Miss Pink Investigates- Part Four

by Gwen Moffat

  In Sophie’s apartment there was no opportunity for questions and no energy. Jet lag struck, and single malt conspired with the lure of a bed after hours shoehorned into a cramped seat to render Miss Pink virtually comatose.

  She woke to a brilliant day. Sophie lived on the sixth floor of an apartment block on Ballard’s main street. It was an old hotel and its big sash windows looked out over the roofs and shade trees of this small Western town to alpine ranges. Between the big peaks and the valley there were foothills: long sweeps resembling downland close at hand while, more distantly, higher hills were densely timbered.

  Miss Pink had risen so late that she wasn’t surprised to find a note from Sophie saying she’d gone out for some sandwich fixings and to make herself at home. The table in the kitchen was laid and coffee was hot in the machine. Miss Pink felt guilty, lying in bed till eleven. When Sophie came home both were apologetic, excited and eager to be out. The tension of the previous night was forgotten — until, from the Bobcat Hills above the old copper mines, they looked down on Charlie Gunn’s great house, a place unmistakably built to flaunt its owner’s wealth and to dominate the valley.

  It was Charlie’s father who had made the first of the family’s fortunes. His father had been a Highland crofter and had emigrated to raise a family in a sod-house on the eastern prairies, but when his eldest son was old enough he had gone to the Yukon and struck gold. He returned to sink his money in sheep, progressing to cattle and horses. He was a good businessman and he forged ahead, buying land and eventually building the house which he was to name after the glen where his people had lived for generations in a two-roomed blackhouse belonging to the laird. The term ‘cocking a snook’ was coined for Charlie’s father.

  Miss Pink guessed that what she knew of Sophie’s extended family was public knowledge. Both she and her sister had been teachers, but where Sophie had remained single and ended her career as a lecturer in English at the state university, Edna (the pretty one, said Sophie) had married Charlie Gunn, the wealthiest rancher in the neighbourhood.

  It was reasonable to suppose that Charlie didn’t have his father’s devotion to ranching. The cattle and the sheep had been sold and now he concentrated on breeding horses. His land around Ballard had been sold for development, making another fortune for him, but it appeared that no money trickled down to his children. Val, the daughter, was running the pack-trips with Sophie’s horses so she must be working hard, at least in the season, and there was something about Clyde, Charlie’s son, working as a ranch hand. Sophie chattered about her own ranch but she was reticent about the establishment at Glenaffric and Miss Pink knew nothing of relationships between family members. She had an idea that Clyde was single and she knew that Val had been married twice, and there was a daughter, who would be Sophie’s great-niece, but she was away. It wasn’t clear where the girl was nor what she was doing, only that she wasn’t around. Miss Pink looked forward to learning more, possibly tomorrow when they were to dine at Glenaffric.

  They came to the trail-head and stopped. Miss Pink slid down and staggered, her knees locked. She clung to her mare’s neck and swung her legs gingerly, watching Sophie unhook the tailgate of the trailer, unable to assist.

  ‘Right,’ Sophie said. ‘Let’s have Barb in first.’

  Miss Pink picked up the reins and stumbled forward like a drunk.

  ‘What are you working on now?’ Sophie asked politely, easing her Cherokee on to the road.

  ‘I told you: a newspaper column slanted towards senior citizens. I’m hoping it will lead to another travel book.’

  ‘I meant fiction. You must be doing a romance.’

  ‘Not at the moment.’ Miss Pink was testy. ‘Publishers are down-sizing. I might turn to crime.’

  Sophie giggled and then they were both laughing: two solid old women reeking of sweat and horses. This was more like the Sophie she knew. Miss Pink relaxed happily and settled to enjoy the view. On their left were willow thickets, cottonwoods and a river, on their right Ballard’s newest development climbed the slope: raw and opulent houses pointing to steady incomes.

  Once a staging post on the cattle trail to the copper mines at Butte, Ballard’s fortunes were now reviving with the influx of yuppie commuters from Irving, Montana’s Silicon Valley. Each of these new properties stood on several acres of land; as they drove there were glimpses of sleek horses and late-model Jeeps but close to the road a house trailer sat in what appeared to be a junk yard.

