by Gwen Moffat
She came to a signpost indicating that a left branch of the trail crossed the spine of Pandora to Coon Gulch. The right fork appeared to contour the slope below the crest towards a subsidiary spur that descended in the direction of the village, although she could see nothing below because the basin and the cove to seaward were under the cloud. Above her too there was cloud: a dismal grey nimbus. There was moisture in the air that could be the start of drizzle. She sighed. At that moment there rose out of the well of fog a rending noise that mounted in a terrible crescendo to a thump like an abbreviated explosion. Something gave a creaking yell and she whirled to see a bird, big and black as a crow but with a flaming scarlet head plunge from a tree to jink wildly as it caught sight of her and blunder back to cover.
Her mouth was dry as cardboard. She took off her pack and extracted a flask of lemonade. So, she had seen her first pileated woodpecker – but what was the other? Not an aircraft flying supersonically because there was that tearing sound in advance, a sound which she recognised, the sound of a tree falling, but no one was logging here. There had been no whine of a chainsaw, no thock of an axe. Once, a while back, she had fancied she’d heard voices but she’d dismissed them as imagination, probably voices in the stream. If that had been a tree falling on its own, weakened by disease or storm, it was a sobering thought that any of these giants could come down at any time. She looked at the towering conifers with fresh eyes and then sat down to think about it, to eat her lunch, and hope against hope that the woodpecker might come back. But the bird had been too startled to return while she was in the vicinity and after a quarter of an hour she packed up and continued across the slope and round a corner to a depression that was full of magnificent hemlocks and sitka spruce. This was old-growth forest but, although she was on the alert for spotted owls, the only raptor she heard was a red-tailed hawk that kept up a constant complaint from the depths below.
There was one other sound which momentarily she thought was a second tree falling but then she heard following crashes and identified this as a rockfall. And where she might have thought it curious that rock should fall in a timbered depression, she remembered the angle of the slopes, particularly in the upper reaches; in a place where everything was unfamiliar – climate, geology, terrain – what she thought curious could be quite normal. Perhaps even the fact that the steepest ground was high and the rockfall came from below would be explicable to a native.
She came to a fork and a confusing signpost. It read ‘Sundown 3.5m’ (pointing right) and ‘Sundown 3m’ (to the left). She would have thought that her chosen route, to the left, would have been the longer because less steep, but when she looked at the map she saw that the right fork, although plunging straight down the slope below her, was longer because it didn’t go directly to the village but to Bobcat Creek. She had passed the bottom of it when she started up Porcupine Gulch; she must have missed the sign in the fog.
Her path descended the spur, running through timber so that for long periods there was no outlook, but then she came to an unexpected clearing. The side of the spur was laced by springs and the runnels of water courses, the latter choked by ferns, but in this place heavy rains – perhaps coinciding with an earth tremor– had stressed the slope beyond its capacity to hold, and the surface layer had slipped, taking timber, rocks and soil, and leaving a gash that wasn’t terribly wide but it was long. It faced away from the ocean which was why she hadn’t seen it from the village. She must have passed quite close to it this morning because Porcupine Gulch was below, and then she recalled the fog and the trees and the fact that her trail had been on the far side of the stream. Below her, the red-tailed hawk floated into view, silent now – if it was the same one that had been calling earlier.
The fog had disappeared completely but the outlook was bewildering. The village and the ocean were hidden by the closer trees and the only feature she could identify was Porcupine Gulch. She couldn’t see the trail down there; indeed, she couldn’t see much of the landslip, but she guessed that in this place of streams and side streams and hidden crags, there could be some nasty drops below.
The light was failing yet it was only afternoon; the cloud ceiling must have dropped. A low soughing filled the air and zephyrs wandered up the gully, cool one moment, muggy the next. By the time she came to the end of the ridge the rain had started: sudden and heavy. She quickened her pace but the trail turned slick, and silty water cascaded through the slime. The wind was strong, bending and cracking the pines; where the forest had been tranquil a few hours before now it was full of motion and noise. She slithered down the last mile to the loop road and hurried to the haven of her house.
