Miss Pink Investigates 3

by Gwen Moffat

  ‘Sort of, but I don’t know anything, so I couldn’t help them.’

  ‘Well, that’s true,’ Frankie said. ‘You don’t know anything – do you?’

  ‘Did Shawn talk?’ Miss Pink asked, alert for the sound of an engine.

  ‘He clammed up on me.’

  ‘You’ve been gone ages,’ Frankie said. ‘Where else were you?’

  ‘Just around. With the police. This horse is steaming; I have to go. They’ll be here any minute.’ She clattered away to the stable behind the house. Frankie frowned, watching her go, then stiffened as a car was heard coming up the track. ‘Drinks, sweetie?’ she asked brightly, then to Miss Pink: ‘Can you hold the fort?’

  The Grays went indoors. Miss Pink looked down at her clean slacks and reflected that, although she was not dressed for cocktails and dinner, at least she had not slept in these clothes. She got up from her chaise longue and took an upright chair. Reclining, she felt at a disadvantage.

  The engine was switched off and the evening was still. Down in the pinyons a bird sang a snatch of song. Distinctly she heard twigs scrape and caught sight of something spotted slip through a patch of sunlight. Voices approached. ‘I’ll be right out,’ Frankie was saying, appearing with two strange men. ‘You must be parched in this heat. Come and meet our guest. Melinda, these are Lieutenants Pugh and Sprague. Miss Pink is from England. You’ll have to excuse me for a moment.’ She bustled away.

  ‘Do sit down,’ Miss Pink said. ‘Pugh? Your people came from Wales?’

  ‘Why, yes, ma’am.’ He was slight and dark with the sharp features of the Celt. His companion was plump and genial. They wore white shirts with collars and she suspected that when they started out this morning they were wearing ties.

  ‘How did you know I was Welsh?’ Pugh asked.

  ‘Pugh is a common name in Wales.’

  Lieutenant Sprague cleared his throat. ‘You’re staying here, ma’am?’

  ‘I have a cabin farther down the canyon.’

  He looked out over the pool, which was large and clean and indicative of wealth. Sarah came from the stable, smelly and unchanged, collapsed in a chair and stared at the detectives incuriously. Miss Pink knew that she was acting the role of a typical girl of her age. The men were not unaffected and Sprague’s hand went to his throat and hovered there as if he had meant to loosen a tie. He said: ‘We’re asking everyone where they were yesterday afternoon.’ Sarah looked bored.

  ‘I was riding,’ Miss Pink said, and gave them an account of the ride up to the point when the rain started.

  ‘So you saw no one before the storm?’ Sprague pressed.

  She considered. ‘When we were on top we looked down on the Forset place.’ She indicated Calamity Mesa which was the obvious feature from where they sat. ‘John Forset was cutting wood. And he was waiting for me when I got back. I was on one of his horses. Otherwise, no; we didn’t see anyone else – apart from Erik Olson.’ She had told them already that they had met Debbie’s father in Mormon Pasture.

  ‘What did you do after you returned the horse?’

  ‘I went home, changed, and drove to the Estwicks’ cabin. Mr Forset had told me that Birdie was missing.’

  ‘How would he know that?’

  ‘Her mother had been telephoning people.’ Miss Pink looked at Sarah.

  ‘Her mother got hysterical,’ the girl explained. ‘Birdie was always going missing – you know that already, but this time, with the pony coming back and all, we thought the kid had come off, was lying unconscious somewhere.’

  ‘She was too young to be riding alone,’ Sprague said.

  Sarah stared at him. ‘She didn’t come to grief on a horse!’ she said with contempt. He flushed.

  Pugh said quickly: ‘So her mother came back from town, found the child missing, and no husband around, and raised the alarm. Now why was that? The kid had been missing already this week; she should have been used to it.’

  ‘The pony,’ Sprague put in.

  ‘Ah, yes; the pony was tied up in the stable.’

  Sarah stared at him, then blinked slowly. Miss Pink repeated: ‘It was tied?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, the bridle had been taken off and someone had removed the saddle. Did she do that?’

  ‘Why look at me?’ Sarah said. ‘I wasn’t there.’

