by Gwen Moffat
‘The police work forward, Jason. This is the last place where someone is known to have seen them. Fleur, then Carl, saw them on the road. Now the detectives have to find the next person who saw them. For my money the reason why Laddow and Hammett have gone north is because they’re making inquiries along the highway, trying to discover if Andy stopped for gas, a meal, whatever.’
‘What happens if they don’t find the next person?’
‘Then they’ll concentrate on the last person who says he saw them, and that’s Carl, and that’s what will bring them back to Sundown. Who did they telephone last night after they left the Tattler?’
‘They just called their office to finalise transportation for this morning. They didn’t make private calls from the motel.’
She looked at him sharply. ‘Where did they make them from?’
‘The call-box outside the bar. It was Laddow did the talking with Hammett standing by, making sure no one could get near enough to hear.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Several people saw them; they didn’t make a secret of it.’ He regarded her in surprise. ‘They’re not going to make private calls from the motel, are they, with my dad and mom listening?’
‘So they’re making private calls but they’re not concerned that people know it. I suppose you could say that they’re conditioned to secrecy.’
‘What else could you say?’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘That they’re trying to intimidate us?’
That ‘us’ was not a slip; she felt herself involved – and she was in an irritable mood this morning. She had come to enjoy the company of the local residents and, although she was only a visitor, relationships had been forged; she felt a sense of loyalty. She would have liked to go for a walk but it seemed ill-mannered to leave them, and yet when she considered which one she might ask to go with her, she fancied her company could be an embarrassment. When she made an effort to analyse this presentiment, she guessed that they would all be discussing the events of last evening among themselves: Sadie and Leo, Miriam and Oliver, the Linquists, the Sykeses, Lois and Chester. That left only Fleur, who had walked with her yesterday but hadn’t phoned this morning to suggest a meeting.
Miss Pink compromised. Leaving Jason’s store she took a short walk along the strand towards Fin Whale Head. There was no sign of Oliver this morning and she saw no one else whom she knew. She returned to the village by way of a path that traced the edge of old and overgrown grazing land above the shore. The path emerged on the highway close to Fleur’s gallery – which was the reason that she’d taken it.
The gallery was an old whaler’s cabin, built of wood with plank walls and a shingled roof. The planks had shrunk and the shingles curled up at the edges; everything was grey, weathered to the colour of rock. Inside, that same drabness became a foil for colour where brilliant pieces of stained glass, from window panes to goblets and lamps, had been set strategically to catch the light.
Fleur sold a variety of objects, from fused glass to wind chimes and books. The emphasis, of course, was on Gideon d’Eath but Miss Pink, who initially had been overwhelmed by kitsch, had discovered Fleur’s own water-colours among the junk. She found them enchanting for their feeling for rock and sand, in smudges of colour that implied the dense blanket of forest rather than delineating it, in the sense of space westward to a horizon beyond the fog.
This morning Fleur was standing in the middle of the cabin, smoking, and watching the highway through the window. ‘They just passed,’ she said without preamble. ‘I’m wondering where they went.’
‘They?’ But Miss Pink knew the answer.
‘The police. At least, it was the car Laddow and Hammett were driving when they left after breakfast. They must have gone to the motel; there’s no one else lives south of here.’
‘There are houses on the loop road.’
‘Then they’d have taken that road before they reached the village.’
‘Not necessarily; it’s dirt, it’s smoother to come through the village, turn back … ’
They stared at each other, jumpy as cats, arguing about nothing.
‘Why did they come back?’ Fleur asked. Miss Pink didn’t reply. Fleur drew on her cigarette. She noticed Miss Pink move back a step and apologised. ‘I smoke only when I’m under stress. It doesn’t happen often. Tell me, what do you think is the explanation? The Chevy was stolen? So who was the girl ran away? Not Gayleen, surely, because if it was Gayleen, who was it in the trunk?’
‘There would be fingerprints on the car,’ Miss Pink mused. ‘She didn’t have time to wipe them off.’ She paused, then continued, ‘The police checked out from the motel, according to Jason, so since they’ve returned then they’ve discovered something new, something that concerns Sundown.’
