by Cathy Ace
“Sure . . .” Bud replied thoughtfully. “Right, then, let’s go and see what this Pat Corrigan has for us by way of an Irish breakfast. I can’t believe it, but I’m starving. You okay?”
It was as though a weight had been lifted from the two of us.
“Yes,” I said, smiling, really meaning that I felt a million times better than when he’d walked into my room. “Yes,” I said, smiling. I felt a million times better than when he’d walked into my room ten minutes earlier.
Bud kissed me on the cheek as he gallantly ushered me onto the landing. It was a happy couple that descended the As we came down, the Wisers entered the front door, which was being held open by a scowling Lauren Corrigan.
Good mornings were exchanged as Lauren relieved the Wisers of their outerwear. The sun was glinting on the lake below, and the sky was already a cloudless bright blue. Even so, the Wisers seemed to be bundled up in clothing that suggested they might be off to tackle the north face of the Eiger. They took off rugged walking boots and layers of cotton, fleece, and waterproofs, and one backpack each. It seemed a little over the top for simply walking up the hairpin road.
“Have you two come straight here from your house?” I asked, curiously.
The both laughed. “Oh, heaven’s no,” replied Marlene Wiser, still grinning, as she handed a second scarf to Lauren. “We thought we’d better work up an appetite, so we came around the back way.”
“The back way?” asked Bud. Now he was curious too.
“This house is on top of a hill, right?” replied Gordy. Bud and I nodded. “If you continue around the bend in Lakeshore Road down there for about five minutes, rather than coming into the Close, you come to a trail that’ll take you up around the base of the hill to its backside—I don’t mean it that way, Marlene”—he grinned at his wife wickedly—“and then you can follow the trail up to the top of the hill. It takes a while, because the terrain is rocky and loose underfoot, and the old apple cart track’s crumbled away long since. We’re used to it. It’s a grand walk.”
“Apple cart track?” Bud was holding a discarded backpack.
“Ah yes,” replied Gordy. “Behind the hill, on its backside,” and here he grinned again like a naughty schoolboy, “there is a natural depression, not quite a cave, but a big gouge out of the side of the hill. Fred Newman, that’s Ellen and Annette’s father, was always a man for making the best of things, as you can see from this house. Built it with his own hands, he did. He fashioned a structure that covered this bite out of the hill that he’d found, and he used it as an apple store. In fact, that’s how I came to know him. When he needed less storage because he was growing more grapes than apples, I rented the space from him. We’d haul our apples up in our ‘apple cart,’ which is what we called the rust bucket pickup we used back then. We’d bring the apples up to the store for the winter then bring them down again to sell. Over the years, since we stopped using it, the little road we’d worked out just got worn away by the weather. Now there’s almost nothing left of it. Like the orchards, eh, Marlene?”
“Oh, Gordy, don’t start off on that again.” The woman rolled her eyes as she looked lovingly at her husband. “You’re obsessed with those orchards. They’re subdivisions now, with a lot of happy people because they have lovely new homes to live in. Come on then, where’s this food we’re all waiting for?” she asked cheerily, turning toward Lauren Corrigan. “We see all those folks coming up here every day for breakfast, but this’ll be our first time, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” replied Lauren Corrigan grumpily. She didn’t have a chance to add more because just then the front door was opened by Rob MacMillan, showily allowing his wife to enter ahead of him. She looked as though she’d had an even worse night than me: her eyes were red-raw, as was her nose. Of course, she might have developed a sudden head cold, but I reckoned I recognized the signs of a night of tears.
“Come on, Colin, don’t dawdle,” she said in motherly tones, looking up at the six-footer who was trailing behind her. Colin MacMillan’s thin frame supported a head of red hair that seemed too big for his narrow shoulders to carry. His pock marked skin spoke of battles with acne, and the shortness of his sleeves and jeans suggested a recent spurt of growth. One earbud dangled loosely around his neck, the other was lodged firmly in his right ear. He had an air of terminal boredom about him. “Take your shoes off,” his mother instructed him as he crossed the threshold.
“Leave the boy alone,” rumbled Rob MacMillan.
