by Cathy Ace
Classic female suicide method—passive, restful
NB: need to see coroners’ autopsy report—esp. Toxicology/drugs?
Handwriting poor, so typing note was natural?
Easy to arrange physically, borrowed truck: why?
2. Motives: None known, but note says “can’t do my job perfectly”—why not?
Acting oddly for weeks? (Raj, Serendipity, Wisers say “Yes,” Ellen says “No”)
Missing meetings—why?
Canceled tastings—why?
Missed Moveable Feast events—why?
Bought old clothes at thrift stores—why?
Avoided the Wisers—why?
Changed her will—why? What did it say, exactly? NB: unlikely to get to lawyer at Easter, so have to find out other ways
NB: coroner would seek psychological motives—also family doctor input—autopsy
It was clear I needed to see that autopsy report, had to find out more about Annette’s will, and much more about Annette herself. Overall, what was becoming obvious was the need to not be swayed by the weight of evidence. Even though there was only the one reason why I felt Annette hadn’t killed herself, it still, to my psychologist’s mind, carried more weight than all of the unanswered questions about Annette’s odd behavior.
I put the notes to one side, and made sure I was sitting comfortably. I screwed up my eyes to the point where everything starts to get blurry and began to hum. I’ve read dozens of books about memory, and I try to keep up to date on what neuroscientists are discovering about the way that our human brains work. There still isn’t a single body of work or a clear set of theories that help me understand why I can do what I can do. So I’ll just keep doing it, even if no one understands it—or, even if they say it can’t be done.
With this method I can see again whatever scene I choose to see. I can be back at the place I was, and take a long, hard look around. I can’t visually stop events in their tracks, as though I’ve pushed the pause button, but I can keep looping back to re-examine a moment. I can do this for any of my senses . . . so long as I experienced it in the first place.
One thing the experts do at least agree upon: we humans encode, or remember, much more of what’s going on around us than we think we do. To prevent our brains from drowning in a sea of stimuli, we select those things we choose to perceive and ignore those things we don’t feel the need to notice at the time. It’s called selective perception. We’ve all done it: we obliterate the sound of a clock ticking in a room; we don’t notice the airplanes overhead when we live under a flight-path; we stop noticing the music in the background at the supermarket. It’s natural. It’s what allows us to function. For me, while I might ignore certain inputs when they are happening, I can go back and experience the whole thing once more—which can be very handy when you’re helping with a crime, as Bud quickly discovered when he first saw me perform.
I took myself back to the moment when Ellen exclaimed that someone had killed Annette, and that she was quite sure the killer was in the room.
Okay—get blurry, Cait, and hummmmm . . .
I’m standing so close to Bud that I can catch his aroma—Eternity aftershave balm. The wineglass I’m holding is the same temperature as my body, the roundness of its bowl resting comfortably in my left hand, and in my right hand is the still-chilled china spoon from which I’ve just eaten the snail caviar. Its taste is lingering in my mouth. It’s pleasant. Unusual. Earthy. Beside me stands Ellen, across from Bud. She’s almost spilling her drink as she gestures. She’s breathing heavily as she speaks. Her face is set in an expression of . . . satisfaction. Odd. She’s gloating. She’s showing off. She speaks. Just as she does, the sounds that have been echoing in the room die down. It takes only a second. Her voice rings against the glass above our heads. She’s speaking more loudly than when she was talking within our group. She’s making an announcement. Even though the other noise in the room has stopped, she still keeps her voice at a high level. She wants people to hear her—the silence that befalls the room is a lucky break for her. “Bud’s here to find out who killed Annette, right Bud? And I’m quite sure the killer’s here tonight.” She tosses her head in triumph. Her breaths are shorter now, she’s exuberant. Her eyes are shining.
At the end of her first sentence, there’s a sound from Raj. He’s facing me, standing beside Serendipity. They are blocking my view of the rest of the room. A definite “Oh” from him as he sucks in his breath. His face says . . . surprise. Surprise at the idea that Annette was killed, or surprise that Ellen knows? It makes a big difference. Look closely, Cait, read him. No, I can’t tell what he’s surprised about. When Ellen speaks again, does his expression change? Yes. Now he looks disbelieving. His mouth is forming a silent “No,” there’s a shadow of a shake to his head. Okay. Raj’s micro-expressions are the key. He’s really surprised at first, then his disbelief is colored by something. I can see the expression in his eyes change. Got it! It’s pity. He’s feeling pity for Ellen as she speaks her second sentence. Interesting.