It was indeed Laddow and Hammett who had returned, checking in again at the Surfbird, but whatever they had discovered, initially they were seeking information. When, after half an hour, their car didn’t appear on the highway, Fleur rang Jason. The bookstore was only a few yards from the gallery but they could see that he had customers. When he answered she asked him quietly what was going on.
‘I’ll tell you,’ he said meaningly.
‘Come over for a coffee when you’re free.’
His customers left and he emerged from the store to shamble quickly along to the gallery. He was obviously excited. ‘Did you see the police?’ he asked, without even looking to see if they were alone.
‘That’s why we told you to come over.’ Fleur was impatient. ‘What happened?’
‘Mom says they’re asking what Gayleen was wearing.’
‘What!’ Fleur was flabbergasted. Miss Pink said nothing.
‘It was a black skirt,’ he went on, ‘a mini with’ – his hands scalloped the air – ‘sorta frills— ’
‘Flounces,’ Fleur murmured. ‘A flounced skirt: shabby, like old black. Red heels.’
He nodded eagerly. ‘Yeah, red shoes; Mom told them that and, she said, a ruffle perm.’
‘Very low-cut dress,’ Fleur told Miss Pink, forgetting she’d seen Gayleen. ‘Striking, most unsuitable; vulgar, in fact. An awful lot of make-up, like painted on.’ She turned on Jason. ‘Why did they want to know all this?’
‘They didn’t say.’
‘Oh, come on, Jase! They had to say something.’
‘Not that Laddow guy. Mom says not, anyways. Now they’ve taken the loop road.’
‘Where? Who did they go to?’
‘They didn’t tell Mom.’
‘Well, now – ’ She ticked them off: ‘There’s Chester, and Sadie and Leo, and you’ – to Miss Pink – ‘and Miriam and, of course, Lois.’
Miss Pink said she would go home but when she reached the highway she didn’t take the steep little path to Quail Run but walked down the road a short distance until she was below Sand Dollar where another path climbed the slope. She emerged on a terraced rockery and went up wooden steps to the deck. French windows were open in the living-room but when she called there was no answer.
People converged on the entrance to Sand Dollar’s drive. As Miss Pink came up from the house Leo was raking gravel while Sadie touched up their gate with white paint. A car crept along the road and stopped. ‘Good afternoon, ladies.’ Laddow beamed from the passenger seat. ‘It’s turned warm.’
Sadie twittered at him like a bird. ‘Indeed yes, Mr Laddow, quite warm even for August. May we offer you a glass of lemonade?’ Such hospitality verged on the familiar given the circumstances, but perhaps Laddow attributed it to approaching senility, perhaps he’d been intending to call on them anyway. Hammett parked the car and they all trooped down the drive. ‘Great,’ Leo muttered to Miss Pink. ‘We’ll have a party. What the hell do they want with us, d’you know?’ Miss Pink shook her head in denial as they went round to the deck.
‘You’ll be wanting to know why we came back,’ Laddow told them when they were settled with glasses of lemonade. He glanced at Miss Pink who said
easily that she understood they were asking for a description of Gayleen. Leo glared at her but Sadie regarded Laddow with childlike expectancy. The detectives regarded the view, which from this point, framed by shore pines, was magnificent.
‘Forensics found something relating to Gayleen’s clothes in the Chevrolet?’ Miss Pink prodded.
Laddow withdrew his gaze reluctantly. ‘I’ve never worked on a case in such neat surroundings,’ he said, and Miss Pink flinched. ‘No, ma’am; we found a body.’
‘What – oh, the body in the trunk!’ Sadie amended that: ‘The body that had been in the trunk. Where did you find it?’
Leo was squirming with frustration, wanting to order her friend to keep quiet, and not daring to do so.
‘On a vacant lot,’ Laddow said. ‘In Portland. She was fully clothed. That’s why we needed to know what Gayleen was wearing.’
‘Is it Gayleen?’ Sadie asked.
‘The clothes fit, ma’am, and the hair. They’re getting her landlady to identify her: the woman at the motel. We should know any time.’
Sadie and Leo were staring at each other in consternation. ‘How did she die?’ Miss Pink asked.
