The Corpse With the Golden Nose (2 page)

He sighed and sat back in the kitchen chair. The decision had been made. “Okay, I'll come clean. The short one, she's Ellen. I've never met her face to face, but she's been my online ‘grief buddy' for a few months now. After Jan was killed, I went for counseling . . .”

As the words left Bud's lips I could feel myself stiffen. I couldn't help but be surprised. This was the first I was hearing about counseling, and we were supposed to be getting to know each other as a proper couple—or so he said. Not much chance of that happening if he kept things like counseling from me.

“Don't get cross, Cait,” snapped Bud, correctly interpreting my expression. “I haven't told you about it because I'm not really comfortable with it. I think the best way to get over the loss of a loved one is to dust yourself off and get on with life. But my wife was killed because some low-life scumbag thought she was
me
, so the Force didn't
suggest
therapy, they
insisted
. I suspect it was some sort of liability thing in case I killed myself.”

I couldn't let
that
pass.

“You told me that you'd only ever thought about . . . you know . . .” I couldn't bring myself to say the words, “. . . for a fleeting second. That it wasn't something you'd ever
seriously
considered.”

I wondered if I knew Bud Anderson at all. This brunch was turning out to be something quite extraordinary.

He continued, looking grim. “Look, the therapist I saw—the therapist I
had
to see—got me to join up with this online community for people who've lost a loved one through violent or unexpected circumstances. They get you to buddy up as well as share anonymously in a blog. None of this was what I
wanted
to do, Cait. All of it felt strange and unnecessary. Ellen and I gravitated toward each other and became ‘grief buddies' because she said she felt the same. As you know, I'm not a big sharer, and I'll admit to you that I wasn't very forthcoming with personal details. I even used a fake name. Ellen and I seemed to reach some level of quiet acceptance of each other, in writing. Online. Then, when the trial of Jan's murderer was all over the news, Ellen put two and two together and worked out who I was: that Jan was the wife I was mourning. So I opened up a bit more to her. Not emotionally. I talk to
you
about my feelings,” he patted my hand, much as he'd been patting Marty's head, “but it seemed to give her the green light to write more about the facts of her sister's death, and how unhappy she was about the suicide verdict.”

I nodded. I've seen how finding out that Bud was a cop, even a retired one, changes the way folks relate to him. We'd been to a few functions at the University of Vancouver, where I teach, and everyone had acted quite naturally when I'd introduced Bud as my “plus one.” When they'd found out he was a retired cop, their body language had changed completely. Trust me, I'm really good at reading people, and I can spot a telltale sign a mile off. For some, it meant they just watched what they said—all the jokes about drinking and driving would stop, for example—but for others, they'd literally walk away, smiling politely, but, essentially, escaping.

Bud kept going. He knew I understood what he meant. “A few days ago Ellen emailed me this photo and wrote much more about her sister's death. Now she's invited me to visit her next weekend, over Easter, in Kelowna. I thought I'd let you use your deductive powers on the photo before I gave her a reply. I'm not sure what to do. I'm pretty certain that she wants me to look into how her sister died, but I'm not comfortable with that. Besides, I've retired, I have no standing, no ability to get hold of official reports or anything like that. I thought I'd turn to my Best Girl, and see what she has to say about the whole thing.”

Bud smiled and looked thoughtful as he took the photograph from me, folded it carefully, and put it back into his wallet.

I suspected that I, too, looked thoughtful as I studied Bud: his rugged features; his once fair hair, now almost completely snowy; his heavy, silvered eyebrows, brilliant blue eyes, slightly snubbed nose, and weathered complexion. Out of the corner of his eye he probably caught me looking at him, but if he did, he didn't seem to mind. I sipped my champagne, grateful that this wonderful man wanted anything to do with short, overweight, indulgent, insecure, bossy me.
At least I know some of my shortcomings.

