by Cathy Ace
“I haven’t spent a great deal of time with you, Ellen, but I can see traits in you that suggest a borderline personality: you are a woman of extreme emotions. You will not be denied, you will organize and arrange, you will have your way. And if you don’t, you snap. You are clever though, I’ll give you that, Ellen. You’ve balanced your impulsiveness with your intelligence very well. For example, you knew, rationally, that you couldn’t invite Raj to your apartment with all those storage boxes in it, so you sought help to work through how to get rid of them: your mental condition wouldn’t allow you to simply make a dozen trips to the dump, but it did allow for at least trying some hypnotherapy. It didn’t work for you, did it? And, because you ‘didn’t get your way’—in other words, because Lizzie Jackson and her healing powers, and by association Grant and the Faceting for Life dogma, couldn’t help you—you didn’t just walk away, you launched a campaign of vitriol against the Jacksons and their beliefs.”
Grant and Lizzie moved in their seats, muttering to each other.
“So, you didn’t get Raj. It just didn’t happen. Sometimes these things just aren’t meant to be. That didn’t mean it was over for you, Ellen, did it? Raj’s life progressed here, yours stagnated—with him as your sole obsession. Suzie, I’m going to suggest that you made your play for Raj pretty soon after his arrival at your winery.”
I didn’t expect a response, so I was surprised when Suzie shouted, “So what if I did?” at the whole room. “He’s cute . . .” She stopped, put her talon-tipped fingers to her mouth, looked at her daughter, and said, “Oh, sorry Serendipity, baby.” She looked deflated.
I carried on. “When you threw those vitriolic comments at Ellen last night, Suzie, I was puzzled. Did you hate Ellen so much because you thought that she, and when she was alive, her sister, were going to spoil the nice little business you and Sammy were developing in cannabis wine? Or was there another reason? Having put this all together, I’m suggesting that Ellen and you had words about Raj, and that’s where your hatred of her stems from. You’d have made an open play for him, and I think that Ellen wouldn’t have been able to resist telling you to back off.”
“You’re right, she did,” Suzie replied. “Who did she think she was? She told me that Raj would rather be with her than me. When he turned me down, flat . . . I was pissed. Sure. But I soon found out he wasn’t with her, either. Miserable little cow. Look at her. Who the hell would want her? She’s all desiccated. Eaten away from inside. That’s where real beauty is born.” The irony of these last words, spoken by a woman whose many procedures had so clearly gone a long way toward supporting at least one child of a plastic surgeon through college, was not lost on the majority of the room.
“Thanks for being so—open, Suzie,” I said. Suzie sat down again, flicking her hair in triumph as she did so.
“What about Raj’s girlfriend, Jane? I’m sorry Raj, I don’t know any more about her than that, and that she was a girl who held down seasonal jobs and then just disappeared. Could you tell us a little more?”
Raj rolled his eyes toward Serendipity. She reached out and held his hand. “Aye, she were a nice lass. Like you said, she worked at Big White in’t winter, then at a winery in’t summer. It weren’t nothing serious, just a bit of fun. But she were nice, and pleasant.”
“And she just ‘disappeared?’ Is that right? In what way?”
Raj nodded. “She went out one day on her rollerblades. Loved them, she did. She went really fast. At least, that’s what she said she were doing. But when I went to her place the next evening to pick her up to go out, all her stuff were gone and she were gone too. Didn’t leave no note, no rent, just did a runner. Didn’t hand in her notice or nothing. And never a word from her since.”
“Did you, or her family, or anyone, report her as missing? I can’t imagine you were the only person who knew she’d gone.”
There was a bit of fidgeting around the room. Clearly more people than Raj had known about this Jane’s disappearance and had done—what, I wondered?
“Well, I didn’t think it were my place. I mean, like I said, it weren’t nothing serious. I did phone her aunt in Terrace and told her, and she said I weren’t to worry because Jane was always up and leaving places. She’d done it before, and she usually got in touch when she were good and ready. No, I didn’t do owt. And it were chaos here, anyway. It were when those fires hit, you know, the really bad ones? We was lucky, over here at SoulVine Wines, but we could see the fires over on this side of the lake, and thousands were out of their homes. What with all the coming and going, and people’s houses being burned down, and folks with nowhere to live, I think we was all just a bit involved with that.” Raj hung his head.
