by Gwen Moffat
At the porch she paused; she could hear him on the telephone. ‘Keep him there,’ he was saying urgently and she thought he must be referring to an animal. ‘Whatever you do— ’ He broke off and there was silence. She looked at the Crimson Cliffs, thought how naked they looked in the noonday heat. ‘You’re wrong!’ came his voice. ‘They’re intelligent; he wouldn’t stand a chance— ’ She frowned; this didn’t equate with a sick animal. She knew she should move away, out of hearing. She sat down on the steps. ‘No one,’ he said. ‘Just you and me, at least in this valley … if Gray did know, he wouldn’t talk … Hell, man, it had to be Sam … Look, we know that was a put-up job … You’re right, of course. We can only hope – God, why didn’t he keep Mike with him? Yes, I know … ’
Sudden silence. A deep sigh. Heavy steps approached, and stopped behind her. She stood up and faced him.
‘I heard everything,’ she said. He looked utterly dispirited. ‘I came to ride Yaller; I’ve decided it’s too hot.’
‘You heard everything?’ His shoulders slumped as he considered, and came to a decision. ‘Then you’d better come in and I’ll try to explain. Everyone will know shortly anyway. The police know already, in a sense, but maybe Sprague didn’t pull it out of the computer yet. The thing is: Alex Duval is almost certainly in there under “Rape” or “Rapist”. And the female in the case was a little girl. And Alex has run.’ He blinked at her. ‘I don’t know what we’re going to do about this.’
‘Let’s go inside,’ she said comfortably, and piloted him through the junk room. They sat in big chairs by the window. ‘Start from the beginning,’ she suggested. ‘Who were you talking to?’
‘Why, Bob, of course; the brother. I’m moving some cows so I called to ask if they’d turn out: him and Alex and young Mike; we all help each other when a number of hands are needed. Bob said Alex couldn’t come and he told me why, because I know about Alex. The Duvals and me, we’re the oldest residents; it happened only twenty years back anyway. Bob told Alex he had to leave. I’m not so sure it was the right thing to do: send him away; it looks bad.’
‘What happened twenty years ago?’
‘A young kid – she was twelve – accused Alex of raping her. Her people worked for Old Duval. There were the three men: the old man and the sons: Bob and Alex. Mrs Duval died some years before. They had a housekeeper and her husband worked as a hand. He was the girl’s father. I don’t think Bob ever had the whole truth of it from Old Duval and it could have been a lot nastier than ever came out in court. What we did know was that the girl was— ’ Forset coughed in embarrassment and sought for euphemisms. ‘You must have come across youngsters who were older than their years.’
‘Sexually precocious, you mean?’
‘Exactly. No better than she should be. No one would come forward in court because she was under age, but there were men in the valley told Old Duval afterwards that she’d approached them – er – on a commercial basis – at age twelve! Can you believe that? All the same, the father put her up to it; Old Duval was sure of that. He was a weirdo, the father. Old Duval caught him stealing money from his desk and fired him, and the family went straight to Nebo, to the sheriff, and accused Alex of raping the girl. There was a court case and he got off. The medical evidence showed that the girl had been – that there had been habitual intercourse.’ He looked away. ‘There was something about it having been going on over a number of years. The father made a very bad witness. And the Duvals are an old and well-respected family in these parts. There’d never been the slightest hint of anything like that connected with Alex: in school, in the canyon, anywhere. But there’s the record, you see. He was arrested and charged – and he’s a simple soul; says what he thinks. He could well tell the police he was “very fond of Birdie” which they’d figure was highly suspect; they always think the worst. So Bob’s sent him into – sent him off until— ’ His eyes begged a question. ‘Until it’s safe to return.’
She was silent. ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.
‘You make me wish he had an alibi.’
‘You don’t think he did it!’
‘I don’t know, John. When they took Sam, Frankie felt the same way about him. No matter how likeable anyone is, the man who killed Birdie must be put away because he’s a danger to other children. No matter that he’s never shown any hint of sexual violence before; he has done so now. That’s the crux of the matter. The person who did it is mad; you must see that. But that means he can’t be condemned to death.’
