The Corpse With the Golden Nose (7 page)

I suspected that Bud was desperate to gloat, but he didn't. “Yes, okay, I admit it's not looking too fruitful on the motive front yet,” I continued, “but it's early days yet, right? Maybe we'll meet someone with clear homicidal tendencies at the party tonight. I really do want to clean up, and I'll need to take my time getting ready. First impressions are so important.”

“Yep, me too. I could do with a long, hot shower, to ease the stiffness in my legs and back a bit. In my
own
shower, of course, in my
very own
bathroom!” He smiled. Naughtily. “You got all that, eh? The separate rooms?”

“Yes, Bud. Hence
repressed
!” The question of rooms, and sharing, hadn't even crossed my mind until Ellen had mentioned it. The weekend was about food, wine and probable murder, in that order.

“I'm fine with separate rooms. Then I can take as much time in the bathroom as I like. Okay with you?” I asked. Bud nodded, still grinning wickedly. “You'd better come across the corridor and get your bag, if that's where it is. Then I can jump in the shower and get ready for this thing we're going to tonight.”

As soon as Bud had left, I brushed my teeth, twice, and gargled with Listerine until my eyes watered. It was the only alternative to having a cigarette, which wasn't an option, because Bud had made me promise I wouldn't smoke all weekend.

Finally, my fussing and primping, which seemed to take forever, was done, and Bud knocked on my door at five-twenty-five, with a warm smile on his face, and his arms open wide.

“You smell good,” he said, reaching out to hug me.

“You too,” I replied, as I tried not to get lipstick on his jacket or my hair caught under his arms.

He looked very handsome in his dark navy suit, crisp white shirt, and red and gold striped tie. In an effort to be more dressy I'd decided to keep my hair down, rather than tied back, which is my normal thing. I'd done my best with curling tongs, half a container of mousse that's supposed to give volume to fine hair, and enough hairspray to jeopardize the entire ozone layer. But I wasn't happy with the outcome. Something which Bud quickly deduced.

“Your hair looks great when it's down like that, Cait.” He smiled again. “Honestly. I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it and you look lovely in that gown. It's very flattering.”

“It's plain black, with a jacket to hide my arms, and you've seen it before,” I replied sulkily.

Bud pulled up my chin and looked deep into my eyes. “Caitlin Morgan. You're gorgeous. I love you. Do you care what other people think of you? I mean,
really
?”

I smiled back up at him. “I love you too. That you think I am gorgeous means the world to me.” All of which was true. “And I
don't
care what anyone else thinks of me, you're right.” We kissed. Gently.

“Are you two coming down?” called Ellen Newman from the bottom of the stairs, brightly enough, but I was convinced she thought we were up to something.

“Coming right down,” I replied, just as brightly. Bud and I followed her into the little lounge area to the left of the staircase, the mirror image of the breakfasting area we'd been in earlier that afternoon.

The aroma of the wonderful soup had been replaced by something more oniony, herby, and porky, yet still pleasant, but the matter at hand was still murder. We settled into comfy chairs, and I opened with, “Thanks for taking the time to write all those notes—they've been most helpful,” I half lied. “I don't think there's anything else we need to know right now except, maybe, one or two things.” Bud was on the edge of his chair, probably worried about what I was going to say.

“Anything,” replied Ellen, who seemed to think that a short, forest-green velvet skirt, with a too-vivid orange silk blouse worn loosely over it, comprised formal wear. I could tell by the way she was eyeing us that she felt uncomfortable about something, so before I started to ask questions about Annette's death, I thought it best to follow my instincts.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

Ellen wriggled in her seat. “Not really,” she replied, clearly not meaning it.

“Are you sure?” asked Bud, quickly following my lead.

Ellen sighed. “It's just that I thought that
you'd
be the one helping me, Bud. Not that I wouldn't want
your
help, too, Cait. But Bud's the one with the policing background.
His
experience is what counts here. That's why I really asked you to come. When I was here earlier, Cait was the one asking all the questions. And now, with all due respect and all that, it seems like you're going to do the same thing again.” She almost glared at me.

