by Mary Daheim
Vida was looking not at me, but at a family of five preparing to leave. “My page is ready to go.”
I was irritated. Never in all the years that I'd been the official editor and publisher of The Advocate had Vida required the slightest reprimand or even nudge. Indeed, her deep feelings for both the paper and the town had sometimes caused her to nag me when she felt I wasn't putting forth my greatest effort. But now she seemed to be balking.
“You may have last-minute items,” I reminded her. “You usually do, with stories that come in after the weekend.”
“Oh, pooh!” Vida exclaimed. “‘Grace Grundle served one of her terrible pumpkin pies to three other dotty old ladies who didn't know the difference and are still picking seeds out of their dentures.’ ‘Norm and Georgia Carlson entertained the So-and-Sos from Startup Saturday night, despite the fact that both couples have never liked each other since an unfortunate incident involving a giant dahlia at the Skykomish County Fair.’ ‘The Dithers sisters sat up with a sick horse who probably got that way because they allowed him to watch too much television with them.’” Pausing, Vida glared at me. I cringed, taking in the depth of her concern for the Imhoff tragedy. It wasn't like Vida to speak disparagingly of her news items. “There are times when news can wait,” she asserted. “Carta could handle those items, if she has room on my page. But I've always put family first, and I'm not changing this late in life. Have you—perchance—forgotten that I still have five days' vacation coming to me before the year is out?”
I had. Vida usually reserves those five days for Thanksgiving and Christmas. As usual, she had me beat.
“Okay,” I said, picking up the menu. “But I'm leaving tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow night,” Vida put in, now looking smug.
“No. It's a long drive, I'll have to rent another car, and I don't want to pull in at midnight.” My face set. “I'll leave around noon.”
“As you please.” Vida perused the menu. “I should think they'd have lovely clam chowder. That and a small shrimp salad.” She set the menu down in front of her, lining it up perfectly between the pieces of her table setting. “You should have kept the other car. We're going to have to split up.”
Caught in a dilemma between halibut and chips and a crab Louis, I slapped my menu down in exasperation. “What are you talking about?”
Vida gave a shrug of her wide shoulders. “We'll waste time working together. I'll make a list of people we should interview, and we'll divvy it up between us. Actually, we don't need a list. I'll take the family. You talk to the rest.”
“The rest of what?” Now I was definitely cranky as well as hungry. “Vida, we aren't detectives. Anytime that we've been involved in a murder investigation, it's because we were working on the story. This is different, this is another state, another town. These people may be related to you in some tenuous way, but it's rot our problem. Until now, you didn't even know that most of them existed.”
Under the swooping brim of her hat, Vida's face was without expression. “If memory serves, you helped your friend Mavis's daughter solve a murder case in Port Angeles.”
“It wasn't a case,” I argued, recalling how Jackie and Paul Melcher and I had dug into the past to solve a family mystery. “The victim had been dead for almost ninety years.”
“Since it was Mavis's daughter, it would be different.” Vida's mouth was so pursed that her lips had practically disappeared.
So, I thought, that's what this is all about? Did Vida actually feel a rivalry between herself and Mavis?
I didn't dare mention my suspicion out loud. Nor did I have the opportunity. Vida had unpursed her lips and was speaking again.
“How would you feel if it were your family? Would you simply walk away if you thought your kin might be suspected of murder?”
In defeat, I sighed. “Okay, I'll do what I can while I'm still here. Who do I contact?”
Reaching into her purse, Vida pulled out a slip of paper she had torn from a pad at the Ecola Creek Lodge. Obviously, she had been thinking ahead. I wished I'd known that when I'd turned in the rental car.
“I jotted down a couple of names,” she said, shoving the paper in my direction. “You should talk to the neighbors on the south side, the Skellys, John and Marie. The other house next door is vacant—the people who own it come down only in the summer. You might try getting this girlfriend of Derek's to be more forthcoming. Dolores Something-or-other. And now that we've learned more information from your old friend Bill, you should contact the Damon boy in Salem, and also try to find out how far along the divorce plans had gone. Oh, yes—don't forget the woman who worked part-time at the Jaded Eye. I'll get her name from the children.”
