by Cathy Ace
Changing tack, Bud asked, “Ellen, who have you told these folks I am? How will you introduce me?” It was a good question.
“Well, I’ve thought about that and I’m going to say you are: Bud Anderson, my ‘grief buddy.’ They’ll understand that. They all know about my online stuff.”
I didn’t know who was more surprised, me or Bud.
“That’s all supposed to be private, Ellen. We’ve blogged a great deal about how it’s the privacy that allows us all to write as we do. The anonymity that allows us to open up. You’ve written that yourself. More than once.” Bud sounded frustrated.
“Yes, but it’s different now. We know each other. We can be open about it all. Besides, I’ve already told Pat and Lauren Corrigan and they were okay with it.”
“And what have you said about me?” I wondered. Aloud, as it turned out.
“Oh, I’ve just told them you’re his girlfriend. No one knows what you do. Actually, Bud hasn’t even told me. It never came up. What do you do? Is it interesting?”
I gave it a split-second’s thought and blurted out, “Marketing professor. At the University of Vancouver. Business school.” Bud looked at me as though I’d had a stroke. “It’s fascinating. I love it. Been there ten years.”
“Nice,” Ellen replied, smiling. “I studied at the UVan business faculty about twenty years ago. Is Professor Colling still there?”
Oh damn and blast! I had no idea who Professor Colling was, or whether he, or she, might still be at the university.
Luckily for me, Ellen answered her own question by adding, “Oh, but that’s a silly question, of course she won’t be. She was ancient when I was there. She’s probably dead by now. And good riddance.”
“Well, back to the matter at hand,” I said, trying to escape from any more close calls. “I know that you’re due to collect us here in a cab at six o’clock this evening and that dress is formal tonight, so I’m assuming a long dress will be okay for that?” I raised my eyebrow in query, and Ellen nodded. “Right, well, that means I’m going to have quite a bit of getting ready to do. I’d like to clean up a bit, and so forth, before I dress. Would it be alright if we meet you downstairs here at five thirty, in case we have any more questions before we leave? Could the cab wait?” I thought that my rapid exit strategy might be a bit abrupt, but Bud was raking his hair with frustration, looking worried, and seemed keen to get away. I knew I was.
“Oh, absolutely,” agreed Ellen with enthusiasm, and she bounced up out of her chair, put it back in its place and started toward the door. “This’ll be your room, Bud, and Cait’s across the hall. Unless you’d rather be the other way around. It’s just you two this weekend, so you’ll have the place to yourselves—well, except for Lauren and Pat, of course. They live in. Well, out back, in the double-wide. But that was in my notes, right? Yes. They won’t be a bother, though—they’ll be pretty busy getting things ready for tomorrow’s breakfast. Let’s get tonight behind us first. See you, ready to go, at five thirty, and we can clear up anything you need to know before we leave. Byeee . . . lovely to see you both and thanks so much for coming.” And she was gone.
I sat down again, hard, having risen to accept her parting words. We sat there until, from my vantage point, I could see her walking out of the front door. Then I turned to Bud and said, “Having promised in the truck to hold off with my opinions until I’d met the woman—I have now met her, and she’s a nut job, Bud!”
“And that’s your calm, analytical, professional psychologist’s opinion?” he replied, shaking his head.
“Sometimes, Bud, I revert to the vernacular so that non-psychologists like you can understand what I’m talking about. The full two barrels of vernacular assessment are that anal, she’s judgmental, she’s closed-minded, she’s small-minded. She’s poorly read, hasn’t been exposed to anything but a traditional, locally based way of life. She’s unused to male attention, might have had a boyfriend or two when young, but nothing serious—not for them, anyway, but maybe for her. She’s controlling, she’s passive-aggressive, she’s repressed—in every way. Do you want me to go on?”
“How about the fact that she’s grieving her dead sister and can’t see the wood for the trees?” asked Bud pointedly.
I sighed. “You’re right,” I admitted. “I’m being too harsh. Too judgmental.” I smiled guiltily at him. “She’s operating under duress, and her sense of perspective is likely to be way off. This might be unusual behavior for her and then again it may not be. That’s part of the problem. Everything’s coming at us from her point of view, and we don’t know how true, or off center, that is.”
Bud nodded. “Talking about off—what was all that about being a marketing professor? You could have given me the heads-up on that one.”
I shrugged. “I made a split-second decision, Bud. It might be too late for you to be anonymous here, and, given what you’ve done for a living, it was always likely that it wouldn’t have worked anyway.” Bud nodded his agreement. “But there’s no reason for folks to know that I’m a criminal psychologist. That’s not the sort of person a murderer usually opens up to, so I thought it was better to be something that no one would bat an eyelid at.”
“Nearly got caught there though, eh?” Bud grinned.
Again, I shrugged. “Yep, I never thought of that. I’ll be better prepared when I meet the other suspects. I’ll draw on my time back in London when I worked for that advertising agency, and waffle on a bit about return on investment and brand building . . . if I have to talk about anything to do with marketing at all. After all, it’s unlikely, right? I mean, we’re both going to be trying to direct our conversations towards possible motives, opportunities, and all that. Right?”
Bud shifted uncomfortably.
“Come on, Bud. That’s why we’re here. That’s why we’ve come. Well, Annette’s death, and the food, of course.”
“Diet on the back-burner this weekend?” he asked.
I patted my tummy. “I’ll start again on Tuesday.”
“Good luck with that.” He smiled indulgently.
I dragged my thoughts away from the long days filled with little more than Greek yogurt and lettuce that I’d have to endure for weeks to make up for my forthcoming indulgences, and refocused on the matter at hand.
“Listen, Bud, about Ellen’s notes: the physical descriptions and the factual backgrounds—you know, who does what and lives where—might be useful, but I don’t think we should rely on any of the character assessments she’s written. Maybe I should just call them what they are—character assassinations. People might not have had a bad word to say about her dead sister, but she sure as hell has a lot of bad things to say about everyone we’re about to meet. Something I didn’t have a chance to comment upon before we got here was that she says nothing at all about Annette in the notes, other than, as I just mentioned, that no one ever had a bad word to say about her. Now, if, as you say, she also told you that everyone loved Annette, I don’t quite know what she expects us—sorry, you—to do. Why would anyone want Annette dead? Well, other than this Raj Pinder, the guy who inherited half of Ellen’s family business . . .”
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 ti
me 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.”