I decided to follow the Wisers toward the dining area, rather than engage with the MacMillan family, as I didn’t feel up to it. Bud ambled along with me.
Lauren called, “There’s pots of tea in the lounge. You can all go in there out of my way for now. Help yourself.” Clearly, she was being her usual, hospitable self.
Sure enough, a sideboard was bedecked with cups and saucers, milk jugs, sugar bowls, and two pots of tea—each wearing a natty little knitted jacket.
“Oh—I haven’t seen a striped tea cozy like this since I used to have breakfast at my Gran’s house,” I commented with pleasure.
“I make them,” Lauren said, clearly very proud to have her work complimented. “I’m a big knitter.”
“Oh, really?” I replied. “My sister, too,” I felt glad to find something that might help me connect with the woman. “She lives in Perth, Australia, now. Loves to knit. She can knit anything. Makes her own patterns. Likes circular needles.”
Lauren was transformed. Her face was alight with enthusiasm, her voice very different from its usual, bored tones. “Oh, me too. The tea cozies are just little things that I’ve made to add a bit of a mood for our breakfast guests, but I make a lot of other pieces too. My project pages on Ravelry.com are quite busy.”
I worried that Lauren might mistake my sister’s hobby for my own. To be honest, I never got the hang of knitting. I was hoping Lauren wouldn’t force me to feign interest. Luckily, she rushed off to attend to the needs of the new arrivals.
“Good morning,” said Grant Jackson, who had managed to creep up behind me unheard.
“Oh, good morning,” I said, forcing a jollity into my voice that I didn’t feel, as I turned to face him.
Grant placed his hands together as if in prayer, bowed his head and whispered “Namaste.”
I rolled my eyes—inwardly—then braced myself for some sort of pseudo-spiritual onslaught. Sadly, the man lived down to my expectations.
“It’s so important, Cait, that we polish each of our fourteen Critical Facets every day,” he intoned with more pious unction than I’d have thought possible. “Giving is one of those Facets, which, when it’s matched with its thirteen partners, can lead us to a richer, more fulfilling life, in harmony with ourselves, our loved ones and the cosmos. Are you aware of the Faceting for Life movement?” He was looking directly at me.
“Sorry to interrupt, Grant, but I just need a quick word with Cait about something important that’s just come up.” Bud smiled politely as he took my arm and steered me back toward the staircase.
I flashed him a grateful smile. “Thanks, I thought I was going to get . . .”
Bud stopped me and nodded toward the cell phone in his hand. I could tell there was a text message on it, but I had to push his arm farther away so I could bring the blur into focus.
Screwing up my eyes, I managed to read: “Can’t make it. Not feeling good. Go on without me. Get someone to bring you to the vineyard office after breakfast. Ellen.”
I looked at Bud. “I’m not really surprised she’s not feeling well. She seemed to be very drunk last night.”
Lauren was now taking a bear-like fur coat from Sammy Soul, who seemed to have arrived with, of all people, Vince Chen. Suzie Soul was nowhere to be seen. The door opened again and it looked as though a bus had arrived. A group of four, obviously a mother, father, and two daughters, entered, all smiling and rosy cheeked. Mentally referencing Ellen’s notes, I took them to be the du Bois family, who owned and oper
ated the C’est la Vie Restaurant down on the waterfront in Kelowna. They hadn’t been at the previous evening’s festivities, due, I suspected, to the fact that they had a business to run. I was looking forward to the dinner at their place: they were known for their cassoulet and duck confit, two of my favorite dishes.
Rushing in behind them came Serendipity Soul and Raj Pinder. They were followed by the man I’d seen at the party the night before, but whom I hadn’t had the chance to meet. Pat Corrigan suddenly appeared from the kitchen, beating the base of a large copper pot with a metal spoon. Everyone stopped chattering and gave him their attention as he walked to the staircase and gained some height by standing on the bottom stair.
