Miss Pink Investigates series Box Set Part Two

by Gwen Moffat

  Miss Pink sighed. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Nielsen said: ‘He doesn’t think they ran off the road, Melinda.’

  She recovered herself; indeed, she welcomed the diversion, in a way. ‘You made the classic remark,’ she told Stuart. ‘ “No one has said it was murder.” What appears to have happened?’

  ‘They left the road on the east side of the Superstition Mountains; that’s the range east of Molten. They were about twenty-five miles from the town, going towards Calcine and about half a mile below the pass, going down the other side. It must have happened within half an hour of leaving the motel. And they left in the night or the early hours of the morning. No one saw them go. Does that give you any ideas?’

  ‘They weren’t sober.’

  ‘We may know that from the autopsy. There are no marks on the road. At that point it takes a hard curve left. They just went on driving; you can see their tyre marks on the shoulder but there’s not the shadow of a skid on the pavement.’

  ‘There’s no pavement in that place!’

  They stared at each other. ‘The roadway, ma’am?’ Stuart was tentative.

  ‘Oh, I see. The pavement is the—asphalt? At home pavement is the sidewalk.’ They smiled. Stuart went on: ‘They just rolled straight over without taking any avoiding action or applying the brakes.’

  ‘Perhaps the one who was driving had a black-out. Is there anything odd about the wreckage?’

  ‘They’re going over that now, or were this afternoon. It wasn’t reported until midday. It can’t be seen except by someone coming north, and a stranger could think it was an old wreck. A trucker reported it because it’s on his run and he knew it was fresh. After what you’ve told me I’ll see Forensic do a good job. If there’s a loosened gas union or the brakes have been tampered with they’ll find it.’

  ‘You think these girls were involved with mobsters?’ Nielsen asked.

  Stuart considered the question. ‘You could put an innocent interpretation on having to wait till the heat’s off, but when a girl like that says it, and in a place like Molten, I think she’s referring to them having to keep a low profile because someone’s after them, and I don’t think she meant the law. If they were wanted by the police they’d have been hiding out with criminals. No, I don’t like it, and I don’t like that car going off the road without a sign that the driver knew what was happening.’ He turned to Miss Pink. ‘If you thought a little harder about that rig that was outside the motel you might remember the colour of its license plates.’

  ‘Impossible. I saw it broadside on. And if there was a name on the cab door, that was in shadow. Why don’t you ask the Frasers at the gas station? They could have passed it on the road. It went towards Calcine and they were there that evening. Are you thinking that the truck driver might have passed on the information that they were in Molten? When the truck stopped Donna said it was someone she knew but that could have been for my benefit. Possibly she heard a truck, any truck, stop, and thought that here was a prospective customer. It’s unlikely though. Why else would he stop in Molten at that time of night except because he already knew that the girls were at the motel? And if he was someone she had reason to be frightened of, she didn’t show it. She stayed for three more days.’

  ‘They couldn’t leave without money. She went to Vegas for that.’

  ‘There are surely other people who saw the truck; they must have heard it. Then there’s Wayne Hammer—’ She stopped, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry; I was thinking aloud.’

  ‘You’ve been a great help, ma’am.’

  Nielsen clapped his knees and stood up. ‘You can forget about business for an hour or so, Verne. Come through to the others and then you’ll eat with us.’ He turned to Miss Pink. ‘No need to mention this business to them; it’s squalid, and it’s a long way away. Nothing to do with us.’

  ‘Of course not,’ murmured Miss Pink.

  Stuart held the door and smiled at her. In his eyes she thought she saw nothing more than pleasure in her company and anticipation of a civilized evening. She wasn’t deceived; he hadn’t become a senior detective because he had good manners, and he was obviously senior: bearding a millionaire in his den. But a millionaire was one thing, mobsters were another. She was sorry about the girls; as he’d said, she’d become acquainted with them. She wondered why it had been necessary to kill them, if indeed they had been murdered.