Now I look at Serendipity: Ellen’s first sentence brings an expression of surprise and horror to her face. She clenches her glass more tightly, she leans back from Ellen a little. She’s literally taken aback. But she’s not just leaning away from Ellen, she’s leaning toward Raj. At Ellen’s second utterance, she glances sideways, rapidly, at Raj, then back to Ellen. Is she seeking a cue from him, and is that just because these two are a couple? Or is it because she suspects Raj? Her eyes flash a momentary rounded stare: she’s frightened about something, a thought that’s slipped into her head, and maybe it pertains to Raj. But, at the same time, her grip on her glass relaxes. Odd. She’s releasing tension by looking at Raj. She’s receiving comfort just by seeing him. They’re obviously very close. I believe she’s comforted by the expression she sees on his face. She’s relieved that he doesn’t believe what Ellen is saying. Interesting.
Now I must look outside our direct circle, into the dim room beyond. Closest to us, and therefore the best lit, are the MacMillans. This is before I have met them face to face: what are my initial impressions? They’re standing apart from the rest of the guests, and they’re very close together. They’re standing side-on to me, about twenty feet away. I cannot hear anything they are saying before Ellen’s exclamation, but just as Ellen opens her mouth, Sheri MacMillan’s expression is clear: she’s upset. Nostrils flared, lips squeezed tight, corners of her mouth turned down, chin puckered, brows drawn together: hurt, and angry. Her eyes are downcast, her face is toward me as she turns away from her husband. Her shoulders are down, her head’s down, she’s down: she’s lost one of their skirmishes. Rob MacMillan, standing opposite her, is a picture of cruel dismissal and anger: sneering upper lip, one nostril flared, staring eyes, glaring at his wife. He’s won. He hates her. He sees her as nothing. I know that look, Angus used to look at me like that just before he would raise his arm to hit me. That’s the expression I learned to flinch from, all those years ago, in that loveless, destructive phase of my life—in those months before he lay dead on the floor one morning, and the police dragged me into a car, protesting my innocence, which I continued to do until they had to agree with me. It’s a truly terrible look. And she knows it too—I feel sympathy for Sheri. But I mustn’t. I must focus. Now’s not the time to think about Angus. He’s dead. He’s gone. I’m here, doing this. I push the thoughts of him from my mind.
As Ellen speaks, what do they do? How do their expressions change? He whips his head to look at Ellen. His dismissive expression doesn’t change immediately: he doesn’t like Ellen. As she speaks, his face shifts subtly to show that he’s now expecting her to say something that’s not worth hearing, and, as she finishes, his eyelids become hooded and he rolls his eyes. He’s thinking she’s a stupid woman. On the other hand, Sheri’s snaps up and she gives her attention to Ellen. She looks frightened. Is that a hangover of an emotion she feels for her husband? No. She clasps her drink to her body: she’s frightened for
herself, but not because she thinks her husband might strike her, I can tell that because, as one hand recoils toward her breast, her other reaches toward Rob. She’s seeking his protection. She’s frightened that what Ellen has said will somehow harm her. She looks away from Ellen and her husband, toward the other people in the room. Now I can’t see her face, but her shoulders hunch, and I wonder if she’s trying to do what I’m trying to do—see if there’s a killer in the room.
The folks she’s looking at are the Souls, the Wisers, the Jacksons, Vince Chen, and another man and two women I never got to meet. I can’t see the three unknown people at all—they all have their backs to me before Ellen speaks, and only turn their heads as they realize that something is being said. I can only see the sides of their faces, and then very dimly.
