Miss Pink Investigates 3

by Gwen Moffat

  The road was running down a canyon with a full creek in the bottom, the banks lined with cottonwoods. The cloud cover was disintegrating and as she came round a corner and emerged from the trees she was blinded by the sun. But now, as the road continued to descend, the shadows lengthened, the sunlight climbed a wall to her right until suddenly she was in a defile so black under both rock and trees that, panicking, she switched on her lights.

  She crept round a tight bend, the rock stood back, the wooded creek sparkled away to the left, and she was looking down a wide canyon below ranks of golden spires that walled it on the west, their crenellated shadow reaching across pastures that glowed like emeralds, across clusters of trees where, a culminating fantasy, smoke climbed lazily from shingled roofs. She had reached Salvation Canyon.

  She was surprised to feel relief. People lived in this wilderness; they built houses and worked the land, lit fires and cooked the evening meal. On her left cattle grazed in lush grass, on the right a notice was nailed to a post at the start of a track. junque and what-ever, it announced shakily. Underneath and attached to the same post, a smooth piece of driftwood had been neatly lettered in black and red: paintings by creed.

  At the end of the track was a low cabin. A small figure sat on the planks of the porch, immobile, watching the road. Miss Pink waved but got no response. She drove on, bound for the end of the road. When you reach the river, her landlord had said, you’ve gone too far. She wanted the Forset place and that was at the mouth of the second side canyon. The first was opposite the cabin with the notices: an obvious rift running back to a hinterland of jumbled cliffs. There was a ranch in the mouth of this canyon, dwarfed by shade trees. Then came the skyline of bristling spires in which she could see no break for miles.

  She passed more cabins and, on the far side of the creek, a group of children on ponies stood in a field while one of their number tore round barrels, leaning inwards at an alarming angle. As she slowed, Miss Pink realised that some were waving. They were all waving. With so many children about, this was no dying community.

  On her right, now, were three newish cabins, all big A-frames, set too close together to have much land attached. They looked like a sub-development. There was no land to speak of behind them either: steep rocky slopes running back to end against the great escarpment that had walled the canyon all the way down the road. She passed more cows and a disproportionate number of horses. A stream entered the main creek on its far side and there was a cabin near the confluence but no canyon behind it, no break in the jagged wall. There were white goats in a paddock where a figure in a long skirt stared towards the road. Miss Pink waved again and the woman raised an arm uncertainly.

  At length she saw what might be a break in the fretted reef: a wide side valley, still bounded by rock but running back far enough to be more than just an amphitheatre. The far wall was a mesa, flat-topped with a crumbling scarp above slopes that were dotted with juniper and stunted pinyon pines. Below the mesa was a cluster of ancient cottonwoods, a group of buildings and the inevitable corrals. A placard stood beside the ranch gate: a faded painting of a red and white bull below a caption: forset herefords. She turned in under the high cross-bar.

  The house was set back a few hundred yards from the road: a structure of ageing wood in which could just be distinguished an original cabin. Other log rooms had been added at diverging angles, each with its shingled roof. A yellow Labrador stood on the porch and barked at the approaching jeep. A screen door opened and a large, thickset man clumped across the boards to welcome her.

  Her first impression of John Forset was of familiarity. The thinning hair was cut as short as that of an old-fashioned military man, and he affected a small clipped moustache. He wore a mud-coloured shirt, a yellow cardigan with a hole in one elbow, and khaki slacks. Only the high-heeled riding boots marred the image of an English country gentleman caught before he had had a chance to change for dinner. She recalled that her friend had said he had served in England during the War.

  She was ushered through an interior so dim that she was aware only of a passage between objects. She blundered against the dog. ‘Allow me to go first,’ Forset said. ‘Get on, dog! This,’ he explained, ‘is the original cabin. We just use it for junk. Should be cleared out and most of it burned.’

  A large, light room showed through a doorway. Miss Pink stepped over its uneven sill and gasped in astonishment. She had a sense of large pieces of solid furniture but her eyes were drawn immediately to the view. One wall was mostly glass, and she looked diagonally across the shadowy valley to the regiment of pinnacles, their burnished summits presented like lances. She walked forward, entranced, and saw, through a second window at the side of the room, that the red escarpment to the east was quietly smouldering.