“Welcome, one and all, to Anen House Bed and Breakfast. Ellen can’t be here, which is a shame, but she sends her best, and she’ll be with us all for lunch. My beautiful and talented wife, Lauren, and I welcome you, and wish you a hearty breakfast. Some of you here are great chefs, some of you are gourmets, and some are gourmands aspiring to become gourmets . . .” laughter rippled around the room, “. . . so I hope that my humble spread tickles your fancy and pleases your palate. Now, you all know that we Irish are famous for our sayings, and there’s many I could choose from at a time like this . . .” another ripple of laughter, “. . . but I’ll keep it simple and I’ll offer but one small prayer on behalf of us all: ‘May you enjoy the four greatest blessings: honest work to occupy you, a hearty appetite to sustain you, a good woman—or man—to love you, and a wink from the God above.’ Now—let’s eat!” Once again Pat beat a rhythm on the pot with his spoon, and he ran off to fling open the huge serving hatch at the back of the dining room.
I couldn’t have been happier: Bud was beside me, and in front of me were hot plates holding Pat’s award-winning sausages—three different types—bacon, eggs, mushrooms, black pudding, white pudding, potatoes cooked three different ways, baked beans in sauce, and fried tomatoes, all just begging me to dig in.
Having piled up my plate, I finally plopped myself down at the table, delighted to see the big basket of Irish soda bread, salted and creamed butter curls, and homemade jams at the center of each table. Trying to chew slowly, I paid attention to my tablemates. I was dismayed to realize that it was young Colin MacMillan next to me, and one of the two du Bois girls across from him. Damn and blast—two teens, what could be worse?
“Enjoying it, are you? Isn’t it all lovely?” I asked, between mouthfuls. It was probably the wrong thing to say to the two teens. Unsurprisingly, my question drew no response, but at least I got a muffled “Mmm” from Bud.
“Is that a Welsh accent?” asked Colin MacMillan a few moments later.
“Yes, I’m Welsh,” I replied, relieved to break the silence at the table, but not sure what to say next.
“Doctor Who is made by BBC Wales,” announced Colin. “Are you a Doctor Who fan?”
I smiled. “Yes, I am, as it happens. I even met Russell T Davies once or twice, many years ago. Are you a fan too?”
Colin nodded energetically, and seemed to be very impressed that I’d met the man who must have been his idol. “Annette Newman and I used to talk about The Doctor a lot. She liked Doctor Who too. This was her house, you know.”
“Yes, I know. By the way, I’m Cait and this is Bud. Did you know Annette well?” I asked Colin.
“You liked her, right Colin?” offered the young girl sitting next to Colin brightly. It seemed that, like me, she was trying to engage Colin. I suspected she quite liked him, but he had no inkling she was interested. “I’m Poppy du Bois, by the way,” she added.
Colin nodded. “Yeah. She was pretty cool. She used to talk to me. Lots. I was sad when she died. She liked Star Trek too, and Star Wars, and Stargate Atlantis, and she said she wished she had more time to get into more stuff like that. She had lots of cool books about history. We talked about different things. We even went to see Avatar together. My Mom thought it was weird, but it was cool.”
“So, you like mythologies?” I ventured.
“Yeah,” smiled Colin. “She gave me a hardback copy of The Lord of the Rings for my birthday one year, and she told me I had to read it all and then we could talk about it. It’s really good, though I didn’t like The Hobbit as much, it’s more like a kid’s book.”
I was enjoying the chance to finally gain a little insight into the real Annette Newman.
“When she killed herself, my Dad said she deserved it,” added Colin, taking both Bud and me by surprise. He looked around the room as he spoke, careful to keep his voice so low that no one at the tables nearby could hear his voice.
“What did he mean by that?” I was puzzled. I, too, lowered my voice.
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Colin, “he gets all weird about things, for no reason. He’s not cool at all, about anything. He didn’t like me coming here to visit. When it was her house, it was different then. All her stuff’s gone now. She had some cool stuff.”
“Where did it all go?” I wondered, aloud as it turned out.
“Ellen took it all and put it in that store they’ve got on the hillside. I guess that’s what she was doing driving that truck back and forth all those times. She didn’t, like, announce it, or anything, but I see lots of things when I’m out on my bike.”
“The apple store, around the other side of the hill?” Bud asked quietly, finally engaging in the conversation. Colin nodded, then Bud added, “Gordy Wiser was saying that the track isn’t there anymore, there’s just a trail. How’d she manage that?”
