The Corpse With the Golden Nose (19 page)

“You're obviously on a roll, Cait, so go on,” said Bud, grimly scratching his head.

“Her will. The new one?” Bud nodded. “It says she leaves everything to ‘Rajan Michael Pinder,' then it gives his address at SoulVine Wines, and then it adds, get this—‘and thereafter to his firstborn child.' Annette basically tried to entail her half of the winery to Raj's first child, after him, when he's gone. Now, I'm no lawyer, but I have a suspicion you can't do that, legally, but, there it is, in her will, and Ellen hasn't contested it. Any of it. The will was one of those pro-forma things you can buy at the store and do yourself. It might be of interest to note, too, that in the whole of
that
typewritten document—which your theory of suicide supposes that Annette typed herself—there's not
one
mistake. And the witnesses?” Bud shrugged. “
The Wisers.
They must have ‘forgotten' to mention that they witnessed Annette's new will when we were talking to them, and asking about her behavior in the run-up to her death.”

“Still,” pressed Bud, “the new will and her death? That will alone points to intent to kill herself. Right?”

“Not if someone forged it, or knew about it,” I replied.

“Only Raj Pinder benefits by the will. Do you see
him
as the murderer?” Bud looked puzzled.

“I'm not ruling him out, just because I like him,” I replied hesitantly, “but now, whoever is his ‘firstborn' stands to do well out of it too.”

“He doesn't
have
any kids.” Bud sounded cross.

“Well, not that we know of, but he might have, back in the
UK
, or he might be planning one soon—which would bring the mother, and her family, into the picture.”

“What do you mean, ‘planning one soon'?”

“Oh come on, Bud.
Raj and Serendipity?
You must have noticed. She's trying to give up smoking, which might mean she's getting ready for kids . . .”

“Raj and Serendipity aren't a couple!” Bud sounded quite certain. “Are they?”

“Oh dear, for a cop, you sometimes don't see the things right in front of you, do you?”

“Oh,
damn
, Cait. It's all so confusing. Why are you doing this to me?”

“I'm not doing it to
you
, Bud! It's not like this is some personal crusade for me. I'm just looking at the information and working out what it means. And, you're right, it
is
confusing. A straightforward suicide shouldn't be, and probably wouldn't be, which is why I'm now more certain than
ever
that it was a murder.”

Bud sighed. “Why did you do all that stuff up there, to convince Ellen you thought it was a suicide? I can't wait for the answer to this one . . .” He was almost smiling under the tone of complaint.

“Because Ellen Newman has found out that I'm a criminal psychologist and I don't want her putting that out there on the street. I want her to think we're off the case, that we're just relaxing and enjoying the Moveable Feast, and then we'll go home. I don't want her opening her mouth and putting her foot in it, like she did last night. I
will
find out more. I
will
push this, Bud.
Someone
killed Annette Newman and worked damned hard to make it look like a convincing suicide. Because everyone, and when I say ‘everyone' I mean
everyone
, including Ellen at the time, thought it was a suicide, there was no autopsy. Now there'll never be one, because Annette was cremated a week after her death. That's a pretty clever murderer, Bud. We've got a whole lot more leads to follow now than we did this time yesterday, don't you agree?”

“Damn you, Cait. I do.” Bud looked worried, but at least he'd stopped messing with his hair. “This doesn't seem cut and dried anymore,” he added. “There are too many unanswered questions, and too much weirdness surrounding Annette's death for it to be a simple suicide—though I should warn you that I'm not giving up on the possibility that she
did
kill herself, forced to a place where she saw it as her only move. So, maybe manslaughter, not murder—which doesn't mean a lack of culpability on the part of a possible perpetrator, and it might even constitute a more devilish form of seeing someone dead.”

I reached around Bud's neck and gave him a big kiss on the cheek. “Oh, I love it when you use words like ‘culpability' and ‘perpetrator,' because it means you're coming around to my way of seeing things. Not that I'm
happy
that Annette was killed, but—oh you know what I
mean
, Bud.”

