The Corpse With the Golden Nose (3 page)

Bud nodded. “If it were my case, that's how I'd see it.”

I was intrigued, and that can be dangerous. I had just a few more, telling questions. “And why does Ellen insist it was
murder
?”

“She says there's no way that Annette would have killed herself. No way. She said that Annette was in fine form on the evening she died, and that they would have talked about any problems she might have had. They got along well. In fact, Ellen reckons no one ever had a bad word to say about her sister. Obviously, she thinks that someone had it in for her.”

“Has she said who it is she thinks killed her sister?” I was very curious about this one.

“That's another reason why I think it's just Ellen trying to manage her guilt. She hasn't the faintest idea of who would have done it or, indeed, who
could
have done it. She admits that much.” He paused, took a drink, then looked at me resignedly.

I gave what he'd said some thought, sipping the last dregs of my champagne as I did so.

“By the way, are you ever going to drink that glass of orange juice I poured for you?” asked Bud quite caustically. “I get it that you might not want to mix the two, but you should probably drink some of it. Marty won't have it, and I've finished mine. So, go on, spoil yourself with some vitamin C, why don't you?”

Sometimes Bud can be a bit of a nag.
But only in a caring way.
I drank the whole glass of juice in one go.

Wiping my juicy lips with the back of my hand, which Marty then thoughtfully cleaned up for me, I said purposefully, “Well, that's it then, Bud Anderson. We'll both be going to the Moveable Feast next weekend, and we'll be doing our best sleuthing too. Whatever
you
and the rest of them might think, I agree with Ellen. I believe her sister
was
murdered.”

Bud looked taken aback. “But the facts don't support murder at all. It's
clearly
a suicide.”

“No, Bud. You've told me that a woman blessed with an incredibly fine, and presumably trained, sense of smell—a sense of smell and taste that made her a star in her field—chose to kill herself by inhaling noxious fumes. It makes absolutely no sense, psychologically speaking. The level of self-loathing it would have taken to have killed herself that way
couldn't
have gone unnoticed by a close and loving sibling. Okay, okay, before you say it, I know that carbon monoxide is odorless, but the exhaust fumes in which it would have been present certainly aren't. To be fair, I suppose I can't say with
certainty
that she
wasn't
suicidal. She
could
have hidden such thoughts from those who loved her. People do. Sadly, all the time. I just don't believe she'd have killed herself
that
way. We'd better get off to Kelowna and find out what really happened. Let's hope you still have some clout and some contacts in that neck of the woods, because I think we might need them.”

“Oh dear Lord,” sighed Bud, “I've created a monster! Or is that the Welsh avenging angel syndrome rearing its head?” He smiled, though a little apprehensively.

“I don't know what you mean, Bud.” I sounded as wounded as possible at the cultural slight. “Yes, I'm Welsh through and through, though what that's got to do with anything I don't know. It doesn't mean I'm particularly foolhardy or anything. You're the one who retained me as a consultant on victim profiling—you knew I was good at it, and you know how many cases I helped with. In fact, I'm not sure what you mean by throwing my Welshness out as some sort of insult.” Bud rolled his eyes and smiled, rather weakly, I thought. “And I'm no ‘avenging angel.' I don't know Ellen or Annette Newman from a pair of holes in the ground. But if there's something amiss, and a murderer has got away with it so far, shouldn't
someone
do
something
about it? Shouldn't we apply ourselves and find out the truth? You've spent your whole career upholding the law, and bringing those who break it to justice. You might have retired from the Force, but you haven't stopped being a person who knows the difference between right and wrong who's prepared to do something about it. You
know
we should step up.”

Bud held up his hands in mock surrender. He looked sheepish. “I didn't mean to use your Welshness against you . . .”

“Good!”

“. . . and I
do
see the sense in what you're saying about doing the right thing. But I'm still convinced this was a suicide—that Ellen doesn't
want
to see things the way the authorities do. And you
do
have to admit that the Welsh can go rushing into things with hot heads sometimes. You've only got to see them on the rugby field to know that. Don't forget, I've had quite a few Welsh colleagues in my time, so I know how your lot can get.”

