Miss Pink Investigates 3

by Gwen Moffat

  Apart from his dress Plummer was intriguing if not prepossessing. His hair grew low on his forehead and had been blow-waved to the extent that he looked furry. He had heavy brows, spreading nostrils and a prognathous jaw, the whole effect being Neanderthal. When he informed Miss Pink that he had been looking forward to meeting her, his voice was surprisingly soft. Exchanging small-talk she looked past him at the view, which was similar to that from Forset’s ranch except that from here they looked directly across the valley at the needles, now a silhouette against the light. Plummer was talking about a Hasselblad. Her gaze came back from the skyline to the long pool below the balcony where the needles were inverted in the water. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of the bulge of his stomach and was irritated.

  ‘You use a Hasselblad, Mr Plummer?’

  ‘I always buy the best.’

  She could think of nothing to say to this and he seemed to find her silence disturbing. ‘With a Leica,’ he went on, ‘you pay for the name.’

  ‘And what is your field of interest?’

  He was disconcerted. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘In photography. You don’t use a Hasselblad for snapshots.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m bored with photography now. It held my interest for a while but I can’t remember the last time I used a camera. D’you know anyone wants to buy a Hasselblad? Same with everything: I buy a power boat for racing, sell it next month. Skiing: go up to Tahoe, buy the complete outfit, never use it after a coupla weekends. My garages are full of toys: water skis, trail bikes, racing cars, you name it. I got no motivation.’

  ‘What’s your work?’ Finesse was not called for with Mr Plummer.

  He beamed. ‘I buy and sell. I’m an entrepreneur. I promote, I finance, I get schemes off the ground, sometimes I manage them. Getting the right calibre of employee these days is impossible. The labour turnover in my companies you wouldn’t believe.’

  ‘Office staff?’

  ‘Everyone. Senior executives, clerks, truckers, you train ’em … why, I had to learn myself how to operate the computers, then you train people to take over, soon as they’re proficient they’re off: working up the road for better wages than I’ll pay ’em.’

  ‘Where is your business located?’

  ‘Which one?’ He was enjoying himself. ‘I’ve got so many I have to count them; let’s see, there’s the condo in Santa Fé but that should be sold this weekend. The consortium that was after it was holding out for us to knock off half a million. I’m not bothered. If they do back off, there are other people anxious enough to buy. It’s a bargain at two million.’

  ‘You’re selling a condominium in Santa Fé for two million dollars?’

  ‘It’s in a select neighbourhood.’

  ‘It’s cheap,’ Dolly said from behind Miss Pink. ‘You’re being taken for a ride.’

  They started to argue. Frankie Gray approached and suggested they move out on the balcony to enjoy the evening. There she seated herself beside Miss Pink and said calmly: ‘I was rescuing you. Dolly and Glen will now argue themselves hoarse over money. She wants to divert some of his millions towards the environment. So far she hasn’t succeeded. I don’t think Glen is greatly drawn to the environment somehow. And how are you liking Salvation Canyon?’

  ‘Enchanting.’ Miss Pink made to continue but stopped.

  ‘You’d qualify that?’

  ‘Not to retract. I wouldn’t say that rattlesnakes and childish pranks are enchanting, but they have drama. I don’t imagine life could ever be dull here.’

  ‘Some people find it so.’

  ‘But they don’t live here. If you choose to stay— ’ She faltered and looked away from her hostess’s smart suit.

  ‘I choose.’ Frankie smiled, guessing what was in the other’s mind. ‘Because I live in the sticks is no reason to go about in an Indian skirt and sneakers. But I love the canyon; I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. I enjoy our trips; we like to go to London for a week or so in the fall, and sometimes I go with Jerome when he attends a conference in a place I’m fond of: Paris or Rome or Vienna, but I can’t wait to get home. People en masse bore me very quickly.’

  Sarah came and sat on the foot of her stepmother’s chaise longue. ‘Frankie’s got no interests outside of salons and shows,’ she said.

  ‘Cooking is no interest?’

  ‘I meant when you’re abroad. You don’t care for skiing and you’re not interested in horses. When we go to another country,’ Sarah told Miss Pink, ‘we split up like atoms. My dad’s at a conference, Frankie’s shopping, I’m at Olympia or Badminton or St Moritz.’