“Okay, I think that maybe that’ll be something for our friends here in the RCMP to look into at some future date. I don’t believe that Ellen’s carefully panned murder of Annette is where it all started. I believe there might have been an unplanned, impulsive crime before that, which showed Ellen that she could get away with killing someone. Right, Ellen?” I looked down at the woman sitting beside me, her arms crossed in fury, spots of color on her cheeks.
“Of course, there was poor Stacey Willow, right Ellen?”
“Who’s Stacey Willow?” asked Sammy, raising his hand like a schoolboy.
“Let’s ask Ellen, eh? What—did you catch sight of Raj, and the sister of one of his soccer buddies, laughing in a crowd one night, maybe in a bar downtown? Was that all it took that time? A hint of him enjoying himself with someone other than you? Poor Stacey Willow: twenty years old, and drugged to death with pills ground up into a strawberry milkshake. How did you get her to drink it, Ellen? Just befriended her at the end of her shift at the burger bar? Treated her to a milkshake? Popped in the pills, knowing they’d kill her as she slept in the bedroom at her parents’ house that she’d had since she was a child. Since she was a child? What am I saying? She was still a child! Another ‘rival’ bites the dust, right?”
The enormity of what I was saying was hitting home around the room. I knew I was beginning to run out of steam.
I looked across at Bud, and he winked at me. I smiled back, sighed, and continued.
“Which brings us to Annette. You had no idea that Annette and Raj had been seeing each other when they were away at wine events, did you, Ellen? You really didn’t notice what was going on right under your nose. You didn’t notice Annette’s changing habits, or body. In fact, two photographs that I found of you both in the apple store show the moment that Annette told you she was pregnant, right?”
I didn’t expect Ellen to respond, and she didn’t.
“In one photograph, the camera has snapped at the moment when Annette is telling you the joyful news, and you are clearly horror-stricken that ‘your’ Raj has got her pregnant. Your sister, and the man you love, together? I’m not surprised you were shocked. I suspect it didn’t take you long to decide to get rid of your rival—your sister—and the baby, did it? What, did you beg her to not tell Raj, or anyone else except her big sister, until she’d reached the magic three-month mark? Buying yourself some time, right? Planning how to do it. That was clever, Ellen. Really clever. How do you get someone to write a suicide note, and then actually commit suicide? Because that’s what you did.”
“I did not. No one could,” said Ellen, with a venomous emphasis.
“Oh, but you did. It was difficult for me to work out how you did it, because it was so clever. I have to admit that when I saw that the signatures on Annette’s will, her suicide note, and the receipt for the courier, signed two days after she was dead, were all the same, I toyed with the idea of forgeries: you could have forged Annette’s signature on the suicide note, as you obviously did on the courier receipt, and you could even have supplied a birthday card to yourself, written by you, as ‘proof’ that what I was seeing was, indeed, Annette’s hand. What about the will, though? The Wisers had witnessed that signature. I wondered if, for some reason, they were in cahoots with you, and they
had willingly witnessed a forged will, and so, eventually, they had to be done away with. But, no, the signature on the courier’s receipt was the clincher. You didn’t know that anyone would ever see that. But then I got it: I’ve been thinking about my relationship with my sister, since I began to think about you and Annette, and that’s what gave me the answer—you’re able to sign your sister’s name just as I can pretty much sign my sister’s, and she mine. Same school teachers, same handwriting lessons, same family—it’s not odd. The suicide note? It was Annette’s signature, because Annette did type and sign that letter herself. Her letter of resignation, right? Not a suicide note at all.”
