The Corpse With the Golden Nose

by Cathy Ace

  Serendipity couldn’t have differed more from her parents, both physically and, it seemed, in terms of personality: she was tall—maybe five-ten—had long, flowing, lustrous black hair, dark eyes, and a pale complexion that suited her perfectly. A rose-tinted lip-stain and a hint of mascara were all she needed to look stunning, yet fresh. She was clearly a woman in control of herself, obviously felt totally comfortable in her own body and her surroundings, and had a calm, unflappable demeanor that I suspected would stand her in good stead in the heat and noise of a busy kitchen. Hmm . . .

  “A pleasure.” She shook my hand with hers—short nails, perfectly clean, a strong grip, quite a low voice. Nice.

  “Is that a Welsh accent I detect there, Cait?” asked Raj Pinder affably.

  “Yes, it is,” I replied, smiling. “Swansea. And you?”

  “Aye, well, there’s no hiding mine, is there? Bradford.”

  “Do you miss Bradford?” I asked. Well, people always ask me if I miss Swansea, so I thought I’d get in first.

  Raj smiled broadly, his teeth very white and even. “No, to be honest, I don’t. But then, how could you compare this place with Bradford? I mean, don’t get me wrong, Bradford’s not a bad place, in fact, it’s got a lot going for it. But not like the Okanagan. It’s like a little bit of heaven here. When I first came to Canada to visit me Mum’s cousin and help out with his blueberry harvest in the Lower Mainland, I couldn’t get over how big and open and far apart everything were. Same for you, were it?”

  Raj was very engaging. I smiled, thinking back to my arrival in Vancouver.

  “Yes, you’re right. I still grapple with it. The cities here are like tiny dots on the map. And isn’t it amazing how even some suburban streets just end in wilderness? The emptiness is magnificent. But then, the UK has almost twice the population of Canada, with less than three percent of the land mass, so I guess we’re bound to feel differently in our new home. There really is that much more space. I love it.”

  “Aye, me too. It’s grand.” He looked wistfully into the distance.

  “Do you get back to the UK much?” I asked. That’s the other one people always bring up.

  Raj shrugged. “I try to get there a couple of times a year. You know, family and all that. Don’t want to miss the little ’uns growing up. And you?”

  “No, no family there anymore. But Wales will always be my ‘home,’ even if no one’s keeping the actual home fires burning for me. Blood is blood, after all.”

  “Aye, that it is, lass,” Raj grinned.

  I was disappointed. Having come to the soiree thinking that Raj Pinder was the one man with a strong motive to kill Annette, I found myself warming to him almost immediately. Surely this pleasant, urbane, and apparently talented, man couldn’t have murdered Annette Newman. I pulled myself together: some of the most murderous people in history have looked innocent. You really cannot judge a person by their outward appearance, by how they present and project themselves. You have to observe them, know and understand what you’re seeing, analyze it and then dig deeper than their skin or their costume. I decided to do just that.

  Raj had a good reason to kill Annette—to get his hands on half of the Mt Dewdney Family Estate Winery—and I needed to follow up on my initial instincts. However pleasant he might seem.

  “So how’s it working out for you, Raj, suddenly owning half a winery?” I asked. Quite out of the blue it seemed, judging by everyone’s expression. I’d been thinking, not listening to the small talk they were all exchanging.

  Raj seemed to not know what to say, so Ellen answered for him. “He’s loving it, aren’t you, Raj. We have such fun, don’t we.” Her comments weren’t questions, they were statements.

  “We certainly do, Ellen,” he replied. His tone made me think of Laurel and Hardy.

  “Raj is in even earlier than I am,” Ellen added brightly. “Then he scoots off to the gym to keep himself in shape in the afternoon, don’t you. That’s what he says—‘I’m scooting off to the gym now, Ellen.’”

  “I certainly do, Ellen. I certainly do.” Again, Laurel and Hardy.

  I tried again. “I suppose it was a surprise to hear about your inheritance?”

  “That it were, Cait, aye. Maybe Ellen has told you how it all happened?” Both Bud and I nodded, with appropriate expressions on our faces. “Very sad,” he added. “Annette were a wonderful woman. Full of life. Extremely talented, and worked hard at it too. I admired her efforts, and envied her skills. She beat me every time, you know . . .”