By the time Raj speaks, his pity for Ellen has subsided, and now his entire body is telling me that he’s totally amazed that Ellen has just said what she’s said. His body is rigid, his neck is taught, he’s confused, almost angry. He’s frowning as he speaks, his eyes show disbelief that Ellen could have spoken that way. As he speaks I glance at Ellen. She’s looking . . . triumphant. Wow! She’s almost gloating at Raj’s amazement. Very odd. Now she straightens herself up, like a warrior going to do battle, and tosses her hair in the most feminine motion I’ve seen her yet make. Her eyes are ablaze.
As she speaks to Raj, assuring him that she knows what she’s talking about, her nostrils are flared, her eyes glittering in the dim light. Her manner is shocking to Raj, I can see the change in his eyes. He’s more confused.
Now Serendipity speaks. She takes a half-step toward Ellen, and her manner matches Raj’s original stance: she’s angry. She’s telling Ellen off when she speaks to her. Her face says . . . exasperation. When she says that Annette had been acting oddly for weeks, her shoulders settle a little, she’s being dismissive.
At Ellen’s rebuff, she doesn’t falter. As she’s listing the different examples of Annette’s odd behavior she’s counting them off on her fingers, angrily waving her hands in front of Ellen. Because she’s taller than Ellen her hands are right in front of Ellen’s eyes. They follow Serendipity’s fingers, until Serendipity makes her final point and throws up both hands. Yes, she’s frustrated, angry.
Now it’s Ellen’s turn to be dismissive. As she says the word “garbage,” she tosses her head again, juts out her chin, and her lips form a sneer. She’s rubbishing Serendipity. Garbage.
Now Raj steps in, literally trying to move between Ellen and Serendipity, who have moved close to each other. His tone is soothing, more gentle than before. His eyes are pleading with Ellen, to see his point of view. To accept what he and Serendipity are saying. His hands are raised in supplication. He’s trying to ratchet down the tension, while still making his point.
Then the Jacksons butt in, and I’m not seeing any specific reactions to Ellen’s point about Annette’s death anymore.
The next thing to happen is that Suzie Soul detaches herself from the group and makes her way, unsteadily, across the forty feet or so between our groups, waving her glass and shouting as she approaches. She’s clearly drunk, her face is a sneering mask, her lipstick smeared, she’s holding her glass tightly, she’s spilling her drink. She’s walking in an almost straight line, but crossing one foot in front of the other as she progresses, surprisingly quickly. She’s long ago mastered the alcohol and towering heels combination, but she’s swaying. No one is paying her any attention except her husband, who is looking panic-stricken as he follows her into the light. His arms are flailing. He’s trying to grab her, but she’s keeping ahead of him and pulling her arms and shoulders away from his grasp. As she speaks, all eyes turn to her. Or do they? No, Raj doesn’t take his eyes off Ellen. He still looks aghast.
Suzie Soul waves her glass toward Ellen and shouts, “You’re a lush, Ellen Newman. Put your glass down and go home to your sorry, pathetic little life.” Suzie’s over-full lips seem to be sneering, her nose seems to be wrinkled and her teeth are certainly on display. It’s hard to tell what’s due to plastic surgery and what’s a real expression. One thing I can see is that she’s lost pretty much every micro-expression a face can usually have. They’ve been nipped, tucked, sliced, and filled away. But her eyes speak volumes: she’s not focusing on Ellen, due to the drink, but she’s full of hate. Why would Suzie hate Ellen so much?
Now I must consider Ellen’s reaction to this. When it happened, I turned back to look at her as quickly as I could, now I do it again, and I can see what is the last glimmer of disdain on her face. But Ellen replaces disdain with dismay very quickly. Interesting.
As she reaches us, Suzie continues with, “And take your damned cop with you.” She’s looking at Bud as she says this. He looks very surprised, and leans away from the woman. Suzie is now almost showing her top gum, so curled is her upper lip—I think it would be completely curled if it were still capable of such a movement. She’s pointing toward Bud with an angry hand, her decorated, false fingernails glinting. She’s pushed past Serendipity, who, although much taller, has given ground between herself and Raj to this woman on a mission. As she enters our circle, we all lean back from Suzie a little, all except Ellen, who moves toward her, in an almost threatening way. It is at this moment that Sammy Soul reaches his wife’s arm and grasps it.
Now all the attention in the room has completely shifted toward the Souls. It’s impossible for me to see any expressions other than those that relate to this latest outburst, so there’s nothing more I can see that’s of use.
