Free The Corpse With the Golden Nose by Cathy Ace Page B

neck—and had the cat-like features that scream bad plastic surgery . She was caked in layers of carefully applied but woefully obvious makeup, and, as if to add insult to injury, her lips had been plumped to alarming proportions and were the color of dried blood. I tried to hide my shock as she flashed a perfect porcelain smile at me and extended her other equally decorated hand in my direction. As she allowed me to shake her fingertips she was looking at Bud— or should I say eating him alive with her eyes? I bristled.
    Bud beamed.
    â€œHi. Always happy to meet friends of Ellen’s,” she purred in gravelly tones. “I didn’t catch y’rrrr name,” she drawled provocatively, directly at Bud.
    â€œThat’s ’cos I didn’t throw it, Babe,” replied Sammy Soul, laughing too loudly at his own joke. “He’s an ex-cop, would you believe, Babe? Doesn’t look like any cops I know. And, jeez, there’ve been a few over the years,” he added.
    â€œSo pleased to meet you, uh . . . ?” As she waited for Bud to respond with his name, she actually ran her tongue along the edge of her upper teeth.
    Bud, ever polite, took her extended hand and said, “Bud. Bud Anderson.” Was he blushing? Good grief, men can be pathetic—and predictable!
    â€œAnd what brings you to these parts, Bud?” She was tilting her head by now. She’d have been playing with her hair too, if Bud hadn’t still been hanging on to her free hand. She was in full-on flirting mode. I gritted my teeth. “Have you come to arrest Sammy for making his oh-so delicious cannabis wine?” she added coquettishly. “Oh, please don’t, Bud. He is my husband, you know. And it’s lovely wine, whatever that bitch Annette might have said about it.”
    I was on full alert. So no one ever had a bad word to say about Annette, eh? Well, here was one woman who did. She spat out the word bitch with true hatred. And he husband was already making cannabis wine? Very interesting.
    â€œNo, no,” replied Bud, looking like a deer in headlights. “I’m retired now, you know. Quite retired.”
    â€œHis wife got shot, Babe. Shot dead. That’s how he met Ellen. They’re, like, ‘death buddies’ or something.”
    I judged that Suzie Soul was more disappointed that Bud had finally relinquished his grasp on her talons than sad that he’d lost his wife. She made a pouty face, then proved me right. “Oh Bud,” she sighed, “I’m so sorry. So you’re single now?”
    â€œNo, he’s not. He’s with me,” I inserted abruptly.
    Bud looked surprised.
    Sammy Soul smiled and said, “Oh yeah, Babe, he’s with her,” as though this thought was occurring to him for the first time.
    His wife looked me up and down, slowly and unkindly, tried to curl one of her unnatural lips, and said coolly, “Oh really ? I wonder why  . . .” Then she turned on her nine-hundred-dollar heels and walked away throwing the words “See you boys later—especially you , Bud Anderson” in our direction, with a wink, a nod, and a shrug of one shoulder.
    I wondered if Bud could see the steam coming out of my ears. His smile suggested he couldn’t.
    â€œHasn’t changed a bit in thirty-six years, my Suzie. That’s how long we’ve been together,” said Sammy Soul, smiling like the village idiot. He was clearly besotted. Though how he’d put up with her for that long, I didn’t know. He became even more pathetic in my eyes, for letting himself be walked all over by that . . .
    â€œI’m sure she hasn’t,” Bud remarked cryptically, which cut across my less than charitable thoughts. He smiled at me when he said it, which helped. “And that’s a fantastic marriage to have had, in your business,” he added.
    â€œSure is,” Sammy replied,