Miss Pink Investigates 3

by Gwen Moffat

  Fleur was alone in the gallery. ‘Lunchtime,’ she explained. ‘Once people have eaten I’ll have customers again till around four o’clock. What are you doing?’

  ‘Tying up loose ends,’ Miss Pink murmured. ‘Trailing along behind Laddow, who appears to be concentrating on the people who live on the loop road. That gets him off your back.’

  ‘He was never on it. Come inside and have some coffee.’

  They went into the brilliant sitting-room. Fleur closed a door in passing but not before Miss Pink had caught a glimpse of an unmade bed.

  They sat side by side and observed the ocean as they talked. This position, not facing each other, gave to their conversation a dreamlike quality, assisted by the fact that Fleur seemed to attribute to her guest powers – or at the least, information – which she didn’t possess, only a hint dropped by Boligard.

  ‘You’re tired,’ Miss Pink said. ‘You should go out.’ Looking towards Cape Deception.

  ‘Not this afternoon. Sunday’s always busy but particularly now: the last days of summer.’

  ‘Did you finish the proofs?’

  ‘Yes, they were— ’ She stopped, and there was no sound except the calls of gulls which seemed to come from a distance, drowned in a flood of sunshine. She continued quietly, ‘What is this: “proofs”?’

  ‘How did I know about Gideon d’Eath? People talk.’

  ‘Someone’s been imagining things.’ Miss Pink made no answer to that. After a while Fleur asked, ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s not my business. Unless it’s tied in with Andy’s death – or Gayleen’s.’

  Fleur turned and stared at her. ‘How could it be?’

  Miss Pink returned the stare. ‘Blackmail?’

  Fleur looked back at the stacks: rock towers in molten light, their shadows black on the quiet water. When she spoke her tone was empty, drained of emotion. ‘No, he hadn’t asked me for money. That would have come, of course: demands. He lived like that. But for the moment he was enjoying his power: flicking at me with a knife, as it were, whenever I came within his orbit. “Death from a thousand cuts.” Who said that?’

  ‘Would your sales have suffered had the truth become public knowledge?’

  ‘I’d reached the stage of asking myself that but I was so orientated to the legend of this nice steady – father figure? – man beavering away in California – and then there was the dichotomy: that I needed to hang on to: the divorce of the subjects. My paintings are my life; they’re me – my love, if you like; but those silly fantasies I do with another part of my mind. And you’ve never been poor, Melinda; I can tell that by your confidence. Gideon d’Eath isn’t just a matter of being able to shop at Nordstrom and Neiman Marcus; it’s this.’ She gestured at her well-appointed room. ‘I was raised in a ghetto. My father drank himself to death and my mother was left with a family of four young girls. We were so poor we lived in a shack among Mexican wetbacks outside of San Diego. Nothing wrong with Mexicans, or wetbacks either, just their poverty. Two of my sisters died of tuberculosis and my mom of hard work. My last sister took to drugs and regularly goes to a detox centre. I can spare a bit of money there. I’m the one who got away. So I’m rather obsessed with this compulsion never to go back. Maybe no one would be bothered about a middle-aged spinster turning out to be Gideon d’Eath but I wasn’t taking any risks. However, I didn’t kill Andy. I thought about it … ’ She smiled. ‘When part of your mind is preoccupied with thoughts of violence and death, even in fantasy, if you’re being tormented in reality, you’re liable to get mixed up. I admit I visualised Andy Keller being decapitated by someone like my Gideon d’Eath wielding a great sword, or a nice furry monster tossing him over Fin Whale Head … ’ She turned back to Miss Pink. ‘Are you suggesting Gayleen was killed because of her association with Andy? That he told her what he knew about some – or one of us, so the person who killed the blackmailer had to kill her as well because she was an accomplice, or at least a confidant? Why are you staring at me, Melinda? What did I say? You suspect me.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m not bothered; I didn’t do it.’

  ‘I know you didn’t.’

  ‘So? Where are you going?’

  ‘For a walk.’

  But as she left the gallery a car pulled in from the highway and stopped beside her. Leo was behind the wheel. She spoke urgently: ‘Miriam wants you to go up to her place. They’re after Oliver.’