I looked up from Ellen and addressed the room. “For those of you who don’t know, Annette wrote: ‘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, except she typed prefectly, 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.’ The letter was telling Ellen that Annette was leaving the winery, not life. A typo wasn’t the end of the world. It wasn’t the last thing she’d ever write, it was just a loving note to a sister. When you saw that letter, you knew you could use it against her. First piece of the puzzle: a handy, dandy suicide note. Sorted. Then you had to get to Anen House without anyone seeing you: the fight that Annette was seen having in your truck, the truck she ‘borrowed’ the day she died? Annette’s arms were flailing, she was crying. She was fighting with you. You were in the truck with her. Hidden in the back seat. I should know: I’ve been in it. It’s easy to hide in there, you just duck down. When Annette shouted ‘So—you’ve never loved me—why should I help you?’ it was you she was fighting with. A sister who couldn’t hide how she felt about her sibling’s pregnancy. I got the wording right, eh, Colin?”
Colin nodded.
“Colin?” Ellen sounded shocked.
“Yes, Ellen, it wasn’t the Wisers who saw Annette in the truck that night, it was Colin. He didn’t see you at all. You were quite safe. But, once Bud and I mentioned that Annette had been seen having a fight, in her truck, you couldn’t run the risk that you’d been seen. You knew that no one would have seen you leave Annette’s house. You took the route down the backside of the hill, a route you’ve known since childhood, and made your way through the vineyards to your car, or should I say Annette’s car. You left it parked out of sight along the way. You assumed it was the nosey Wisers who’d seen you arriving with Annette, and you certainly know your way around vehicles well enough to be able to cut a brake fluid line. Why, when you were ranting last night you even threw it out there that it was you who kept the machinery and the vehicles in working order at the winery in the days when you couldn’t afford mechanics. Of course, I knew that the real witness had been Colin, not that he’d actually witnessed anything, but at least I knew he was safe. Once I’d worked things out, I kept him close by me. Just in case there was some way you’d found out that he was the one who’d seen Annette, and very possibly you, in the truck that evening. Now you’re safe, Colin. It’s all out in the open.”
“You, Ellen? You killed my Rob? You cut that brake thingy? Why?” Sheri was wailing, and clearly having a hard time coming to terms with it all.
“Of course not, she’s just rambling,” replied Ellen dismissively.
I sighed. Poor Sheri. “Ellen was trying to kill the Wisers, not Rob, and she tried to kill the Wisers because she thought they’d seen her go to her sister’s house, fighting with her on the way, the evening that she died. Ellen simply slipped out of the lunch today, snipped the lines, and came back in. She knew that the leaking fluid and the steep hills would take their toll. And they did. It’s just that the wrong people were in the car at the time. I’m so sorry, Sheri, Colin. Rob wasn’t the target, but he and his colleague became two more victims of this woman.”
Sheri and Colin hugged each other close. I knew time was getting short.
I pressed on. “How exactly did Ellen arrange Annette’s death? That was a difficult part of the puzzle to solve, because it seemed physically impossible for Ellen to have drugged Annette, then carried her to the truck. If that wasn’t how she’d ensured that her sister sat in the truck long enough to become unconscious, then how on earth had she done it? I worked it out. You taught her how to do it, Lizzie.”
Lizzie looked horrified. “What do you mean? I taught her how to kill her sister? How?”
I sighed. “When you were rattling on about your list of fourteen Critical Facets in the car, remember?” Lizzie nodded, looking slightly wounded. “You mentioned that you use hypnotherapy techniques in your practice, and you also mentioned that you’d used hypnosis in your ‘healing’ sessions with Ellen. Hypnosis. You even told me at lunch today that Ellen had a real talent for it, right?” Lizzie nodded. “She coldly and calculatingly used that talent on her sister. I can see it now. Annette, distraught after an engineered argument with her big sister; Ellen offering to help her calm down by using some deep breathing and relaxation exercises; the ability to then suggest to Annette, when she’s in an almost hypnotic state, that she sit in a comfy seat and sleep, quietly. All Ellen needed to do was make sure that the big, comfy seat she led her sleepwalking sister to was in the truck, and the job was done. Annette simply slept, peacefully, shut in the vehicle, with a hastily attached hosepipe run through an almost closed window, until she’d been poisoned. When her sister was dead, Ellen placed the note and the bottle beside her, taped up the windows of the truck, hooked up the hosepipe ‘properly’—then ripped it all open again. Ellen’s not stupid. These days, when we’re all bombarded with forensic detective TV programmes morning, noon and night, she’d know enough about Locard’s principle—the theory that there’s always an exchange of forensic evidence when there’s contact between two things. She knew she had to have a plan that could explain away all of the evidence she was about to create. If any of Ellen’s fingerprints were found, they were there because of her rescue attempts.”
