Miss Pink Investigates 3

by Gwen Moffat

  ‘I don’t know if they ever will.’ Miss Pink responded absently, slicing a lemon.

  ‘It’s obvious: he shot Gayleen, came back here and shot himself. And I know why he did that,’ she added darkly. ‘He told Lois and she finally threw him out. She wouldn’t tell the police, but she wouldn’t have him back neither.’

  Miss Pink made the tea and carried the tray into the sitting-room. They sat down, she filled a mug, passed the lemon to Miriam: all this in silence, a charged silence. At length she said, ‘That behaviour is in character, would you say?’

  ‘Definitely. I’d do the same thing myself.’

  Miss Pink suppressed a smile but Miriam was sharp. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘In her shoes probably I would.’

  ‘It’s the most likely explanation, isn’t it? It fits the facts.’

  ‘The facts.’ Miss Pink considered them, aware that she was being closely watched. ‘Actually,’ she said in some surprise, ‘it does. You’re assuming that Andy phoned Lois from Moon Shell Beach and she drove north to meet him – but how did he get to the roadworks? She could take a car only as far as the south side of them; he had to travel twenty miles.’

  ‘Either he got a lift with a local resident going as far as the north side of the works, or at least a good part of the distance, and he ran the rest of the way, or he got through before the road was closed. Or even’ – her eyes glazed – ‘Lois went round the back way over the forest trails.’

  ‘It’s a matter of timing. Laddow will have gone into all that. You know that Lois says she didn’t see him after they left. She didn’t see him then; she was working.’

  ‘But she would say that, wouldn’t she? No way is she going to admit that he confessed to her, so she’s going to maintain she isn’t involved in any way.’

  ‘To avoid being charged as an accessory? I wonder.’ Miss Pink was silent, following a train of thought. She nodded to herself. ‘It would be much better for everyone concerned if Andy was the one who killed Gayleen.’

  ‘Why d’you say that?’

  ‘It lets everyone else off the hook. If it wasn’t Andy, who could it have been? Who didn’t have an alibi for that Tuesday afternoon?’

  Miriam gave a gay little laugh. ‘Well, I know someone who’s in the clear, and that’s Oliver. He was eighty miles from Moon Shell Beach.’

  ‘That’s not an alibi.’

  ‘What! Why not?’

  ‘An alibi is someone who – or something that proves you were not at the scene of the crime when it was committed.’

  Miriam was very still, then she said coldly, ‘As it happens, he was with Grace Ferguson. He’s rather taken with her; I don’t think anything will come of it’ – again that tinkling laugh – ‘Oliver hasn’t a cent to his name, and Grace does very well out of her boutique, not to speak of her “expectations”, as they used to say, from her mother. However, with the profit there is in the rag trade, I’d be surprised if Grace doesn’t end up richer than Lois. But as for that day in Portland, Oliver was with Grace.’ It came out hard and defiant.

  ‘Did he tell Laddow that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then he has nothing to worry about. I told him that.’

  Miriam eyed her. ‘So he confessed all to you, did he?’

  ‘I can’t think why you’re so worried.’

  ‘Worried! Me! What gives you that idea?’

  ‘What brought you down here tonight?’

  ‘You sound positively hostile, Melinda. It’s you been questioning my household behind my back, getting Oliver drunk so he tells you what he told the police, God knows what else besides; waiting till I’ve gone to town to sneak up and interrogate Willard about my household, soon’s my back’s turned— ’

  ‘You’re repeating yourself.’

  ‘Shit! What are you doing here? You working for Laddow?’

  ‘For Chester.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘I’m trying to find out who took the gun from Lois’s night table.’

  ‘Why?’ The knee-jerk response indicated that she no longer considered the significance even of that question.

  ‘One would think it probable’ – deliberately pedantic – ‘that the person who stole the gun killed Gayleen.’

  The careful tone seemed to calm Miriam. She had listened, had got the meaning, and now she asked, ‘So why wasn’t it Andy?’

  ‘A number of circumstances.’ Suddenly Miss Pink looked very tired. ‘And your hostility exhausts me. Why are you so bothered that Willard and Oliver should have talked to me? You have an alibi; it was your party at the Tattler that Tuesday evening. How could you have been at Moon Shell Beach shooting Gayleen?’