My head was spinning so fast that I could hardly give my order to the waitress; I ended up asking for the same thing as Vida.
“We'll start by introducing you to the family, just so that you get some background,” Vida declared, her strong features now animated.
“Fine,” I said in a weak voice. My mind, or what was left of it, was elsewhere, wondering if I could work some kind of deal on the car rental. As it stood, I'd had to pay a drop-off charge.
“Excuse me, Vida,” I said, interrupting what had started as another set of instructions, “I'm going to call the car place. I'll be right back.”
The green Ford Taurus had already been rented. There was nothing the agency could do except give me their low, low weekend rate, which I suspected wasn't that low despite the fact that I was doing them a favor: the Plymouth Neon they gave me had Washington plates, and in effect, I was returning it for them. Despite their smiling reassurances, I felt I'd gotten screwed.
Our salads had been delivered during my absence. “This is excellent,” Vida said, gesturing with her fork. “Don't dawdle. We haven't a minute to spare.”
I was inclined to take my time. This was supposed to be a mini-vacation. But Vida had decided otherwise, and as usual, I obeyed.
For once, I should have rebelled, eaten a leisurely lunch, picked up the rental car, and driven home.
But of course I didn't.
Chapter Four
WHEN STUDYING THE current crop of teenagers, I always marvel that I was ever their age. Generally, they seem better looking, more sophisticated, and yet infinitely dopier than I remember being during my own adolescence. I'm aware that even in small towns such as Alpine and Cannon Beach, they face far greater and more complicated temptations than I experienced in a big city like Seattle. Still, I would love to endow them with a sprinkling of wisdom or, as Vida would put it, “good sense.”
Derek Imhoff was a gawky six-footer with long sandy-brown hair and somewhat sly brown eyes who lounged on the sofa in such a sprawling, peremptory manner that there wasn't room for anyone else. Stacie, who had blonde hair cascading down her back and wide-set green eyes, most resembled a photograph of her mother that stood on a table made out of a barrel. At fourteen, Molly was still in that nebulous formative stage, not quite full-grown, with features that looked as if they'd been sketched in and shoulder-length auburn hair.
Vida had wasted no time interrogating the youngsters about their parents' estrangement. “You should have told your aunt Vida,” she scolded as we sat in the Imhoff living room. The house was a one-story affair, probably a beach cottage that had been added onto over time. There was a good deal of clutter, not just from the absence of mother and father, but, I suspected, from the family's apparent avocation for collecting all manner of flora, fauna, objets d'art, and junk. Dozens of seashells, Japanese floats, rock-filled bottles, and pieces of driftwood mingled with copper etchings, metal sculptures, myrtle-wood bowls, novelty clocks, and various types of glassware, pottery, and knickknacks. A floor-to-ceiling bookcase was jammed with volumes, both old and new. Sand speckled the floor, and the entire house smeiled like the sea.
“It's no big deal,” Derek asserted, his chin resting on his chest. “I mean, it's not like they were divorced yet.”
“Besides,” Stacie chime
d in, her voice defensive, almost hostile, “so what? Like it's so weird for parents to split up these days?”
“It is weird.” The words, which were no more than a whisper and something like a sigh, came from Molly. She sat on a big satin pillow, entwining her auburn hair in her plump fingers.
“Oh,” Derek said, aiming a kick in his youngest sister's direction, “what do you know? You're just a kid.”
“I don't care,” Molly retorted. “I think it's weird they'd get a divorce. They'd been married for a zillion years. I still think it was just a … you know, like a … um…”
Vida supplied the phrase. “Passing fancy?”
Molly didn't seem to recognize it. “Huh? You mean…?” Her muffinlike face puckered in thought. “Yeah, right, maybe.”
“That can happen,” Vida said in a reasonable tone. “People reach a point in their lives where they feel frustrated or thwarted. Instead of going inside themselves to solve the problem, they strike out at their spouse.” She winced, aware that the choice of words was unfortunate under the circumstances. “You always hurt the one you love,” she added hurriedly, though the amendment was actually worse.