“On this occasion, yes, I do,” he replied, smiling wearily, “but don't take that for granted, because sometimes I have absolutely no idea what you're up to, or why you're up to it.”

“Good!” I said. “That'll keep you on your toes, then.”

“True,” was Bud's pithy response. I pulled him toward the tasting store to find Bonnie and arrange tour of the winery before it was time to leave for lunch.

The sun was getting higher in the joyous blue sky, and there were a couple of cars pulled up in front of the store. I felt as though the snowy piles we'd seen at the side of the highway just twenty-four hours earlier were a world away. I wished I hadn't a care in the world, and that I could just enjoy a wonderful break in this magical micro-climate for a few days.

I was back on the case though. And now, with Bud on my side, I had no doubt that we'd work out what had happened to Annette Newman, and why.

AS BUD AND I APPROACHED
the Mt Dewdney Family Estate Winery tasting room's front door, we had to literally jump out of the way of Colin MacMillan, who was free-wheeling down the hill toward us on his bicycle, happily screaming “woo-hoo,” and furiously ringing his bell. Despite the fact that it was still early in the year, a trail of dust shot up from his wheels as he passed. Bud and I spent the next couple of minutes brushing its remains from our clothes and, in my case, trying to dislodge it from my lipstick.

Finally making our way into the wine tasting room, Bonnie greeted us with a friendly wave. She said, “He's a devil on that bike, isn't he? Haven't seen him here for an age, now he's back again.” She returned her attention to a well-dressed young couple who were paying for a case of wine.

Bonnie whispered, “Back in a minute!” as she passed us to help them to their car.

Bud looked at his watch. “It's gone eleven now, do you want a trip around the winery, or do you fancy a tasting?”

“Let's see how long a trip takes,” I replied. Bud nodded.

Bonnie bustled back into the room. Keeping an eye on another older couple who were standing at the bar sipping from their tasting glasses, she said, “So, good meeting with Ellen? How's she doing? Didn't look very good when she arrived. Raj hasn't shown up at all, but he'd be the one I'd expect to see with a sore head.”

“Well, Raj was at the breakfast at Anen House,” I offered, “but I don't know where he went after that. Does he come here every day? Does he have his own office here—or does he share with Ellen?” Picturing the desk isolated amid the boxes upstairs, I couldn't imagine where he'd fit into Ellen's space.

“Oh no, not every day, because he's often away, at weekends and that, so then he'll take the odd weekday off to compensate—not that he has to punch a clock or anything. I mean, he owns half the place. He's got his own office, downstairs, in back of the winery. Of course,” she drew conspiratorially close, “Ellen and Annette used to share the office upstairs, but Raj said he'd prefer his own space. I don't think Ellen liked that.” Bonnie's voice dropped so low that she almost mouthed her last comment.

“Oh, why's that?” I asked. Bonnie was obviously dying to tell us everything she knew—or
thought
she knew.

“Well,” she said, checking to make sure the tasters were still sipping, “I think Ellen's a bit over-protective of Raj. Always making sure she knows where he is, and what he's doing. She fusses around him like I don't know what. I don't think he's keen on it, but he's polite. Always. Such a gentleman. And that funny accent? Oh, he says some
real
cute things sometimes. And he's pretty easy on the eye too, eh?” She winked at me as she nudged my arm.

Bud cleared his throat. “Ellen's a good deal older than Raj, right?”

Bonnie rolled her eyes in my direction and said, “Ah, bless him!” nodding at Bud. I smiled and shook my head. Sometimes it was hard to believe that Bud had been a cop as long as he had.

“But enough chitchat,” said Bonnie, turning toward the bar. “Fancy something to taste?”

“We wondered if we might have time for a tour of the winery?” ventured Bud.

“Well, the next organized tour is at noon,” said Bonnie, looking up at the clock on the wall. “It takes about an hour, and you end up here for a tasting.”

“Oh dear, we need to be at the MacMillans' by one,” I replied. “Could
you
tell us something about the wines and let us have a tasting here, now?”

“Oh,
absolutely
!” Bonnie was delighted. She handed us each a laminated card. “Why don't you two have a look at the wine list while I help this lady and gentlemen? Then we'll get you sorted out, okay?” Bud and I nodded our agreement.