  Chapter 6

  Miss Pink was preoccupied throughout dinner. She was wishing she had asked Bunny Kraus how long she had been teamed up with Donna. She’d had the impression that they had not been together for long, not long enough for Bunny to have become involved in any underworld activity. It was ironical that Bunny, who had been clinging to Donna as a form of security, might have been killed because of her very association with the other girl. Of course, if Donna’s danger lay in some illicit knowledge, she could have passed that on to Bunny.

  She pushed a piece of lobster meat round her plate; if the Mob, any mob, had caught up with the girls, how might that have happened? By accident surely: someone who knew of Donna’s past had seen them in Molten, or she had been seen when she left the town, when she was in Calcine for example. But then she must have been followed back to Molten. There were too many imponderables, too many implied coincidences, but there seemed no denying the fact that the girls had thought themselves safe at the motel, had discovered that they were not, and had run. That was another point: how did they come to know that they were in danger?

  They went out to the terrace for coffee and the lights were switched on: old-fashioned gas lamps converted to electricity. Miss Pink had come to accept them and no longer felt as if she were dreaming of being at a sophisticated party in a warm London street.

  Brewer and Doyle joined them and were introduced to Stuart. Miss Pink, listening to Chadwick’s expounding on the short time it took for lobsters to reach them (alive, by air) caught Doyle’s ‘sir’ on being introduced and glanced across to see Brewer looking mischievous. Had Nielsen told them Stuart was a policeman? She started, aware that Ingrid had asked a question.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I said you will be accustomed to lobster in Cornwall. I stayed at Mousehole once. The Breton fishing fleet was in harbour. Blue boats and red sails? I must show you the paintings I did.’

  ‘There’s one in the upper passage.’ Miss Pink smiled. ‘You’ve caught the light to perfection.’

  ‘Difficult in England.’ Ingrid sighed. ‘Your light is so subtle.’

  They talked about light and textures. Myron came out on the terrace and murmured to Nielsen who turned to Stuart. The policeman followed the Indian indoors. Miss Pink listened to Ingrid while she watched the French windows. The conversation became general, veering to wildlife photography. Predictably, Ingrid had been on safari in East Africa. She was telling them how alarming it was to have a full-grown lion on the roof of a Land-Rover when Stuart returned. His face was grim, a policeman’s face; it had lost its polite veneer. He spoke to his host, then crossed to Ingrid, thanking her for the meal, apologizing; he had to leave. He looked round the company generally, bade them goodnight, said firmly to Nielsen who had got up from his chair, ‘Don’t trouble, Jack; I’ll see myself out,’ and went away quickly. Nielsen dropped back in his seat, scowling.

  ‘Who called?’ Ingrid asked sharply. He didn’t answer. ‘Go and see, Simon,’ she said.

  Chadwick stood up and glanced at his employer who made a vague gesture but did not countermand the order. The manager hesitated, then went into the house.

  ‘It’s about those—girls,’ Ingrid said. No one showed any surprise.

  ‘Morbid curiosity,’ Nielsen muttered.

  ‘Curious, yes,’ Ingrid admitted. ‘Morbid, no.’

  Miss Pink thought that was a moot point considering the fate of her younger son.

  ‘We heard through Miss Ginny,’ Ingrid told her. ‘She got it from the maids.’

  ‘How did they know?’

  She
shrugged. ‘The grapevine?’

  Brewer said: ‘What girls, ma’am?’

  ‘Of course, you’ve been out all day, you and Tony. Apparently there were two girls staying at the motel and their car ran off the road and they both died.’

  ‘Staying there? Not the one from the gas station?’

  ‘No. This was two—’ She glanced at Miss Pink.

  ‘Prostitutes,’ Nielsen said coldly. ‘Melinda knows all about it. Why did you ask if it was the girl from the gas station, Hal?’

  ‘Because I’ve seen her and she’s a doll. I’m glad it’s not her.’

  ‘What goddam word is that: “doll”?’

  ‘Now how would she have been described in your time?’ Brewer looked from his host to Miss Pink and his eyes were serious. She was saved from replying by Chadwick’s return. Nielsen stared at him. The manager looked nervous.

  ‘Well, man, who was it?’

  ‘Myron said it was Nussbaum.’

  Miss Pink’s face was vacuous. ‘He does the autopsies,’ Ingrid said quietly.

