by Mary Daheim
“So,” Mavis said after a long pause, “tomorrow we'll head downtown and you can see all the changes since you lived here. We'll drive by the Rose Garden where the Blazers play and maybe stop at Lloyd Center. Then, if we have time, we can go to a special place made for middle-aged mamas like us.”
“Which of the bars on Burn side do you mean?” I asked with a smirk.
Mavis smirked right back. “Actually, I was thinking of the Shrine of Our Sorrowful Mother. But come to think of it, I like your idea better.”
On Saturday, we did everything we'd intended to do except the shrine and the bars. By five o'clock we were still at Lloyd Center, trying on shoes. We were supposed to meet Ray for dinner at six.
“We're going to be late,” Mavis announced, staring at her feet, which were presently shod in expensive brown suede pumps. “If I buy these—and I don't think I can help doing it—I'll need a purse to go with them, and I have to have it now.”
“But don't we have a reservation for six at Jake's?” I asked, wiggling my toes around in semisensible navy flats that were reasonably suited to my informal Alpine lifestyle.
“Jake's is so jammed on weekends that you never get seated on time. I'll call Ray from here and tell him to hold down the fort for half an hour. Besides,” she added with a faint leer, “we still haven't discussed your love life.”
“Whatever that may be,” I murmured, thinking of Milo half-asleep on my sofa after a ten-hour day chasing speeders and breaking up domestic brawls.
Our salesman returned, bearing yet another half-dozen enticing boxes. Mavis, who has the usual brass of a longtime journalist, waved away the new arrivals and asked to use the phone at the sales desk.
“I'm taking these,” she said, tapping her toes. “The black lizardy ones, too.”
I hemmed and hawed. The salesman, who was very young and earnest, trotted out two more pairs in my size. “You might think green this fall,” he said. “Lime is the new neutral.”
I started to protest, but upon closer inspection, lime looked rather nice. There was no doubt in my mind that I'd be the first woman in Skykomish County with lime shoes.
If Mavis could buy two pairs of shoes, so could I. “Let's try them,” I said.
They fitted as well as the navy pair. But where were my basics? “Maybe,” I temporized, “I should try on the black ones with the patent toe again.”
I was parading around in front of the mirror when Mavis returned, looking worried. “Ray says there's a message on our machine from your friend Vida. She won't be coming back to Alpine Sunday, and wants you to call her and let her know if you can make other arrangements. Here's where you can reach her, at least until six.” Mavis handed me a Nordstrom sales-associate card on which she'd scrawled the number.
I lacked the brass to use the desk phone. Besides, it was long distance, and given Vida's message, I sensed that privacy was required. Flustered, I told our salesman I'd take all three pairs of flats, handed him my credit card, and rushed off to find a pay phone.
I was so flustered by Vida's message that it took me three tries to get through. When I finally heard the phone ringing at the other end, a charming voice informed me that I had reached the Ecola Creek Lodge. After asking for Vida, I heard another three rings before she answered.
“What's wrong?” I demanded in an anxious voice.
“It's a family emergency.” Vida sounded like an automaton.
“What kind?”
“The worst kind.”
I sucked in my breath. “You mean …?”
“Can you take a train to Seattle and find a ride to Alpine?” The brittle tone in Vida's voice was unfamiliar.
“I could rent a car,” I said doubtfully. “I could rent it here, for that matter, and drive.… Vida, what's the matter? Can I help?”
There was such a long silence that I thought we'd been disconnected. “No.” Her voice was now hushed. “No,” she said more firmly. Then, added on a rollercoaster of emotions: “I don't think so.”
“Vida, I'm coming to Cannon Beach. Tonight. Where is this place you're staying?”
“No, no, no.” The last no was almost inaudible; I could picture Vida propping the phone against her shoulder, whipping off her glasses, and frantically rubbing at her eyes. “I couldn't ruin your weekend with Mavis.”
“We've already talked our heads off,” I asserted. “If you've got problems, I want to help. Just give me directions. I'll have dinner with Mavis and Ray, pick up my stuff at their place, and rent a car. They must have a dropoff in Cannon Beach—it's a tourist town.”
