by Cathy Ace
Bonnie was smiling at me. “You’re enjoying that, right?” she quipped. “More?” she asked, as she offered the bottle of the final wine.
“Just a drop, thanks.” I returned her smile. “You should try this one, Bud. I have a feeling we might be taking some of this back home.”
“Go on, then, I’d better see what I’m in for,” and he waited as Bonnie poured some Anen Nightshades for him too. I watched as Bud swirled, sniffed, sipped, sipped again, sucked . . . and smiled. “Okay, I get it. Pretty wonderful.”
We nodded.
“It was the wine that won most golds for Annette,” said Bonnie sadly. “It’s a blended wine. That’s what she was really known for. There aren’t a lot of folks around here who grow Marechal Foch, but we do, and she came up with this wonderful way of making it work with just the right balance of gamay noir, merlot, and another unusual one we grow called michurinetz, which is a Russian varietal. It’s the out-of-the-ordinary varietals that give this winery the edge. The Newmans had vision. A lot of folks said they were crazy, of course, but I think they just planted different things to see what would work and what wouldn’t. They chose all the best terroirs for the right varietals. Genius, really. I’m so glad that folks enjoy it.”
“I’m pleased to see that you enjoy being part of it. Have you been here long, Bonnie?” I asked.
“About five years, now,” Bonnie replied wistfully. “Raj is very good, and he’s always fun to have about the place, but it’s not the same since Annette—you know . . .” She trailed off, as most people seem to when they don’t really want to acknowledge the death of someone close.
“Were you surprised that Annette killed herself?” Someone had to ask, so it might as well be me.
Bonnie paused, as if to organize her thoughts, then said with feeling, “I wouldn’t have believed it of her. Not for a minute. And then? When she—did it? Well, it made no sense to me at all. She’d been a bit off for a while, but she was so happy. Bursting with it, she was. Like she had some sort of a secret maybe a plan, that excited her, but nothing she talked about. You could see it in her eyes, though. Dashing here and there she was, like a bird in spring—never still. Moving stuff from her office to her house, from her house to her office. Always hauling things about. Action. All go. Maybe she was just getting everything in order before she . . . you know. I had to take a couple of days off I was so knocked by it. And Ellen just fell apart, took her weeks to come back. Not until they’d read that will. And then she comes right back in, that very day, with Raj in tow, if you please. All over him, like gin on an olive. He’s good at keeping her at arm’s length, I’ll give him that. Must get lots of practice at it, too, if you believe everything you hear. For all the attention he might get, he’s never been lucky in love, that one.”
It was clear that Bonnie heard quite a lot, and I was anxious to keep her on topic. “What do you mean, Bonnie?” I asked innocently.
Topping up our glasses, Bonnie drew close and became our instant confidante. “Well, a few years back, he was seeing a nice girl, Jane. Can’t remember her last name. She was from somewhere near Terrace. No family. Just one of those wandering types, you know, they work at the ski resorts in the winter and the wineries in the summer? Well, they do around here, anyway. Came to all the do’s together for a while, you know. Good-looking girl. One day, she ups and leaves. Very down he was about it. Then there was a young girl, Stacey Willow, over in West Kelowna, killed herself because of him. At least that’s what folks said at the time. Terrible. Raj said he hardly knew her, but there’s some around here think they had quite the thing going. Pills. She was alive when they found her, but, you know, they couldn’t do anything. Pumped her stomach, everything. She was too far gone.”
Bud and I must have registered surprise. Bonnie asserted, “Yes, too much of the poison in her system for them to save her. No note. Just did it. They don’t always leave notes, right? Kid was only in her twenties. Very sad. Raj didn’t bat an eyelid. Said he didn’t know what all the fuss was about. He said that it was sad and all, but he didn’t know why people were sad for him. They’d only ever had a couple of drinks, in a group. No one could think why she’d have done it otherwise. It must have been a boy, a man, you know, letting her down.”
“When Annette left this place to him, well, her half, anyway, you know, it makes you think, right? Not that they were ever seen together, but they did go away to the same places a lot of times. Had to, I guess.” She sounded disappointed. “It was their job. Ellen said it was all rubbish. She keeps telling folks who’ll listen that the business is better with him, and that Annette did the right thing. I’ve heard him telling her she should go back to the lawyers and ask them about it again. He just can’t seem to settle here. I still think it’s all very odd. I wonder what he said, or did,” she winked, “that got Annette to leave him the business?”
