The Corpse With the Golden Nose (5 page)

His eyes were locked on the road ahead, which was a very good thing because we were at Pennask Summit, and swathed in icy fog. The road was slick and challenging, the winter's snow piled so high at the sides of the road that it towered over the huge trucks we carefully passed as they crept along. I inwardly praised Bud's insistence upon packing a shovel, warm blankets, a thermos, and lots of snacks.

From that point on, the journey was, quite literally, all downhill. It wouldn't be long until the landscape would open up ahead of us and show us the Okanagan Valley and the beauties it held. But there was a way to go yet. I carried on with my assigned task.

“In summary, we have the Irish Corrigans who live at the
B&B
; the Canadian and American Jacksons who live at Anen Close, located immediately below the
B&B
, and who run a shop and restaurant in Kelowna itself; the all-Canadian MacMillans who live in Lakeview Lodge, farther along Lakeshore Drive than Anen Close and the all-American Soul family, at SoulVine Wines in West Kelowna, the other bank of the lake. Other residents we'll meet are Gordy and Marlene Wiser, who also live in Anen Close, opposite the Jacksons, and have been there about four years. Both the Jacksons and the Wisers have lived in the two houses that comprise the Close since they were built, on part of the land that used to belong to the Newman homestead. Ellen says that the Wisers are very nice people, old, reliable, and trustworthy, but that he's a real nosey parker and she's fixated on her garden. Take that as you want.”

“Then there's the du Bois family—parents Marcel and Annie, and their two daughters, Gabi and Poppy—they own and operate C'est la Vie, the French restaurant where we'll be dining on Sunday night. It seems that the parents had a background together in the food business in Montreal before they arrived in Kelowna, when they bought a rundown hole-in-the-wall and upgraded it to become a very well-respected brasserie-type restaurant, with a traditional menu and a reputation for fine ingredients and good cooking. He runs front of house, she's the chef, and the two girls wait tables. I must say, that's probably the meal I'm looking forward to the most. There's just something about French food . . .”

“That's not what you said when you got back from France last year,” quipped Bud, still concentrating.

“True . . . but those
were
extraordinary circumstances, you have to admit,” I added. “And in any case, I'm over all that now. And I mustn't let myself be sidetracked, even if I am hungry. Our final group are those Ellen describes as ‘latecomers/others.' By ‘latecomers,' I gather she means those who have been in the area for less than five years or so. I suppose that having grown up in the area she thinks of everyone who's been there for less than a lifetime as a latecomer, but this is her term so I'll use it. But, as far as her use of the word ‘others' is concerned, well, it seems to me that she's discounting these people as suspects. First there's a guy called Vince Chen, who's the new vintner at SoulVine Wines. He's been in town for less than a year, so wasn't there when Annette died, and was brought in by Sammy Soul from a winery in Niagara, though he's originally from Vancouver. It seems that Sammy Soul's last vintner had to leave, because Ellen's sister Annette left him
her
half of the family wine business in her will.”

“You're kidding,” Bud responded sharply. “Ellen never mentioned that to me.”

“Well, she's mentioned it in her notes. She says that Raj Pinder was the vintner at SoulVine Wines for about three years, then, when Annette's will was read, it came as a great surprise to everyone that she had left her entire interest in the business, which was fifty percent, to this relative stranger. Then she writes that she's very pleased her sister did that, because he's the best vintner in the business, now that her sister's no longer around.”

“Weird,” said Bud.

“Yep, definitely odd. Especially since she's put him into the non-suspects category. I think I need to poke around
that
a bit when I meet everyone.”

“Poke away, Cait. Poke away,” was Bud's rather patronising reply. I didn't rise to the bait.

I left it at that, because we'd finally rolled into West Kelowna. The picturesque highway was behind us, and endless strip malls now hedged both sides of the road. The highway had been busy with an unexpected number of trucks, given that it was Good Friday, and now the local roads were laden with folks hurrying from A to B, presumably stocking up for the Easter weekend's family feasts.

“How much farther, exactly?” I asked.

“I guess about half an hour or so, depending on the bridge,” Bud replied. “It might be busy because it's lunchtime, or maybe not, because it's a holiday. It'll be what it'll be. Ellen is expecting us when we get there. I didn't say we'd be there at a certain time, just some time after lunch, which I guess it is, now,” he observed.