“Really, Emma, I don't think…” Vida sounded fretful.
“Directions, please.”
Reluctantly, Vida gave them. They were easy, since the Ecola Creek Lodge was right on the first turnoff into Cannon Beach. She warned me, however, that she was going out for a while and wouldn't be back until ten.
“That's okay,” I assured her. “By the time I eat and get the car, it'll be about that time before I get to Cannon Beach. See you soon.” I rang off before Vida could change her mind.
Mavis was disappointed, but understanding. “You're sure she's not exaggerating whatever's going on?”
“No,” I answered. “Vida's not like that. Besides, this whole trip of hers has been very mysterious. There's something amiss, no doubt about it.”
“Cannon Beach,” Mavis said in a thoughtful voice. “In the off-season, it's a very small community; maybe twelve, fifteen hundred people. It seems to me there was something in the news lately, but I can't quite …” She stopped at a traffic light and rested her elbows on the steering wheel. Having purchased five pairs of shoes and one handbag between us, we were now headed for downtown and Jake's venerable seafood restaurant. “I don't remember,” Mavis admitted. “It's a funny thing—once I got out of the business, I sort of stopped being engrossed in the news. Otherwise, I found myself getting so caught up that I wanted to rush out and interview people and make a dozen phone calls and kick the living crap out of whoever was covering the story I was following.”
I nodded. “An occupational hazard. I still feel that way about stories in the met dailies. I'm stuck with reduced timber sales and Highway 2 closures and the high-school football team's latest losing season.”
“You've had at least a couple of juicy homicides, though,” Mavis pointed out as we crossed yet another of Portland's many bridges.
“More than a couple. Too many for Alpine.” The big black headlines were no solace when I knew the victims personally. “Luckily, we've gone for over a year without a murder.”
Luckily for Alpine. But, as it turned out, my own luck wouldn't hold.
I arrived in Cannon Beach at ten-thirty, snaking down the exit off Highway 101 on a narrow, dark road that wound among dense trees. The green Ford Taurus I'd rented in Portland had handled nicely during the ninety-minute drive to the coast. The first sign of civilization was the Ecola Creek Lodge, tucked in between a three-way fork. I spotted Vida's big white Buick at once and pulled into the adjacent spot. Most of the complex was old, but well maintained, with the contiguous brick-and-wood-frame units facing either the parking lot or the street. I figured that Vida was staying on the neatly landscaped street side where I could see the Pacific Ocean beyond what appeared to be a park.
During this off-season only half the lights were on in the motel. Most of the units, including Vida's, had the drapes pulled, though I could see into one of them where a senior-citizen foursome played cards. The fog was coming in, and I felt a damp chill in my bones as I went up the short walkway to number 11. Vida responded to my knock so quickly that I thought she'd probably been standing by the door.
“Emma!” she exclaimed, as if she hadn't expected to see me. “Come in, come in. I really wish you weren't here.”
I didn't know whether to believe her or not. “So what's up?” I asked, setting down my suitcase and getting out of my duffel coat.
Vida didn't answer directly. The room smelled of salt air and I c
ould just make out the sound of the surf in the distance. “I'll make tea,” Vida said, not looking at me but in the vicinity of an older-model television set with rabbit ears. “There's a kitchen, so I bought some provisions.”
Ordinarily, when I'm at Vida's home in Alpine, I follow her into the kitchen and we drink our tea there. But I sensed that she didn't want me to join her—yet. There was a small mirror next to a door that led into a hall where I could see the bathroom. I glanced at my image, saw my disheveled chestnut hair, bleary brown eyes, and slightly drawn round face. It had been a long day.
I settled into an armchair, shedding my shoes and working out the kinks caused by the long drive. The unit appeared to be a small suite, its living room outfitted with well-worn but comfortable furniture and a fireplace. A painting above the brown tweed sofa showed, predictably, large waves crashing against the shore. The room was warm, almost too warm, and I wondered if the sofa turned into a bed, or if I would have to sleep with Vida. We'd never traveled together before, and it occurred to me that she might snore.