No one responded to the ill-phrased platitudes. Perhaps the Imhoff kids were as callous as they sounded. Maybe they were numb. As the youngest, Molly seemed the most sensitive, or perhaps she was merely more impressionable.
The silence dragged on. Through the big living-room window, I could see the ocean and the beach. The afternoon was bright and beautiful, bringing out off-season visitors and local residents. A steady stream, including people on horseback, passed over the sands. To my right, I could see the big outcropping known as Haystack Rock, a name that aptly described its bulky, conical appearance. Smaller rocks jutted up from the incoming tide, surrounding Haystack like attendants awaiting their master's whim.
“They fought a lot.” Stacie volunteered the information, her lower lip fixed in what appeared to be a permanent pout. “Always.”
“No, they didn't,” Molly countered, stamping one bare foot. “It was just lately, like since Christmas.”
“Since Mom wanted to move,” Derek put in.
Stacie shrugged. “Whatever. Butt out, Molly.”
Vida, who had assumed a seat in a straight-backed chair that might have been authentic Jacobean or early Levitz, leaned forward in a confidential manner. “Your mother wanted to leave Cannon Beach?”
“Right.” Derek's response was almost snide.
“She never liked it here,” Stacie added, picking up a bottle of nail polish from a bookcase ledge. “Mom wanted to live in a big city again.”
“Again?” I said, and then remembered that Vida had told me how Audrey had met Gordon in San Francisco. “Did she want to go back to the Bay Area?”
“No,” Molly answered quickly. “Portland. Or Seattle.”
“She didn't want to be redundant,” Stacie said, finally sounding more like an adult than a sulky teen. “Mom told me she'd grown up in Cannon Beach, and once was enough. She wished she'd never come back. She wasn't going to make the same mistake twice by moving back to San Francisco.”
“And your father?” Vida prodded. “Did he want to move, too?”
The Imhoff children exchanged wary glances. “No,” Derek finally replied. “He liked it here. Dad hates cities.”
“I see,” Vida said as we heard the back door open. Everyone turned as a pretty, dark-haired young woman in a waitress's uniform came into the living room.
“Hey, Dolly,” Derek said, brightening. “What's up?”
“Not much,” the young woman responded, eyeing Vida and me with curiosity. “It's slow this afternoon. They let me off early.”
“Cool,” Derek said. “Want to chill on the beach?”
“Maybe.” She started to leave the room, but Vida spoke up.
“I don't believe we've met,” she said with unmistaken authority. “Is this Dolores?”
Derek looked pained, no doubt at the necessity of making introductions. “Yeah, right. Dolly, this is Aunt Vida, and Mrs.… Sorry, I didn't catch it.”
“Lord,” I said, getting off the love-seat to shake hands. “Emma Lord. Dolly, is it?”
The young woman had a steady gaze that was penetrating and yet detached. “Dolores Cerrillo. Derek calls me Dolly. Nobody else does.”
The implication was that nobody else would dare. On closer inspection, Dolores was younger than I'd first guessed. Seventeen, eighteen at most, I decided. It was her eyes that were old. Wherever she'd been and whatever she'd seen in her short life lent her a haunted look beyond her years.
“I'm going to change,” Dolores said, and left the room.
“So,” Vida said, attempting to pick up the conversational thread, “your parents quarreled over the decision to move from Cannon Beach. Is that what caused the breakup?”
“I guess.” Hands stuffed into his jeans, Derek looked belligerent. “Mom said she'd leave without him if she had to.”
“Bull,” said Stacie. “That wasn't all of it. Dad was being a prick about a lot of things.”
“Shut up, butthead,” Derek shouted, leaping to his feet. “You don't know dick!”
Stacie had also risen, standing chest to chest with Derek. “I know Dad was screwing that real-estate bitch! I saw them on the beach one night, going at it!”
Vida, who is usually appalled by vulgar language, appeared spellbound. I, however, felt awkward and embarrassed. I glanced at Vida, in the vain hope that she would consider this an appropriate point of departure. Naturally, she remained glued to her chair. Stacie and Derek continued hurling insults at each other.