  The trouble with mobile homes is that they look so shabby as they deteriorate and this was no exception. The general picture wasn’t helped by the wrecks of several cars, the skeleton of something — perhaps another trailer — gutted by fire and a yard fenced with branches of trees. It contained two bony horses. A large, florid fellow, his beer gut overhanging slim hips, was at the door of the trailer. He raised a hand and grinned as the Cherokee passed. Sophie nodded to him.

  ‘Friend of yours?’ Miss Pink asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. He’s Val’s ex, Paul Skinner.’

  ‘Oh, Jen’s father? It is Jen, isn’t it?’

  ‘God no! Jen’s father is Sam Jardine. Sam was Val’s first husband. She should have stayed with him. I never understood why she married this slob.’ Sophie’s voice dropped. ‘Obvious why he married her, of course.’

  ‘Her — expectations?’ Miss Pink murmured.

  ‘That’s how Skinner saw it. Actually, he was a handsome guy when he was younger, before he put on weight.’ Sophie drove slowly, her thoughts elsewhere. ‘He thought Val owned the ranch and the stock, but I rent the ranch from Charlie and the stock’s mine. And then Charlie could live for years yet; he’s only seventy. Skinner wasn’t going to wait once he got the picture. Besides, Val soon saw what kind of guy he was. He’s got a roving eye and no way would Val tolerate that kind of thing.’ Sophie bit her lip. As if Miss Pink had protested she added angrily, ‘Well, there was the drink too; what kind of woman is going to spend days living rough in the back country, working her guts out and all to earn money to keep a man in drink while he —’ She checked, breathing heavily.

  Miss Pink said delicately, ‘But the first husband was different?’

  ‘Sam’s all right.’ It was bitten off. ‘The trouble there was Charlie… All the same, if Sam and Val had stayed together maybe none of this would have — but there, we’re a different generation. Val says they were both immature, her and Sam Jardine; too immature to settle down, she means, although Sam’s settled well enough since, though he hasn’t married again. He’s got a spread down towards Irving: pedigree Angus. It was Val who didn’t want to settle; she’s a loner, only happy around horses. Of course, she has to have an interest.’

  There’s her daughter, Miss Pink thought, but didn’t say it. Sophie was thawing gradually; she’d learn the rest in time.

  *

  The ranch had been quiet when they’d started out, now there were horses in a corral, others tied outside a barn. Shrill neighs from the trailer were answered by a chorus of whinnies, and a figure in a ragged straw hat appeared in the doorway of the barn. Miss Pink was introduced to Val Jardine, who must have abandoned her second husband’s name along with the man. She was a gaunt woman in her fifties and now, after shepherding dudes on a day trip, the strain showed and she looked older. But there were good bones under the taut skin and her eyes were large: patrician eyes shadowed by the hat brim; she’d be a handsome woman if her face filled out a little. Whatever her age, she looked fit despite the fatigue, and she was good with animals. As Sophie had said, horses came first. After being introduced, Val wasted no time on small talk but turned to a hitched palomino, pasting ointment on a nasty sore. ‘The kid riding this one must have tightened the cinch when I wasn’t looking,’ she growled. ‘Rubbed him raw.’

  ‘He’ll be fine with a few days’ rest,’ Sophie said comfortably. ‘You can’t have eyes in the back of your head. I need to speak with you about that pair I mean to buy from Charlie. Are you happy for me to
pick them out?’

  ‘Of course I am. You can do as well as me there.’ Val went to work with a hoof pick. Miss Pink watched idly. The woman lowered the leg and moved to the rear end, mumbling to the pony who shifted his weight and seemed to present his hoof before she touched it. Miss Pink turned to help Sophie unload the trailer.

  When they’d unsaddled, Sophie settled her guest on the porch, supplied her with beer, told her where the fridge was, and left to help Val turn out the horses. Miss Pink watched them ride away bareback and reflected that her own offer of assistance had been declined less out of regard for her fatigue than to keep her out of the way. There was an air of tension about Val that recalled Sophie’s preoccupation of last night. Well, if what was needed was a family discussion the waiting time couldn’t be spent in a more congenial spot.