I occupied my brain in this unproductive manner for at least five minutes. An occasional sound emanated from the kitchen, where Vida apparently was waiting for the water to boil. When I was considering unpacking my one small suitcase, she finally came back into the living room bearing two mugs.
“I'll fetch sugar and milk,” she said, still avoiding eye contact.
I waited. Just as Vida reappeared the phone rang. It was sitting on a table between my chair and the sofa. “Shall I?” I inquired.
“I'll get it.” Vida set the milk pitcher and a bowl of sugar cubes on the coffee table, then flung herself across the sofa and picked up the receiver. “Yes?…Yes, she did … No, Stacie, I really don't think I should do that now … You already have a houseful … Yes, of course … I'll be there early … Please don't fuss … We'll work this out … And do tell Molly to stop crying … Very well, dear. Good night.”
In a somewhat ungainly fashion, Vida sat down on the sofa. “Well.” She continued to stare straight ahead.
There was no point in prodding her. I stirred my tea and kept quiet. At last Vida turned to me, her gray eyes troubled behind the big glasses with the tortoiseshell frames.
“Have you ever heard me mention Ernest's brother, Everett?” she asked in a tight voice.
I tried to remember. Vida talked about so many of her relatives, both shirttail and otherwise. “I don't think so,” I finally said. “I've heard you speak of an Elmo and an Edward, but maybe not Everett.”
Vida gave a brief nod. “If I didn't speak of him, it was because he no longer existed in Ernest's family. Everett, you see, was the black sheep.” She nodded again, as if to underscore Everett's unworthiness.
“But he exists?” I asked, trying hard not to smile. To my knowledge, Ernest Runkel's family had always been pillars of the community. Ernest's father, Rufus, had been one of the risk takers who'd built the ski lodge that had helped save Alpine.
“Oh, yes. He exists.” Vida sipped her tea, then heaved a deep sigh. “Everett—he was called Ev by the family, but insisted on calling himself Rett, which explains quite a bit, if you ask me—was the youngest of the six children. When he was seventeen, he quit school and ran off to join the coast guard. That was 1949, and he ended up serving in the Korean War. After he was discharged, Ev—or Rett, if I must call him that—married a woman named Rosalie and settled in Cannon Beach. Ev—Rett—never returned to Alpine.” Vida uttered the words as if she'd announced that her brother-in-law had turned his back on the Pearly Gates.
“So he lives here?”
“Yes. He and Rosalie were divorced some years later. There was a brief period before Ernest died when … Rett—or perhaps it was Rosalie—sent Christmas cards. But after my husband met his unfortunate end, I stopped hearing from them, and so did the rest of the family. I suspect it was about then that Rosalie left Rett.”
I was well acquainted with the demise of Ernest Runkel, which had involved an ill-fated attempt to go over Deception Falls in a barrel. “So you've come to Cannon Beach because of Rett?” I asked, wondering when Vida would get to the point.
“Not exactly.” Vida stroked her upper lip. “Rett and Rosalie had two children, Marlin and Audrey. Marlin is a bit peculiar, I'm told, and lives alone up in the hills above the town. Audrey married a man named Gordon Imhoff twenty years ago, and lived in San Francisco for a time. Then she and Gordon moved back here with their three children—Derek, Stacie, and Molly.”
I finally heard a name that rang a bell. “That was Stacie who called just now?”
“Yes. She's a high-school senior, a pretty thing, but lacking in self-discipline. They live at the other end of the town, almost to Tolovana.”
I recalled how the spur from Highway 101 cut through Cannon Beach, then rose to zigzag above the ocean until it dropped almost to sea level. Houses were built in the pockets of rock and along the steep hillsides and, in some cases, jutted out on stilts. The perches had always struck me as precarious, but the views must have been spectacular.
“It must be lovely,” I remarked. “Do they all enjoy living in a beach town?”
Vida's face had turned grim. “That's the problem, you see. They're not all living.”
I must have looked stupid; certainly I felt that way. “What do you mean?”
The rumble of a stereo's bass throbbed as a car passed outside. “Really, I don't know.…” Vida bit her lip.