‘There was a gunshot wound in the back of the head.’
As if they were one person, the eyes of Sadie and Leo were suddenly unfocused and Miss Pink, her own cool gaze passing from them to the detectives, knew that the three of them were aware of the question in the minds of the other two: who owned a gun?
Chapter 7
‘Who owns a firearm?’ Laddow asked.
Sadie and Leo were embarrassed; even in normal circumstances this was an indelicate question in Sundown, particularly among naturalists. ‘Private matter?’ His expression was sympathetic. ‘Awkward subject?’
‘Not at all.’ Leo was indignant. ‘I have a pistol. It’s my daddy’s old Colt. Want to see it?’
‘Please. A forty-five?’ He turned to Hammett. ‘Did you ever handle one of those?’
Hammett shook his head. Miss Pink remained expressionless. Did Laddow think these women so unworldly they would believe a detective had never handled an old Colt?
Leo came back with the pistol. Laddow hefted it and ejected the clip. He sniffed the barrel, peered down it and handed it to Hammett. ‘Beautiful piece of work,’ he commented. ‘Who else owns a firearm?’ It was incisive and he was apologising for nothing.
Sadie stared at him vacantly. Leo’s face darkened. She said stiffly, ‘No way do we discuss our neighbours’ business.’
‘You may have to.’
‘Really?’ Sadie looked interested. ‘How is that?’
He studied her face. ‘A murder has been committed, ma’am.’
‘What does it have to do with us?’
His face cleared. ‘Well, I’ll tell you.’ He exuded bonhomie. ‘Mrs Keller’s got a pistol too; that is, she had one until now. It’s disappeared.’
The schnauzer barked as Miss Pink approached Quail Run. Miriam, sitting on the steps, slapped the dog’s nose and he yelped in surprise. She looked drawn.
‘The police are at Sand Dollar,’ she said accusingly, as if Miss Pink were at fault.
She nodded. ‘Come in; I’m going to make tea. I’ve just come from Sand Dollar.’
Miriam couldn’t wait. As the kettle was being filled she was saying, ‘I saw their car outside. You were there? What’s going on?’
Miss Pink took mugs from their hooks and apologised for not providing cups and saucers. ‘Haven’t you heard anything?’ she asked. ‘Surely you knew the police came back?’
‘We were hiking: Oliver and me. Willard said he’d seen them go towards Lois’s place so I called her and Chester answered, but he was close-mouthed: admitted the police had been there but he wouldn’t tell me anything. I didn’t speak to Lois. There was no answer from Sadie and Leo, nor from you; Fleur said you’d gone home, and she didn’t know what the police were doing. So I went along our road here, trying to find someone, anyone, saw the police car outside Sand Dollar, and I came back here to see if you’d turned up. What do you know?’
‘A body’s been found that seems to be Gayleen’s, and she was shot. They’re asking who owns guns.’
The kettle started to whistle. With a grimace Miss Pink fumbled with the tea-bags that she loathed, and hung them in the mugs.
‘What makes them think it’s someone from here?’ Miriam asked, but the silence had stretched too far. ‘She left here; both Fleur and Carl saw them on the road.’
‘There’s a gun missing.’
‘Whose?’
‘Lois’s.’
‘So’ – they went into the living-room and Miriam collapsed on the sofa as if she were worn out – ‘so it’s Andy that they’re – they’re looking for?’
‘I hadn’t thought about that angle, and they didn’t say.’
Miriam squeezed lemon into her tea. ‘And now it’s gone too far to ask Lois,’ she mused. ‘There’s Chester though.’ Her tone sharpened. ‘That’s ridiculous! Why should Andy kill her? I mean, he’s not exactly a passionate man, Andy – and look at what he has to lose. He’s a screen-writer, he’s got contacts in Hollywood; Andy’s going places. I don’t believe it.’
‘No one said it was Andy.’ Miss Pink’s tone was mild.
Miriam’s eyes were like obsidian. ‘Who else could get hold of her gun? You’re not suggesting Grace – or Chester? Or one of us … this is utterly bizarre … Motive, that’s what we need: motive; who had to kill Gayleen? Why do people kill? There’s greed, lust, terror, jealousy – ’ She stopped, aware that she was babbling.