  It was six o’clock and shadows were already forming in the hollows of the hills. Ballard was hidden away to the north and a belt of tall spruce excluded any sound from that direction. Swallows were hunting flies above the corrals and a red-tailed hawk was calling. Eastwards were shapely little hills like flattened cones, the gulches filled with dark conifers. In places where there must be water, aspens caught the sun and flared like emeralds. Beyond the little hills was the line of the Thunder river, invisible in the bottom of its canyon but its presence indicated by a broken escarpment on the far side. Pale crags were seamed by shadowy gullies, minuscule firs silhouetted against the sky. Further south, beyond a great expanse of forest, broken here and there by cliffs, the snow peaks held a glint of gold.

  Miss Pink’s glass was empty, and so was the bottle. She got up to find the fridge.

  Val’s house, little more than a cabin, was the original Gunn home, the first place Charlie’s father had put up when he returned from the Yukon and before he built Glenaffric. Basically it wouldn’t have changed much, except for the installation of electricity. Val didn’t set much store by comfort; there was no table in the kitchen, no dresser, only shelves on the log walls stacked with coarse china and cans of food. There was a sink, an electric cooker that looked as if it were fifty years old and — surprisingly — a new refrigerator and a washing machine in matching shades of green. Everything was functional, even the calendar came from a feed store. The plank floor was bare and the chairs were plain kitchen chairs except for one in wicker with a cushion on which a black-and-white cat was curled, asleep. The only indulgences were photographs of horses tacked to the walls. Animals filled a void for Val. So what was the story behind the missing daughter? Miss Pink couldn’t resist a glance into the other rooms: a dim living-room, a couple of bedrooms so similar that from the thresholds it wasn’t apparent which was Val’s, a bathroom… She heard voices and dived for the kitchen to snatch a bottle of beer and emerge as they approached the porch.

  Sophie was fussy with apologies for taking so long. Val stared at the visitor as if bewildered to find her still there. For herself, Miss Pink appeared somnolent, allowing the fatigue to show but fully alert.

  The older women climbed into the Cherokee. Miss Pink, settling herself, was aware of Val’s urgent whisper at the driver’s window: ‘… will be careful, won’t you? Don’t take any risks.’ She was so intense that, feeling Miss Pink’s cool stare, the anguished eyes moved — and returned to Sophie without a flicker.

  *

  ‘You’re very perceptive.’ Sophie lifted chicken breasts carefully and placed them on kitchen paper. ‘Do you have enough lettuce for the salad?’

  ‘Heaps.’ Miss Pink added vinegar to the oil. ‘Perceptive? That comes with the territory surely. I only said I wish we could find fridges and washing machines in pleasing colours. I haven’t seen them in England.’

  ‘You’re fishing.’ Sophie sliced onions with a lethal-looking knife. ‘No one else gives Val nice presents. Charlie keeps a tight rein on Edna’s budget and Clyde never has anything to spare. I gave her the fridge and the washer. Bonuses, you know, after a good season? I believe in rewarding merit and that girl works hard.’

  ‘I could see that.’ Val was hardly a girl, but then, to Sophie… ‘I thought she looked drawn.’

  ‘She’d had a long day.’ There was a pregnant silence. Miss Pink fidgeted with the salad dressing, the onions sizzled in the pan. They were self-conscious but neither spoke until Sophie sighed heavily and slammed a lid on the pan. ‘There. Half an hour?’ She avoided Miss Pink’s eye. ‘A drink?’ The tone was bright and artificial; she’d already had a couple of whiskies. Miss Pink had scarcely touched hers.

  They sat at an open window, in the shade because this side of the apartment faced south. They looked over the shadowed street below, over the town and the foothills to the snowfields that were now flushed rosy in the last of the sunshine. Between them, on a coffee table with a surface of Mexican tiles, stood a bottle of Talisker, the level dropping.

  ‘Are you as attached to your nephew?’ Miss Pink asked, continuing the conversation.

  ‘Not so much. Clyde’s close to his mother, closer than Val is.’ She was a little drunk. ‘Val… me… horses: there’s a rapport, a bond.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Relaxed by her ride, stimulated by sips of single malt, Miss Pink probed cautiously. ‘Val isn’t a people-person,’ she mused. ‘That kind of woman doesn’t marry. Shouldn’t marry. Like me. Like you.’