  “Except once,” interrupted Serendipity. “That tasting competition in Sonoma, just a month or so before she . . .” The poor woman realized she’d talked herself into an awkward corner.

  “Yes, yes, just that once.” Raj jumped in and rescued her. “But, other than that, well—she had one of the best noses in the industry. Such a loss. Her death came as a shock to all of us, of course.” He smiled sympathetically toward Ellen, who dropped her eyes. “And then there were the will. No messing, you could have knocked me down with a feather. And that’s the truth. I told Ellen at the time she should contest it. I mean, Annette’s balance of mind, and all that. Not that I’m not grateful for the chance, of course, because it’s not often that a vintner gets to part-own an ‘estate vineyard,’ where the winery owns all the vineyards that grow all its grapes. Ellen and Annette’s parents were such visionaries. They bought just the right pieces of land, in all the right places, to be able to grow the very best of the different types of grapes that give us . . . well, just about the widest choice in the area. It’s an honor. A great chance to do something . . . meaningful.” He chose his word carefully, and gave it a reverent emphasis. “I owe it to Annette’s memory, and the memory of her parents who started the vineyard and the winemaking, to make sure that I do the very best I can.”

  Raj’s comments made me think again about how dashed Ellen’s plans for the future must have been upon hearing her sister’s wishes. Bad enough to lose her sister, but then to lose half the family business too? Now it wasn’t Ellen’s family business any more. Annette had handed something that should have rightfully passed to her sister, to a stranger—an outsider, a relative newcomer to the area. After all, what’s three years or so in a place? Not much. True, Raj had almost as good a nose as Annette’s, and maybe she’d honestly thought that the business wouldn’t have survived as well without him. But, still, it was a hell of a bold move to make. I realized I’d have to try to get to understand Annette a lot better than I did, or I’d never know why she changed her will. I was certain that changing it had something to do with her death.

  “Of course you’ll do your best.” Ellen was speaking to Raj very earnestly. “I know you will. You’re a good, good man, Raj Pinder. And I know, now, that she did the right thing,” she continued, addressing the whole group, “though at the time, it puzzled me a great deal. Annette knew that Raj would be good for the business, and so he is. The best possible person for the job. But it really was a shock, coming right after her death . . . which is a silly thing to say, because that’s when wills are read, but you know what I mean. I don’t think I handled the meeting at the lawyers’ offices too well, and I’ll always be sorry for that, Raj,” she added. I wondered what she meant.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, sensibly enough. Bud glared at me again.

  “Oh, it were all very understandable,” said Raj gently. “Of course, Ellen hadn’t come to terms with Annette’s death, and then she had to face this other shock, so soon afterwards. You lost it a bit for a while there, didn’t you Ellen?” Ellen nodded, and cast her eyes downward once again. “But it were all summat and nowt. Right? Storm in a teacup, luv,” he said, his Yorkshire accent thickening by the second. “And, when you calmed down, you were just a darlin’. Worried about how I’d manage to tell Sammy that I’d have to resign, weren’t you?” Ellen nodded, still looking at Serendipity’s toes. “And she comes right back to SoulVine Wines with me and tells him herself, didn’t she? Said he
’d have to understand that I couldn’t be working for him for a moment longer, and that she were there to help me gather up me bits and pieces and get out of there that very minute. Well, that took the wind out of his sails, right enough. And there I were, at Ellen’s place, before the day were out.” He smiled, as did Ellen.

  “We were sorry to see you go,” said Serendipity quietly.

  I bet you were! I managed to think it, not say it.

  “But it’s great to see you already achieving so much,” she added.

  “What are you doing?” I wondered, aloud this time.

  Once again Ellen answered on Raj’s behalf. “Raj was with us for the last winter season and we both think, no, we both know, that Raj has created a winner for us. Obviously, we won’t really know for certain for some time, because it won’t go into competition for years yet, but the signs are excellent. Excellent.”

  “Thanks,” Raj answered. “I’ve called it ‘Annette.’ It’s a pinot noir ice wine, and it’s going to be fabulous. Dark berries, honey, caramel . . . it’ll be a great hit, I’m sure. One hundred cases of magic, in honor of Annette.”