‘That’s a debatable point. You get a certain type of jury and a hanging judge, they’re not going to take his state of mind into consideration. You’ve met the police; what allowances d’you think they’d make for Alex?’
‘Did you have any trouble with them, John?’
‘If you mean by trouble, were they hostile, no. I’m too old to be browbeat by city dudes less than half my age.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Particularly when I’ve got nothing on my mind – except my neighbours’ problems.’
‘You have no alibi. On the other hand, we heard your chainsaw when we were on Calamity Mesa and I was back here within the hour. We had to cover a good six or seven miles but we were in a hurry because of the storm. The only time we slowed down was on the descent to the river. An hour. You wouldn’t have had time to walk to the Estwicks’ place, and if you rode or drove, you would have been seen.’
‘I’d not thought of it like that. If they accuse me I’ll tell them to work that out for themselves. You have a quick mind, Melinda.’
‘I have a criminal mind. Did you see Erik when he came down?’
‘Of course; he wouldn’t go by without speaking. He said he met you.’
‘Were you expecting him down so early?’
‘Early? It was Saturday afternoon. He doesn’t usually work at all Saturdays but there was a gap in a fence at the head of the canyon, and that had to be fixed.’
‘Why is a fence necessary in a box canyon?’
‘Because there are old mines and they’re supposed to be fenced, stop the cows falling down a shaft. Once Erik finished he had to go home and fix his chicken-house because a skunk was stealing eggs.’ He looked hard at her. ‘You do know that all the young Olsons were about their buildings within minutes of leaving Birdie?’
‘I knew that. And they went to the chicken-house and spoke to their father?’
He wiped his face with his hands. ‘I can’t keep it up,’ he protested. ‘You’re worse than the police.’
The telephone was ringing when she stopped outside her cabin. It was Lois Stenbock asking her to go across for supper that evening. She accepted politely, reflecting wryly that Lois would have to do some juggling to reconcile events with her theories on raising children. As she put down the receiver her eyes narrowed. A car was turning into her road-end, and over the past thirty hours people in cars had not brought good news.
The visitor was Glen Plummer who was neither bursting with information nor apparently under any compulsion to learn the latest. What Plummer was after was company. They sat in the shade of the ramada behind the cabin while he talked and she listened, observing him more closely than had been possible three days ago at the Grays’ party. The ensuing events had taken their toll; his pudgy simian face had sagged and he looked haunted. His trousers and sports shirt were clean and his hair was damp from the shower but there was a stale smell about him which suggested that he had indulged in a second drinking bout last night. He was thirsty and asked for water. He drank half a second glass and sighed, and started to sip his coffee.
‘I needed that.’ He looked at the red cliffs and added absently: ‘This place is terrifying.’
‘I think the rock is quite stable.’
‘I mean, you get the feel of a threat hanging over you. It’s psychological. I wish I could get away, but the police won’t let us leave.’
‘I’m sure they’d let you go to Nebo. You could stay in a motel provided you let them know where you are.’
> ‘I could do that, I suppose.’
‘It would be much more comfortable than trying to look after yourself down here.’
‘And I’d get some good food.’ He was wistful. ‘I miss my wife’s cooking – my ex-wife, I should say.’
She was confused. ‘I understood you lost your wife last year.’
He shot her a glance. ‘That was my second wife. Sally Ann was the first.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘And now there’s another wants to be the third Mrs Glen Plummer.’
‘You may have that wrong. I know Dolly isn’t interested in marriage.’
‘Dolly? I’m not talking about her. We’re good friends, me and Dolly. In fact,’ – he looked thoughtful – ‘if I was to marry again I’d like it to be someone like her. She’s reliable – and she’s clever. She’d be a great help in my business.’ He beamed at her. ‘You got me thinking there.’
‘But there is this other lady who has – er – taken a shine to you?’