  ‘Oliver? Why?’

  ‘Or Miriam, or both of them. Collusion? How the hell would I know? Get in. She seems to think you can help.’

  Leo dropped her at the house and drove away. Willard Smith was dead-heading roses beside the open French windows of the sitting-room. He nodded in a perfunctory manner and she guessed he had stationed himself there deliberately; in a garden as well tended as this there would be few dead-heads. As she walked along the brick path Miriam emerged from the sitting-room. She was a bad colour under her tan. At her elbow Oliver smiled uncertainly. He was wearing a blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal a Gucci watch in steel and gold.

  Miriam said, without preamble, ‘We have a problem with the police. They’re pushing Oliver; despite everything they seem to think he’s involved with Gayleen’s death.’

  ‘Do sit down, Melinda,’ Oliver said. ‘Can I get you a drink? Coffee?’

  Miriam glanced at him distractedly. Miss Pink declined refreshment and they all sat down. Beyond the windows Willard stooped and straightened, the snip of his secateurs loud on the soft air.

  ‘How do they go about involving you?’ Miss Pink asked.

  ‘Just the timing.’ Oliver swallowed. ‘I wasn’t around when Gayleen was shot.’

  ‘What he means,’ Miriam rushed in, ‘was he wasn’t here. He was in Portland. But Laddow says he was at Moon Shell Beach.’

  ‘He doesn’t say that.’ Oliver was gentle. ‘He implies it.’

  ‘That’s the same thing.’ Miriam turned on Miss Pink. ‘What can we do? At what point do we pick up the phone and call a lawyer – or does that suggest Oliver has a reason to need one?’

  The young man looked uncomfortable and Miss Pink tried not to stare at his expensive new watch which, she thought, could have left little change out of five hundred dollars. She guessed that Miriam did not as yet know where he had spent Tuesday night (when he claimed to have slept in the roadmen’s shack) so she concentrated on the more important issue as she saw it. ‘What’s your alibi for the time of Gayleen’s death?’ she asked. ‘Presumably that’s between four on the Tuesday afternoon and the time the car was stolen. When would that be?’

  ‘Laddow wants to know where he was between four and six,’ Miriam put in, glancing at Oliver like an anxious mother offering her son a cue.

  ‘I was making my way out of Portland,’ he said. ‘I was in Grace’s apartment just before four because she called me around that time.’

  ‘So the first thing Laddow did was to ask her to confirm that.’ It wasn’t a question but Miss Pink waited for a response.

  ‘Of course she confirms it,’ Miriam said shortly.

  ‘Then what’s the problem?’ Miss Pink looked confused.

  ‘The same as everyone else’s,’ Miriam said angrily. ‘Alibis! Everyone can confirm what everyone else says. Look at us: all living with others; Carl and Eve, Boligard and Mabel, Willard and me – and Grace and Oliver were together. So we’re all suspect because no one believes what a person’s partner says. Relatives and such’ – she glanced at the window – ‘will always confirm each other’s movements. That’s the theory; the police trust no one.’

  Miss Pink was interested. ‘Did Laddow mention those other people: Sadie and Leo, the Linquists, Sykeses and so on?’

  ‘He did, didn’t he?’ Miriam appealed to Oliver.

  ‘He did say that partners alibi each other.’

  ‘He was getting at Oliver, needling him,’ Miriam explained.

  ‘Hi, Grace!’ came Willard’s shout. Their heads snapped
round and in the silence that followed they sat like alert cats. There was a crunch of light tyres on gravel and a girl’s voice: ‘Hi, Willard; how’re you doing?’

  ‘I’m fine – ’ He moved past the window and out of sight. Oliver stood up.

  ‘Wait!’ hissed Miriam, and glanced at Miss Pink. ‘They’re old friends,’ she said wildly, ‘Grace and Willard. He’ll be filling her in.’

  ‘What!’ Oliver giggled inanely, but he stayed where he was, watching the window.

  ‘Do sit down, sweetie.’ Miriam grasped his wrist. ‘Or get the drinks. Do something.’ She got up herself, recollected her manners, said, ‘Excuse me, something to eat,’ and blundered out of the room.

