by Gwen Moffat
‘But if you’re thinking that Byer shot Charlie on the Saturday why would he go back to the cabin Sunday evening?’
‘Because he left something —’ It was at that point that Cole arrived.
They showed him over the house, gave him the piece of Wedgwood found in the closet and took him to the creek bank, where they looked for more fragments without success. Sophie handed over a list of the missing items.
‘How would he expect to get rid of this stuff?’ he asked. ‘These porcelain boxes: eighteenth century? What would they fetch?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Sophie confessed. ‘It could be hundreds, maybe thousands. They have to be insured, there’ll be a record.’
‘Thousands? Where would he find a dealer who wouldn’t be suspicious?’
Which was when Miss Pink told him about Skinner and his trips to Seattle.
‘Byer may have gone there himself this time,’ Sophie said. ‘He’d guess that an inventory is going to be made of the more valuable contents of the house. I figure Byer isn’t coming back.’
‘He left that buckskin jacket and his good boots.’
‘Maybe he went in a hurry; he didn’t lock the door. He could have known you were getting close.’
‘Ma’am! You only just reported it. How could we be getting close?’
‘She means Charlie’s death,’ Miss Pink said. ‘You might ask Byer what he was doing on the Saturday that Charlie was at hunting camp.’
Cole couldn’t hide his amazement. He stared at the shabby little house. ‘Charlie didn’t die in the cabin,’ he said weakly.
‘Just a thought,’ Miss Pink said, adding, as if it were an afterthought, ‘Charlie was about to fire him; he’d spotted the silver horse had disappeared.’
Cole gulped and took refuge in the list of missing articles. ‘How could he get this stuff out of the house? A silver tray? What size would that be?’
‘The maids don’t live in,’ Sophie told him. ‘Byer’s there all hours, tending the stock, and my sister is — er — confused. And she likes her drop of Scotch…’
He took a deep breath; he was feeling his position keenly. ‘I have to be getting back. Thank you for your help…’ They knew he was dying to get to his mobile; Miss Pink could hear the gears meshing as he prepared to tell Hilton that there was another suspect for Charlie’s violent end. Or suspects. Skinner was in for a big surprise; however, if he was disposing of the stolen items it was unlikely that he’d kept any in his trailer.
A feature of this case was that, although it would seem that a lot was known about the movements of most family members and people connected with them, nothing was known of Skinner. Sam had appeared on the search, at Benefit, at the funeral; even Russell — connected through Clyde — could be placed: he went fishing, he drove to Irving for supplies; but Paul Skinner was an unknown quantity. Living in his tacky mobile home he had two horses and, presumably, a pick-up and trailer at his disposal. What did he do all day — and night? Had he been to Seattle since Charlie’s death and the latest thefts? Was he there now? Was Byer with him?
‘Useless to speculate,’ she said aloud, as the dust rose behind Cole’s car. ‘Except,’ she added, with a glint of amusement, ‘one wonders whether he should have put a seal on Byer’s door.’
‘A seal?’
‘To prohibit entrance. He should do that if Byer’s a murder suspect.’
‘So since he hasn’t —’
‘He may come back. Cole, I mean. I don’t think Byer will. Cole will be reporting to Hilton and I’d guess that he’s going to be sent to speak to Skinner — unless Hilton comes himself.’
‘Now you are speculating.’
‘Touché.’ Miss Pink looked up at the slopes of the Bobcat Hills. ‘We’ve done our part here. I think I’ll go and ride.’
Sophie blinked at what looked like a declaration of withdrawal from the action. She said coldly, ‘Like I said, you take Barb. I have to check my stock and the Glenaffric animals. There’s a lot to do. I doubt if Val and Clyde are putting in much time today.’
‘I need to clear my head.’ Miss Pink was apologetic. She wanted to empty her mind of theories and times and alibis, and the niggling suggestion that it would be a great relief if it turned out that Byer had been the one to shoot Charlie. And yet there was the possibility that Charlie had not been shot. Still there appeared to be no confirmation of a bullet track. How could that be proved in the circumstances? Would there be traces of metal if the bullet had scraped bone?
