The Corpse With the Golden Nose by Cathy Ace

a ‘drug-addled, ageing hippie with no moral compass.’ Do you know for a fact that he still does drugs, or are we talking about all the acid he famously dropped in the ’60s and ’70s, when he was making his lead guitar bleed and scream as the front-man for the Soul Rockers?”
    Ellen gathered herself quickly and replied, angrily, “No one ever sees him taking drugs, but he can’t possibly be the way he is without them. Besides, he keeps going on about how it should be legal to grow cannabis for your own use and then to be able make wine with it, like they do in some places in California. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s doing it already.” That seemed to settle it for her, and it helped me to build another layer of her psychological profile. I know Bud reckons I’m sometimes alarmingly judgmental—but I thought Ellen Newman might actually be more so.
    â€œHave you lived here all your life?” I enquired, tactfully trying to change the subject to one that might infuriate her less.
    â€œWhy would I leave?” was her reply. Her tone spoke volumes. She didn’t say it happily, but with a venom that suggested she’d be just as unhappy anywhere.
    As I dwelt momentarily on Ellen’s reply, Bud finally stepped up and asked, “You went to university in Vancouver, right?”
    â€œOh yes,” replied Ellen coolly. “But I didn’t like it there. The people were cold and hard. Always trying to get on. And the city was dirty and noisy.” The straight line that was her mouth became thinner and more firmly fixed.
    I suspected that Ellen had left her home to go to a city she’d been determined to dislike, and she’d done just that. People always seem to forget that they pack their own emotional baggage and lug it about with them everywhere they go.
    Changing tack, Bud asked, “Ellen, who have you told these folks I am? How will you introduce me?” It was a good question.
    â€œWell, I’ve thought about that and I’m going to say you are: Bud Anderson, my ‘grief buddy.’ They’ll understand that. They all know about my online stuff.”
    I didn’t know who was more surprised, me or Bud.
    â€œThat’s all supposed to be private , Ellen. We’ve blogged a great deal about how it’s the privacy that allows us all to write as we do. The anonymity that allows us to open up. You’ve written that yourself. More than once.” Bud sounded frustrated.
    â€œYes, but it’s different now. We know each other. We can be open about it all. Besides, I’ve already told Pat and Lauren Corrigan and they were okay with it.”
    â€œAnd what have you said about me ?” I wondered. Aloud, as it turned out.
    â€œOh, I’ve just told them you’re his girlfriend. No one knows what you do. Actually, Bud hasn’t even told me . It never came up. What do you do? Is it interesting?”
    I gave it a split-second’s thought and blurted out, “Marketing professor. At the University of Vancouver. Business school.” Bud looked at me as though I’d had a stroke. “It’s fascinating. I love it. Been there ten years.”
    â€œNice,” Ellen replied, smiling. “I studied at the UVan business faculty about twenty years ago. Is Professor Colling still there?”
    Oh damn and blast! I had no idea who Professor Colling was, or whether he, or she, might still be at the university.
    Luckily for me, Ellen answered her own question by adding, “Oh, but that’s a silly question, of course she won’t be. She was ancient when I was there. She’s probably dead by now. And good riddance.”
    â€œWell, back to the matter at hand,” I said, trying to escape from any more close calls. “I know that you’re due to collect us here in a cab at six o’clock this evening and that dress is formal tonight, so I’m assuming a long dress will be okay