  She became aware of silence and turned to find her host observing her almost smugly. ‘I like watching people’s reactions,’ he said. ‘I’ll never regret the cost of that window – although I might have second thoughts if it shattered in an earth tremor. What would you like to drink?’

  ‘A dry sherry,’ she murmured absently, turning back as if mesmerised. ‘And they complement each other,’ she went on: ‘the golden towers and the long red wall.’

  ‘The Crimson Cliffs. Will California fino be acceptable?’

  She smiled acceptance, reflecting that circumstances were conspiring to enchant her.

  ‘And you will eat with us,’ he said, as if reading her mind.

  She remembered her manners then and relinquished the spectacle, but he placed her in a chair that turned her to the window again. He walked to a doorway and gave a shout. She heard a clatter of dishes and realised that part of the pleasure of this unique welcome had been a good smell: of sautéed meat and hot wine.

  A woman appeared: red-faced from a stove but sparkling, a small, buxom person with damp curling hair, wearing jeans and an apron patterned with sunflowers.

  ‘The chef,’ Forset said, beaming, ‘Dolly Creed. Our guest is dying for her sherry, Doll, and too polite to start. Drink up, girl, and get back to your kitchen.’

  Miss Pink saw that he was embarrassed. Dolly Creed wiped a palm on her jeans and shook hands firmly. ‘Did you have a good trip?’ she asked, taking a glass from Forset, sitting down and giving all her attention to the visitor.

  ‘Creed?’ Miss Pink repeated, ‘ “Paintings by Creed”? Did I pass your house?’

  ‘I’m Creed,’ Dolly admitted cheerfully, ‘but that was Myrtle Holman’s cabin; she just sells my stuff. I live in one of the hideous A-frames you passed afterwards.’

  ‘They were economical,’ Forset put in coldly, ‘and they’re convenient.’

  ‘If you go for that sort of thing,’ Dolly countered. ‘They clash with the environment. And they’ll never blend in, because they’re the wrong shape.’

  ‘You could have had Weasel. Then short-term tenants like Miss Pink here could have rented a nice modern place.’

  ‘There’s no light at Weasel.’

  ‘Weasel Cabin?’ Miss Pink ventured.

  ‘Creek,’ Forset told her. ‘It’s the old Mormon place to us, but since all the older cabins are Mormon, we distinguish yours by its creek.’ He sniffed. ‘Do I smell burning?’

  Dolly went out, carrying her glass. ‘A fine artist,’ he murmured when she was out of hearing. ‘That’s hers.’ He gestured to the wall behind Miss Pink, who turned and then stood up, the better to observe a picture of pinnacles with, in the foreground, a dusty little path running through a meadow starred with flowers. It was pretty but too close to chocolate-box art for her taste.

  ‘How did she get that glow of reflected light on the walls?’ she asked.

  ‘She takes photographs and paints from the prints. Very clever. These are all hers.’

  He meant those that were not photographs of bulls and horses. She walked round the room pausing at Dolly’s paintings, which were mostly of the local sandstone country, but there was one small view of a great canyon, cloud-filled, with
just the suspicion of a distant rim and, off-centre, the tip of a butte. Far, far below, glinted a loop of water.

  ‘That’s the best,’ she said firmly.

  ‘It’s her favourite too. She wouldn’t sell it to me until she needed a new saddle. Then she had to let it go.’

  ‘She must make a good living.’ Miss Pink was aware that western saddles cost a small fortune.

  ‘She does, but so does Myrtle Holman, who takes a commission. Doll sells mostly in town. We don’t get many tourists down here. It’s a dead-end road, and dirt at that. City folk don’t like driving on dirt roads. A few river-runners come up in summer but you’re not going to buy pictures when you’re going down the river, and they don’t get as far as the Holman place anyway. Usually they reach here, see the “Private” notices and turn back to the boats. Leave us to ourselves; that’s how we like it – except for invited guests, of course,’ he added quickly.

  ‘There must be a number of young couples living here. I saw lots of children.’