She had a point. A marketing professor probably wouldn't be the one doing the interrogating if there was an ex-cop in the room. Luckily, Bud came to the rescue.

“I know what you mean, Ellen,” he said reassuringly, “and I also know it's
my
opinion you're really interested in. But I told Cait she could be involved, and she's often discussed other cases with me. Besides, she was a real help, reading your notes aloud to me as we drove here,” he lied, “so she's as up on the facts as I am. Possibly more so, because I was concentrating on the road. In any case, two brains are always better than one, right, Ellen? You see, while
you
value my professional input,
I
know the value of Cait's amateur approach. It helps me see things from a different point of view.”

Ellen nodded grudgingly, and I suspected that Bud was beginning to enjoy painting me as a rank outsider in the world of crime detection.

“So,” continued Bud, immediately comfortable in his role as head-of-investigation, “would it be possible to see the coroner's report, the will, and at least a copy of your sister's suicide note?”

The words hung heavily in the air. The clock on the wall tocked away five seconds. I counted. I wondered if Ellen had counted too, because she spoke exactly on the sixth beat.

“I have all that at home, not with me. I remember her note word for word. Do you want me to recite it?”

She sounded like a little girl offering to run through Wordsworth's “Daffodils” for her parents or teachers.

Both Bud and I nodded. It would be useful to know what it had said, even if we couldn't immediately see how it had been written. Ellen cleared her throat and began. “It said, ‘Ellen, It's no use, I can't do it anymore. I can't go on. It just won't work. I can't do my job any more. And if I can't do my job perfectly, then there's no point to any of it. I'm sorry. I know you'll miss me. But that's it. I'm done. Love, always, Annette.' And then were three x's. You know, kisses. That's it.” She looked at both Bud and myself as if seeking our approval.

“Good job, Ellen,” Bud said, “that can't have been easy for you. Those words must hurt.” She nodded. “Are you sure it was Annette's handwriting?” he asked, as gently as he could.

“Oh no, she didn't
write
it, Annette never
wrote
anything . . . her handwriting had always been dreadful, so she always typed everything.” Ellen seemed surprised that Bud would have asked.

“But she signed it, at least?” Bud added.

“Oh yes, she'd signed it,” replied Ellen calmly. “Of course she
signed
it.”

Bud and I exchanged a glance.

I couldn't help myself—I jumped in. “So are you sure it was Annette's signature?” I asked.

“Well I was . . . and then I wasn't,” was Ellen's less than illuminating response.

“So you mean . . . ?” I didn't dare continue.

“Oh . . . right . . . yes.” Ellen seemed to sense my confusion. “At first I thought it
was
Annette's signature, but then I realized a while later that of course it
couldn't
have been, because there's no way she'd have killed herself, so there's no reason why she'd have signed a suicide note. So it can't be Annette's signature, you see.” Any minute now I'd be rushing outside for a cigarette—however much it might annoy Bud. There's only so much that nicotine gum can help you handle.

“So it looked like her signature, but you're now sure it wasn't?” I quizzed.

“Yes. No. It can't be.” Ellen seemed to be done.

I was beginning to lose the will to live.

“Okay, so, one more thing then,” added Bud, “could you dig out an example of your sister's signature that you know is definitely hers? Then we can compare them all.” Ellen nodded.

I managed to give Bud a quick kick. Luckily, he worked out what it meant.

“We do have a few more questions, but I promised Cait she could talk to you about them. You don't mind, do you?”

Ellen now seemed quite relaxed with the idea that I would have an involvement in the case too, so I dove right in. Smiling.

“Your notes say that Raj Pinder, who is now the vintner at your winery, used to be the vintner at SoulVine Wines, right?” Ellen nodded. “Raj now owns half your vineyard—that Annette willed her half of the business to him—and that you're
pleased
that she did that, is that right?” Again, Ellen nodded. “So, did you know about Annette's intentions before she died? Had you discussed that with her at all?”