I wondered if he assumed that a few cookies and a scone would hold me until dinner time, but I thought it best not to say anything. We were, after all, about to jump headlong into a gourmet weekend. Besides, it was clear from Bud's expression that the carefree road trip had now become a journey to a specific destination. I imagined he was not looking forward to meeting his “grief buddy.” I knew I wasn't, but I didn't really know why.

As we wound down through West Kelowna and approached the Bill Bennett Bridge, the sun finally poked through the clouds, glinting off the sparse ribbon of vehicles below us. On the opposite side of the vast lake, the rapidly growing city of Kelowna nestled beneath the hillsides, which were yellow with wintry grasses and still showing patches of snow on the ground. Here and there were copses of pines that had survived the terrible forest fires a few years earlier.

“Gonna keep an eye out for Ogopogo as we cross the lake?” quipped Bud.

“Sure,” I replied, smiling, “but give me a minute while I get my camera out—just one photo of the Loch Ness Monster's Canadian cousin, and we'd be worth a fortune.” I love monster myths. The human distrust of deep bodies of water allows us to populate them with all sorts of terrifying creatures. Okanagan Lake, at almost eighty-five miles long and with water as deep as seven hundred and seventy feet, is prime monster-story territory. Of course, no one knew that the giant squid was a reality until the early twenty-first century. Out there somewhere, in one of the world's deepest and oldest lakes, there might actually lurk a creature descended more directly from the dinosaurs than even our feathered raptor friends. The world's such a fascinating place.

We zipped across Okanagan Lake and headed through the knots of traffic that jammed each of the city's crossroads, finally heading south along the edge of the lake. We passed undulating hillsides planted with neat rows of bare vines, but I could glimpse the white fuzz of blossom in apple orchards in the distance. The clouds had already broken, and it promised to be a golden afternoon.

“Okay, keep your eyes peeled,” said Bud, as the pinging on the truck's
GPS
told us we were close to our destination. Clearly, we hadn't actually reached it, because we were on a bit of road that, while it gave us a wonderful view of the lake, didn't offer much else. We pulled over and looked around.

“There,” said Bud with surprising certainty, given the narrowness of the track he was indicating.

We turned sharply away from the lake and the track soon presented a wider vista. To our right was a large, traditionally-designed, newly built house, to our left its mirror image—except that one was cream with blue trim, the other cream with red trim. Each house was set on about an acre of its own land. Between them, the track widened to a road that wound in hairpins up a steep hill to a small, older home, which sat atop the weird, knobbly hill. It looked rather like those houses that children draw, even to the picket fence that surrounded it.

A large sign at the foot of the winding road announced
ANEN HOUSE B&B
. As Bud changed gear to take the steep road ahead, I saw the curtains in the front window of the house to the right of us twitch. It must be the Wisers' house; anyone living there would have a great vantage point for keeping an eye on things in Anen Close, and at the
B&B
.

“So, there it is, then,” I said to Bud solemnly as we wound upwards.

“Yes, and here
we
are,” he replied.

“From now on, almost everyone we meet might be a possible suspect,” I added.

“
If
Annette was murdered,” he replied, pointedly.

A sign directed us to the
RESIDENTS' GARAGE
, a separate structure built for two large vehicles, set away to one side of the house. Soon Bud was carrying his bag, and I was wheeling my suitcase, along the narrow path that led from the picket fence toward the front of the house. Before we reached it, the red door flew open and a long-faced, lean woman of about thirty, with a sallow complexion and dark hair piled high on her head, came toward us.

“You must be Bud and Cait!” she exclaimed, almost by way of an accusation, scooping my suitcase from me as she limply shook Bud's free hand.

“Ellen told me you'd be here after lunch some time. Of course, we're happy you had a safe journey.” She sounded like she wasn't happy about it at all. “Let me get you settled, then I'll call and tell her you're here.” She was now holding open the front door and trying to usher us into the house, impatiently waving us in.

“Thanks,” replied Bud hesitantly. I decided to let him take the lead on this; after all, I wasn't the
real
guest, he was. I was just his accompanying other.