  ‘Ah, you came past the Olson place. Jo and Erik have ten kids. Poor Jo. I don’t mean the kids, but she was so unfortunate with her menfolk. They say women gravitate towards the same kind of husband each time. Erik is … ’ He trailed off and looked puzzled.

  ‘Can I dish up?’ Dolly asked from the doorway.

  It was not until Miss Pink had pronounced judgement on the boeuf Stroganoff and an excellent burgundy that Dolly asked curiously: ‘You were saying Erik Olson was – what?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Olson.’ Forset put down his glass and looked up the valley. ‘Careless?’ he ventured.

  ‘Accident-prone,’ Dolly suggested.

  ‘No, that’s not it either. He’s thoughtless. He’s the kind of guy will be talking to you, and he’d walk round the back of a kicker when the flies were biting and slap it on the rump to emphasise a point. All Jo’s husbands were like that.’ His gaze had returned to Miss Pink. ‘The first was killed when he flew his plane into a mountain in cloud, the second got himself shot— ’

  ‘He shot himself,’ Dolly said firmly.

  ‘That implies something different. He was climbing through a fence and his gun was propped against the wire and it slipped and went off.’

  After a moment Miss Pink said: ‘So all the children have different fathers?’

  ‘There are four from the first,’ Dolly said, ‘two from the second, and all the little ones are Olson’s.’

  ‘Where do they go to school?’

  ‘They don’t. At least, Jo’s educated all of them. She used to be a teacher. Must have been a good one. All those kids are bright as paint, and they’ve got beautiful manners. Not like some,’ Dolly added darkly.

  ‘Now, now.’ It was a warning from Forset. ‘Don’t be racist.’

  ‘What? Oh, I see. I didn’t mean Birdie; I was thinking of Shawn.’

  ‘Shawn has a lot— ’ Forset began, and stopped. Dolly and he turned suddenly to their plates.

  ‘Jo teaches all the valley children?’ Miss Pink asked brightly.

  ‘They kind of go along to classes,’ Dolly said slowly. Suddenly she seemed to get a grip on the conversation. ‘Birdie is Indian,’ she said firmly. ‘A little Ute girl who was adopted by the Estwicks: Sam and Paula; they have the place across the creek from the Olsons. There was a Ute hand working at Wind Whistle – the upper ranch – about seven years back, wasn’t it, John?’

  ‘He was married,’ Forset said. Dolly glanced at him. ‘And they left,’ she said. ‘Poor people, you know? Paula – the Estwicks adopted the baby. They didn’t have any children of their own.’

  ‘I see.’ Miss Pink was affable, knowing there was more to it than that, but it was not her business. She went on smoothly: ‘But the teacher won’t have twelve children in class all at the same time. Is that right? Twelve children in the valley?’

  ‘If you include teens,’ Forset said, ‘but Jo’s three eldest are working, but then they all work. Even the smallest can do jobs around the ranch – except the baby, of course.’

  ‘Full employment.’

  ‘You could say that. We may not all be earning, but everyone’s doing something, wouldn’t you say?’ This was addressed to Dolly who did not respond immediately but twirled her empty glass. Forset replenished their drinks. ‘There are nine households,’ Dolly said at length, as if she had been calculating: ‘two ranches, three homesteads and the four cabins. Obviously the ranchers work: John, and the Duval brothers at Wind Whistle. Of the homesteaders, the Olsons have got a couple of cows and a few calves, not enough to keep that huge family, of course. Erik works for John.’

  ‘Seasonally,’ Forset put in. ‘I don’t employ a man full-time.’

  ‘The same applies to the Estwicks,’ Dolly went on. ‘They’ve got only a hundred acres or so and a few steers. Paula could run that place with one hand behind her back. Sam Estwick works for the Duvals. They take people into the back country: pack trips, hunting in the fall, that kind of thing, so there’s more work there than here on John’s place.’

  ‘They’re younger than me,’ Forset said, as if she had accused him of malingering, ‘and they lease all that land in the Straight Canyons. They can afford to run several hundred head.’