As she closed the front door the telephone started to ring. It was Miriam Ramet complaining that she had been trying to get her neighbour for hours. Did she have any leaks? She should look around, make sure she hadn’t and then would she like to join Miriam and the painter, Fleur Sanborn, for dinner at the Tattler?
The Tattler had a sun-room on the south-west corner of the building. There was a bar and there was, fortunately, heating. Miss Pink followed the sound of voices and paused in astonishment as she stepped over the sill. The large windows of the sun-room looked out on a wild sea where all the stacks were spouting spray; a moment later they were obscured by a slash of rain that made her flinch. With the warmth, the furniture upholstered in pale striped tweed, with the flowers and glass and polished wood, the Tattler was like a bathysphere in a dream world.
Miriam was at the bar talking to Boligard Sykes who, unshaven and rumpled, looked as if he had just come from work. Miriam, on the other hand, was resplendent in a silk blouson with a blue and silver dragon rioting across the back. Eve presided behind the bar, colourful in fuchsia, her white hair braided, and secured with tortoiseshell. Miss Pink advanced firmly, well aware of eyes inspecting her Calvin Klein jeans and piqué shirt. She remarked that it was a wild night for August.
‘Where were you?’ Miriam asked. ‘I was worried. I kept calling.’
‘I was hiking.’ She considered asking where Oliver was but rejected it. She had to live in the same village as Miriam for a week. Instead she told them where she had walked, but before she could elaborate an imposing woman arrived and was introduced as Fleur Sanborn. Miss Pink studied her with interest. She towered over the voluble Miriam, listening but looking at the view, her eyes lighting up when a lull in the gusts revealed the stacks below: ghostly spires with spume like geysers on their windward faces.
‘Were you painting today?’ Boligard asked, following the direction of her gaze.
‘I was on the cape until the light faded.’
‘You were painting in the fog?’
She hesitated. ‘Trees,’ she murmured: ‘tree trunks on the edge of the cliff, very softly silhouetted. There was a feel of this tremendous abyss below. The problem was to get the feeling with paint, otherwise it was just tree trunks against fog and could have been level ground below, no space. I wanted that’ – she gestured with big hands – ‘that delirious plunge.’
‘Did you succeed?’ Miriam asked carelessly.
‘I don’t know. You’ll have to tell me.’
‘Oh, my dear! I’m no judge.’
‘That never stopped you trying,’ Eve Linquist put in drily and then, as Miriam turned on her: ‘What happened to Oliver?’
‘He had to go to Portland.’
‘He was here yesterday.’
‘He had a phone call. Something to do with his work. I don’t ask questions.’ The remark was pointed.
‘Did he go with Andy?’ Fleur looked inquiringly at Miriam who seemed at a loss.
It was Eve who responded. ‘Andy left? When?’
Fleur sketched a shrug. ‘This afternoon, after the rain started. They passed me as I was coming down from the cape. They waved.’
‘Oliver left yesterday.’ Miriam had found her voice but now she appeared to be angry.
‘I just thought he could have been in the back of the Chevy.’ Fleur ey
ed her curiously. ‘You can’t tell with those smoked windows. Gayleen and Andy were in the front. What I meant was: did Oliver go with them, because he had to go with someone, didn’t he? He doesn’t have a car. Unless you gave him a lift. But obviously he didn’t go with Andy – if he left yesterday.’ Miriam was staring at her. ‘It’s of no importance,’ Fleur protested.
Boligard rubbed his hands. ‘Great! Now we can all get back to normal.’ His face fell. ‘Or were they just going a short trip, coming back this evening?’
‘How do I know?’ Fleur was annoyed. ‘I assumed they were leaving. They were heading north and in one hell of a hurry, trying to make the roadworks before they closed.’
‘Poetic justice if he hit a bulldozer,’ Boligard said.
‘That girl had a marvellous figure.’ The statement from Fleur silenced them until Boligard saw a connection.
‘You don’t paint people.’ It sounded like an accusation.
‘I don’t have to in order to appreciate good bones.’ She shuddered. ‘I’d hate to think of that body in an accident.’
Eve raised an eyebrow. ‘But you wouldn’t be bothered about Andy.’
‘No one,’ Miriam said acidly, ‘would be bothered about Andy Keller.’