  ‘Oh, God!’ Oliver whispered, and looked helplessly at Miss Pink who fluttered her hands in a vague gesture; she was merely an observer. His eyes brightened as a girl appeared at the window, a girl with red hair and green eyes, wearing little white shorts and a halter top. He introduced her with some warmth. Grace Ferguson gave all her attention to Miss Pink. Apart from the fact that he spoke, Oliver could have been a cat.

  Miriam came back with plates of crackers. ‘Hi, Grace,’ she said. ‘Oliver, get the sherry.’ Her attitude towards the girl was diffident but her body was tense as a spring. She put a plate down so forcefully that crackers spilled on the table. Grace scooped up a handful and nibbled absently.

  ‘Mom says can she have your recipe for croissants?’ she asked. She turned to Miss Pink. ‘I bring croissants from Portland but that’s not good enough for my mother; she has to make them herself so’s we can eat them hot from the oven.’

  ‘There’s nothing worse than a cold croissant,’ Miss Pink agreed, aware of the other two, and perhaps Willard, hanging on her words. ‘Was Laddow here this morning?’ she asked, and saw a kind of relief in Miriam’s face.

  ‘He was here a short time,’ she said, and the tension came back as her eyes went to Grace.

  ‘Laddow here?’ the girl repeated, and grinned. ‘He’s still after you then?’ she asked of Oliver.

  They were surprised but, where he was also amused, Miriam took offence. ‘You ask that?’ she cried.

  ‘Sorry.’ Grace looked neither contrite nor particularly interested. Oliver was watching her but he said nothing.

  Miriam said furiously, making a demand of it, ‘He was with you; you told Laddow’ – she turned on Oliver and shook his arm – ‘Laddow said she confirmed it. He believes her! He was with you, Grace, wasn’t he – all the time?’

  ‘Oh, sure.’ Grace shrugged. ‘Don’t get upset, Miriam; I’m not going to say any different.’ She raised her eyebrows at Miss Pink as if to say, ‘Don’t take any notice; they’re just kids.’

  Miss Pink stood up; she could do no good here. Miriam was panicking but they must work out this problem themselves. She walked to the window. Willard was on the drive below the front steps, out of earshot. He wasn’t dead-heading either; the secateurs were in his hand but he was standing stiffly, looking at a bicycle on its stand by the steps. BMX, thought Miss Pink, observing the high handlebars and small wheels. As if aware of her gaze he turned and met her eyes. He wiped a hand over his face and walked quickly round a corner of the house. She thought that in that momentary but silent exchange and before he raised his hand that his cheeks had reddened.

  Grace said from the window, ‘It’s a lovely day. Are you hiking?’

  Involuntarily Miss Pink glanced inland. ‘Yes,’ she exclaimed, the thought having just occurred to her, ‘I shall go and look for the spotted owl.’

  ‘Mom told me; it’s great, them being in our neck of the woods.’

  ‘Perhaps you would like to come with me.’

  ‘I’m sorry; I have things to do.’ They exchanged bright smiles, and Miss Pink looked at the cycle. ‘A BMX?’ she asked.

  Grace blinked. ‘I didn’t get that.’

  ‘I don’t know what it means either, but they’re great favourites with small English boys.’

  ‘Is that so? How odd. They’re used by city commuters here.’

  Miss Pink was amazed. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘It’s a folding bike. Didn’t you know? It collapses and goes in the trunk of a car, or on the train.’

  ‘In the – boot?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘We call the trunk the boot.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘No, I’m quite serious.’

  Chapter 15

  The fog came back: high at first, drifting across the sun. She would have seen it coming had she been at Quail Run, would have made small preparations against its arrival: brought the cushions in from the deck, closed the windows, looked to see if there were logs for the evening fire. But she wasn’t at home; she was following the trail above Bobcat Creek when the light on the forest floor dimmed suddenly and the silence assumed a different quality. In this place there was bright silence, and there was a dim, soft quietude which was more than an absence of sound, it was as if something came in with the fog. I’ll never get used to it, she thought, and quickened her pace as the fading light reminded her of nightfall. And then she admonished herself; she had plenty of time, the loop trail up Porcupine and down the north-west spur of Pandora couldn’t be ten miles, and she was a good walker – when everything went according to plan.