While I was accustomed to my House & Home editor's long-winded family histories, her sudden reticence was uncharacteristic.
“Vida,” I began in a reproachful tone, “I interrupt my vacation and drive all this way so that you could turn into a clam?”
The gray eyes fixed on my face, though the light struck the tortoise-framed glasses in such a way that all I could see was glare. “Audrey was murdered last month, and her husband, Gordon, has disappeared,” Vida said in a flat, emotionless voice. “That's why I came to Cannon Beach.”
Chapter Three
VIDA EXPLAINED THAT she had seen the story on our wire service. She hadn't recognized Audrey's married name, but knew how small Cannon Beach was, and that there couldn't be too many Audreys who were forty-three years old. She had made some phone calls and discovered that Audrey's maiden name was indeed Runkel.
“I waited a few days before I called the house,” Vida recounted. “I could have telephoned Rett, but I didn't know if he still lived here, or even if he was alive. There was no listing for him, you see. So about three weeks ago, I called the Imhoff residence and asked for Gordon. It didn't seem right that no one from Ernest's family had inquired or offered condolences.”
It also didn't seem like Vida to ignore anything as intriguing as murder. Her curiosity must have been at detonation level. No wonder she had been acting oddly at work.
“Did you consult with any of the other Runkels?” I asked innocently.
“Well …” Vida's mouth twisted. “No. The surviving members of Ernest's generation are either gaga or have no sense. My sister-in-law Evelyn—she's a Gustavson, you may recall—is the best of the bunch, and she talks so much that I can't ever get a word in edgewise. Evie simply tires me out.”
I couldn't imagine such a thing. But of course I didn't say so, and thanked my lucky stars that my encounters with Evelyn Gustavson Runkel had been few and brief.
“Did Gordon tell you what had happened to Audrey when you finally called?”
“No. He'd already disappeared. I spoke first to Derek, who is—what? nineteen, twenty?—and somewhat surly.” Vida's mouth turned down in disapproval. “I got very little information from him, but Stacie was more forthcoming. The wire-service story said only that the body of a forty-three-year-old Cannon Beach woman named Audrey Imhoff had been found at the beach near her home. Foul play was suspected, local authorities investigating. There were no details, and there was never a follow-up story.
“Stacie—who really had no idea who I was—told me her mother had be
en hit over the head. It seems that Audrey was given to nude swims in the middle of the night, after everyone else had left the beach. Naturally, Stacie thought it was a sex maniac, and perhaps it was. But the day after the funeral service, Gordon disappeared. At that point Stacie broke down, and said that she knew that if the police didn't suspect her father before, they must now. I offered to come down then, but she hung up. I waited until the next day to call back, and got Molly instead. She's only fourteen, but seems more sensitive and sensible than either Stacie or Derek. I asked how the three of them were getting along, and she said they were all right. Their grandmother, Rosalie, had remarried some years ago and moved a few miles down the cost to Manzanita, but she's been staying with the children off and on. Molly said that she and' Stacie were going to school and getting their homework done and doing as well as could be expected. Derek, unfortunately, has brought his girlfriend to live with him. Her name, I believe, is Dolores.”
Vida paused for breath. In the silence, I could hear the thrum of the ocean and the moan of a foghorn. “What about Rett?”
“He's here.” Vida grimaced. “I went to see him this afternoon. He wouldn't let me in.”
“Andhisson, Marlin?”
Vida shook her head. “Uncle Mar—as the children call him—is even stranger than his father.”
“Have you spoken with the law-enforcement officials?”
“No. It's county, the same as Alpine, but the seat is in Astoria. That's one reason I'm staying on—I want to drive up there Monday and speak with the sheriff or whoever is in charge of the case.”
Off the top of my head, I calculated that Astoria was about thirty minutes away. Located at the most northwestern tip of Oregon on the mouth of the Columbia River, it was the seat of Clatsop County. I had once had a contact there in my days on The Oregonian.
“I used to know Bill Wigert,” I said. “He was in charge of their forensics division.”
“Really?” Vida brightened. “Is he still there?”