  Miriam’s hands flew to her mouth and she stared, currant-eyed and vulnerable. ‘Me?’ she gasped. ‘They think I killed her? Why on earth?’

  ‘Someone did.’ Miss Pink was quite composed. ‘Someone had a motive. Who wanted Gayleen dead, and why?’

  ‘But why should I— ’

  ‘Why should Oliver?’

  ‘He had nothing to do with it. He was with Grace! All the time: day and night!’ She was strident.

  ‘He wasn’t,’ Miss Pink said.

  Miriam collapsed like a rag doll. She said nothing, fingering her lips. Miss Pink got up and fetched brandy and glasses. She poured a generous measure and pushed it across the coffee table. ‘He must have some kind of alibi,’ she said.

  Miriam drank some brandy. As it took effect, her mouth tightened and her eyes started to snap again. She said firmly, ‘Oliver had nothing to do with the death of that girl.’ She regarded Miss Pink intently. ‘I’ll never make you believe it, will I? But it’s true’ – she looked away – ‘Grace will bear him out – of course she will: he was with her! I’m sorry for what I said about you coming up to the house; I’ve – we’ve all been under considerable stress; I mean: murder in our midst, concerning one of our closest friends. You have to forgive me, I was overwrought, but I do assure you, Oliver is – had nothing to do with any of this’ – the little laugh again – ‘after all, what motive could he possibly have?’

  ‘Who needs a motive?’ Laddow asked. ‘The courts don’t, but we do need evidence. That boy’s lying. He’s clever and plausible, and slippery as an eel, but then you’d expect that, seeing as he’s a con-man, and rich widows are notoriously paranoid about indigent young men. They gotta be clever to get past the guard of old ladies like Mrs Ramet. I might break the girl though. She arrived last night.’

  ‘Grace is here?’ Miss Pink was interested. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting her.’

  ‘Lovely girl,’ Laddow mused. ‘Her and Oliver; two of a kind on the surface: the beautiful people.’ A tiger swallowtail sailed past the balcony: lemon and black and misty blue. ‘They fit this place,’ he added, his eyes following the butterfly.

  ‘You’ve interviewed her?’

  ‘I met her last night. Had coffee at the Keller place: reported to Mrs Keller how things were going.’ His face was bland. ‘Grace is very laid back; maintains young Oliver left Sundown with her on Monday, stayed until around four on Tuesday afternoon.’

  ‘She didn’t work at the boutique on Tuesday?’

  He smiled, appreciating her perception. ‘She did. She says she called him at her apartment to arrange dinner, what she should bring home, but he said he was leaving shortly. It was then just four o’clock. Her mother didn’t seem surprised that her daughter should be on intimate terms with Oliver Harper.’

  ‘Well, in these days … ’

  ‘What I meant was, no one ever hinted at a relationship there.’

  ‘Naturally. Oliver is afraid of Miriam. He’d need to be discreet.’

  ‘Quite. He’s lying to lead her astray, not us. For instance, where did he spend Tuesday night? He says he hitched back to the roadworks, found an empty shack used for when it rains and slept on a bench till six when he couldn’t stand the cold any longer and started walking. He got a lift soon after eight. I don’t belie
ve a word of it; that guy was up to some mischief in Portland— ’

  ‘He told you where he really was— ’

  ‘No, but I’ll find out. Not that it matters; young Oliver didn’t kill Gayleen – I don’t think – he’s too shallow, got too big an eye for the main chance. This was a crime of passion.’

  ‘There’s also the question of timing – ’ She thought about that. ‘More important: Andy’s death wouldn’t fit at all if it was Oliver who killed Gayleen. You’ve not mentioned the .22; I take it you found nothing at the landslide.’

  ‘Nothing at all – nothing.’ Obviously it was a sore point. ‘Why would a guy be up there in the rain – cold rain on the Oregon coast – in a T-shirt and Levis just? Where’s his parka? Like I said, he never left. He was there before the rain started— ’

  ‘Not necessarily. Did you never consider that he might have gone up there deliberately in order to kill himself?’ She expounded on Miriam’s theory. ‘A potential suicide might walk out into the storm without a parka,’ she pointed out.

  He was thoughtful. ‘It fits. But then Lois is lying. I guess she would at that – or would she? There are no children to protect, like not wanting ’em to know their dad’s a murderer. Would she be bothered about public opinion?’