‘I’ve not given her any encouragement. I just had the odd drink with her but I never even took her out to a meal.’ He ruminated, frowning. ‘I’m not ready for responsibilities yet – more of them, I mean; I’ve got enough on my plate as it is. I need a rest from women, and families, and domesticity. Dolly’s all right; she’s an artist. I adore older ladies: her, Frankie, yourself … ’
‘Quite. But otherwise, and so far as business is concerned, you’re bored. What is this scheme to flood Gospel Bottom and build a marina?’
‘Oh, that. It was Dolly’s inspiration. She was talking about titles for pictures one time and said how a name will sell a product, how “Gospel Bottom” was wasted, the name for just a bit of bottom land where the creek meets the river. Said if it was a resort everyone’d flock to it. So I said I’d put a marina in there. She got mad and I fantasised the idea but then I got to considering it seriously. It gives Dolly and me a meeting point, see what I mean? We strike sparks off each other. She’s one very special lady.’
‘You are not proposing to dam the river?’
‘It’s just a talking point! Dolly’s paranoid about the ecology. She’s like me that way: always looking for interests, but she found ’em. That’s what I admire about her: she’s so intense. Me, I’ve got no motivation. Who am I working for? I lost my family. Sally Ann’s got custody of my daughter and that little girl’s taken care of for the rest of her life if I drop dead tomorrow. I lost my house and brood mares worth half a million; that’s my ex-wife’s hobby: breeding Arabians, with my money. Hell, drop in the ocean. I make a million this week, lose two the next; in three weeks’ time I make three million. What for? What do I do next? I’m the man who’s got it all. Can you suggest a challenge?’
‘Now let me think. A bored, rich man. There are some jobs which are tremendously exciting, but closed to the majority of people because the expenses are prohibitive.’
‘Such as?’
‘I was thinking of the profession of private detective. Finding criminals, missing persons: that’s phenomenally expensive; you have to travel all over the world – but it’s dangerous. Of course, that could be a stimulus.’
‘That’s good. I like it. I love it.’
‘You could make a sensational start by tracking down Birdie’s murderer.’
His jaw dropped. He said carefully, ‘I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at.’
‘If Sam Estwick didn’t do it, then the killer could still be in the canyon.’
‘But they arrested Sam.’
‘No, they’ve taken him in for questioning. Even if he had been arrested, he’s presumed innocent until found guilty.’
‘You don’t think he did it?’
‘You do?’
‘I never thought about it.’
‘Oh, come now; I don’t believe that.’
He stared at her in consternation. The situation had changed; she was no longer a sympathetic older lady but a hard questioner. ‘You’re looking at me as if you thought I was guilty of something,’ he protested.
‘No doubt you are.’ He inhaled sharply. ‘We all are,’ she went on blandly, and he swallowed. ‘You have no alibi,’ she pointed out, ‘but if I thought you were a murderer I wouldn’t be discussing the subject with you, alone in an isolated cabin. All the same, I suspect the police gave you a hard time.’
‘You can say that again! I wasn’t sober either and that didn’t help. I don’t mean I was drunk. I was earlier, but I went over to the Grays and Frankie filled me up with black coffee – this was after I saw – saw – you know?’ She nodded. Now she did look sympathetic. He continued: ‘But soon’s I came back I started on the bourbon again, and then they came: those smoothies with the button-down collars and the sneaky questions. I was tired; God, I was tired! I just told them the truth. I was searching all night, all next morning: wading the creek, right down to the river … Rattlers, they’re all over the banks, you know; we were slashing through the willows, making as much noise as possible, never knowing whether our lights would show the coils gleaming or – her: drowned, we thought then, at night. We thought she’d fell off the pony and the flood had took her – little kid like that, no weight, she’d have no chance once the creek rose. We come back exhausted, driving up the road, and here’s Sarah: “She’s found,” she says, and Sam says – well, he can’t get it out; he wants to ask is she alive, but of course we all knew – him too – if she was alive, Sarah’d be jumping up and down: “We found her!” and laughing and shouting, but she says: “She’s found,” and she just looks at Sam.’ He shook his head as if he were Sam denying the truth. He was as lost as his syntax. ‘So then we follows them across the field – I don’t know why we went, Art and me, but we been searching for so long, I guess we had to finish it, you know, something like that.’ He put his head in his hands.