“Do people think that Raj somehow convinced Annette to change her will, and then he killed her?” I had to follow up on this one. Bud was now listening intently too.
The couple dithering over their wine selection had clearly come to a decision, and Bonnie indicated she’d better attend to them. She left us with a quick remark as she walked away, “Not my idea, but Ellen’s commented that it’s awful that folks say that sort of thing, and then she’s off on the warpath!”
“So we’re back to Raj, the ladies’ man,” observed Bud wryly. “We should take another look at him, Cait. He’s the only one who really benefitted from Annette’s death. I wonder if there’s someone here at the RCMP station I could have a word with about the Willow girl. At least we’ve got a full name.” Bud had spotted a chance for him to play to his strengths. “I’m just going to pop outside and make a quick call. Can you hold the fort here? Without drinking yourself under the bar?” he added, smiling.
“Absolutely, ossifer,” I slurred playfully. “The Leith police dismisseth us,” I added, grinning. Bud gave a “What are you talking about” expression.
“It’s one of those pub things, in the UK,” I replied to his unasked question. “You know, if you can say it aloud three times, you’re obviously not drunk. Try it when you’re outside, it’s not as easy as you think. Now leave me alone so I can grill Bonnie.” Bud did as he was told, muttering to himself.
“Like some more?” asked Bonnie, offering the bottle again. “Or, how about some of this? With a wild hibiscus in it, as a special treat?” She pulled a bottle out of a wall-hung cooler. It was the Anen Angel sparkling wine that Bud had brought with him to brunch at my house the week before. With it, she brought out a jar containing something dark, red, and alluring. Dropping a somewhat gloopy-looking flower into the bottom of the champagne glass, Bonnie added a little of the syrup in which the flowers were obviously preserved, then filled the glass with the sparkling wine. I watched, delighted, as the bubbles from the wine fizzed through and around the flower, which gradually unfurled in the pink liquid. It was very special.
“The flower tastes like a cross between raspberry and rhubarb,” said Bonnie, as I sipped.
“Oh yes, it’s delicious,” was almost all I could manage. “Do you grow the flowers locally?”
“Well, Sammy Soul is looking into planning permission for some greenhouses so he can take it up in a big way. You need tropical conditions for the hibiscus to thrive, you see. These all come in from Australia. Small producer, high-end, family run. It’s a good fit with our business. We sell quite a lot of them. Fun, eh?”
I had to agree.
As I continued sipping, and watching the ever-changing show within my glass, I took my chance to press my earlier query. “Do you think that Raj might have had a hand in Annette’s death so that he could inherit half the winery?”
Popping the suitably stoppered bottle and the jar of preserved flowers back into the fridge, Bonnie gave her pronouncement. We were finally alone, so she was able to speak freely. “I know you hear these things about people changing their will, then five minutes later they’re dead and the person who gets
the cash is the one who’s killed them. That’s all in books, and on those TV shows, right? People don’t go around really doing that kind of thing. Raj isn’t the type. The ones who do it on the TV? You can always tell. Not Raj. There are whispers, but he either doesn’t know about them, or he chooses to ignore them. It’s Ellen. She’s the one. She’s like a terrier about it.”
This was all very interesting. If there was some sort of miasma of gossip surrounding Raj’s inheritance and Annette’s death, why on earth was Ellen—who seemed to be quite protective of Raj if nothing else—asking Bud to look into it at all? Why wouldn’t she just have let it lie? Stick with the findings of suicide, and not make the sort of scene she had the night before? It made no sense. Well, not with a few glasses of wine inside me it didn’t. Oh dear! I gave the whole puzzle some more thought. My only real conclusion was that I needed a bathroom, and Bonnie was kind enough to point me in the right direction. When I re-entered the tasting room, refreshed, Bud was there and making the sorts of motions that told me he needed to talk to me outside. I looked at my watch.
“Can you tell Ellen we’re ready whenever she is?” I asked Bonnie.
“Sure,” she replied, as she happily mopped the rings we’d left on the countertop.
“Is there an area where I can smoke?” I asked, a bit timidly.
Bonnie grinned. “Outside, turn right, keep going, and there are some benches and a big old sand bucket. Will you take this with you?” She held up my unfinished glass of now-pink bubbles. Well, I couldn’t say “No,” could I? I still had the hibiscus to eat!