Immediately I stepped inside the house, I fell in love with it: a symmetrical layout, sunshine-hued walls, vases of flowers dotted about. It felt like a home, not a temporary residence for nomadic tourists. The smell that filled the air made my tastebuds ache: some sort of beef and vegetable soup. I was instantly ravenous. I couldn't help but wonder if the food might be for us.

As if she were telepathic, the woman announced, “Pat, my husband, made some soup for you.
He
thought you might be hungry.” She said it as though it were a very stupid idea.

Bless you Pat—I like you already!

“Oh, and I'm Lauren. Lauren Corrigan, general helper and chief dogsbody.” The woman held out her hand to me, having balanced my battered suitcase in the entryway.

I shook her small hand and felt it crumple in my own. Closer to her now, I could see a network of fine lines on her face that suggested she was more used to frowning than smiling. She smelled of plain soap, and seemed haggard for her age. Not a happy woman, I suspected. Her body language backed me up. Every movement was filled with anger. She wrenched my suitcase back onto its little wheels and pointed toward the staircase that headed from the front door to the upper level.

“I'll take your bags up, you have something to eat.” It sounded like an order. “Unless you want to freshen up, of course.” She made “freshening up” sound sinful. “
Pat, they're here!
” she shouted, making both Bud and myself flinch. She wasn't the most welcoming of people.

Bud tried to get Lauren to allow him to take the bags upstairs himself, but she declined. “No, no, it's my job,” she said. She was not very enthusiastic about it. Her accent was clearly Irish, and without many of the edges knocked off.

As Lauren began to clatter and bump up the stairs, huffing and puffing a short, red-headed man, in full chef whites appeared from a back room. He grinned broadly, almost wickedly.

“Ah-ha! Our esteemed weekend guests. You must be Bud.” He shook Bud's hand politely but firmly. “And you must be Cait.” He took my hand in both of his and shook it warmly. “I've been looking forward to meeting you. Ellen has spoken very highly of you, and with good reason, I'm sure.” His lilt was even more pronounced than his wife's. Certainly a southern accent, but not Dublin, although Ellen had written that that was where she'd found him. Maybe Cork?

“You'll be wanting something to eat, I'm sure,” said the chef, as though nothing could be more natural, or make him happier. “I've made a lovely soup for you, hearty but not too heavy, just right to get you through to dinner. You'll be glad, later on, that you've had it now, given all the drinking you'll be doing with your food tonight.” Definitely Cork. Lovely accent.

Bud and I happily allowed Pat to seat us at one of the several tables in what was clearly the breakfasting area. We greedily tucked into the steaming, aromatic soup that he served to us, accompanied by large chunks of fresh, homemade bread, and curls of yellow, salty butter. It took us a while. Neither of us spoke, except to make little noises that showed how delectable we thought the meal was. I love the way that “
Mmmm
 . . .” can speak volumes!

When we'd finished, we both pushed back a little from the table and looked equally satisfied. Almost immediately Pat reappeared and asked if everything was alright. Bud and I nodded.

As Pat collected our dishes, Bud asked, “Do you know what the
exact
plan of action might be, Pat? Ellen's very kindly sent us an outline of what the weekend will hold for us, but she left us a bit in the dark about where to be, and when, for this evening.”

“Hmm—that's not like Ellen,” remarked Pat with an impish grin. “I reckon she'll be here very soon to tell you herself. Lauren called her, and she said she'd be right over. Her office is at the vineyard, which is only about ten minutes along the road. You'll have passed it on your way. I
do
happen to know that Ellen's booked a taxi from her place to here, to collect you at six, and take all three of you to the cocktail party at the Arts Centre downtown, which kicks off at six thirty. And it's formal dress. Although it's only canapés, you'll sure have plenty to eat there. The car'll bring you back here afterwards. Knowing that lot, I think midnight'd be about right. There's breakfast here at eight tomorrow morning, so we can't come tonight. It'll be a busy night for me, and a busy morning for me and Lauren both. Good fun, mind you. It's my first time, you know. First time. Very exciting. Truth is, I'm a bit nervous, all those folks eating my food, like? Used to some fancy fare, they are. But not here. Ellen agreed—keep it simple, keep it plain. So it's a traditional Irish breakfast you'll be getting tomorrow, and an Irishman's version of a ‘North American' start to the day on Sunday. So think on that when you're noshing it up tonight, and save some room for my famous, award-winning bangers.”