  “And at a hundred dollars a bottle, it’ll be a good way to raise funds for the scholarship I’ve set up in her name at the university. Oh Cait, I forgot, that’s where you teach, right?” said Ellen.

  I shook my head and shrugged, puzzled. “I’m sorry, do you mean the University of Vancouver?”

  “Yes,” she replied, “VORC, at UVan. My alma mater.” She grinned.

  I was in the dark about what “VORC” stood for. Before I could ask, Bud butted in. Maybe he felt a bit left out.

  “Sorry, what’s VORC, Ellen?” he sounded interested, which was good.

  “It’s the Viticulture and Oenology Research Centre. Surely you’ve heard of it, Cait? I know they do a lot of work on brand building with your business school there.”

  Oh dear, I felt that I was about to be “hoist by my own petard.” Again. Frankly, a saying that means “to be blown up by a bomb you have planted yourself” was just about spot-on, because I only had myself to blame. Damn and blast!

  “Oh, maybe I’ve heard something about it, Ellen,” I lied, “but there’s a good number of us teaching at the school and we don’t all get involved with each of the inter-departmental programs that exist. Probably my colleagues who specialize in consumer branding are involved. I’m more business-to-business, myself.”

  “Oh, really?” chimed in Serendipity. “I wonder if I could pick your brains later on. I’m developing a range of peanut-free sauces for catering companies, not direct to the consumer you know, and I don’t really know what I’m looking for in terms of advice and so forth. A general chat through the whole field would be real useful, if you could spare the time?” She smiled a warm, hopeful smile.

  “Of course,” I said cheerily. “But not at one of the events. It would spoil the food.” I forced a chuckle. Oh dear God, how deep is this hole I’m digging for myself?

  Bud looked alarmed, and chivalrously threw himself in front of the train that was hurtling toward me. “Oh, come on now guys, let’s leave all this shop-talk and enjoy the food, eh? That’s what we’re here for after all, right?” His eyes were scanning for a server bearing canapés somewhere in the vicinity. He spotted one. “Oh, hey, over here,” he called, rather too loudly. “I wonder if we could have some of those . . .” he peered at the tray, “. . . those . . . things. They look great!”

  He plucked from the tray a black porcelain Chinese rice spoon, laden with a mound of tiny, white pearls, topped with a delicate grating of something red and a sliver of something green. He poked it into his mouth. A loud “mmm” emerged from his closed lips.

  “It’s snail caviar, marinated in fresh, local herbs,” the server announced. “It’s sometimes referred to as ‘pearls of Aphrodite’ because of its aphrodisiac powers—you know, like oysters,” she added, failing to hide a smile as Bud tried not to show his disgust and embarrassment. “It’s supposed to taste quite mushroomy,” she said disdainfully. She bent her head closer to Bud and me. “It didn’t taste like that to me when I tried it earlier on, though. Tasted like dirt. Enjoy!” she called, as she took the tray to her next victims, and the three of us who’d taken a spoon but hadn’t yet eaten looked at Bud for guidance. Serendipity had declined a spoon. I wondered why.

  “She’s right,” said Bud. “Dirt. But not bad dirt. It’s not gritty. It’s just not—well, I didn’t taste mushrooms. But you should try it. Especially you, Cait. I know how you love this gourmet food, right? And I’m guessing that snail eggs are real expensive, so this might be your only chance.”

  He might as well have stuck out his tongue and shouted, “Dare you.”

  Despite the fact that my last close encounter with snails had involved the sudden death of an old boss of mine, I popped the spoon into my mouth, let the eggs slip onto my tongue and squished them, like “ordinary” caviar. They were lovely: soft and yielding, each tiny little globe popped with a burst of woodlands, not quite a truffle and not quite mushroom flavor. I also noted hints of basil, tarragon, and cilantro. I knew what Bud and the server meant by dirt, but I quite liked it. It was certainly an experience I’d never had before. Though one serving was probably enough.

  “It’s delicious—go ahead,” I said, aware that all eyes were on me. Ellen and Raj popped their spoons into their mouths, and I watched their expressions.