*
‘You see,’ she said to Barb as they plodded up the long slopes, ‘my mind is going round in circles. I need to clear the cobwebs and perhaps there’ll be a flash of light that will illuminate one corner.’ Barb’s ears had twitched at the first words but as her rider rambled on the mare lost interest and settled to the job in hand.
They were following an old wagon road that climbed the Bobcats, steering well clear of the old mines and steep gradients. The going was excellent although the outlook was a trifle dull: a few low flowers, the odd woodpecker in a juniper, no view until they reached the top, which turned out to be a false summit.
The ways divided. Below, in a shallow basin that was scattered with statuesque firs, several small lakes formed the shape of a hand with three fingers, their water reflecting the bright sky. The wagon road dipped to a turning circle, its dust marked by tyre tracks, presumably those of Russell and Clyde on their fishing trip yesterday. The basin had an abandoned air and, as if to deepen the feel of wilderness, a large ungainly shape was motionless on the far side of a tarn, watching them.
Miss Pink’s lips tightened. Barb’s head was up, her ears pointing. ‘He can never run as fast as an Arab,’ Miss Pink murmured soothingly.
The bear dropped on all fours and ambled away. Barb turned with alacrity and resumed the plod to the summit ridge. They came to the top and the ridge continued southwards, heading for the high country where the grizzlies hung out. The snow peaks were dazzling, white as the puffy clouds that appeared motionless in the cerulean sky. Below, seemingly close in that crystal atmosphere, the Black Canyon was marked by its bottle-green timber, rimmed on the far side by the pearly crags.
A pair of red-tailed hawks were rising on a thermal, calling shrilly. Miss Pink remembered, the red-tail she’d heard when in Glenaffric’s kitchen. The house must be quite close below.
The breeze was from the south-east. Very faintly through the bird calls, she caught the sound of an engine.
She dismounted, knotting the reins and slipping them over her arm. She raised the binoculars and, tracing the far rim of the canyon southwards, the glasses swept past a helicopter in the air to focus on the stretch of meadows about Mazarine Lake. She glimpsed a sliver of water but the distance was too great to distinguish figures. She imagined she could see movement among the rocks of the escarpment but she didn’t need to see people. It was enough to have seen the helicopter; either it had brought men in or was taking them out, or they were working a shift system. Hilton was looking for the bullet. She wondered what he was doing about the gun — but there was nothing he could do until he found a bullet.
On the return, Barb elected to take the direct route of descent rather than the long way round by the Finger Lakes. Miss Pink struggled with her for a few moments, then gave in, rationalising that since she didn’t want to go down past the mines because it was steep, then she should face her fear. They started down.
The descent was frustrating: shuffling gaily along innocuous-seeming spurs that ended in impossible drops, backtracking to the first reasonable gully, hopping down rock steps, dreading a broken leg, coming out on grass to another ridge, another false cast.
By the time they reached the mines Miss Pink was worn out and the thought of wandering through the workings, never knowing when the ground might give way, filled her with horror. She held the mare in as they walked through the area, her attention on the ground in front of the horse, alert for signs of subsidence. Once, passing a shed without a
door or windows, there was a scuffle inside which sent Barb leaping sideways. Only the fact that Miss Pink was already gripping hard saved her from a fall. Dragged to death, she thought grimly, and saw how easy it could be — staring at the next drunken ruin, recognising it for the one Sophie had pointed out: the entrance to a shaft, the roof supported by one baulk of timber, and even that was leaning. It looked as if the vibration of a passing horse would bring the lot crashing down.
The mines ended and they picked up a worn trail which entered the forest to drop in wide zigzags towards the valley. With all the dangers behind them they descended quickly and easily, and after a while the trees stopped at a break left by an old rockfall. Below and less than a mile away a vehicle was speeding along a road trailing dust. No houses were visible and if the Black Canyon was in view it was lost in the vastness of the forest. From higher up the trail meadows would have been visible but there were only the conifers and that stretch of road which appeared totally alien. She hadn’t come this way with Sophie last week.
Common sense kicked in, saying that the mare knew she was going home, but when the animal started off again with her fast, shuffling gait and the trees closed in Miss Pink realised that, judging from the position of the sun, they were heading for the high country. And that road was disturbing — a dirt road, certainly, given the dust cloud — with nothing on this side of the canyon other than the track to Glenaffric and no one would take its potholes at the speed that pick-up had been driven. Pick-up? Byer?
