The Corpse With the Golden Nose (18 page)

“Sorry, Ellen. I have a few questions, if you don't mind?”

“About what?” she asked, still obviously miffed.

“Let's start with the coroner's file,” I began.

“Okay,” she said, but added curiously, “How can you have read it all so quickly?”

I hate discussing my special skills with anyone, so I just muttered, “I read fast, but that's beside the point.” I continued. “First of all, because this was a clear case of suicide, there was no autopsy, right?” Ellen nodded, and Bud looked a little surprised. I turned to him. “It's apparently quite usual, Bud, in this region. In these times of tight budgets, the coroner works closely with the family and the physicians of the deceased to understand their general state of mental and physical well-being at the time of death, to help decide if an autopsy's needed or not.” Bud still looked unconvinced. I sighed. “Come on, Bud, you've been with homicide and the gang squad for so long now. When was it you were last involved with a suicide? Ten, fifteen years ago?”

“I guess it must be about that,” he grudgingly agreed.

“Times change, and policies change. Nowadays, if it's clearly a suicide, and there's no reason for the coroner to suspect anything else, there doesn't need to be an autopsy.” Bud shrugged. I continued, “The file says your family physician reported that he hadn't seen Annette in over a year, and that he wasn't aware of any medical issues, and that you weren't either. Is that right? Annette was in good health at the time of her death, as far as you knew?” Ellen nodded again. “The file also makes it clear that your sister's body bore no marks of violence, restraint, or trauma. She hadn't been held against her will, beaten, hit, or wounded at all, right?”

“Correct,” replied Ellen, sounding apprehensive.

“The coroner's examination confirms that she died of carbon monoxide poisoning, and wasn't moved after death: blood tests prove the CO levels, and rosy lividity on the rump, lower back, and the lower portions of the legs and feet was evident. She
definitely
died in the truck. So, if she
didn't
kill herself, Ellen, how do you think someone convinced her to sit in that truck until she died?”

I'd decided to tackle the toughest question first.

Ellen thought for a moment, then said quietly, “I don't know. She could have been drugged.”

“The coroner did a normal toxicology test. They took samples of blood, urine, and vitreous fluid, and discovered alcohol in Annette's blood, but that was it. No drugs, no other toxins.”

Ellen pounced. “Well, maybe she was so drunk that she passed out and they carried her to the truck and placed her in it.”

“You'd expect to see some marks on the body if that's what happened, Ellen. It's terribly difficult to carry an unconscious person without banging or bumping some part of the body, and she'd have been alive long enough for some bruising to have formed. Besides, it says here that Annette weighed one hundred and sixty pounds. It's no mean feat to lift that weight. You'd either need to be very strong . . .”

“. . . or there were
two
people!” Ellen seemed quite excited.

“So now we're looking for a murderous
team
?” Bud asked. I knew he thought I was playing right into his “it was suicide” corner.

“Oh dear,” said Ellen, looking confused.

“We come to the coroner's search of Anen House. He found nothing to indicate that there'd been a struggle, nothing out of place or broken. You yourself told him there was nothing missing.”

“No, there wasn't. Nothing missing,” replied Ellen distractedly.

“That's not all you told him, is it, Ellen?” I added. Bud was on the edge of his seat now.

Ellen shook her head. She must have known what was coming next.

I sat back in my chair and spoke softly. “Ellen, that morning, when you found your sister's body and the coroner interviewed you, you told him that Annette had been acting oddly for weeks, didn't you?” Ellen nodded, her eyes downcast. “You told him that you weren't surprised that she'd killed herself, didn't you?” Again, Ellen nodded. She seemed to be shrinking in her seat as I spoke. “You told him you were in no doubt that the signature on the note was your sister's and that it didn't surprise you that she'd typed it, right?”

Bud was almost wriggling with anticipation next to me.

“You also told the coroner that she
must
have planned to kill herself that way because she'd specifically borrowed your truck that evening.”

Ellen broke down and sobbed.

“I don't get it,” whispered Bud as Ellen scrabbled around in her desk drawers, trying to find a tissue. “What's that about borrowing Ellen's truck?”

