the little parking lot behind the house from my bathroom window, and our rooms are mirrors of each other, so you should be able to see it from yours too.” Bud trotted into his bathroom as I spoke. “Are there any cars there?” I asked.

“There's one. A white Prius. Don't know whose it is, but if we're quick, we might be in luck. I guess if she said to get someone to drive us to her office, Ellen must have some sort of plan. She seems quite keen on plans.”

“Okay, if you pop down I'll just—you know, run back to my room for a minute—and I'll join you.”

“Too much tea?” quipped Bud, as I left his room.

A few minutes later I was refreshed, jacketed, and at the foot of the stairs with Bud and the Jacksons.
Oh joy!

“The Jacksons have very kindly offered to drop us off at Ellen's office before they head on back to their store,” said Bud, smiling a little too brightly.

“Super,” I replied through almost gritted teeth. I sighed, but only inwardly, of course. “We appreciate it.”
Please let it be a very short journey!

“You're welcome,” Lizzie Jackson replied, as she blinked at me through her owlish spectacles. “We felt a little guilty driving up the hill from our house first thing, but we knew we'd want to be back at the store for a while before the luncheon, so it made sense to not have to walk back down to collect the car. Of course, we don't like to use the car more than we absolutely have to, you know, the environment and so forth.”
Here we go . . .

“It's totally understandable,” I added politely, as we all walked around the house to their waiting vehicle. “You've made a very sensible choice of car for the environment,” I added watching Grant Jackson unlock the hybrid.

“Yes, it's a good one,” he said proudly, “and only a few thousand on the clock when we bought it from Ellen. It's got a good few years in it, this one.”

“This used to be Ellen's car?” I asked, desperately trying to keep the subject away from anything to do with Faceting.

“No, it was Annette's. But not the one—you know, that she—not
that
one. That was Ellen's truck. I don't think we could, you know . . .” Grant blushed.

“Drive the vehicle that Annette killed herself in?” I offered. Bud glared at me.

“When we leave this world we leave an imprint, and the imprint of poor Annette's final desperation will always be in that truck, which Ellen insists upon still driving,” said Lizzie, with a mixture of sadness and disgust. She gathered up the layers of pale turquoise satin, chiffon, and velvet clothing that she'd donned for breakfast as she grappled with her seat belt. She added, “You see, Annette had a lot of back problems before she died, and, of course, everyone knew she'd backed out of tastings, so I suspected that her sense of smell was awry too, both clear indications that her root chakra was completely unbalanced. I told her to wear red. I even gave her a bloodstone to keep with her. But the ultimate failure of the root chakra is suicide. And I couldn't save her.”

Grant Jackson managed to find his wife's hand among her multi-layered clothing and held it gently in his. “
We
failed her, Lizzie. We tried, but we failed. We should have tried harder. I should have recognized the signs when she asked me for help. I did what I thought was right, but I didn't understand what it
meant
. Lizzie's right, guys. Annette was definitely doing things in those last weeks that weren't right for her. She was obviously grappling with something. And I didn't connect with that. She wouldn't
let
us connect, or give, or help her to spiritualize her life in any way. We tried and failed. That won't stop us trying with others,
for
others, right, my dear? Right?” He kissed her hand, or more specifically, the large, green, crystal ring she wore.

I wondered what Bud and I were in for on the journey, but, as Grant pulled out of the parking lot and began to head down the road toward his own house at its base, I didn't have to wonder for long. He was clearly an evangelist for his belief system, and all Bud and I could do was nod politely as he rattled on, and on,
and on
.

“I gather you know nothing about Faceting for Life,” he began joyfully, “which isn't unusual, eh Lizzie?”

“That's right, Grant,” she replied, equally jolly.

Bud squeezed my hand as a warning.

“This is such an ideal opportunity to tell you a little about it,” began Grant.
Oh, just shoot me now!
“But, hey, you'll have more of a chance to learn all about it when you come to our humble restaurant for lunch tomorrow. Briefly, it involves the concept that there are fourteen Critical Facets that we need to attend to each day of our lives, in order to allow ourselves to exist harmoniously with our surroundings. They are: playing, achieving, developing, creating, loving, connecting, giving, relaxing, organizing, spiritualizing, vitalizing, indulging, dreaming, and laughing.” As an aside he added, “I don't expect you to remember them all, of course, but I'm sure we have a pamphlet somewhere in the car that you can take with you.”

“And what we do is make sure we attend to each Facet, each day, and give it a good buffing,” added Lizzie with enthusiasm. “Facet and Face It, you see. By ensuring that we make a conscious effort in each of these fourteen parts of our life, every day, we become at one with the whole cosmos.”