  ‘Where were you, miss?’

  ‘Over there.’ She gestured to the far side of the valley.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Taking photographs.’

  ‘In the dark?’ By late afternoon the west side of the valley was deep in shadow.

  ‘I had a flash.’

  ‘What were you photographing?’ Pugh asked politely.

  ‘Rattlers.’

  In the ensuing silence Jerome came along the tiles carrying a tray. ‘My dear,’ he addressed his daughter, ‘bring some soda and more glasses.’

  ‘Your daughter says she was photographing rattlesnakes yesterday!’ Sprague exclaimed.

  ‘No doubt.’ Jerome was making room for the tray on an iron table, transferring magazines and books to chairs, talking as he moved: ‘She’s not satisfied with what she has. Rattlers are difficult animals to photograph. You want them threatening, but when you’re looking through a view finder, you can’t judge if they’re coming closer. You need two people really. Tio Pepe, Melinda?’

  When he had served her he pressed whisky on the guests but they asked for lemonade. Sarah, who had returned with a tray, put it on the tiles and went back without a word. They were silent until she arrived with a jug and glasses.

  ‘Did you see anyone in your travels?’ Pugh asked her.

  ‘Not to notice,’ she said airily. ‘I wasn’t interested in people.’

  ‘How did you come home?’

  ‘Across the fields.’

  Frankie appeared. ‘That’s that,’ she said cheerfully. ‘You’ll stay and eat with us?’

  They declined. Miss Pink wondered if they had deduced that the Gray family, unwittingly or not, were working to make sure their visitors were not at their ease. She said brightly: ‘Are you working on the assumption that someone other than Birdie unsaddled the pony?’

  It was Sprague who answered. ‘I hefted that saddle and I don’t believe a six-year-old child could have got it on a buck.’

  ‘A buck?’

  ‘They put saddles on sawbucks,’ Pugh said.

  ‘You mean, low, like that?’ Frankie indicated the height of a sawhorse. ‘Couldn’t she?’

  No one answered her.

  ‘So the question is,’ Sprague went on, ‘was she killed before she reached home and the pony came home alone – or was led – and was unsaddled by the killer, or had she managed to unsaddle it herself – or been helped by someone – and then he killed her? Estwick says he never even knew the pony was home until his wife told him.’ Sprague’s gaze rested thoughtfully on Jerome. ‘Estwick was drenched,’ he said absently.

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Frankie asked, and Jerome made a small movement of protest.

  Sprague smiled at her: a little triumph, he had riled her. ‘There could have been a lot of blood so the killer’d need to wash it off, and at some time he was by the water because he put the body in the creek. He would have waded in fully clothed to wash off the blood. A man coming home wet would be suspect except that yesterday afternoon, early evening, everyone was drenched. Almost everyone. And Sam Estwick says he washed in the creek anyway after burying a deer carcass. Stenbock cleaned a stove and he washed the soot off in the creek – and there are his clothes, still wet and stained with soot. Alex Duval was out in the rain; even you were, ma’am.’ He looked at Miss Pink.

  ‘We’ve been to everybody,’ Pugh said, and waited.

  After a moment the Grays and Miss Pink realised that this remark held special significance. It was Jerome who asked stiffly for an explanation: ‘And are you any nearer to learning the identity of the culprit?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Sprague said. ‘Nearer than when we c
ame. Of course, we don’t have the autopsy report yet, but we should get that tomorrow.’

  ‘The storm hindered us,’ Pugh told them, ‘washing out traces, but it gave us a break too. If it hadn’t been for the storm Shawn Brenner wouldn’t have gone down to the Estwicks’ instead of going straight home.’

  Reactions to this were only partially gratifying, and none was revealing. Miss Pink and Frankie were astonished, Jerome and Sarah inscrutable.

  ‘Shawn talked to you,’ Miss Pink said flatly.

  ‘Yes. We understand that several people tried to make him talk today.’ Sprague bared his teeth in a grin that was not amused. ‘Perhaps we brought a little more pressure to bear than the neighbours could. And we got him away from his mother.’

  ‘You couldn’t interview him without her being present,’ Jerome said quickly.