“Annette drove a
hybrid
, Bud. Can you imagine how long it would take to kill yourself with the carbon monoxide coming out of one of those things?”

“Right!” he exclaimed, looking triumphant. He cleared his throat. “Oh dear, come on Ellen. I think you've just got to face it, Annette
meant
to do it. She'd been planning it for weeks. She changed her will, borrowed your truck, prepared the note, drank the wine, and waited. I'm so sorry.” He got up and walked around the desk. Ellen rose from her seat, blubbing and shaking as she sobbed. Bud put his safe arms around her. “There, there. It's difficult, I know Ellen. You must see it now. Poor Annette meant to kill herself. It's really
quite
clear.” He pulled back to let Ellen take some deep breaths. She looked completely deflated.

“Oh God. Oh Annette, poor Annette,” she sobbed. “I wish I'd asked her what was wrong. I knew she was acting weirdly. I knew something wasn't right, but she wouldn't talk to me about it. And then, when she . . . when I found her, it was such a shock. But afterwards, when I thought about it . . . I just couldn't believe it!” she drew a breath, and blew her nose. “Oh Bud, Cait, I'm so
sorry
. So
very
sorry. You're right. I have to come to terms with it. I
must
. If I'd known what she was planning, maybe I could have talked her out of it. If only I'd gone to the house earlier . . .”

“Ellen, you've read that file, like I have,” I said in my most sympathetic voice. “You know she was dead before midnight, and you got there at eight in the morning. So that's that. An hour here or there wouldn't have made any difference.”

“Alright then,” replied Ellen angrily, “if I'd gone there the night before. If I'd gone
then
, I could have saved her.”

“No, Ellen,” I said, more firmly this time, “It wouldn't have made a difference. You told the coroner that Annette specifically asked if she could borrow your truck that night, so she must have had a plan, right?” Ellen nodded. “We know that she was having a bitter argument with someone on her phone as she drove up to the house that evening . . .”

“What?!” exploded Ellen. “What do you mean? What argument? With
who
? Who saw the truck?” The words tumbled out of her, then she stopped and blew her nose.

“It doesn't matter who saw Annette,” I said. “All that matters is we know she was having a row with someone, and she was very upset . . .” I tried to continue, but Ellen interrupted me, angrily.

“I bet it was Marlene Wiser, or Gordy. They're always sticking their noses in where they aren't wanted. Typical!” Ellen was clenching her little fists.

She was clearly very angry, and I was just about to tell her that it was Colin who'd seen Annette that evening, not the Wisers, when Bud piped up. “Ellen, it doesn't
matter
. What
does
matter is that you have to try to come to terms with things. You know what we learned about the stages of grieving?” Ellen nodded in Bud's direction. “I suggest you take some time to gather yourself and think through how they apply to you, and Annette's suicide.”

I stopped myself from pointing out that psychologists are divided on the topic of stages of grieving, because I thought that, on balance, it probably wasn't the right moment to toss around an academic chestnut.

“I tell you what,” suggested Bud, more brightly, “How about Cait and I get Bonnie, downstairs, to organize a tour of the winery for us, while you take some time for yourself. We can either all go to the MacMillans' for lunch together, if you're feeling up to it, or Cait and I will organize getting ourselves to their house alone.” Ellen nodded. Bud looked at his watch. “Hey, it's only ten forty-five now, there's lots of time before we have to get there—it's a one o'clock lunch, right?” Again, Ellen nodded. “Okay—that's decided then, right?”

Finally, Ellen looked up, and managed a smile. “Yes, that's a good idea. You go on. I'm
sure
I'll be fine. I mustn't miss the luncheon too. Tell Bonnie to give me a call when you're done, and I'll come down. I'll just calm myself down and tidy up a bit.”

We all nodded. Bud and I took our leave of the once-again sobbing Ellen. I tottered down the staircase, concentrating on my feet and willing myself to not fall. I was relieved when I finally made it to solid ground, but I was still a bit shaky.

“Good job up there, Cait. It was tough, but someone had to do it. You made her face facts, by simply stating them. Well done. I'm
proud
of you!” Bud gave me a lovely kiss, which was very nice, but, sadly, undeserved.