They say you never truly
know
another person, but some of Bud's words had really stung. Of course I'd known Bud's wife, Jan. Not well, but in the way you come to know the wife of a colleague. You hear about their interests, their habits, their lives,
through
your colleague. Your colleague filters their being and presents it to you. Bud did that with Jan. He spoke of her frequently, and always with warmth and admiration. Every time Jan and I met, which was quite often, we got along well. Of course, we differed from each other: Jan was into groups, activities, hobbies. Me? Bit of a loner, I suppose. At least, that's how I've heard folks describe me. Jan reveled in mixing, and Bud enjoyed hearing about what she'd been up to while he'd been chasing down villains. They had a well-balanced relationship. Bud always referred to Jan as his “soulmate,” which used to make me wince. When Jan was shot and killed, the shooter having believed he was targeting Bud himself, it came as no surprise to anyone that Bud's life, and even the way he looked at life, changed completely. He'd tried to carry on in his then-role heading up a Canada-wide gang-busting police force, but he'd felt he was endangering his colleagues because he'd lost focus. So, with a hefty pension, and unwanted but huge insurance and compensation payouts, he'd taken early retirement from the Force to which he'd given his entire professional life, and now he was “reassessing,” as he called it. A part of that “reassessment” had been to take himself off on a vacation last September, from which he'd returned and asked me to marry him.

That's a good example of what I mean when I say you never
truly
know another person. He asked me to marry him, and I was completely floored! And as a psychologist I'm
supposed
to have a deep understanding of why people do what they do. But it seems that sometimes I don't. We'd only ever worked together before that. I mean, we were friends, of course. I have to admit that I'd had quite strong feelings about Bud even before Jan had been killed, but only as far as a person can about someone with whom they work and who is totally, blissfully, happily married. It's safe to admire, respect, and come to rely upon the advice of someone like that, because they're completely involved, emotionally, with the person they are
meant
to be with. But when Jan was killed, all that changed. For Bud,
and
for me. Yes, I know it was nuts of him to ask me to be his wife just months after Jan's death, but to him it made some sort of sense.

Of course I'd turned him down. I didn't think he was in any fit state to make such a big decision at that time. I told him that he could ask me again in a year, if he still wanted to, and that during that time we'd work on getting to know each other differently. He'd agreed, which is where we are now. Well, we're six-ish months down that road. If we weren't the age we are, you'd probably call it
dating
. “I'm
dating
. He's my
boyfriend
.” It even makes
me
want to barf! There needs to be a new vocabulary invented for all those of us over forty-five—or, in Bud's case, over fifty—who are beginning new relationships. It's not as though there aren't a lot of us, after all, and it can't be just
me
who feels uncomfortable about it.

“So, will you go?” I asked. I was very curious.

“Would you come with me? Your university'll be shut for the weekend, right? Easter, and all that? You
could
come,” he replied softly. Bud's not a man to ask for help.
Normally.

“What has she said, exactly?” I wondered if Bud had told Ellen about me.

“She's invited me to stay at her
B&B
, which is housed in her dead sister's old home . . .”

“Oh, cheery!” I interrupted. I couldn't resist.

Bud carried on, ignoring me. “. . . The
family
home she has turned into a
B&B
to save herself from having to sell it. And she wants me to join her on something called a ‘Moving Feast' or some-such . . .”

“Do you mean the ‘Moveable Feast'?” I interrupted.

“Yes,” replied Bud cautiously, “
that's
what she said. Does it make a difference?”

I could feel the excitement grip my tummy. “Of
course
it makes a difference, Bud, but the Moveable Feast is private. It's a closed event. Or set of events. It happens every Easter, hence the borrowing of the religious term ‘moveable feast.' At least, I expect that's why, because there can't be a good reason for using that term in relation to the Hemingway diaries . . .” I could see Bud looking puzzled, so I decided to get back to the point I meant to make in the first place. “It's one of the most talked about gourmet happenings in British Columbia each year. But it's all rumors and whispers, because you can't just attend or buy your way in, you have to be invited to host an event, and then you get to visit the other events. It's really only for great chefs and vintners, and those with the money to put on an amazing spread. So . . . oh, my God, Bud—you should go. You
must
go. And, yes, if
I
can come
of course
I will. It would be the culinary experience of a lifetime. Tell me
all
about it. What did she say
exactly
. Word for word. Come on, spill!”