We spent a few moments reading.
Everything
sounded delicious.

“So how do you want to do this?” asked Bonnie upon her return. “We usually serve three or four wines for tasting, but, you
are
friends of Ellen, and I don't think that either of you are driving, right?” We nodded. “Okay then, how about a Full Flight of Five? Each.”

“Can I do all red?” I couldn't imagine she'd say no.

“Oh yes, whatever you want—some red, some white, all red, all white—it's up to the customer. By the way, this is on us. Ellen's orders.”

“In that case, if Cait's going to do all red, I'll do all white . . . then we can always taste each other's if we want.” Bud smiled cheerily as he spoke.

“You think I'm going to
share
?” I couldn't believe he'd even think I'd share my reds. We turned our attention to the ten glasses Bonnie lined up in front of us. I have to say, it looked like a
lot
of wine! Although each of the glasses held only a small amount, it was the overall vision that was a bit daunting.

“You'll want to go from light to full for red,” Bonnie announced, “and from dry to sweet for whites. Both work from your left to your right. If you look at the list it'll tell you what you're drinking: this is the Luxe Full Flight of Five. It's at the very top of the sheet. The tasting notes are there. Now, is there anything else I can do, or shall I just hover and listen in, like I usually do?” Bonnie grinned wickedly—clearly a woman who enjoyed every aspect of her work.

“Oh yes, please stick around,” I replied, “I'm sure we'll have a lot of questions. But I can see you're needed by those guys, so we'll see you in a minute.” Bonnie moved away to help the potential buyers, who seemed to be trying to work out how to split a case of twelve bottles between five different wines.

I read the wine tasting notes, noting the author's initials beside each one, and found that the taste descriptions with “AN” next to them were better at hitting the mark for me than those with an “RP.” I guessed that my palate was more in tune with Annette's than Raj's. Carefully sniffing and swirling as I went, I dutifully took one sip, washed it around my mouth and swallowed, then took the first true tasting sip of each wine. I worked from one wine to the next. Finally, as I'd suspected, it was the most robust of the wines that really caught my tastebuds and set them alight: described as having “aromas of blackberry, cherry, plum, and dark chocolate with raspberry, blackberry, coffee, layering soft smoky notes on the palate,” the Anen Nightshades really was “a full-bodied red wine that displays soft tannins and a lengthy finish.” I
loved
it! I could imagine sipping it with a steak, or with strong cheeses or, frankly, just all on its own.

Bonnie was smiling at me. “You're enjoying that, right?” she quipped. “More?” she asked, as she offered the bottle of the final wine.

“Just a drop, thanks.” I returned her smile. “You should try this one, Bud. I have a feeling we might be taking some of this back home.”

“Go on, then, I'd better see what I'm in for,” and he waited as Bonnie poured some Anen Nightshades for him too. I watched as Bud swirled, sniffed, sipped, sipped again, sucked . . . and smiled. “Okay, I get it. Pretty wonderful.”

We nodded.

“It was the wine that won most golds for Annette,” said Bonnie sadly. “It's a blended wine. That's what she was really known for. There aren't a lot of folks around here who grow Marechal Foch, but we do, and she came up with this wonderful way of making it work with just the right balance of gamay noir, merlot, and another unusual one we grow called michurinetz, which is a Russian varietal. It's the out-of-the-ordinary varietals that give this winery the edge. The Newmans had vision. A lot of folks said they were crazy, of course, but I think they just planted different things to see what would work and what wouldn't. They chose all the best terroirs for the right varietals. Genius, really. I'm so glad that folks enjoy it.”

“I'm pleased to see that you enjoy being part of it. Have you been here long, Bonnie?” I asked.

“About five years, now,” Bonnie replied wistfully. “Raj is very good, and he's always fun to have about the place, but it's not the same since Annette—you know . . .” She trailed off, as most people seem to when they don't really want to acknowledge the death of someone close.

“Were you surprised that Annette killed herself?” Someone had to ask, so it might as well be me.