  ‘We weren’t interviewing him,’ Pugh said. ‘We were just talking to him.’

  ‘And the mother wasn’t that much interested anyways,’ Sprague pointed out.

  ‘She was drunk,’ Sarah said, then, as disapproving eyes were turned on her: ‘Well, I was there too.’

  ‘And he wouldn’t talk to you?’ Sprague spoke as if to a child, indulgently. His tone changed. ‘Shawn saw a man carrying something towards the creek.’

  ‘Who?’ Frankie asked.

  ‘He couldn’t see. It was gloomy and the man was just going into the trees. The boy looked in the stable and saw the pony. He went to the house, found it empty, and then he realised that what the man was carrying had been limp, with feet hanging down, he said. He ran away and went home.’

  Jerome said heavily, ‘It’s fortunate for him that he talked. But he couldn’t identify the man?’

  Sprague shook his head. Pugh stood up and went away round the side of the house. As they waited for the next thing to happen Miss Pink realised that at some point the balance had changed, that however ill at ease the detectives had been, now they were in control of the situation.

  Pugh returned and placed a transparent plastic bag on the table. Inside was a knife with a broad pointed blade about six inches long and a handle that looked as if it were made of black plastic.

  ‘Did any of you see this before?’ Sprague asked.

  They stared at it until Jerome said: ‘Everyone has hunting knives; this one has nothing remarkable about it. Where was it found?’

  ‘In the creek,’ Pugh said. ‘About a coupla hundred yards from the Estwick place. We didn’t find it early on because the creek was muddy but as the level dropped and the water cleared it was quite easy to see.’

  Frankie said: ‘Are you saying that this is the knife that was used on – that this is the weapon?’

  ‘We don’t know, ma’am, but the pathologist will be able to tell us. The right knife will fit.’ Frankie gasped and turned her head away. ‘We have to show it to everyone,’ he went on. ‘I wonder, would you two ladies care to come with us?’

  ‘What for?’ Jerome snapped to attention. ‘Where?’

  ‘I was about to say, sir,’ Sprague was smooth as butter. ‘We’re going to Estwick’s place and we know Mrs Estwick is rather excitable. I’d like some womenfolk around when we show her husband the knife.’

  ‘You’re arresting him?’ Frankie was incredulous.

  ‘We have to ask if he recognises the knife.’

  ‘They have to ask everybody,’ Jerome said heavily.

  ‘I’ll come.’ Frankie was fierce. She turned to Miss Pink. ‘You, too? See to the dinner!’ she flung at Sarah as she stalked away but Sarah did not seem to hear. People had the air of being stunned.

  The women were further astonished to find the black and white police car parked outside the front door with Schaffer and Morgan inside, the radio turned low. It had crept up the track without attracting anyone’s attention. They got into the back of the detectives’ car and no one said a word on the short drive to the Estwicks’ cabin. Frankie stared stonily out of the window, Miss Pink regarded the back of the officers’ necks and wondered where in these days they had found a barber who would cut their hair that short. Behind them came the second car, more menacing for its silence, the siren off, the lights unlit.

  They halted in the Estwicks’ yard and each man held a lady’s door for her to alight, without a smile. There was nothing amusing about their mission.

  Tracy came to the door of the cabin and stood there, her red hair flaming, smiling but effectively barring entrance.

  ‘Where’s Sam?’ Sprague asked.

  Tracy’s eyes took in the women and the uniformed police. The smile stayed but her eyes hardened. ‘He went towards the ford,’ she said.

  ‘Is Paula asleep?’ Miss Pink asked. The girl nodded. Everyone looked towards the creek. Sam Estwick was approaching the corrals, moving slowly like a man inspecting his land. He came to the gate, unlatched it and closed it behind him. He showed no surprise at the presence of this large party in his yard although his eyes sharpened at sight of the women.

  ‘Before you go any further,’ Sprague said without preamble, ‘did you see this before?’

  Estwick took the knife in its plastic covering. ‘It could be mine.’

  ‘Where would yours be?’

  His hand went to his hip where an empty sheath was slotted on his belt. ‘I mislaid it yesterday sometime,’ he said.