  A mile above the Keller cabin she heard the water in the creek. Now came the hard part because for the life of her she couldn’t remember where she had been when she heard the voices. Certainly that was twelve days ago but she had the impression that she hadn’t noticed the voices at the time, that she had recalled them later in the day. And although she associated them with a creek – because one was always hearing voices in water – it seemed that the moment of recollection related to something other than water.

  She sighed and shook her head and concentrated on negotiating the boulders in the bed of the creek. If she sprained an ankle here no one would know where she was. The Keller cabin had been closed when she passed; she had told Grace she was going to look for the owls but would Grace know if she didn’t return?

  She climbed the far bank and shortly she came on the notice for Pandora Ridge, the one she had missed on her first walk in the forest. No wonder she had missed it: the sign was of weathered wood, the legend incised but almost indecipherable. When she stood back the post was all but obscured by a tangle of squaw bush and huckleberries, while the start of the steep trail to the spur wasn’t visible at all.

  She continued up Porcupine Gulch to the zigzags and started to climb, treading so quietly that she could hear every tiny waterfall below. The ground was very steep: cows could never keep on their feet … she wouldn’t be happy on a horse here … no one knew where she was … no sound but the water – repetition! Her pace slackened; this was a repeat of twelve days ago, except for the voices. There were no voices. Not quite holding her breath, she kept moving, her body just ticking over, the raptor-brain watching for the rodent-memory to emerge from its hole.

  Another part of the brain was crowding her: come on, come on, what was it, where was it? The effort needed to suppress this and remain perceptive had the effect of making her tense. Self-conscious and disgruntled, she glared at the fog and trudged on. Now the tree trunks were insubstantial, receding into grey space; the lichen hung motionless, the sound of water faded.

  The trail bore right, round the headwall, and she came to the signpost where the left fork went over Pandora’s crest to Coon Gulch. It was here that she had seen the pileated woodpecker – and the bird had been startled by the falling tree. She found it amazing that possibly no one, least of all herself, would ever see that fallen tree. Amazing that such an enormous object, hundreds of feet long, should lie there unknown; no one had even heard it fall except herself … Wrong, they had heard it. And then she knew where she had heard the voices.

  After the tree fell she had been puzzled because there had been no whine of a chainsaw, no thock of axe on wood, no voices. But the voices she had heard had come through the
sound of water, and the last water had been in Porcupine Gulch. Across from the landslide.

  She continued, deep in thought, contouring on the narrow path that came to a corner which she knew was a corner only by the angle. The fog was dense now and the afternoon had grown dark. She looked at her watch. It was only four o’clock; the absence of light was due to the trees, she had reached the old-growth timber. And then she heard it: one note that seemed to go on for ever as she anticipated the next, and another, and then a chain of clear sharp calls rising in pitch. Immobile except for her eyes she searched for an oval form on a branch but knew it was hopeless: she was a birdwatcher in a fog.

  After a while she moved, very carefully, because she was not watching the path, not really watching anything, but feeling, and she sensed an increased alertness, a tensing of muscles, a focusing of round dark eyes. She felt the lift of feathers, the talons unhook, releasing rough bark; broad wings were spread and the light soft body dropped and drifted silently past this figure on the trail: floating down the gap between the tree trunks to tip and slant sideways and fade from sight.

  Her gaze came back slowly from the depths where the spotted owl had gone to the cause of its sharp change of direction. Totally bemused, she found that she was staring at Chester Hoyle. He approached, his face full of wonder.

  ‘It was!’ he called. ‘It was, wasn’t it? I heard it before I saw it; did you hear it?’

  They went down together, talking like people released from vows of silence. ‘Leo and Sadie will kill us,’ he chortled, and they giggled.

  ‘We can’t come back,’ she said. ‘We can’t risk it.’

  They were sobering up. ‘They can’t stand the disturbance,’ he agreed. ‘Perhaps we should keep quiet about it.’

  They came to the spur and then the start of the steep path that would end at Porcupine Creek: the lower trail that crossed the landslide. They stopped. All their elation had gone.