“Oh, she managed just fine. I guess she just used four-wheel drive. It took her a lot of trips. Did it all on her own. Right after Annette died. Like, right after. Then everyone started coming around—helping her fix the place up.”
“And you saw her do this?” Bud asked. Bud was almost whispering. Our conversation had developed a very conspiratorial air.
Colin nodded.
“Colin sees lots of things that lots of people do,” added Poppy.
“Don’t say it like that,” whined Colin, “you make me sound like a creep. Or a stalker. I’m not. I just get around.”
“And you notice, don’t you, Colin? Because you’re interested in people?” I said it lightly, to encourage him to continue.
Colin nodded.
“And did you notice anything odd about Annette before she died? Or about anyone else, afterwards?”
Colin pushed a mushroom around his plate, then looked up and said, “A couple of months before she died, she put her garbage in her car and drove it to a dumpster downtown, which was weird. She usually dropped it at the Wisers’ for pick-up. Garbage trucks won’t climb this hill. And when she drove home from the office in Ellen’s truck that last day, she was talking to someone, on her cellphone. I could tell she was upset because she was waving her hands around and crying.”
As Colin spoke, several questions began bumping around in my brain, but instead of asking any of them, I chose to say, “Did it surprise you that Annette killed herself?”
Colin gave it some thought. With a maturity that belied his years, he said quietly, “Yeah, it surprised me. She was the one with hope. Ellen’s the one without it. When we talked the day before she died, she was real excited about having found a signed James Sandy snuff box that some guy in Newfoundland was going to sell her. She’d been trying to find it for years. She said it was, like, the ‘grail’ of her collection. Of anyone’s collection. She didn’t seem down at all. Not like the day she died.”
I took a moment to wrap my head around what Colin MacMillan was saying.
“You talked to Annette the day before she died, and she was excited about buying a signed James Sandy snuff box?” Colin nodded. “For her collection of snuff boxes?”
“Yeah, she was interested in all sorts of things, but she really liked snuff boxes. She showed me her collection lots of times. I had to wear white gloves to hold them. She knew the history of every box, and she had wonderful books with photos and illustrations. She said it w
as ‘ironic’ that she loved snuff boxes, ’cos she used her nose to earn her living and, like, snuff’s not good for your nose, except to get you to sneeze. She never used snuff. Just loved the boxes. She had dozens and dozens of boxes, but most of them were silver. She kept them all in a little glass cabinet, over there,” he nodded toward the area that was now the lounge. Colin MacMillan looked sad when he turned again to look at me. “I miss Annette. She . . . understood me . . . a bit. You know, my Mom and Dad, they don’t really get me . . .”
“I don’t think there’s a single teenager in the world whose parents get them, Colin,” I said, trying to be sympathetic. “It’s a generational imperative: teens rebel, parents worry and try to impose rules. It’s what happens. I bet your parents were the same when they were your age.”
Colin rolled his eyes. “Right.”
“My parents are the same with me,” piped up Poppy. “I mean, the restaurant’s okay, and all that, but they still treat me like I’m a little kid. They’re always going on about drugs at school and stuff like that.”
“Yeah, mine too,” agreed Colin, “but Dad drinks all the time when he’s here, which isn’t very often, and Mom drinks all the time, period. But because we’re surrounded by wine, and because, like, every other person here makes their living out of it, or knows someone who does, we’re all supposed to not think of booze as a drug, it’s just something people get all fancy about. Annette thought it was funny, you know, the way people talked about wine. She couldn’t understand why people couldn’t smell it like she did, or taste it like she did. We laughed about it. She made fun of them all, all the time. But she didn’t make fun of Raj. She didn’t laugh at him. She liked him. They used to fly off to things together, you know, but not together? Like at the same time, to the same place, to do their tasting thing, but not, you know, together-together. That’s what she said, anyway. Actually, she said that a lot. Then she stopped going. That’s when she did the thing with her garbage. Weird. I miss her. I wonder where all her snuff boxes are? It seems a shame if Ellen just, kinda, dumped them into a box in storage. They were nice.”