  ‘We have some questions to ask you … ’ Smoothly, they separated in order to flank him, the uniformed men closing in like gross basilisks. The group moved past the women and went to the cars. Frankie whispered: ‘They’ve arrested him?’

  ‘They’re taking him in for questioning. It’s the knife; it appears to be his.’

  ‘He didn’t do it; he couldn’t have done.’

  ‘No, I suppose not, but someone did.’

  Chapter 9

  There was little relief in Salvation Canyon when Sam Estwick was taken in for questioning. Most people felt that he must be guilty but they were distressed and bewildered, although, for the sake of Paula and the children, they put on a show of returning to normality.

  The press arrived on Monday but only stragglers; by Sunday evening the focus of attention had shifted to Nebo where both the body and the child’s stepfather (the suspect?) were being held. The place where the body had been discovered was marked by yellow tape but there was not much interest in a bank so overgrown that there was not even the chalk outline of a corpse to be seen as there would be on a city pavement. A few still photographs were taken but never used. Pictures were printed showing a general view of the canyon with an ‘X’ marking the approximate position of Forset’s South Forty and these were more dramatic.

  Various reporters made the rounds of the residents and got the kind of reception that might have been predicted, some of it meaty copy but none of it, when analysed, containing information not already known about the murder. Bob Duval was taciturn at first, angry when pressed. Alex, who would have been more hospitable, was working cattle somewhere in the high country. In fact, most people who could, had disappeared; they had caught Bob just as he was about to leave. His horse was already saddled – and that could have explained his bad temper.

  Jo and her oldest girls were pleasant ‘but low on I.Q.’, as a female reporter told her editor back in Nebo. (The younger Olsons, and Debbie in particular, had been packed off early for a picnic, with Sarah and Jen in charge.)

  The press got short shrift at the Estwick cabin where they were met by Dolly Creed who promptly swung into a spiel to promote her paintings. Literally and metaphorically there was no getting past her and her hard sell. They abandoned any attempt to see Paula, and drove to the Stenbocks’ where Art talked about organic husbandry and flatly refused to answer any questions about his neighbours. They put him down as a crank with all a crank’s unbreakable obstinacy, and pushed on to the Forset ranch which was deserted except for the Labrador. So they went across the road to Weasel Creek.

  Miss Pink was delighted to see them; she gave them coffee and questioned them at lengt
h on the workings of the American news media but could give them no information herself because, as she told them, she had been in the canyon only a few days and knew none of her neighbours.

  Glen Plummer was vacant, loquacious and equally uninformative. He offered hospitality and the two reporters who stayed with him longest came away with only the vaguest impression of what he was about. One thought he was in real estate, the other that he was writing a book. It was pointed out to them that it was Jerome Gray who was writing the book, then someone remembered that there was a Melinda Pink who wrote gothics. It was all very confusing, and Jerome Gray had been not only confusing but a trifle menacing. He had dropped one or two names inadvertently and they were the names of influential television sponsors. He was extremely polite and called everyone ‘Mr’ or ‘Miss’. No one stayed long with Jerome.

  They did not stay willingly at the last cabin, either. A lot of people thought that at first sight this was the goldmine they were looking for: the beautiful, welcoming Maxine, the garrulous and exotic grandmother, the little boy who had actually seen the killer, but after a while a slow disillusionment set in. Shawn, appealed to, cajoled, most delicately threatened, only twined himself about his mother and steadfastly refused to utter a word, gazing at them with the eyes of a fawn as Maxine stroked his hair and Myrtle reiterated that he was in deepest shock.

  Myrtle and Maxine talked in counterpoint, Maxine drank steadily and the reporters came to the conclusion that there was nothing to be learned there. They began to feel the effects of the liquor that was pressed on them, and they remembered the rough drive beyond the narrows and they left. The Nebo reporter had a puncture on the way home and discovered that her spare tyre had been slashed.

  When it seemed that they had all gone, at least from the lower end of the canyon, Miss Pink ate a light lunch and drove to Forset’s ranch intending to ride down to the river to examine it at her leisure. She was quite prepared to catch her mount and saddle up herself as Forset had told her to do any time, but his pick-up was in the yard so she went towards the cabin.