  ‘I don’t know. To be the widow of a man who killed a prostitute … perhaps he was living on her earnings – and Lois is something of the grande dame in Sundown … ’ She frowned, ignoring him, recalling her own experience of village life in Wales and England, trying to relate it to Oregon. ‘Privacy,’ she said suddenly, ‘that’s why she would lie: treating the police as intruders. This is her business, family business, and nothing to do with you.’ She turned to him, sincere and questioning.

  He nodded. ‘You could be right at that, ma’am.’

  ‘Incidentally did you ever work out how Andy might have reached the roadworks from Moon Shell Beach?’

  ‘You mean, if he did leave Sundown. He woulda had to get a lift. It’s possible that in the rain and bad visibility some tourist would miss the notices saying the road closed at six, so there could be some traffic, and he thumbed a lift. He would have phoned his wife from the call-box up the road from Moon Shell, the one we used when we were making preliminary inquiries.’

  ‘So what do you do now? Assume Andy killed Gayleen and committed suicide?’

  There was a furtive light in his eye and he looked away quickly. ‘It’s Sunday.’ He was expansive. ‘Lovely day for the beach.’ He met her gaze and blinked. ‘A few loose ends to tie up,’ he muttered and then, with an artificial smile: ‘I’ll see you around, ma’am.’

  He took his leave with no word of where he was going and no mention of what Hammett was up to on this beautiful morning. She had the feeling that the net was tightening on this section of the village: on the loop road where there were five households, six if you counted the Surfbird motel, but that they were not greatly interested in all six. Obviously Laddow had visited her so soon after breakfast, not to impart information but to obtain it. Someone had told him that she had talked to Miriam and her menfolk yesterday, and he was interested in Oliver, surely not in Willard. She considered this last and dismissed it; he might be but she wasn’t concerned. Willard was one man who would never be guilty of a crime of passion except, perhaps, if someone uprooted his fritillaries or tramped his agopanthus.

  It would seem that the investigation was tapering off to an anti-climax, but was that the impression Laddow was trying to create? Murder and suicide: was it possible?

  ‘Suicide?’ Jason repeated, and laughed unpleasantly, then he flushed and turned his back on Miss Pink, flicking at the bookshelves with a feather duster. ‘Could be.’ His voice was muffled. ‘He was a bully, and bullies are cowards. He’d be afraid of prison; afraid of other prisoners, is more like it.’

  ‘I never met him.’ She was leafing through a dictionary. ‘A bully at his age?’

  ‘Any age. That guy was obscene, accusing – making allegations … He had a filthy mind, and so what, even if what he said was true, it’s not a crime – but it wasn’t true. He made things up.’

  ‘He accused everyone of something; he’d see a wisp of vapour and make a conflagration out of it.’

  ‘Smoke and fire, you mean: where there’s smoke … You know’ – Jason stepped towards her, dropping his voice, glancing outside – ‘I figure that fella had something on everyone here: invented, I mean; he’d kinda probe a weakness like a dentist probing a tooth and if that person, his victim, winced, he’d twist until he drove folks crazy. Like my dad: he was always on at him about Hemingway, because Dad’s like Hemingway, see? And could he turn the screw! Sounds trivial, don’t it, but it wasn’t to Dad. He’s an artist, an author; it’s his whole life, and here’s this son of a bitch not just laughing at my dad, but sneering at Hemingway!’

  ‘I see. And he would have jeered at Oliver for – what? Suggesting he was being kept?’

  ‘Gigolo is the word. He used it.’ Jason’s eyes were flashing.

  ‘And Sadie and Leo – ’

  ‘You guessed it, and they’re old pussy cats, those two; I love ’em. Leo nearly floored him one time. He used to ask her how the wife was.’

  ‘Very nasty. He wouldn’t have spared you either.’

  He said nothing but his expression was eloquent as he struggled to find a response that would convey his feelings without shocking his listener. Finally he said, ‘I heard as how you were looking for the one who stole Lois’s gun. I tell you this, ma’am: if it happened he didn’t kill himself and someone else finished him off, there’s no way I’d help you find out even if I could.’ He smiled. ‘But I don’t know nothing’ – acting the country bumpkin – ‘only we lost a torturer in this village. Some loss.’