‘Except— ’ Eve stopped and regarded Miss Pink. ‘Are English villages like this, ma’am: all living in each other’s pockets?’
‘Oh, far worse.’ Miss Pink was cheerful. ‘It’s the same all over the world, and no one minds the stranger: ships that pass in the night, you know? I shall never come this way again – and the visitor minds her own business.’
‘Discretion is the better part of valour.’ Boligard was portentous. ‘I have to fit action to the word and go home. I’m in deep trouble as it is for stopping in the Tattler without changing my clothes first.’ He nodded to Eve and left in a flurry of knowing laughter that stopped with the closing of the front door.
‘Was Hemingway frightened of his wife?’ Miriam asked.
‘Probably.’ Fleur put her empty glass on the bar. ‘Is anyone else as hungry as I am?’
‘Boligard,’ Miriam said to Miss Pink as they moved into the dining-room, ‘was drawing our attention to the fact that he’d been incarcerated in his shack all day working on an epic. He’s like Pavlov’s dogs: conditioned to forcing us to acknowledge him as an author. Force,’ she concluded meaningly, ‘being the operative word.’
‘Everyone has to start some time,’ Fleur murmured, smiling at Eve who was placing bowls of soup before them. ‘And Jason says that second-rate writers are openly producing books in the style of popular people who are dead. Someone published a book recently that Raymond Chandler began; someone else is imitating Ian Fleming. Boligard may surprise us yet with a blockbuster in the style of Papa.’
‘He’s trying,’ Eve was standing back, watching their faces, ‘if the hours he spends in that old shed are any indication.’
‘This is delicious,’ Miss Pink said, tasting her soup. ‘Avocado?’
‘Cream of avocado.’ Fleur sighed. She wasn’t fat but it was clear that the only person in this room who didn’t have a weight problem was Miriam, and perhaps she had too. ‘If Carl observed modern principles of nutrition,’ Fleur told Eve, ‘you’d go out of business.’
‘And we like money,’ Eve said.
‘Don’t we all.’
‘And how is Gideon d’Eath?’ asked Miriam.
‘Fine. The next book’s due out very shortly.’
Miss Pink frowned, recognising a familiar ring to the name.
‘How you can … ’ Miriam protested, letting it hang.
‘Like Eve said: money.’ Fleur was cool. She addressed Miss Pink. ‘A few years ago I bought my clothes at thrift stores. This’ – she gestured to her ensemble of velour pants and top in orange and pink – ‘this is Neiman Marcus. Gideon d’Eath pays for my clothes now – and most everything else.’
‘Not her lover,’ Miriam explained. ‘A comic strip illustrator.’
Fleur’s eyes moved as Eve reappeared with a loaded tray. Miss Pink realised they were dining table d’hôte and had no qualms.
‘Coquilles St Jacques?’ Eve was simulating concern at her elbow.
Miss Pink beamed. ‘My favourite!’
‘And did you decide on the burgundy or the moselle?’
‘I forgot to ask,’ Miriam said crossly, glancing towards Miss Pink who suggested that a white burgundy would be nice, and had visions of its being held under the cold tap.
Fleur guessed the thought. ‘Carl will have both at the right temperature,’ she said. ‘How about that? We’ll have both: the burgundy first.’
‘Fleur,’ said Miriam, ‘likes her wine.’
‘Tell me about Gideon d’Eath,’ Miss Pink demanded as they started on their scallops and she realised that Carl Linquist was living up to his reputation of cream with everything. Eve returned with the wine and poured a little in Miriam’s glass. Miriam tasted it with an affectation of boredom, watched by Fleur with amusement and the expressionless Eve. Miss Pink applied herself to her food.
‘Fine,’ Miriam announced coldly, and Eve served Miss Pink.
‘Gideon produces fairy tales,’ Fleur was telling her. ‘They’re not to everyone’s taste; you wouldn’t care for them, but they sell like hot biscuits. On the other hand I love to paint, but although I run a gallery, no way could I make a living on what I used to sell before Gideon came on the scene. He provides me with my income – or rather my commission does – and the leisure to do my own thing, which is to close the gallery whenever I feel like it and walk out my door and paint trees in the fog on Cape Deception. And that’s more than most people can say.’ She permitted herself a glint of triumph in Miriam’s direction.