I sighed, stood up from the desk, and reached for the little bottle of water that stood on the nightstand. I unscrewed the top and drank the whole thing in one hit. I felt dissatisfied. What had I learned? Well, a few things were of interest. I’d file them away to tell Bud in the morning, but I wasn’t sure I’d spotted the reactions of a murderer. Oh, damn and blast it!
Maybe a good night’s sleep and a fresh start in the morning would help. I was quite convinced, as I snuggled into the comforting, downy bedding, that someone had killed Annette, but I knew, in my heart of hearts, that I was probably getting farther away from proving it than I had been when we’d arrived. Hey, you only got here a few hours ago. Give yourself a break, and get some sleep, I told myself sternly. And sleep I did—but I had terrible dreams about Angus, which was a very bad thing.
Strong Irish Breakfast Tea
WHEN I WOKE THE NEXT morning I felt dreadful. The first thing I was aware of was that I’d obviously been crying in my sleep. My eyes were sore and puffy, my head was stuffed up, and I was feeling anything but fresh. A sweaty, restless night had brought me to this. As I examined the damage in the bathroom mirror, fleeting images from my dreams haunted me. I hadn’t had a night when I’d dreamed of Angus, with all the pain that involved, for months. Not since Bud and I had decided to give our relationship a go. And I hadn’t missed those dreams.
As usual, after such a night, I wasn’t feeling positive or chipper. The clock told me it was six thirty, so I showered, did the best I could with my makeup, blow-dried my hair, then pulled it into its everyday ponytail. I struggled into the stretch khaki pants I’d bought in a moment of delight at having lost five pounds—which I’d obviously regained, judging by the snugness with which they were fitting. The multi-colored stripy shirt I teamed them with covered most of my lumps and bumps. I was as ready as I was going to be. I wasn’t looking forward to a gourmet Irish breakfast in the company of a bunch of murder suspects. I glanced at the underwhelming list of motives for murder that I’d written the night before. Now almost everything in me was telling me that my initial instinct had been wrong: that she’d probably killed herself after all. I hate being wrong.
It’s funny how time flies when you’re getting yourself ready to face the day. I was surprised to see that it was already seven thirty I was due to meet Bud in fifteen minutes. There was a knock on my door.
“It’s me, Cait.” Bud spoke just loudly enough for me to hear. “Can I c
ome in?”
I opened the door and smiled. “Of course you can.”
Bud looked me up and down, a concerned expression furrowing his brow. “Bad night?” he asked gently.
“Is it that obvious?” I thought I’d done a pretty good job of making myself look presentable.
“Only to me—no one else would know,” replied Bud, trying to backtrack.
I shook my head. “It’s okay, I know what you mean,” I sighed. I felt completely deflated.
“I didn’t sleep that well myself,” Bud added, trying to be sympathetic. He’s not very good at it. “Comfortable bed, sure, but uncomfortable thoughts. I’m beginning to think that coming here was a bad idea.”
“Why so?” I sat on the edge of the bed, and Bud plopped himself, into the chair at the desk.
Bud considered for a moment, then said grimly, “You know I believe that Annette killed herself?” I nodded. “Well, I don’t think that Ellen can accept it, so she’s pulled me into her world to prove that her sister really did kill herself. I don’t think Ellen really believes it was murder. I don’t see how she can. I think that the only real help I can give her is to tell her it was clearly a suicide, and that she has to somehow accept all the evidence and move on.”
“I agree,” I said.
Bud looked surprised. “You think Annette really did kill herself? That a woman with a keen sense of smell would have done it that way, after all?” He spoke as though he suspected some sort of ruse on my part.
“I’ve been working it through, Bud,” I said with resignation, “and I think it’s a distinct possibility. Annette, for some reason we don’t know, loathed herself so much that she chose that method. She drank a whole bottle of wine, taped up the truck windows, and sat there breathing in the fumes until she lost consciousness and died. I don’t know why she wouldn’t have chosen to take a simple overdose, but there it is. We might have to accept that we’ll never know why, the same way Ellen will have to accept it. It would be a hell of a lot easier for us, don’t you think?”