When he released me from his strong arms, I made a big show of straightening myself up, then I said, “I really enjoyed that kiss, Bud, but I hope you don't want to take it back when I've said what I'm about to say.”

Bud looked apprehensive as he replied, “And that would be . . . ?”

“Well, I rather cherry-picked the bits I wanted to highlight from the coroner's file, to allow Ellen some sense of acceptance.”

“But . . . ?”

“Okay, to begin with, Annette weighed one hundred and sixty pounds: if she'd drunk that entire bottle of wine—that empty bottle they found beside her in the truck—even over several hours, she'd have had a blood alcohol level of something over 0.10. Annette's actual blood alcohol level was 0.015, and that's a
lot
lower—the equivalent of drinking a
glass
of wine over about an hour, not a bottle of wine over an evening.
Certainly
not drinking a bottle in the way you might expect a suicidal woman to do it—by the neck, and in big hits. There was no trace of wine spillage on her clothes . . . Bud, just try drinking wine straight out of the bottle, especially if it's a final, defiant act, without getting a drop on you. I'm pretty sure it can't be done.”

“And?” Bud could tell I wasn't finished.

“The coroner mentions that he asked Ellen about an empty cabinet in the living room of the deceased, and she said it had contained Annette's snuff box collection, but that Annette had sold it all, a couple of weeks earlier. Ellen was right, there wasn't anything
missing
, but it begs the question, Why did Annette sell her cherished collection?”

“Because she was planning to kill herself?” suggested Bud.

“No, I don't think so. I think she might have sold the collection to be able to afford the James Sandy snuff box that Colin told us she'd found in Newfoundland. As snuff boxes go, if she'd found an original James Sandy, signed, with a good provenance, which is all I can imagine she could have meant when she spoke of the box as her ‘grail,' she might well have rid herself of every other box, just to be able to own one perfect specimen. Don't ask how I know all about James Sandy—I read it somewhere. Anyway, there's always been this rumor that there was a signed box made by Sandy toward the very end of his short life, in 1819, from the wood of the bed in which Robbie Burns died. Sandy was a Scottish cripple from Laurencekirk who invented—or at least perfected, depending on which source you believe—a very specific sort of airtight hinge that allowed snuff boxes to be made from wood. His hinge invention led to an entire box-making cottage industry in early nineteenth-century Scotland. If she'd found it, it's a unique piece. It could be worth a lot of money. I mean a
lot
. You'd only need two collectors bent upon owning it to bid each other up, and there you are. Collectors are like that, you see. They begin with it being a hobby, something they enjoy; then they learn more, and gather more objects about them then; then it becomes an increasingly important part of their life, and sometimes it even ends up defining them. Finally, for many, there's that one elusive, exquisite, or perfect piece that they'd give almost anything to own. It's not dissimilar to criminal psychopathy in many respects.”

“Oh come on, Cait, you're just guessing now. Signed boxes. Robbie Burns. It's all smoke and mirrors,” replied Bud dismissively.

“I understand why you might say that, Bud, but what you don't know is that the coroner also recovered a slip from Annette's purse that showed she'd made a cash deposit of twenty-five thousand dollars into her account the day of her death. That's a lot of cash.”

Bud nodded. He started to scratch his chin. “I wonder where she got that sort of cash . . .” he mused.

“As I suggested, Bud, the snuff boxes are gone, the cash has appeared, she told Colin she'd found the ‘grail.' I'd place those facts together as a group. While we're at it—the suicide note had a spelling mistake in it.” Bud looked suitably curious. “Yes, it was word for word what Ellen told us it was, but whoever typed it, had typed the word ‘perfectly' as ‘
pre
fectly.' The words ‘Love always' and the signature ‘Annette'
were
handwritten. Now, just trust your local, friendly psychologist on this one, Bud: anyone, and I mean
anyone
, however much distress they might be in—and, if we're going with Ellen's theory, this was a pretty carefully planned suicide, not a spur of the moment thing—anyone would
check
their suicide note. They wouldn't allow their last words to not be
exactly
what they meant them to be. I just don't buy it. The more I find out, the less this adds up.”