‘It sounds a very satisfactory lifestyle,’ Miss Pink acknowledged. ‘There’s one of his books in my cottage.’
‘What did you think of it?’ Miriam asked.
‘He’s an excellent draughtsman but I didn’t think much of the content. It reminds me of modern cult religions: a bit of everything, unoriginal. I understand its appeal but it’s not for me.’
‘Not for any of us here.’ Fleur was unconcerned. ‘Jason Sykes tells me he thinks Gideon is “too good” and he prefers Westerns. Jason finds anthropoid monsters disturbing.’
‘I thought they were humanoid,’ Miriam put in.
Fleur grinned. ‘Like Miss Pink says: they’re a bit of everything provided it’s horrid.’
Miss Pink asked if Gideon d’Eath was a local man and Fleur said he lived in LA.
‘She guards his anonymity,’ Miriam said. ‘And small wonder. She’s his sole outlet. You ask me,’ she added darkly, ‘there’s something going on between those two.’
‘You’re only jealous.’ Fleur’s smile was engaging.
‘I’m jealous because you have a— ’ Miriam bit her lip. ‘Because you shop at Neiman Marcus?’
‘Miriam!’ Fleur was horrified. ‘Are we going to argue over the relative merits of dress shops? I adore your dragon. Escada, isn’t it? Well, look who’s here! Hi, Chester!’
The outer door had opened to admit a man in a sou’wester and a yellow slicker. Chester Hoyle bowed politely as he was introduced to Miss Pink. Miriam invited him to join them but he declined and, leaving them to finish their meal, he went to the bar.
‘Did Grace leave?’ Miriam asked in a low voice.
‘She went yesterday,’ Fleur said. ‘So maybe Lois will be down.’ She turned to Miss Pink. ‘Lois Keller is our local celebrity; she writes mysteries. Grace is her daughter and she has a boutique in Portland.’ She stopped and glanced at Miriam.
‘I passed the house this morning,’ Miss Pink said, and checked herself, but less abruptly.
The silence stretched until Miriam said, ‘Lois had a big party at the weekend, for her fortieth birthday. Everyone came.’
‘That would be her husband,’ Miss Pink mused, ‘in here at lunchtime yesterday?’
‘That was him.’ Eve had approached so
undlessly. ‘With his assistant.’
‘They’ve left,’ Fleur told Miss Pink, somewhat superfluously. ‘So you won’t be meeting them.’
A stiffness had descended on the party but that could have been the result of the rich food and wine; between them they had drunk the burgundy and most of the moselle. Deciding against dessert they returned to the sun-room where lamps glowed cheerfully, and curtains had been drawn against the outer gloom. Chester Hoyle joined them for brandy and coffee and they discussed the storm.
Miss Pink found Chester interesting despite his plain appearance. She learned that he was an engineer, had been with Boeing, was now retired, widowed and childless, but absorbed in the kind of activities that might occupy a man in similar circumstances in an English village. He tended his garden, looked after his house and was interested in natural history. He voiced the same complaint as that of the elderly Englishman: ‘I’m busier now than before I retired,’ but he smiled as he said it.
The main reason for his contentment became apparent with the arrival of Lois Keller: a slim brown woman in a cotton shirt and jeans. After she was introduced she sank into a squashy chair exuding fatigue and an odour of bath talc. She beamed at them but her eyelids drooped. At the bar Eve Linquist poured brandy.
‘I worked out that chapter,’ Lois said to Chester as if he were the only person present, then she glanced at Fleur: ‘You know how it feels.’
‘I know how it feels to get a painting right,’ Fleur said. ‘Were you having problems?’
‘It’s all over; I don’t want to talk about it. Ah, brandy, you’re an angel, Eve. I was in such a fog when I finished I haven’t had a drink yet.’ She drank, sighed and focused on the stranger. ‘You must think me crazy. I write mysteries and I’ve been bothered for days with a difficulty in the plot. Today I got it right. I’m winding down now; I’ll be normal after another brandy.’