  ‘You go to conferences too,’ Frankie said.

  ‘I go to some of the lectures, those I can follow, but most of them are too specialised for me. I’m no academic.’

  ‘Are you thinking of a career?’ Miss Pink asked.

  ‘It’s a difficult question. At the moment I’m doing the illustrations for a book my father’s writing on natural history. It’s quite demanding. I was in the Straight Canyons for two days trying to get pictures of bighorn sheep. I used three rolls of film and I haven’t got anything that’s even passable.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Frankie asked, concerned. ‘What does Jerome think?’

  ‘We haven’t troubled to print any. We can see what they’re like from the negatives. I’ll just have to go back. It doesn’t matter. I mentioned it to demonstrate the trials of an illustrator. I like spending days in the canyons trying to get the definitive picture of a bighorn ram.’

  ‘I wonder if Birdie might grow up like that,’ Frankie mused.

  ‘Of course she won’t.’ Sarah was surprised. ‘She doesn’t have the background.’

  ‘You can’t mean— ’

  ‘No, I don’t mean her birth; that could work to her advantage. The genes don’t matter so much as the environment however, isn’t that so?’ Sarah turned to Miss Pink.

  ‘Nurture not nature?’ she hazarded and saw that Jerome had approached and was listening attentively.

  ‘Sarah has been coming in to the field with me since she could walk,’ he told her.

  ‘Anyway, Birdie is all emotion and mysticism,’ Sarah pointed out. ‘She’ll be into Tolkien and Richard Adams in a few years.’

  Her parents laughed. Everyone was on the balcony now and Dolly said, mystified: ‘What’s wrong with Tolkien?’

  ‘I was just saying Birdie’s the type will lap him up.’

  ‘You’re right – providing she settles down enough to learn to read. What did Paula have to say when you brought her home?’

  ‘I didn’t go to the house. I left Birdie at the road-end. I asked her if she’d be all right and she said Paula wouldn’t whip her because if she did she – Birdie – would run away again.’

  ‘She’ll run in any event,’ Frankie said. ‘Paula must learn to accept that.’

  ‘Could you?’ Miss Pink asked. ‘If she were your child?’

  Frankie said: ‘She rides as if she’d been born on the back of a horse, and Sarah says her pony is very steady. What could happen to her?’ She had turned to her husband but he addressed his reply to Miss Pink.

  ‘These country children know all the dangers,’ he told her. ‘They absorb them instinctively, like animals; you never hear of a ranch child being bitten by a rattler— ’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ Sarah contradicted, ‘but they’re subnormal, or at least, they’re kids without any fear … There was that boy in the Nebo valley last year, only six, and he was hunting snakes in an old barn. Same age as Birdie but a lower level of intelligence. He could be spared.’

  Miss Pink pricked up her ears but Jerome was saying: ‘How intelligent is she?’

  ‘She’s shrewd. She may be more than that; it’s early yet to tell.’ She regarded her father. ‘Doesn’t this running away – three times now – remind you of something?’

  He nodded. ‘Suicide? Contrived attempts at it: cris de coeur. You think she’s sending out messages?’


  Plummer burst in, wide-eyed: ‘You don’t think she’s going to commit suicide?’

  Dolly patted his arm soothingly. ‘No, dear. The similarity is just in sending messages. Birdie is trying to call our attention to the fact that she doesn’t have a father.’

  ‘So if she’s doing it consciously: attracting attention,’ Sarah resumed, ‘that suggests a high level of intelligence for her age.’

  ‘It’ll be interesting to see how it develops,’ Jerome said.

  Sarah looked thoughtful. ‘Badly, would be my guess – unless Paula sees the light and adopts a more reasonable attitude.’ She exchanged a long look with her father.

  ‘It’s not worth it,’ he said. ‘I think we should leave well alone, let Birdie take her chance. After all, she’s got the Olsons across the river, it’s not as if there were no one to befriend her. How does she play?’

  ‘She’s wild, but not violent. It’s all talk, this stuff about killing people— ’

  ‘Who does she say she’s going to kill?’ Plummer interrupted. He was the odd man out in this company but the others were patient with him. Miss Pink realised with some amusement that, with the exception of herself, the party was composed of the occupants of the new cabins. There was no one from the other side of the road, but Plummer, she thought, did not really belong on this side. She concluded he had been invited as a partner for Dolly.