  “Yuk—not nice!” Ellen pulled a face.

  Raj took a little more time and, when his mouth was empty said, “Sorry,” to Serendipity, “not my cup of tea. But I’m sure lots of folk will like it.”

  Bud and I exchanged puzzled glances.

  “It’s one of the three canapés I contributed tonight,” explained Serendipity. “Sorry it wasn’t to everyone’s taste. I thought I’d try something new and different. But maybe snail caviar is a bit too different, even for this foodie crowd.”

  “Oh, I’m not a foodie person, Serendipity,” said Bud quickly, trying to get himself out of a bind, “so please don’t concern yourself about my proletarian palate. Cait liked it, and Cait knows her food. You should listen to her.”

  Serendipity smiled. “Please don’t panic, Bud. We chefs have to be able to take criticism, you know, otherwise we’ll never grow and learn. Good chefs don’t force food on people that they really don’t like. I need to know how far I can go without pushing people over the edge. But if you’re not a foodie, this weekend may not be quite the place for you. I know that Ellen’s planning traditional breakfasts at her place in the mornings, and I think that’s just super. Pat will do a great job, and I have no doubt he’ll be using all the best, freshest local ingredients he can find. Quite a few of us—me, and the Jacksons for certain—will be pushing the boundaries a fair bit.” She looked a little concerned, and turned to Ellen. “I thought Bud was one of your foodie friends?”

  “Oh no,” said Ellen, just at the point in the evening when all the chatter seemed to die at once, and only Ellen’s voice could be heard echoing around the entire atrium, “Bud’s here to find out who killed Annette, right, Bud? And I’m quite sure the killer’s here tonight.”

  I looked around in panic for another glass of wine, but there wasn’t a server in sight. Typical!

  Eau-de-Vie

  IN THE SILENCE THAT FOLLOWED Ellen Newman’s blunt accusation, you could almost hear people’s heads swivel to look at her. A collection of open mouths and shocked expressions greeted my darting eyes, as I realized that spotting a fresh glass of wine had to take second place to watching everyone’s response to her statement. Immediately, I wished that the lighting hadn’t been subdued to such a low level by the party’s organizers. Some people were just too dimly lit for me to read their expressions. I knew it was vital to observe everything I possibly could because, if Ellen was right and Annette’s killer was in the room, the murderer might give themselves away. I also knew that Bud would quiz me about this moment later on.

  Abruptly, it seemed as
though everyone in the room exhaled at the same time. An embarrassed hub-bub of “Oh my God,” and “What does she mean?” and “Let’s get another drink,” rolled around our little gathering.

  Raj Pinder shut his mouth, then opened it again and said, “What do you mean, Ellen? Annette wasn’t murdered . . . she killed herself. I miss her, of course, and no one can understand why she did it, but she did do it. You know what the coroner said. What the police said. It couldn’t have been clearer. You found her yourself, in the truck. Dead. With that note. Ellen, you don’t know what you’re saying.”

  People were shaking their heads and whispering. Ellen threw back her shoulders. She grew two inches.

  “Raj, I know exactly what I’m saying. She wouldn’t have killed herself. She was my sister. If she’d been that unhappy, I’d have known. You can’t work with someone every day and not know how they’re feeling, even if they don’t want to talk to you about it. You can sense that something’s wrong. And there wasn’t anything wrong with her at all.”

  “Oh come on now Ellen.” It was Serendipity’s turn to speak. She looked quite cross. “That’s not true. Everyone knew that Annette had been acting oddly for weeks!”

  This was the first I was hearing about Annette acting oddly before her death, so I listened and watched intently.

  “No she hadn’t,” snapped Ellen.

  “Okay then,” responded Serendipity sharply, “so why did she pull out of four tasting events before she died? Events she’d committed to months before, including a really big one at my restaurant? Why did she miss the all the Moveable Feast functions last year? Why did she change her damned will and force Raj to leave SoulVine Wines? Eh? Answer me that, Ellen. And why, if she was acting so normally before she killed herself, did she start haunting the thrift stores downtown and buying up loads of stinky old clothes? None of that was normal, Ellen, not for Annette.”

  “Garbage. All garbage,” was Ellen’s indignant reply.