  Brewer said incredulously: ‘There were two hookers staying at Molten? So what happened?’

  Emma said suddenly: ‘Do we really want to know?’ He collapsed, apologizing.

  Ingrid said: ‘They were people, Emma.’ She turned to Brewer. ‘They left the town last night without paying their bill, and their car ran off the road on the other side of the Superstitions. That’s all we know, Hal. But why would Verne leave just because he’d got the autopsy reports, Jack? He came down here to visit with us after the car was found; what difference does the autopsy make?’

  ‘Ask Melinda,’ he said rudely. ‘And it wasn’t a social visit.’ He stood up and stalked into the house.

  ‘He’s upset.’ Ingrid’s remark was superfluous. ‘What do you know about it, Melinda?’

  ‘Jack was exaggerating. I had supper with the girls. One of them talked when the other left us on our own. She implied that they were on the run from someone, or some people, whom she didn’t identify. As for the autopsies: something could have been found to indicate that it may not have been an accident.’

  Chadwick gaped. Brewer stared. ‘Like what?’

  ‘But how could they—’ Tony Doyle began, to be taken up by his companion: ‘Yes, how could they distinguish between injuries in the accident, I mean, sustained in the accident, and anything else? How far did the car go?’

  ‘That’s immaterial,’ Miss Pink said, and looked at Chadwick meaningly. He blinked and said quickly: ‘Why go into oil, man? You sound as if your interests lie in the criminal line. What’s it called, Miss Pink?’

  ‘Forensic pathology.’

  ‘That’s right. I’m sure she’ll be glad to fill you in when she hasn’t had such a long day, as we all have. What did Jack say about the deer, by the way?’

  Miss Pink looked at him with approval. Ingrid stood up with a murmured apology and left them. Emma said: ‘It’s late. I want to ride in the morning. Goodnight.’ She too drifted away.

  Chadwick was unable to repress a sigh. Miss Pink said to Brewer: ‘Ingrid’s son was killed in a burning car.’

  He gasped. ‘Oh, Christ! It was burned? What can I say?’

  ‘Nothing, to her.’ Miss Pink was tart. ‘Just watch it in future—in front of the Nielsens, I mean.’

  ‘We sure will. Damn. But—’ He looked at her expectantly.

  Chadwick said: ‘Were you finding the conversation repulsive?’

  ‘Embarrassing.’ They looked uncomfortable. ‘For your wife and the Nielsens,’ she added. ‘But the situation is technically interesting.’

  ‘Technically?’ repeated Brewer.

  ‘As Ingrid said: the girls were people.’

  ‘But technically?’ Chadwick urged.

  ‘A petrol fire is very hot but brief. Some organs could remain comparatively untouched. Lungs for example. If there were no soot in them, then they were dead before the car left the road. They might find a gunshot wound; a shattered bone for instance. The skulls might be fractured.’

  ‘There are terrible injuries in car accidents,’ Brewer pointed out.

  ‘True. But the policeman left so suddenly, didn’t he?’

  Doyle was looking miserable. It was she who changed the subject this time. ‘What did Jack say about the deer? Was he much put out?’

  Brewer looked at her in amazement, glanced at Doyle, and understood her motive. ‘No, ma’am, his attitude is that the coyotes have to live too; I ought to have left the deer to them. But once I’d driven the pack away, they’d take a while to come back. By shooting the animal I saved it some suffering.’

  ‘Sensible of you. Humane.’ She stood up. ‘I shall take a stroll before I turn in.’ She went down the steps to the garden.

  Moonlit paths threaded the palm grove, shaded by the great fronds. She listened but heard no sound from Nielsen’s den. She wondered if Ingrid were with him.

  She took a circuitous route through the grove. The paths had been laid out with just such an aimless stroll in view and there were benches placed at intervals where people might enjoy the shade by day or the moon on an evening such as this. It was as she was returning to the house and approaching one of these shadowed benches that she realized it was occupied, but by only one person. Thinking of Nielsen she advanced, to be surprised by Emma’s voice, breathless and frightened: ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Only me. Melinda.’

  ‘Oh. Miss Pink. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Taking a stroll before bedtime. It’s a beautiful night.’ Emma said nothing. ‘I’ll sit down for a moment. My legs aren’t as young as they used to be.’