“Why are you picking on Dad? You didn't want to leave Cannon Beach, either,” Derek yelled.
“Neither do you!” Stacie snapped. “You wouldn't leave your precious girlfriend for ten minutes!”
“Guys!” Molly was now standing beside her brother and sister, small, plump hands waving. “Don't! Mom and Dad had a … a midlife crisis, that's all! It would have been okay! They just needed space.”
Stacie, who was at least three inches taller than Molly, stared down at her little sister. “Moll, you must be on crack. Mom and Dad were a done deal, Mom was out of here, Dad didn't care. Wake up, bratfinger. They were getting a D-I-V-O-R-C-E.”
Abruptly, Molly turned away. Her round face was blotchy and she looked as if she were going to cry. “No, they weren't,” she said under her breath.
But Molly's interference had taken the steam out of Derek. “I'm gone,” he said, and headed out of the room, following in the direction that Dolores had taken.
“Perhaps,” Vida said delicately, “both your parents had found other loves. It can happen.”
Neither Stacie nor Molly fell into the trap. “I've got to do my homework,” Molly mumbled. With a nod, she went out the front door, which faced the ocean.
“So do I,” Stacie said, avoiding our eyes. “I'm a senior this year,” she added as if her class status gave weight to her excuse for leaving.
Vida deftly picked up on the cue. “Ah, yes.” She turned to me. “The girls ride the school bus every day into Seaside. Cannon Beach has only an elementary school.”
“Oh.” I nodded gravely, as if informed of a major scientific discovery.
“It would be hard,” Vida went on, now speaking again to Stacie, “to leave in your senior year, wouldn't it?”
“Yes,” Stacie replied with an air of suspicion. “Yes, it would.”
“Do you plan on going to college?” Vida inquired in a very auntlike manner.
“I don't know,” Stacie answered a bit impatiently. “Maybe.”
“I understand your mother made friends with a young man who's attending Willamette University. A law student, I believe. What was his name?” Vida's forehead furrowed in the apparent effort of recollection.
“His name was Asshole,” Stacie retorted, and stomped outside to join her sister.
Vida and I were left alone in the living room.
“That,” I d
eclared as we drove up the dirt driveway to the main road, “was a dirty trick, Vida.”
“Twaddle,” Vida responded, braking at the arterial. “How else are we going to learn anything? Those children spend ail their time wrangling with each other. I wish Rosalie had been there. She might exert some control over their filthy mouths.”
It took me a moment to recall that Rosalie was their grandmother, and Rett Runkel's ex-wife. “Have you met her yet?” I asked.
“No,” Vida answered, and took a right instead of a left back into town. “But we will. We're going to Manzanita.”
Resignedly, I leaned back against the Buick's deep blue upholstery. “I thought we were splitting up. Why am I paying for a rental car that's parked back at the motel collecting seagull droppings?”
“You'll have your chance after this,” Vida insisted. “It's a short drive to Manzanita.”
That much was true. The town, which sits above the curve of Nehalem Bay, is even smaller than Cannon Beach, and doesn't boast the cachet of a well-known tourist spot. Rosalie and Walt Dobrinz lived in a small pink stucco house at the edge of town. They had no view of the ocean, but apparently tried to fill the visual void with garden statuary. Vida and I wound our way among deer, squirrels, leprechauns, bunnies, frogs, and a solitary giraffe before we reached the front door.
Rosalie wasn't expecting us, and she didn't seem pleased by our arrival. “So you're Vida,” she said, not inviting us inside. “Rett had a picture of you and Ernest. 1 think it was taken on your honeymoon.”
“I've changed,” Vida declared. “That was in fifty-one. We spent four days in Victoria, B.C. Ernest came down with shingles.”
“Men,” Rosalie murmured. She was short and stout, her curly gray hair caught in a ponytail. “I'm afraid you've come at a bad time. Walt's taking a nap in the living room.”
“What a shame!” Vida shifted her stance on the small front porch. “Is there somewhere else we could talk? A nearby café?”
Rosalie's blue eyes darted around, as if she expected someone to come up behind her and veto the outing. “Can we take your car?” she finally said.