‘We’re all shocked,’ Miss Pink said comfortably. ‘Nasty thing to happen to someone you know. There’s still the original theory: that someone stole the Chevy and either Andy doesn’t know yet, or he has an innocent reason for not reporting it. Comparatively innocent.’
‘What are the police doing now?’
‘Inquiries?’ Miss Pink sighed. ‘They tell you only what they want you to know.’
‘What do you think? With your experience you must know the routine.’
Miss Pink looked embarrassed. ‘Every case is different, but I assume here that finding Andy will be the priority – and they’ll be going over the Chevrolet again. The important thing is to discover what that car was doing between when Carl passed it on Tuesday afternoon and when it was rammed in Portland on Thursday evening.’
‘There was a woman driving it then.’
‘Someone wearing a skirt, yes.’
‘You’re not suggesting it was a transvestite!’
‘Just setting the record straight.’
‘It was a woman.’ Miriam was emphatic. ‘The witnesses said so. A woman runs differently to a man. Certainly that points to the Chevy being stolen. I don’t know that I particularly care if Andy’s a killer, but I’m fond of Lois.’
Miss Pink asked, with seeming casualness, ‘What is the situation there?’
‘Between Lois and Andy?’ Miriam hesitated. ‘It’s not easy to explain. They lead their own lives, and yet Andy keeps coming back; maybe she represents security for him, a mother-figure.’ She considered that. ‘Financial security,’ she amended. ‘Andy likes his creature comforts, but then’ – her eyes widened – ‘he was living dangerously: bringing that girl here. It was deliberate: he walked in as if he owned the place, with that slut trailing behind him!’
‘Why do you call her that?’ Miss Pink was genuinely curious.
‘Why, you saw her! The awful dress, heels about four inches high, made up like she was on television— ’
‘What did she have to say?’
‘I have no idea. I didn’t talk to her. Obviously she’d never been in a nice home before, never seen caviar.’ Miriam gave a snort. ‘Thought the champagne was flavoured pop! Can you believe that? She was a ghetto kid. Andy probably paid her to come to the birthday party just to embarrass Lois.’
‘Apparently Andy and Gayleen were living together.’
‘What? So they were. So he g
ot tired of her, shot her and cleared out.’
‘He’d shoot a girl because he was tired of her?’ Miss Pink was incredulous.
‘Well, you know how these things happen.’ The tone was light but the eyes stared fixedly at Miss Pink. ‘It doesn’t have to be a crime of passion,’ she went on in that artificial voice, ‘more like an accident, then the guy panics and has to get rid of the body. But it was an accident in the first place.’
‘You want it all ways. A man hits a woman and she falls and strikes her head on something unyielding, and she has a thin skull? But Gayleen was shot.’
‘Yes, well’ – Miriam looked away – ‘it does look rather bad for Andy, I must admit.’
Miss Pink took the mugs to the sink, poured herself a sherry and settled in a chair on her deck to commune with the view. She had rid herself of her guest by simulating exhaustion, but as the sea and the rocks and the distant cries of birds threaded the sunshine she knew that she hadn’t needed to pretend fatigue. She felt inundated by the speculation that seethed in Sundown. Now she thought resentfully that it was none of her business. A girl had been murdered and a man was missing. The man was married to a woman who had a close circle of friends in a village where Miss Pink herself was a stranger. More than a stranger; with the identification of the body (and it looked as if it would be identified if it hadn’t been already), with the disappearance of Lois’s gun, the situation had become so delicate since this morning that she felt like an interloper. Had she not extended her tenancy for a second week she would have been due to leave tomorrow morning. As she started to ponder the question of calling Boligard Sykes to cancel the extension she felt the first twinge of a headache.
She got up and went to the kitchen. The concentration needed to follow a recipe would allow of no distractions. Drink would help, and music.
An hour later she was accompanying Schwartzkopf in an aria from Cosi Fan Tutte and stirring her version of a ratatouille when someone said loudly, ‘I said, “It smells gorgeous.” What is it?’