  ‘You ride well enough.’

  ‘I ride. That’s why I’m stiff. You ride very well indeed. Are you never afraid of your horse putting its foot in a hole?’

  ‘I wouldn’t care if it did.’

  ‘Oh, come. No place is as bad as that.’

  ‘Isn’t it? Ask Ingrid. But she’d never tell you the truth. She spends only half the year here. This place is just a studio to her—and a meal ticket, let’s face it. As soon as she’s copied the prettiest of her slides and put in an appearance at Jack’s dinner table a few times, she’s off again: Mexico, the Bahamas, Hawaii, you name it. She can’t wait to get away.’

  ‘Ingrid has a double tragedy in the background,’ Miss Pink said gently. ‘At least she finds satisfaction in something. She’s coping with life.’

  ‘And so should I. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?’ The pale face was turned towards her.

  ‘And it’s unfair to assume that she comes home just because Jack is rich,’ Miss Pink went on firmly. ‘She comes home, that’s the point.’

  ‘I have no home.’

  Miss Pink ignored that. ‘Middle-aged people may not show their emotions. You don’t have to assume that because they’re not demonstrative that there’s no love between them.’

  ‘I suppose you could assume that.’ The girl’s bitterness had gone as suddenly as it had come. Miss Pink had to strain her ears to catch the murmur: ‘Maybe they love each other too.’

  ‘And you have your husband, and this is your home. You don’t have to own a house, you know. After all, this job won’t last for ever. You’ll move on, to more congenial surroundings.’

  ‘My husband.’ It was ineffably sad—and in the same desolate tone: ‘Do you know why he married me?’

  Miss Pink made a small movement of discomfiture.

  ‘Because when Jack interviewed him he said he preferred his men to be married. Like a commanding officer, you know? If they’re married they won’t go wild outside the Base, and they’re more likely to be good workers and stay on the job if they’re responsible for a wife—and she’s on the premises. So Simon told him he was engaged. Jack said he should get married and come back. Simon came home to London, looked around and spotted me: poor, but decorative if I was dressed in the right clothes. He met me and married me all in a week.’

  ‘Very well. He didn’t force y
ou. There must have been some attraction.’

  ‘There was. Money, sunshine, horses, jewelry, clothes. Everything.’

  Except love, thought Miss Pink. Aloud she asked: ‘Does he know how you feel?’

  Emma shrugged. ‘After two years?’

  ‘Then why don’t you leave him and go back to London?’ The question was by no means superfluous; the child needed bringing to her senses. The reply was predictable: ‘London in November? And I can’t do anything. My friend who was in the boutique with me: she’s out of work now, living on Social Security. She’s a better saleswoman than me, too. I could get married again, and the story would be the same: husband out of work, struggling to keep up the payments on the washing machine and the telly, to pay the rent on a Council flat. A Council flat after this? Besides,’ her voice sank, ‘I’d never meet the right man.’

  ‘Well, you haven’t met him yet,’ Miss Pink amended. ‘Evidently,’ she added, thinking of Chadwick—and felt the girl stir beside her. ‘And a lot of people still have work. But I see your point: when you’ve once tasted luxury it’s difficult to go back to cheese-paring. Has Simon applied for naturalization?’

  ‘We’ve only been here two years. What difference would that make?’

  ‘Why—’ the girl seemed obtuse, ‘—you could get a divorce and stay in your own right, surely? I have no idea how the naturalization laws work.’

  ‘That’s the long-term anyway. I’m thinking of the short-term.’

  ‘Does Jack know how you feel?’

  ‘No!’ It was explosive. She went on urgently: ‘He mustn’t know. I trusted you; you looked as if you could be trusted. I—I broke down. I was so miserable when you came along. If he knew, he would sack Simon because he only wants married men and then we’d both be sent home, don’t you see?’

  ‘You can still trust me,’ Miss Pink said calmly. ‘I don’t betray confidences.’

  Emma started to cry.

  ‘I am sorry.’ Miss Pink was sincere. ‘This has got you down, hasn’t it? Of course, you had no one to talk to.’