  ‘The same response as Willard,’ she murmured.

  ‘Oh, you talked to Willard. Now there’s a fine guy. I’m very fond of Willard. There – I can say it now. Coupla weeks ago I wouldn’t have dared. He’s dead now and can’t do no more harm. I hope he roasts in hell for his sins.’

  ‘He feels things deeply,’ Boligard explained. ‘He takes after me that way rather than his mother. Mabel’s an extrovert.’

  Sunlight poured through the doorway of his shack and dust motes danced in the beams. Miss Pink sat on a worn sofa under the window and contemplated her host affably. She had, she told him, been a little shocked by Jason’s vehemence regarding Andy Keller.

  ‘The trouble with that guy,’ Boligard went on, ‘was he was frightened of involvement.’

  ‘With women?’

  ‘No – well, probably’ – he was dismissive – ‘I meant life. Andy Keller was shallow; he skimmed the surface of life like a water bug.’ He made a movement to turn to his desk, probably to make a note, but thought better of it.

  ‘A most evocative expression,’ Miss Pink said. ‘And appropriate from what I’ve heard. I didn’t know him, of course.’

  ‘You can take it from me, ma’am: Andy Keller was afraid of life, of people – and now you come to raise the subject: of women too. He was a man used money and people as a shield. Why d’you think he kept coming back? Well, of course, you wouldn’t know, and they’ – a nod towards the village – ‘they wouldn’t have gossiped to you, at least where that kinda thing is concerned. But that guy always had itchy feet, and he’d go away for weeks at a time, ostensibly to Hollywood – maybe for all we know he did go to LA but he certainly wasn’t working on screenplays because he never had a dollar in his pocket. He had, but he didn’t earn it. And now we know how he came by that money, don’t we?’

  ‘So why kill the goose that lays the golden eggs?’

  ‘Kill Lois? No, you mean Gayleen, although when you come to think of it, Lois surely gave him more money than he ever could collect from that poor slut. That’s what I mean by using people: he never earned an honest dollar in his life. He was a parasite: living on women.’

  ‘I see that, so if Gayleen was a source of income, why did he kill her?’


  ‘Pimps are notoriously violent.’

  ‘I agree, but their violence is seldom fatal; that’s the last thing they want. Even those men who beat up their girls try not to mark their faces.’

  ‘That’s very nasty.’ He shook his head in disapproval. ‘How do you know about such things?’

  ‘It’s common sense.’

  ‘Oh yes? I’m not much of a person for the sordid side of relationships.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I leave the mean streets to Lois.’ His eyes were wistful as he intoned, ‘“Down these mean streets a man must go … ” It’s good, but it has none of the power of the Master.’ His gaze dwelt on a section of his shelves where the Hemingways were at eye-level. ‘There was a man,’ he said quietly, ‘a man who worshipped nature in all her aspects, and the elements: mountains, deserts, the ocean. Nothing will ever be written to surpass The Old Man and the Sea: a peasant alone with the ocean and the monster of the deep.’

  ‘Rather like Moby Dick.’

  ‘No, ma’am. Melville was writing about evil and Moby Dick was the devil. Hemingway celebrates life and death; look at Death in the Afternoon! He was a man who took what life had to offer with both hands, who exposed himself to everything: the good and the bad, the beauty and the dangers – what a guy! The guy who said that when you’d taken everything life had to throw at you – he was talking about grief, and problems and failure – when you’re beaten to your knees and you can’t go no further, you stand up and you come out fighting, throwing it back, and when you got nothing left you throw yourself.’

  Miss Pink nodded acceptance of the sentiment rather than the interpretation but Boligard wasn’t finished. ‘Beside him,’ he went on, ‘we’re all second-rate people.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes!’ He’d caught the scepticism. ‘You, me, Fleur, Lois. I don’t care what you say: he was a writer. We pen our mediocre works in his shadow. I mean, mediocre in comparison, of course. Do you class yourself with Ernest Hemingway, ma’am?’

  ‘No.’ She was firm.

  ‘We can’t all be geniuses.’ He stood as she got up from the sofa. He smiled at her. ‘Each one of us has his niche; we have to fill it as best we can.’ He was totally sincere; Boligard had loyalty, no matter what it was directed towards. He was a man of dignity but in one sense and as far as his neighbours were concerned, not a man of discretion.