“Oh, come off it, Bud. ‘
Your lot
?' That's like me saying that you can be a miserable old sod at times simply because your parents are Swedish! I get it that not all Swedes walk around gazing bleakly into the distance, constantly contemplating the grim mysteries of life, whatever some popular fiction would have us believe. In the same way, we Welsh are not all short-tempered bulls constantly pawing the ground and snorting in close proximity to china shops.”

“Singing or swinging, Cait. That's what one of my old colleagues used to tell me about the Welsh: when they're backed into a corner, it's always fifty–fifty whether they'll burst into song or come out fighting. I've never had any reason to doubt that he knew exactly what he was talking about. He was Welsh himself.”

“
Bud!
” I gave him my sternest look. “The
Canadian
Cait—and don't forget that I've been a Canadian for a decade now—says let's go, let's help this woman, let's try to sort it out. Okay? Or it's four choruses of my favorite Welsh hymn for you! Don't take this lightly, Bud.
I'm
not. The last time I went to Kelowna, I got snowed into a hunting lodge with a corpse and a hotbed of suspects. Believe me, I don't want to face that sort of thing again. It was a nightmare. Hopefully, since this poor woman died a year ago, a cold case like this should be pretty safe. More of an academic exercise, the sort of thing I'm used to. So, yes, I think we should go, and, yes, I think we should look into it. And if you could promise me no more dead bodies, I'd be grateful. Right?”

Bud smiled a tired smile. “Okay, Cait. We'll do it. And we'll do the best we can. I'll sort it.
And no more fresh corpses
. I promise. We'll just help Ellen with Annette's case, as we can.”

I felt relieved that Bud was back to being Bud-like again, and knew I had nothing to worry about with him in charge.

As I cleared the dishes and allowed Marty to lick the bowl I'd used to scramble the eggs, I thought about what clothes I possessed that could both stand up to an entire weekend of enjoying some of the best food and wine that British Columbia had to offer (
so, stretchy then
), while still being smart enough for the occasion. Sweat pants wouldn't cut it, and there's only so many times you can wear bouncy, drapey black outfits and still make an impression. I sensed some panic-shopping in my very near future.

I'M NOT A HEARTLESS PERSON
, but if I'm honest, the unfortunate death of Annette Newman was not foremost in my mind as Bud collected me in his shiny new truck to drive to Kelowna the next weekend. Given the rain that pelted us sideways for two hours, and the semis that were laboring up the long hills at no more than a crawling pace, the journey went quite smoothly, thank goodness. The Classic Vinyl radio station cut out a few times, but it didn't stop us singing at the tops of our voices for long periods. Even though some of Bud's memories of the music inevitably included Jan, we talked it through, and overall, it was great fun. All very important in a burgeoning relationship. Honestly.

It was almost eleven o'clock. I knew there'd be no stopping again until we reached our destination, so I suggested a loo and coffee break. Understanding well enough what that meant, Bud pulled off the main road, and we swept down toward Merritt. We stopped at the first coffee shop we spotted. Within moments, I'd used the facilities and was nibbling on a delicious lemon and cranberry scone, while managing to slurp gingerly from a steaming vat of coffee with as much cream in it as I could fit into the paper cup. It was just what I needed: delicious!

“Road trips make you hungry?” asked Bud, with a chuckle in his voice and a twinkle in his eye.

I didn't stop nibbling or slurping to answer. By way of an acid retort, I simply looked in his direction.

Eventually I mumbled at him through cakey crumbs, “I haven't eaten since breakfast, and that was four hours ago.”

“I seem to remember you polishing off that packet of cookies a couple of hours ago, not too long after we'd dropped Marty at Jack's acreage in Hatzic,” he replied, not unkindly.

“Blood sugar was low,” I muttered. It's a phrase that allows for a fair few snacks each day.