  ‘How right you are.’ Sophie forgot that Miss Pink did enjoy people. ‘But she’s found her feet now,’ she added earnestly. ‘Very self-sufficient girl — independent.’ Her mind took a leap. ‘Pity about Sam. You have to meet him.’

  ‘And there’s the daughter.’ It was a murmur only.

  ‘You won’t see her.’

  ‘What does she do?’

  There was silence. Miss Pink’s head came round, relinquishing the view. Before that gently demanding gaze Sophie swallowed and glared. ‘You’ll hear it some time. There’s always someone around will make mischief. Like Charlie. Better to hear it from me. Jen left home. Ten years back. Without a word to a soul.’

  ‘Why would she do a thing like that?’

  ‘How do I know? How does anyone know how a girl’s mind works? I mean, if her mother has no idea?’

  ‘No idea at all?’

  Sophie’s eyes slid sideways. ‘Well, I told you, that Paul Skinner…’

  Miss Pink sipped her drink, saddened but not astonished. Stepfathers and nubile girls: a volatile mixture.

  ‘She was only seventeen!’ Sophie cried. ‘Can you believe that? The child he should have protected — he was her substitute daddy, for heaven’s sakes!’

  ‘Does she know?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Val. Her mother.’

  Sophie stared at her. ‘I’ve drunk too much.’ She looked surly. Regretting the disclosures?

  ‘Forget it. Why don’t we eat now?’ Miss Pink was good at finding escape routes.

  ‘Shoot, the chicken!’ Sophie leaped to her feet and rushed to the stove. When she returned she’d taken a grip on herself and sat down with care. ‘What I said, implying a relationship between those two, is what I think could have happened.’ She held Miss Pink’s eye. ‘I don’t know anything. No one knows. Jen hasn’t contacted any of us since she left. Ten years, Melinda, and not a word!’ Her voice had risen again.

  Miss Pink had been thinking. ‘Then how do you know —’ She left it there but Sophie smiled grimly and finished it for her.

  ‘That she’s alive? Because her father — Sam — had this guy working for him around the time she left: Bret Ryan, and Bret and Jen, they had a thing going, just a boy and girl romance, but after she went away she wrote to him, although she didn’t say why she’d left home. At least, that was Bret’s story. He said he didn’t know anything was wrong and he just happened to mention to Sam that he’d heard from Jen — who was in Texas — and Sam, of course, told Val and asked her why Jen had left. The girl was fond of her father but she never told him she was leaving either. And she never contacted him. It was as if she wanted a complete break with everyone fr
om around here.’

  ‘Except this friend — Bret.’

  ‘And she only wrote once to him — he said — but there was an address. Val went straight there: to Dallas, it was. Found the place, a cheap rooming house, but Jen had stayed only a week or two and moved on. No forwarding address. Val never found her.’

  ‘Is it possible she kept in touch with her stepfather?’

  Sophie’s face hardened. ‘He told Val he had no idea where she was.’

  ‘What does he think happened?’

  ‘The family don’t discuss it.’ Sophie looked out at the sky, now awash with the afterglow. ‘Except Val and me.’ She added carefully, ‘One has the impression that other people think there’s something behind it, like a quarrel.’

  ‘Between mother and daughter? It would have to be a sensational quarrel to keep the girl away for ten years.’

  ‘Well, there you are. You see why I think Skinner’s involved, although I’d never suggest that to Val. And now, this is the crunch: a friend of Sam’s saw Jen in Irving last week, looking at saddles. He wasn’t sure it was her — so long since he’d seen her — but the clerk in the store told him yes, it was Jen Jardine. Poor Val is distraught. She only learned this last evening. Sam called her and we discussed what we should do. That’s why I didn’t have time to change before I met you at the airport. It’s why Val is beside herself at the moment, not knowing what to do for the best, afraid I’ll take matters into my own hands, go and look for her, maybe antagonise her. You heard her back there at the ranch. Sam says to stay put — Val and me — and he’ll try to pick up her trail, but discreetly. I guess he thinks he can get through to her, whereas Val…’

  ‘Whereas Val could have been the cause of her leaving in the first place?’