We thanked Bonnie and we scuttled outside into the now-warm sunshine. I pulled Bud toward the smoking patio, where I tossed my jacket to one side, and scrabbled around in my purse for my cigarettes, lighter, and sunglasses. Once I’d stopped pawing about, dropping things, then picking them up again, and finally settled myself with my face to the sun, I said, “Okay, spill.” I felt quite devil-may-care.
“I’ve done pretty well, I think.” He smiled. “I called the RCMP station downtown and asked to speak to an old acquaintance of mine, who I knew wouldn’t be there. I introduced myself to the young guy at the desk, and we chatted. Anyway, it turns out he knew the Willow girl. Because there was no note, no apparent reason for her killing herself, the parents insisted on an autopsy. Stomach full of pills. She’d ground them up and put them in a milkshake, of all things. Took it home with her from her job at a burger place downtown. Strawberry, in case you’re interested. Enough to kill a horse, apparently. Pills, not milkshake. I don’t know how much strawberry milkshake it would take to kill a horse.” Bud nudged me playfully, then cleared his throat and said, “Sorry, that wasn’t really . . . you know. Sorry. I’m not used to wine before lunch.”
“I know,” I said, puffing. “And what about Raj? Was he connected to her at all?”
“I asked about that. The guy said she’d been dumped by a biker-type she’d been seeing, and that he was the sort who’d do it hard—known to them apparently—but she had no close link to Raj. I stopped then, because he seemed to feel he’d said too much. I didn’t get into Annette’s case. Thought it best to not push my luck.”
I was thinking.
“Strawberry milkshake?” I said aloud.
“Yes. Strawberry,” replied Bud. “Does the flavor matter? I was really only, you know, joking about that.” He sounded puzzled.
“It might, if she didn’t kill herself,” I replied.
Bud stood up, immediately raking his hair in frustration. “Oh, come on, Cait. Stop it. Some girl who may or may not have known Raj Pinder takes a bunch of pills because she’s had her heart broken by some pseudo-gang-banger, and you’re thinking she’s another murder victim? Why? What particular bee is buzzing in your bonnet now?”
I didn’t answer Bud’s testy question directly, because it would have taken too long, and I could see Ellen Newman heading in our direction. Instead, I ate the hibiscus, glugged the last of my drink, stubbed out my cigarette, and said, “Where would any gossip about Raj and this girl have started, if he didn’t know her? And why would it start? Has someone got it in for Raj? Maybe someone hates him so much they’re working on a long-term, elaborate plan, with him in the frame for two fake suicides. Or, is he really responsible for the deaths of two women, and, maybe, the disappearance of a third?”
Bud opened his mouth to reply, but he, too, spotted Ellen approaching us.
“Do you need to go back to Anen House to change?” asked Ellen brightly—surprisingly so for someone we’d left dissolving in tears earlier on. What also took me aback was the fact that she was wearing a different outfit than the one we’d seen her in that morning. She looked rather odd, with puffed out hair, sporting a jade-green skirt-suit with big, ’80s-style shoulder pads, and giant, gold-colored plastic earrings. She looked like something out of a down-market version of Dynasty.
Our faces must have shown our confusion. How could they not?
“You know you’re supposed to come dressed in something ‘retro,’ right? The lunch at the MacMillans’ house is a ‘retro’ lunch.” Suddenly, her expression changed and her hand shot to her mouth. “Oh no, don’t say I didn’t put that in your notes?”
Bud and I both shook our heads.
“Oh dear. Oh dear. Right. Let’s think a minute,” said Ellen. She did. So did we. “I wonder if I’ve got anything suitable at home . . .”
Oh come on: she was, at most, one hundred and thirty pounds, and I haven’t been that weight since I was about twenty-five. She was also about three inches taller than me. She wouldn’t be likely to own anything that would fit me.
Ellen looked at her watch, clearly having made a decision. “Right. It’s twelve fifteen. If we’re quick we can pop over to my apartment downtown, and I know just where I’ve got some things that’ll do, for both of you. No one will worry if we’re a few minutes late. Come on!” She turned on her heel, marching toward a big, old, dark gray Ford F250, with a four-person crew-cab and a full canopy. We hauled ourselves into the truck, buckled up, and she was off, crunching along the unmade vineyard trail, until we reached Lakeshore Road, where she skidded around the corner and we raced toward Kelowna.