  ‘Where other children sulk,’ Sarah was telling him, ‘Birdie says she’s going to kill people. But like I said, it’s only talk – unlike Shawn, for instance, who says nothing and behaves violently.’

  ‘Guess what!’ Dolly exclaimed. ‘He threw a rock at Miss Pink’s horse!’

  Everyone looked shocked and clamoured for an explanation. Dolly obliged them: ‘And that’s not all,’ she went on, and related how she had found her painting daubed with soot. ‘Of course, that’s why he threw the rock, because I was bawling him out. So that finishes me with the whole family, because obviously Myrtle and Maxine will have nothing to do with me after I sounded off about Shawn.’

  ‘I think Shawn has more problems than Birdie,’ Jerome said.

  ‘And for the same cause,’ Frankie put in: ‘A broken home. No father in either case.’ She looked at her stepdaughter fondly.

  ‘It doesn’t always follow,’ the girl said. ‘Look at the Olsons. Six of them don’t have natural fathers and see how they’ve turned out.’

  ‘Yes, but they’ve got Jo.’

  ‘Where would we be without earth mothers?’ Dolly asked, and everyone smiled indulgently except Glen Plummer who looked as if he were trying to discover the joke.

  Chapter 5

  Jo Olson looked no more like an earth mother than did Miss Pink. She was plain and dumpy, with long hair of an indeterminate shade caught back in a clasp of plastic beads. She wore a blue work shirt, jeans, sneakers, and the type of granny spectacles that had been the rage a few years ago. She was sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of the Olson cabin, two kittens and a naked baby on her lap, surrounded by six more of her children. The younger ones had observed Miss Pink’s approach, had gone to meet her at the road-end and accompanied her like a guard of honour to the cabin. Of course, it was a formal visit, a necessary one. The Olsons were the only family in Salvation Canyon that she had not met and, although intrigued by the occasion, she had had qualms about meeting them. She was not always at her ease with children but now, seated in the shade of the eaves, she felt as if she were participating in a kind of entertainment.

  ‘No school,’ Jo was saying in answer to her question. ‘It’s Saturday.’

  Debbie, a child of five with a blond pony-tail, in slacks much too large for her and a purple velveteen blouse, had been regarding the visitor intently. ‘Did you forget it was Saturday?’ she asked.

  ‘I did,’ Miss Pink confessed. ‘How do you remember?’

  ‘Because we have school Monday through Friday. Saturday and Sunday we work.’

  ‘She means weekends we do the farmwork we don’t have time for other days.’ The speaker was a beauty in a western shirt and a man’s tweed cap. She was darning a sock with great care. ‘The littluns mostly play weekday evenings,’ she added.

  ‘There’s the milking evenings,’ a small boy pointed out. He was as blond as his little sister, and as serious, concerned now that the visitor should not think of them as idle. ‘But we don’t have lessons Saturday and Sunday; that’s the difference.’

  ‘Who says what jobs you shall do?’ Miss Pink asked.

  Jo rocked back and forth, kittens and baby comatose on her big thighs. She smiled serenely at her brood and let them do the talking.

  ‘Mom says what has to be done,’ the blond boy said.

  ‘We tell her first,’ a six-year-old reminded him. She must come between him and the solemn five-year-old. Miss Pink had been told all their names – and those of the absent trio who were doing odd jobs for neighbours – and had forgotten most of them, although, after ten minutes in their company, she was sorting them by their appearance. The four youngest were obviously all from the same father, fair and blue-eyed: the boy of eight, his young sisters and the baby. These were the Olson children.

  There was a dark, thin pair of twins, boy and girl, perhaps ten years old, who did not say much, and there was the girl, Jen, in the becoming cap, who was also dark, and the only real beauty among them. She was about fifteen, very different in appearance from the little Olsons, but they were all united by their manner, and their manners. They were very still children but it was a stillness charged with vitality and intelligence. They were attentive. Even the small girl, Debbie, perhaps she more than her siblings, listened, considered and pronounced. Now she said, summing up carefully: ‘We tell Mom what has to be done, if she doesn’t know, and she says who’s to do it.’

  ‘Like now,’ Jo said, coming to life. ‘How about some milk, Rob, Laurel?’ The twins stood up and went into the cabin.