Ellen smiled, “Oh silly me,” she began. “I guess I didn't put
that
in the notes. I'm sorry, it's just that everyone here knows what happened. A week before Annette died, she changed her will. She left her half of the vineyard to Raj, instead of to me. We only all found out when the will was read, and that was weeks later. So, no, I wasn't expecting it. No one was.”

Ellen seemed calm as she announced that she'd been robbed of what she must have always assumed was her birthright. Bud couldn't hide his surprise at Ellen's delivery of this explanation. I could see his hand begin to move towards his now perfectly combed hair and I shook my head and made eyes at him. He sat on his hand.

“I'm sorry, Ellen,” he said, sympathetically. “That must have come as a shock for you. I guess you expected that the whole business would be yours?”

“Well, of course I did. Mom and Poppa built it from nothing! They imported the vines, they planted it all. And then it was me and Annette who got the real benefits of the crops, and we were able to make wonderful wines because of Annette's gift. And, yes, I did think it would all be mine. But Raj is a good and kind man, and he's an excellent vintner. He hasn't got as good a nose as Annette had, but he took silver behind her golds for the three years he was with SoulVine Wines, so he's not only the best in the area, but he's just about the best in North America. I'm glad to have him. Without
him
joining the business, I'd have had to find a vintner from overseas, or use someone from Canada or the
USA
who isn't as good as Raj. I'm so lucky that Annette thought of it. When Raj found out about it, he left SoulVine Wines
immediately
. He couldn't work for anyone other than the company in which he's a fifty-fifty owner and we get along really well. He has a wonderful vision for the business. I think that Mt Dewdney has a fabulous future ahead of it, and Raj and I will enjoy running it together.”

“Ellen,” said Bud in a commiserating tone, “do you think that Annette might have planned the whole thing? That she was depressed, set things up for you in a way that would be good for the business, but had just . . . had enough?” To be fair, he had a point.

Ellen stood up and clenched her fists as she answered, “No! Annette wouldn't have! She would never have killed herself! Oh Bud—I thought
you
believed me. You, of
all
people!”

“It's okay”—I used my calming voice—”Bud's just playing devil's advocate, right, Bud?” I glared at him.

“Yes, yes, Cait's right,” he lied. “I have to be sure before I go digging about. And, obviously, you're quite certain. So that's good. Well . . . not
good
. You know what I mean . . .” he stammered. He stood up and announced, “I'm sorry. I hope you don't think we're rude, Ellen, but Cait hasn't quite kicked the smoking thing yet, and I know she'll be hoping to have a quick puff before we hop into that taxi outside to leave for dinner. We'll just head outside to the smoking porch at the side of the house for a few minutes, if that's alright?”

Now it was my turn to look at Bud as though he was having some sort of life-threatening episode, but, never one to turn down the chance to have a smoke without him nagging me to stub out, I was out of my seat as quickly as possible.

“You should speak to Lizzie Jackson about that,” called Ellen as I headed toward the front door. “She's helped Serendipity Soul give up,
and
she got Marcel du Bois to kick the habit, which, given who
he
is and how attached he was to his cigarettes, and I mean that literally, is quite something. So maybe she has
some
redeeming qualities.”

“Thanks, I'll bear that in mind.” I replied to Ellen's backhanded compliment to Lizzie Jackson as politely as I could, while pulling open the front door and heading off to the smoking porch as fast as my feet could take me, leaving Bud trailing behind.

Even before I got there I was lighting up. “So,” I inhaled as I spoke, “interesting, right? A
changed
will, a
typed
suicide note with a possible
fake
signature. It all points to murder.”

“No, Cait, it's a
real
suicide note, signed by Annette, but read by a sister who can't forgive herself for not seeing her own sibling's anguish. If Annette had been planning to kill herself, she might well have had the foresight to make sure that the next best vintner for the job would be bound to take it because he'd be part-owner. Besides,” he added somewhat grumpily, “look, there's no way anyone could get up to this garage, where Ellen found her, without those nosey neighbors at the bottom of the hill seeing them approach. It's
definitely
a suicide, I'm even more certain now.”