by Cathy Ace
“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.”
I asked, “How formal will it be tonight, Pat? Do you know?” Whatever I was going to wear I’d need to unpack it, check it over, possibly iron it. I’d need time to clean up, redo my hair . . . The list went on and on, and I could see that it was already past three in the afternoon.
“Compared with the old country, nothing seems very formal around these parts at all,” replied Pat, smiling. “Unless it’s a wedding, they all seem to make do with open-necked shirts, and even trousers for the ladies. But tonight . . . well, maybe you’d better ask Ellen. She’d know better than me.”
As though on cue, Ellen Newman walked quietly through what had been her family’s front door as she grew up, into what had, more lately, been her dead sister’s home, and was now a place for fee-paying guests. I thought it odd that she looked around as though she were the guest, uncertain if it was acceptable for her to enter. I knew from her notes that about five years after her parents’ deaths, she had chosen to move out to an apartment closer to the downtown core. Maybe that accounted for her manner: this hadn’t been her home for a very long time.
Pat melted back into the kitchen bearing our bread-mopped bowls, a smile on his face.
Bud stood up and moved to greet Ellen. Of course we both recognized her from the photograph she’d sent, but I saw a woman who’d aged at least five years since that shot had been snapped. I knew from her notes that it had been taken just about a year earlier, a few days before her sister’s death. Her once bouncy dark hair was now lank, with unflattering yellowish-gray strands popping up like little wires; there were dark circles under her once-bright eyes, and her mouth was set in a grim line. Her general size and shape didn’t differ too much from the photograph, but she seemed to stoop, and looked frail. A couple of inches taller than me, so about five-five, she might have been five-six or -seven if she’d straightened her back. Bereavement can take its toll physically as well as emotionally.
“Ellen. It’s good to meet you . . . at last,” said Bud with feeling, as he strode across the hardwood floor to gather her in his arms in a warm embrace. She hugged him back. After a moment, they pulled back to look at each other smiling a rather awkward smile. Bud turned toward me and announced, “This is Cait, Ellen. The woman I love. I’ve spoken to you about her, I know.”
I actually felt my jaw drop. “The woman I love?” Bud’s told me he loves me many times and I have admitted that I love him too. But to hear it proclaimed that way? I was gobsmacked.
“It’s just delightful to meet you both. Thanks for coming. I know it’s going to be alright now. I trust you, Bud. You’ll find out what happened to my Annette, won’t you?”
And there it was. The real reason for us being here. Not the food, not the scenic drive, not the weekend together knowing that Marty was happily visiting doggie friends on acreage so he wouldn’t bounce all over us when we were getting close. No, we were here to help Ellen.
Bud looked at me. We locked eyes for a moment, exchanged a slight smile, then he said, “Right, Ellen. We’ll do what we can. So where do you want to start?”
And that’s when the mood of the weekend really changed.
Listerine
“COME WITH ME,” SAID ELLEN as she started up the staircase. Bud nodded and we dutifully followed Ellen up the stairs. I took her cue to walk into the room that led off the righthand side of the landing. It was a beautifully decorated double guest room. Tastefully elegant. Paisleys, good landscape prints, and plain walls allowed the real focus to be on the wonderful views.
Once Bud and I were inside, she closed the door. She gestured to us to sit on the sofa nestled in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the hairpin road we’d ascended and the glinting expanse of the lake beyond. She pulled a slipper chair from the corner and sat between us and the window. She became not much more than a silhouette. It gave her a conspiratorial air, and rather put us at a disadvantage. It was tough for me to read the finer points of her facial expressions. I tried shifting to get a better angle, but failed.
Ellen hunched toward us. “Tonight you’ll get to meet everyone,” she said determinedly. “I know how confusing it can be to meet a lot of people all at once and to have to remember them all, so that’s why I prepared those notes for you. Did you read them?” She seemed over-eager. “If you’re going to work out who wanted to hurt Annette, you’ll need to hit the ground running,” she added, as Bud gave me a rather alarmed glance. Clearly, neither of us had expected this.
Bud scratched his head, but he didn’t say anything. I looked at Ellen, then Bud, and decided I should speak.
“Yes, Bud let me have a look at your notes—I hope you don’t mind?”
“Oh no, not at all. Anything either of you can do—really, anything—would be helpful. Thank you.” She was very intense.
“Well, I do have a couple of questions for you, but if now’s not a good time . . .”
“Oh no, now’s fine. Just fine,” she was almost panting with excitement.
“Okay then. Ellen, on the third page of your notes you’ve referred to Sammy Soul of SoulVine Wines a
s a ‘drug-addled, ageing hippie with no moral compass.’ Do you know for a fact that he still does drugs, or are we talking about all the acid he famously dropped in the ’60s and ’70s, when he was making his lead guitar bleed and scream as the front-man for the Soul Rockers?”
Ellen gathered herself quickly and replied, angrily, “No one ever sees him taking drugs, but he can’t possibly be the way he is without them. Besides, he keeps going on about how it should be legal to grow cannabis for your own use and then to be able make wine with it, like they do in some places in California. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s doing it already.” That seemed to settle it for her, and it helped me to build another layer of her psychological profile. I know Bud reckons I’m sometimes alarmingly judgmental—but I thought Ellen Newman might actually be more so.
“Have you lived here all your life?” I enquired, tactfully trying to change the subject to one that might infuriate her less.
“Why would I leave?” was her reply. Her tone spoke volumes. She didn’t say it happily, but with a venom that suggested she’d be just as unhappy anywhere.
As I dwelt momentarily on Ellen’s reply, Bud finally stepped up and asked, “You went to university in Vancouver, right?”
“Oh yes,” replied Ellen coolly. “But I didn’t like it there. The people were cold and hard. Always trying to get on. And the city was dirty and noisy.” The straight line that was her mouth became thinner and more firmly fixed.
I suspected that Ellen had left her home to go to a city she’d been determined to dislike, and she’d done just that. People always seem to forget that they pack their own emotional baggage and lug it about with them everywhere they go.