They came to a series of short, sharp zigzags and then the trail swung round an elbow, straightened out and the trees ended.
There were railed pastures on each side containing horses and, at the end of the trail, which ran like a drove road between the fences, Glenaffric basked in the sun under its angled roofs.
The loose horses ranged along the fence, keeping pace skittishly as Barb broke into a canter. At the corrals she skidded to a halt, nose to nose with Ali, as excited as only a stallion could be. Miss Pink dismounted, dragged the reluctant mare to the big horse barn and pushed her inside a loose box.
There were two pick-ups in the yard. As she passed it she glanced in the one closest to the back door. He’d been to the supermarket. Two full paper sacks were on the seat — and no rifle on the rack.
In the kitchen a man raised his voice. Frightened? Threatening? He was answered by a murmur. Miss Pink walked in without knocking.
Edna smiled at her and continued with what she was saying: ‘— for a number of reasons. You could say it was a lady you visited. I’m sure you know lots —’
Paul Skinner, red-faced, his eyes bulging, ignored her and glared at the newcomer. ‘Who the hell are you? Oh, Jeez, yeah, you’re the one was with Val when I come… They’re saying you found the bits.’
The remaining Wedgwood fragments were still on the kitchen table. ‘That’s right.’ Miss Pink, breathless after struggling with her horse, tried to sound neutral. ‘They were in Byer’s house.’
‘Byer!’ He spat it out. ‘It’s him they should go after, not me. I didn’t know nothing about it. She says I was in with him.’ He jerked his head at Edna.
‘You go to Seattle,’ Edna said.
He licked his lips and his eyes looked as if they would burst from their sockets. Prudence warred with rage.
‘What does Seattle have to do with it?’ Miss Pink was all innocence. Edna looked at her and smiled.
‘That Cole,’ he hissed. ‘He says that stuff — all the stuff stole from her’ — a venomous glance at Edna — ‘it couldn’t be sold around here. It goes to Seattle. Where was the last lot, he wanted to know. I said he could search my trailer. He didn’t have no warrant, I didn’t have to let him but I did. That shows I got nothing to hide, don’t it?’
‘You go to Seattle,’ Edna repeated.
‘So I go to fucking Seattle — and you know why I go — don’t you? Don’t you?’
He took a step towards her. Miss Pink said quickly. ‘You touch her and you have to kill me —’
‘Kill? Kill? Listen, you —’ He caught himself just in time, dropping his voice but sounding the more menacing for that. ‘Don’t you start about me killing,’ he grated. ‘You and her, and that Cole. I go to Seattle to sell deer meat. I never stole nothing from this house in my life. I’m no thief —’
‘You’re a poacher,’ Edna said calmly.
‘So? I take a deer now and again but them never belonged to Charlie. Them’s wild beasts. I’m no thief, I tell you, and here you are: all of you, trying to pin murder on me.’
‘I didn’t say that.’ Edna looked shocked.
He gaped at her, then turned to Miss Pink. ‘She lost her mind. I’m outa here.’
‘Daddy said —’
He checked on his way to the door. ‘Daddy said I pushed my wife in the river,’ he told Miss Pink in grotesque mimicry. ‘Daddy said I was Jen’s father and I give her a baby. Daddy’s roasting in hell right now and I bet he’s telling the devil I shot him and hung him up in the stirrup so’s Ali drug him to his death.’
‘You did?’ Edna asked, surprised.
*
‘Where was everybody?’ Miss Pink asked. ‘There was no one at Glenaffric except —’
‘We had a problem here,’ Sophie said, running her eye critically over Barb. ‘This animal’s sweating too much. We had a mare dropping her foal early, had to send for the veterinarian. We saved her and the foal but it was touch and go there for a while.’
‘You’ll have to keep better records. Barb’s in season. She came down to Glenaffric rather than here, just to find Ali.’
‘Did they —?’
‘Not yet. She’s all yours. Skinner was at Glenaffric.’
‘He was? Why?’