Okay, so I got a bit over-excited. Bud looked rather taken aback, but he rallied and explained coolly that Ellen had invited him and an “accompanying other” as her guests for the weekend, “to stay at her
B&B
, where she'll be hosting some of the meals, to accompany her to the other events and to meet some folks who played a big part in her sister's life, and still do in hers.”

“So, to be clear,” I began, reining in my horses as best I could. “Ellen thinks her sister was murdered, and she's invited you to one of the most exclusive foodie events in
BC
to introduce you to the people she presumably sees as suspects. Is that right?”

“Hmm . . . I guess you could put it like that, though I hadn't thought of it quite that way before,” replied Bud, looking slightly alarmed. He scratched his head, as he does when he's bothered about something. “You know, I don't think I
should
go. I don't want to get dragged into something I don't understand. I'm not a cop anymore.” Bud was sounding less Bud-like by the minute.

I began to panic, seeing my chance to indulge in some of the finest food and wines in the province receding into the distance. “Oh come on Bud, nothing ventured . . .” I allowed the sentence to hang above the table.

“But Cait.” Bud had made a decision. “I can't. It's not right. Like I said, I'm not a cop anymore. I know how much
I'd
have hated it if an ex-officer had turned up on
my
patch and started nosing about. Besides, from what she's told me, I think it probably
was
a suicide. I suspect she's just grappling with guilt and grief and not doing a good job of it. We both know that those left behind by a suicide find it tough to come to terms with what's happened: the guilt is tremendous.”

“Bud, why do you believe it was a suicide? What were the exact circumstances of the dead sister's demise? What's her name, by the way? The dead one, I mean.”

“Annette. Annette Newman. They were Annette and Ellen. Hence, Anen Wines—their parents named the wines after their daughters—Annette Newman and Ellen Newman, A.N.E.N. Anen Wines. Sweet, eh?”

I felt my eyes roll. “If you say so. Sweet.”
Honestly, sometimes for a pretty tough guy you can be a right sentimental old fool.
I didn't say that out loud, of course.

“When their parents died, they inherited the winery and made a go of it. Ellen ran the business, putting her background in accounting to good use, and Annette was the ‘nose'—the vintner—and she was damned good at it too. Won gold medals pretty much everywhere for her tasting skills and the blends she created. Gained a worldwide reputation for herself, the vineyard, and their wines. I gather it was pretty tough at first. They lost their mother and father in a car accident when Ellen was twenty-five and Annette was only twenty. Sorry Cait, I know you know how that feels.” He patted my hand again.

Almost a decade had passed since my parents had died in a tragic car accident, and the passing of time hadn't made the loss any easier to bear. Their ashes are still sitting on my mantelpiece in two matching urns, for goodness' sake. The presence of those urns speaks volumes about how well I've come to terms with their deaths.

“Okay then,—Annette,” I continued, determined not to get lost in sad memories, “how did Annette die, exactly? And why do
you
think that it was a suicide?”

“Look Cait,” began Bud seriously. “You know as well as I do that the statistics for female suicides show certain trends: pills, not guns, for example. They tend to use passive methods, not violent ones. This was a classic scenario. She was found in the cab of a truck, with a hose leading from the exhaust and the windows sealed with duct tape. There was an empty bottle of wine on the seat beside her, along with a note that made her intentions pretty clear. Of course I haven't seen the note, but Ellen told me that it kicked off with ‘I can't do it any longer. I can't go on.' It sounds to me like a pretty open and shut case.”

“And that's how the local cops treated it? And the coroner? Clear-cut suicide?”