Bud smiled broadly as we ambled back to the truck, then, while I settled myself and brushed crumbs off my “ample bosom,” as we large-chested women like to refer to our boobs—
well, I do, anyway
—he wiped off the worst of the insects that had splattered themselves across his shiny new number plate.

“Well and truly christened,” he observed wryly. I think he was a bit sad that the brand, spanking new-ness was now marred.

With another coffee in hand for the next leg of the journey, Bud hauled himself back into the truck, then handed me a blue cardboard folder that he pulled from behind his seat.

“Here you go, some reading for you,” he said, smiling wickedly. “You can interpret it for me.”

I leafed through the contents of the folder: sheets and sheets of notes spread across my lap.

“And this is . . . ?”

“It seems that Ellen Newman thought we'd like some background on our fellow attendees at the Moveable Feast. That's what she emailed to me. I printed it out before I left my apartment this morning,” replied Bud as we pulled back up the incline toward the highway.

“She's very thorough,” I observed dryly. “But then, she's an accountant, so I suppose she's one of those ‘all detail and no perspective' people,” I added. It seemed like a reasonable comment to me.

“Oh come on now, Cait,” chastised Bud, “don't be so judgmental. We haven't even met the woman yet. You're always doing that.”

“What?” I bit back. Miffed.

“Reaching snap decisions about folks, two seconds after you've met them, or worse still,
before
you've met them, and based almost solely on what they do and where they live,” he replied.

I suppose he was right, but I've never been any different, and I just can't help myself. To be fair to me, what people do for a living and where they live their lives have a huge impact on their behavior, and are significant indicators of both personality type and social standing as well as beliefs and desires. But, on this occasion, he had a point: I was judging Ellen Newman on a pile of papers I hadn't even read yet, and that probably wasn't fair.

“Okay then,” I sulked. “I'll withhold my opinion until I've seen what she has to say, and maybe even until I've met her.”

“Radio on or off?” asked Bud kindly.

“Off, thanks, it'll make the job quicker.”

“Right then. Get on with it,” he quipped.

I pulled my purse from between my feet, scrabbled about searching for my reading glasses, pushed them onto my nose, took them off again, cleaned them, poked them back into place, and began to read. There must have been about thirty pages in all, so it took about five minutes.

When I'd finished, I gave their contents some thought for a moment or two, then pronounced, “Okay, I'm ready. What do you want to know?”

Even from his profile I could tell that Bud was surprised, and amused.

“It still freaks me out a bit that you can read and digest so much information so quickly,” he commented. “I wish I could do it. Over the years, I bet I could have saved
months
of my life that way. You're lucky.”

“Lucky,
and
I work at it, Bud,” I retorted. Having what some call an “eidetic memory,” and what others call “a quick eye and a fast brain,” because they don't think that eidetic memory exists, means I'm pretty good at this sort of stuff. I can see, understand, interpret, and encode information into my memory banks at great speed. It's been a phenomenal help to me in my academic life. It also means that I carry with me images and sensations I'd really rather forget. Sometimes they haunt my dreams, as vivid as when I first saw, felt, and smelled them. I don't just hold on to words on pages, I do it with everything that surrounds me. Insofar as I've been able to encode it accurately in the first place, of course. That's the problem with my “ability.” Sometimes I encode things, or remember them, wrongly. I overlay them with my own, sometimes erroneous, interpretations. I color them with my attitudes and biases, often based upon my own incomplete knowledge. Because not even
I
, well read though I might be, know
everything
. It's something that's landed me in trouble in the past.

“So shall I tell you what I think about the writer before I tell you about what she's written?” I asked, a bit testily.

“Sure. Whatever you think, Cait. I'll take it all in, as best I can with my poor, feeble, non-superhuman brain.” Bud chuckled, and I had to stop myself from giving him a friendly slap on the arm.

“Okay,” I began, “Ellen Newman has written up a list of the people we're going to meet through the weekend, with some background on each person. It's a very thorough list. And I
mean
thorough. She's obviously given it all a great deal of thought, and of course, she knows the people she's writing about. So, what does this tell me about Ellen?”