‘Logical when you think about it. Cole must have gone to him and implied his collusion in the thefts — that is, if he didn’t actually accuse him. Evidently Cole said too much, threw in something about Charlie; Skinner rushed up to Edna to — well, I’m not sure exactly why he went, you know the state she’s in now. He didn’t hurt her, just railed against the family. I arrived and he treated me to a tirade about being accused of theft and murder, and all he did was take deer meat to Seattle. Maintains he’s no more than a poacher. Oh, he did say that if Byer was the thief then he was in it on his own.’
‘Typical,’ Sophie grunted, pulling off the steaming saddle. ‘Thieves falling out.’
17
Spiro Blair was in the process of seducing his new secretary, the first move being to buy her an expensive lunch at the Riverside Restaurant. Spiro owned and managed the Lonesome Cloud Guest Ranch and Resort, and he went through secretaries as fast as his wife discovered his affairs, which was easy since she looked after the accounts of the business and Spiro’s ladies didn’t come cheap.
Tami Ford was pleased with life. Not euphoric — she would have preferred her host to be young and muscular, but she was enough of a realist to know that in this town a girl was unlikely to find a hunk with money. Tami was the youngest of a family of six: junk food and big sisters’ hand-me-down clothes. At eighteen and with ravishing looks she was revelling in the attentions of a wealthy man.
Beautiful, Spiro thought smugly, observing her profile softened by the umbrella’s shade but illumined by the reflection from the water. The river slid past, smooth as oil with only the occasional dip and swirl of a lazy whirlpool. A pallet drifted by, residual debris of the storm.
‘Isn’t there a leash law in this town?’ Tami asked idly. She was a country girl.
‘What?’ He tore his gaze away from her face. ‘Leash law?’ A German Shepherd and some kind of hound showed on the far bank of the river, slipping through the willows, approaching the water as if they would take to it, retreating, running along the bank.
‘I see,’ Tami said. ‘It’s that log they’re interested in. You don’t think there could be a puppy caught up…?’
It wasn’t a log but a small tree complete with roots now washed clean, but tang
led with a raft of sticks and the odd plank, with plastic litter and something that rolled as it came level with the restaurant.
‘It’s a dead cow,’ Spiro said. ‘Drowned in the storm.’ At that moment, out of the wrack an arm appeared and a hand. The hand waved to them.
Tami’s screams heralded a period of frenetic confusion and put paid to Spiro’s peace of mind. For some time he was the only person available for interview and the Press made a meal of him, in lieu of the police. The sheriff was concerned to catch up with the body, although he wasn’t convinced that the couple had seen a hand; stripped twigs could produce the effect, and as for the waving — they’d said it had rolled at that moment, this object that they said was a man. And why did it have to be a man? Given some of the teens that hustled in local bars it might as well be a woman. So by the time his deputy had got around to deciding that some action had to be taken and he’d reported back to the Sheriff’s Department, the body had passed Irving and was among the braided channels and the swamplands below the town. And no way was the sheriff going to call in a chopper because a couple who’d had a skinful of margaritas thought they’d seen a hand. The body floated on, nestled in its raft of debris. It was the dogs that finally revealed its position.
*
At Glenaffric and the homestead they were short-handed at a time when the tourist season was about to start and, as luck would have it, two animals demanded expert attention. Tomorrow Val and Clyde were scheduled to take the first pack-trip into the back country so there was all the sorting and packing to do for that, and now they had a newly foaled mare who must be watched for a while and a decision had to be made regarding Barb. And there was Edna who shouldn’t be left on her own. Fortunately, on the Monday the maids would return after their weekend off.
On Sunday Jen and Bret drove to Glenaffric to confer with Sophie on the ever-present problems of breeding, then Sophie left for Irving and a business lunch with Mr Seaborg, the lawyer. At the homestead Val and her brother worked frantically to cram days of preparation into a few hours, Miss Pink being pressed into service to fetch food and last-minute essentials from Ballard. She arrived back at the homestead as Jen emerged from the barn, carrying a bucket. The woman looked quite at home, as if the years of estrangement had never existed. Had Charlie’s death and the revelation of his lies been the ultimate catharsis that reunited mother and daughter?