She got up and went to get him a drink.
When he had gone she drove slowly up the canyon. The evening was clear and beautiful. The Grays’ entrance was a mile away when she turned down the Stenbocks’ track, but every line of the blue roan gelding was distinct as it stood there on the verge, its rider evidently in conversation with a small figure holding something that glinted – a bicycle, of course.
Lois Stenbock’s motive for inviting Miss Pink to supper became clear within a few minutes of the guest’s arrival. Lois was aware that she should pay lip service to etiquette but basically she had tunnel vision; obsessed by her personal objective, she had little or no regard for the reactions of other people. So although she welcomed Miss Pink with the remark that she thought it best for everyone that life should return to normal as quickly as possible, that having Miss Pink over was part of the programme, it was obvious that she was protesting too much; she had other things on her mind.
Miss Pink agreed that a resumption of normal behaviour was the wisest course, accepted a glass of apricot juice and regarded her hosts benignly. They were patently uneasy. It was Lois who started the ball rolling, suddenly, without preamble.
‘Now we shall all be invoking hindsight,’ she began. ‘All the same, there was a marked deterioration in Sam Estwick over the past few weeks.’
‘He was drinking more,’ Stenbock said, as if qualifying his wife’s statement.
‘His behaviour changed! He was blatant: going up to Maxine Brenner’s cabin virtually every night. He didn’t even attempt to be discreet— ’
‘Was he going there as often as that?’ Miss Pink asked. ‘I had the impression that Maxine found him a nuisance.’
‘She did. She couldn’t stand the sight of him.’
‘Then why should she allow him to visit – and how did you find out about this?’
‘He went there to drink, and he paid for it. He was using the place as a bar and Maxine needed the money. It was Shawn who told us.’
‘The ubiquitous Shawn.’
Lois said earnestly: ‘I don’t think you understand about Shawn. He’s deprived.’ She flashed a look at her husband. ‘He distrusts strangers because that’s
how he’s been brought up. I think I managed to make some impression before … At least he knows now that not everyone is dangerous.’
‘Seems he was right to distrust Sam Estwick,’ Stenbock said. ‘A pity Birdie didn’t.’
‘Shawn distrusted Estwick?’ Miss Pink repeated.
‘He hated him,’ Lois said with satisfaction. ‘That hatred arose from fear, of course. He was terrified of Estwick, said he liked little boys.’
‘What!’ Miss Pink was amazed.
‘He did say that,’ Stenbock assured her. ‘I was here when he said it.’
‘Did he give – chapter and verse for such an accusation?’
He looked away and it was Lois who answered, sibilant with indignation: ‘Estwick kissed him.’
Miss Pink shook her head. Stenbock said: ‘I never believed that.’ She turned to him. ‘I thought there was something else, something worse, that he wouldn’t talk about,’ he said. ‘Kissing was a euphemism.’
‘It’s irrelevant,’ Lois snapped. ‘Estwick liked little boys.’
‘Birdie wasn’t a little boy,’ Miss Pink said.
‘That’s irrelevant too. She was a small child, the assault was sexual. That’s what matters.’
Miss Pink asked: ‘When Shawn told you this, what measures did you take to protect him?’
‘The first thing I did was to call his mother.’ Lois was virtuous.
‘And what was her reaction?’
‘She laughed.’
‘She said Shawn watched too many movies,’ Stenbock put in.
‘I told her,’ Lois said, ‘that she was being criminally irresponsible to rent pornographic videos, and she hung up on me. She’s a woman can’t face the truth. She’s an alcoholic, anyway, and her brain’s softening. I wasn’t going to let it rest there so I called Paula. Of course, there was no way I could tell her what Shawn was saying, but I hinted, you know, said I didn’t think her husband was suitable company for small children. I had to admit that my information came from Shawn and she said that the child needed thrashing within an inch of his life and his mouth scrubbed out with soap. There! With all the feeling there is against that child I’m only astonished that it wasn’t his little body that was found on the creek bank.’