French Lemonade
I WAS BEGINNING TO GET my head around the layout and the lifestyle of Kelowna. Lakeshore Road was the main drag that took you out of the core and to most of the wineries that had sprung up along the east bank of the lake. On this occasion, the job of Lakeshore Road was to deliver us back into downtown Kelowna itself, where the grid-pattern streets presented a mixture of old housing stock, newer apartments, and a core shopping area full of delightful character, set away from the strip malls that appeared to extend all the way out to the airport. Obviously, Ellen was used to negotiating the lunchtime traffic, as she took right and left turns to avoid major junction snarls.
Within about ten minutes of setting out from her office, all three of us were jumping down from the cab of Ellen’s truck, now tucked into a rather tight spot in the underground parkade of her apartment building, which was right on the waterfront.
As Ellen marched toward the elevator, she seemed to be in full bossy mode—a role usually appropriated by myself. I felt a bit left out, but I tagged along like a good little guest. Emerging from the elevator, Ellen unlocked the door to an apartment. We trooped in behind her, suddenly slowing as we found ourselves turning sideways to negotiate a very narrow hallway. Ahead was the living room, but every wall we could see was piled high with plastic buckets, neatly stacked in rows, each bearing a description and a date.
“I know exactly what to pick out for you, Cait,” Ellen cried excitedly as she dropped her purse onto a small desk that stood in front of the window facing the glittering lake.
“Great. Thanks,” was all I could muster. I was finding the apartment claustrophobic, and I eyed the stacked bins with suspicion.
“But I should offer you something to drink, first. How about some lovely French lemonade—I’ve got a bottle here, unopened.
I think you’ll like it Cait, because it’s just like British lemonade—you know, it doesn’t have any lime in it, like we always seem to have here. I use it with Pimm’s—that’s very British, isn’t it? Annette introduced me to it, and sometimes, when I sit and think about her, I’ll make myself a glass and remember how she enjoyed it. Just a minute . . .” and she dashed beyond a pile of boxes to the kitchen area.
Bud looked at me and mouthed, “Oh my God!” He surveyed the room, peering wide-eyed into the open plan kitchen.
I mouthed “Shh!” back at him, as Ellen reappeared with two glasses of lemonade, which she carefully placed on coasters on the desk.
“There, that’ll keep you busy! I’ll give some thought to Bud’s get-up while I’m digging out yours. I won’t be long—make yourselves at home,” she called and she disappeared, sideways, back along the corridor toward what I assumed was a bedroom or two.
Bud and I dutifully sipped at our lemonade as we took in our surroundings.
Ellen was, clearly, a hoarder. But, unlike many, she was a very neat hoarder. As I glanced around the boxes, I read the labels: ELLEN AGED 27; MOM & DAD: VACATIONS, 1960s; Ellen Aged 30; ELLEN AGED 28, and so on. The multi-colored boxes were all clean, not dusty, stacked not just five high, but three deep, which reduced the width of the room, and therefore the view of the lake, to about four feet.
Bud couldn’t constrain himself any longer. He, too, was eyeing the stacks of boxes with alarm.
“What the hell . . . ?”
I whispered, “She hoards. It’s a compulsion. I understand her a good deal better now. She cannot let go of things. Anything, it seems.”
“Explain it to me—quickly,” hissed Bud. “Is she sick?”
“Okay,” I replied quietly, “I’ll try. Hoarding is complex. There are many different types of hoarding, stemming from many different psychological roots. I’ll give you my take on Ellen. She’s not compulsively hoarding what we might see as ‘garbage’—you know, she hasn’t got filthy old bits and pieces, or piles of old newspapers here, and it certainly doesn’t smell of decay. I’m guessing her bathroom is still accessible, and we can see that her kitchen is clean and tidy, though it’s stacked with boxes. She hasn’t even gone out and compulsively bought fifteen sets of paper napkins or a dozen sets of Christmas lights, in case she ‘runs out.’ No, Ellen is keeping things from her past, and, it seems, her parents’ past, too. Often, hoarding suggests an inability to make decisions. People keep things because they literally cannot make up their mind if it’s good or bad to get rid of it, so they hang onto it ‘just in case’ they might need it one day. It looks to me as though Ellen has made a decision, and that’s to keep everything that’s precious to her about her own history and that of her parents. I’m thinking that it might be the death of her parents that started her on this route. There’s often a trigger that is traumatic. It’s not surprising she couldn’t get rid of Annette’s stuff. She can’t get rid of anything.”