  ‘Do you have goats or cows?’ Miss Pink asked.

  ‘Cows,’ Jo said. ‘They’re more economical, providing you’ve got the land.’

  ‘We’ve got four milkers,’ Debbie said. ‘I make the butter.’ There was a concerted movement, a turning of heads. ‘I help make it,’ she amended.

  ‘And we’ve got five steers and a coupla calves,’ her brother said, ‘and we’ll have another calf any time.’

  ‘You better go and look at Lucy,’ Jo told him, and he got up and jogged round the corner of the cabin.

  ‘I’m not watching,’ Debbie said firmly. She came and stood at Miss Pink’s knee, leaning forward confidentially. ‘I don’t like it when they fall out; I’m afraid they’ll break their necks.’

  ‘I never heard of one breaking its neck,’ Miss Pink said, responding in kind.

  ‘You didn’t? You’re quite sure? Well, maybe I’ll watch next time.’

  An Australian collie approached the porch, a kitten dangling limply from its jaws. Behind it came a distraught cat, mewing. The dog walked up the steps and deposited the kitten on the baby’s naked stomach. Jo stroked it absently. It opened a tiny mouth and yawned. The cat rubbed itself against the rocking chair.

  ‘Shelly, see to this lot,’ Jo said.

  The girl removed the damp kitten and put it on the boards. The cat picked it up by the scruff and turned away. Shelly followed with the other kittens, accompanied by the collie.

  ‘That cat goes to be spayed,’ Jo said, handing the baby to the oldest girl. ‘We’ve saturated the neighbourhood with her kittens. Everybody’s cat’s descended from her.’

  ‘The Grays don’t have a cat,’ Debbie pointed out.

  Jo went indoors. ‘You can try Mr Gray,’ Jen said. ‘See if you can convince him to take a good hunting kitten. He likes you.’

  ‘The Brenners don’t have a cat neither,’ the child mused. ‘No, I won’t take a kitten to the Brenners.’

  ‘Why was the collie carrying the kitten?’ Miss Pink asked.

  Debbie turned to her, obviously pleased a
t her self-imposed role of mentor: ‘What happened is that Bluey lost her pups – she only had two and they died – so she takes Tabitha’s kittens instead. She’s got – what?’ She appealed to her big sister.

  ‘Post-natal depression.’

  Debbie nodded solemnly. ‘That’s what she’s got.’

  People emerged from the cabin with milk and mugs and a platter of chocolate-chip cookies. ‘We’ll have to weed those beans before it gets too hot,’ Jo said. ‘Why, here’s Birdie.’ A small figure was crossing the bridge over the creek.

  ‘They still got her pony locked up,’ the boy twin said in disgust.

  In a sudden silence Jen exchanged looks with her mother. The boy who had gone to inspect the cow came back. ‘She’s just grazing,’ he told Jo. ‘No sign yet. She’ll be a while— ’ His gaze followed that of the others. ‘No pony,’ he said flatly.

  Jen said: ‘She can ride the sorrel.’

  ‘He’s too big for her. It’ll have to be Buster. After we done the weeding, eh, Mom? She can’t ride without we’re there, can she? S’pose she took off?’

  ‘No sweat,’ Jo said comfortably. ‘Birdie will help with the weeding.’

  Shelly returned empty-handed. ‘I’ve shut that bitch in the tack-room,’ she said. ‘Let the cat suckle ’em for a while in peace. Mom, Bluey ought to have more pups … oh, here’s Birdie.’ It was a flat statement of fact but then she shot her mother a look of enquiry. Jo smiled reassuringly. She doesn’t need to say anything, Miss Pink thought; they know how to behave.

  Birdie was wearing a clean shirt and denims and her dark curls were damp from a recent shampoo. As she approached she surveyed the company without expression, climbed the steps, walked deliberately to Jo and leaned against her thighs. Jo encircled her with a large arm. Birdie regarded Miss Pink. ‘Hi!’ she said.

  ‘Hi!’ It was the first time Miss Pink had made such a response, but the situation was unique. She felt she had to be careful.

  ‘They put my horse in the stable,’ Birdie said. ‘Where she can see if I takes him out.’

  Miss Pink was saved from comment by Jen. ‘You asked for it,’ she said equably. ‘You shouldn’t have run off.’