  ‘And then there’s the four cabins,’ Dolly said, ignoring him. ‘Myrtle Holman and her daughter and grandson in the top one; of the A-frames, one’s owned by a retired biologist who’s writing a book on the natural history of the area, and the others are still owned by John. I rent one and the other’s let to a multi-millionaire who’s dreaming up a scheme to build a resort and marina at Gospel Bottom where Salvation runs into the river.’

  Miss Pink was startled. ‘But aren’t there cataracts— ’

  ‘He’s got that worked out. There’s going to be another dam, of course, and the river will back up, flood this whole canyon – among others – right back to Horsethief, even up Horsethief, behind Wind Whistle.’

  ‘Don’t take any notice,’ Forset said comfortably. ‘She pretends Plummer’s got a forked tail and horns. She makes it up as she goes along; it’s an ongoing war between her and Plummer, adds spice to everyday living.’

  ‘To Glen Plummer,’ Dolly said, ‘the environment is the air conditioning and central heating in his house – and the temperature of a pool. He can put a value on scenery only because that’s the point of having picture windows, but scenery would command a far higher price if you could change it when you got bored with it.’

  Miss Pink smiled and changed the subject. ‘Who keeps goats?’

  ‘I forgot the Stenbocks,’ Dolly said. ‘How could one forget Lois and Art?’ She giggled. ‘They’re self-sufficient, or trying to be. Living off the land – with goats, can you imagine? Why is it organic people always have to keep goats? They make a desert of any place you tether them. Goats made the Sahara; did you know that?’ Miss Pink nodded. ‘Wait until you meet them,’ Dolly went on. ‘They’re city folk, from Minneapolis. Grown daughters working in LA, they don’t come home much, can’t blame them for that. It’s not just that Art and Lois are trying to be self-sufficient; they’re so intense about it.’

  ‘They’re doing their best, Doll.’

  ‘Of course.’ She was contrite. ‘Forget it. You’ll have to judge people yourself as you meet them.’ She stood up and started to clear the table, returning from the kitchen with a platter of English water biscuits and a small Stilton. ‘We have them mailed to us,’ Forset said, seeing Miss Pink’s surprise, ‘from a place in the English Midlands, what’s it called?’

  ‘Hartington,’ Dolly supplied. ‘I was taken over the factory once and I’ve had Stiltons sent to me ever since. I forgot the wine, John.’

  He went out and came back with a dark bottle. After she’d tasted the contents Miss Pink sighed luxuriously and said: ‘I never thought that I would end a dinner in Utah with a ripe Stilton and a venerable port.’

  ‘All credit to the chef,’ Forset said. ‘She educated me, even in wines. I was a beer and bourbon man befor
e I met this girl.’

  ‘Not so much of the girl,’ Dolly protested. ‘I’m forty-three and I love it. But thank you for the compliments. I think, if you enjoy food, then you enjoy preparing it and watching people eat it. And if you like good food you’ve got to complement it with the proper wine, otherwise it’s like elegant clothes and tacky jewellery and your hair in a mess.’

  They drank brandy with Turkish coffee while the afterglow faded, and then Miss Pink was escorted across the road to the cabin on Weasel Creek. As she stopped the jeep Forset came back asking for her bags. Behind him light streamed from an open door and two small windows as if from a cabin in a fairy tale.

  Her cases were deposited in a room that was lined with pine, where a large bed stood with the sheet turned down over a patchwork quilt. She smelled lavender. Dolly stood in the doorway reminding her that they were going to ride tomorrow, assuring herself that the guest had everything she could conceivably need, promising a lovely morning and that she would be there at ten, saying goodnight. The light in the living-room was switched off, the outer door closed. She heard the truck drive away.

  She sat on the bed and kicked off her shoes. Through an inner door there was a glimpse of white porcelain: not just a shower but a bath too. It might be an old cabin but it certainly wasn’t primitive. She bathed and got into bed. The reading lamp was positioned correctly on the wall and on the bedside table was a set of Chandler novels, some Hillerman, P. D. James and Ruth Rendell. She was too tired to start a new book. She switched out the light. The room was pitch-black and the silence was profound. Then, from above the cabin, curiously resonant among the rocks, came the long hooting call of a great horned owl.

  Chapter 2