I looked down at Ellen, who was beginning to lose her color. “You just had to place the duct tape in Annette’s hands as you unwound it, to get her prints onto it, and put the bottle into her palm for the same reason. Oh, and that’s where you made your one big mistake, Ellen.” I looked at the top of her head. She was ignoring me. “Annette had nowhere near enough alcohol in her blood for having drunk a whole bottle of wine. A glass, yes. A glass you’d probably have shared as sisters, as a part of the relaxation process, but not a bottle.”
Serendipity interrupted me. “If Annette knew she was pregnant, surely she wouldn’t have had a drink at all. I mean—the baby.”
I nodded. “Yes, I know what you mean. I’m guessing that as a wine taster she knew quite a few female colleagues, who’d carried on with their jobs—if their senses of taste and smell allowed them to—throughout their pregnancies. She’d also have likely been aware of the research that shows that a small amount of alcohol, even on a regular basis, doesn’t harm the fetus. It’s binge drinking that does the damage. She probably happily sipped a small glass that evening with her sister. That was the extent of your plan, wasn’t it, Ellen? A murder set up to look like a suicide.”
There were puzzled, and horrified, faces all round.
“Yes, that was the original plan, right? Plan it to look like a suicide, execute it to look like a suicide, back up the theory of a suicide, and you’d be home clear. You saw Annette as your rival for Raj’s affections: she was between you and the object of your obsession. A quick kill, and she’d be out of the way—no questions asked. Well, very few asked, in any case. Not even an autopsy. Which was perfect, because then no one would find out that she had been pregnant. A finger-tip examination by the coroner wouldn’t detect a pregnancy of ten or so weeks, especially given that Annette’s body would have been supine for the process. No one need ever know. And that would be it.”
I could see that, while people might not like what I w
as saying, they were beginning to understand how it might be possible.
“But that wasn’t it, was it? Because what the very clever Ellen didn’t know was that, despite the fact that she hadn’t told anyone about the pregnancy, Annette was getting ready to go public. She’d changed her will. A few weeks after her death, there was the meeting at the lawyers’ office, the one where Raj told us ‘you lost it for a while?’ You had no idea about Annette’s new will, and your immediate reaction was what we’d all expect: you were mad because you’d been robbed of your rightful inheritance. It wasn’t why you’d killed Annette, but you expected to get the whole winery nonetheless, as your birthright. That was a very telling meeting: you’re quick, Ellen, very quick. You suddenly realized what Annette’s will meant: Raj would be working alongside you, every day, in every way. This was your chance! You pounced, going so far as to physically drag him out of SoulVine Wines and off to your winery—that very day! Last night, when you introduced Bud and me to Raj, you introduced him as your ‘partner,’ the implication being that you’re a couple. Because that’s how you see the situation. Raj wasn’t comfortable with the inheritance: he suggested that you contest the will, the lawyer suggested that you contest the will. You see, if Annette’s mind had been set on suicide when she’d written that will, you’d have had a good argument against her plan to leave her interest to Raj. And Raj didn’t let it go, did he? He kept bringing it up. He couldn’t help but communicate his discomfort. So you had to do something to help him to feel comfortable in his new role, as your ‘partner.’”
Bud cleared his throat and tapped his wrist. I got it.
“When you found out the real identity of your online ‘grief buddy,’ you formed a plan. As a grieving sister unable to come to terms with her sibling’s suicide, you’d invite Bud to investigate. And Bud was all for it. Clear suicide. No evidence to the contrary. You’d have had an ex-cop say so, in public. Which is why we all got treated to those two little scenes: the sister in denial at the party, the sister in acceptance at lunch. Very nice. Raj could rest easy, should rest easy. It would help him settle into his new role as your partner in business, and then, in your mind, at least, in life.”