by Mary Daheim
“Of course.” Vida's manner was gracious.
“Good,” Rosalie responded. “Mine's broken. I'll get my purse.” She went inside, closing the door behind her.
I was following Vida's gaze, which led to the carport at the side of the house. An aging sport utility van was parked there, and a new green Ford Taurus was behind it in the driveway.
“That car looks like the one I rented in Portland,” I said in an idle tone.
“Cute,” Vida remarked, tapping her foot. “Rosalie's not very welcoming.”
“Maybe Walt's a pain,” I suggested. “She may not have improved her lot the second time around.”
“That's often the case,” said Vida, frowning as she attempted to peer into the windows, which were all closed up. “It's poor judgment, which is seldom overcome by experience.”
Rosalie emerged, wearing a white sweater over her flannel shirt and black slacks. “We don't have much in the way of eating places,” she apologized, “but there's a spot a couple of blocks from here. Clean, anyway.”
Clean, as well as old and small described the restaurant where we found ourselves five minutes later. Vida began by inquiring about the children. Rosalie hadn't seen them since Tuesday, though she'd talked to Molly Friday night.
“It was just before you came, I guess,” Rosalie said. “You got in late.”
“So I did.” Vida's manner had become ingratiating. “You've been a very good grandmother to the young ones. It can't be easy at their age.”
Rosalie laughed, a short bark that jarred my ear. “At my age, either. Luckily, Walt's kids and grandkids are grown and out of here. Stepchildren are no picnic.”
“You've had your share of woe,” Vida commiserated as a pigtailed waitress poured coffee for Rosalie and me. Vida was drinking tea. “I'm sure the children miss their mother. They must have been very close.”
“Audrey wasn't your usual kind of mother,” Rosalie said with a frown. “She wasn't your usual kind of daughter, either. She always listened to a different drummer. I wish …” Grimacing, she pressed her fist against her cheek. “Audrey was Audrey.”
“And of course you miss her all the same,” Vida said in a comforting tone.
“Well,” Rosalie began, taking a pack of cigarettes out of her purse, “I do. But you know, it was funny—we lived fifteen miles apart, and it might as well have been fifteen hundred. I don't think I saw her more than four, five times year.”
“The shop, I suppose,” Vida murmured. “It must have kept her and Gordon busy during the tourist season.”
“Yep,” Rosalie replied, lighting up. “That—and other things.”
“Hobbies?” Vida was wearing her owlish expression.
The short bark again jolted my ear. “I guess you could call it that.”
“Call it what?” Vida seemed genuinely perplexed.
Rosalie shot Vida a sly look. “Audrey was a sexy girl, even if she was my daughter. Hey,” she went on, sitting back in her chair and showing off her stubby figure, “I used to be kind of sexy myself, though you wouldn't know it to look at me now. Anyways, men liked Audrey, especially young men. She had to beat them off with a bat—when she'd wanted to.”
“Which, we're told, she usually didn't,” I put in, feeling as if I'd been playing the stooge for Vida too long. “We hear the most recent was a college student, Something-or-Other Damon.”
“Was that it?” Rosalie flicked ash into a clamshell. “I wouldn't know. I hadn't seen Audrey since the Fourth of July.”
A group of leather-clad bikers came into the restaurant and sat down at the table next to ours. They were middle-aged couples, probably off on a weekend round of excitement, a break from the office routine. Vida, whose straw hat looked incongruous in this homely setting, glanced at the new arrivals before turning back to Rosalie.
“We understand that Gordon sought comfort elsewhere,” she said, lowering her voice.
“Well, why not?” Rosalie retorted. “You couldn't blame him. What's a man going to do when his wife is playing around? Gordon's human.”
“Where is Gordon?” I asked.
Rosalie bridled at the question. “How should I know? Looking for a job, maybe. The shop doesn't bring much money in during the off-season.”
“I wouldn't think,” I said in a musing voice, “that he'd leave the children for such a long time right after their mother's death.”
“He wasn't living at home.” Rosalie sounded defensive. “He'll show up.”
Vida was ostensibly studying the bikers who had ordered pie and coffee. “So unusual,” she murmured, then eyed Rosalie. “Your kindly feelings toward Gordon, that is. Mothers-in-law aren't generally so open-minded.”
Rosalie shrugged. “Gordon's an okay guy. Nobody knows better than I do what he had to put up with in Audrey. At least the last few years. Maybe they should have stayed in San Francisco.”
Vida and I both let that remark pass. “I would imagine,” Vida said, “that Gordon's lady friend is worried about him.”
“Could be.” Rosalie seemed indifferent.
“She's in real estate?” There was an edge in Vida's words as her deferential manner began to fray.
“Right,” Rosalie concurred. “Stina, I think her name is. She and her husband have an office in Cannon Beach and one in Lincoln City.”
There was a lull during which the bikers exchanged good-natured ribbing among themselves, a pair of teenage lovebirds came into the restaurant with their hands all over each other, and an older man in coveralls followed almost upon their heels. To our surprise, Rosalie let out a little gasp.
“Walt!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
Walt Dobrinz peered through thick glasses, then walked over to our table with a pigeon-toed step. “Rosie? Where you been? I just got—”
“Walt, meet Rett's sister-in-law, Vida, and her friend Emmy.” Rosalie had risen to her feet in such a hasty fashion that she dropped her cigarette. “Damn! Now where'd that go?”
“Another Runkel, huh?” Walt put out a callused hand. “Nice to meet you. You, too, Emmy.”
“It's Emma,” I said, then noticed that Walt wore hearing aids in his glasses.
“Walt, honey,” Rosalie said, stubbing out her cigarette and putting a hand on her husband's shoulder, “can you give me a lift home? These nice ladies want to be on their way.”
Walt's weathered face clouded over. “Gee, Rosie, I was going to get a piece of that marionberry pie,” he said, pointing to a display case that held several selections, from banana cream to pecan. “What's the rush? Can you wait ten minutes? Or is—”
“I can wait.” Rosalie gave Walt a toothy smile, then shook our hands. “Thanks for the coffee, gals. I'll wait with Walt. He likes to sit at the counter.”
Vida and I were dismissed. With a scowl, she picked up the check and stamped over to the register. “Nap indeed,” she scoffed as we went out into the unpaved parking lot where the big, sleek motorcycles were parked two by two. “What's Rosalie hiding?”
“Maybe she's just a lousy housekeeper,” I suggested, getting into the Buick.
“I don't doubt that,” Vida said, giving the ignition key a vicious turn. “Her garden needed weeding in the worst way. You can't hide untended flower beds with ugly garden statuary. It doesn't work for Darla Puckett, either. Have you seen her ceramic Bo-Peep and the six walleyed sheep?”
I vaguely recalled Darla Puckett's residence, which was on the other side of Alpine from where I lived. “I think so,” I said vaguely. “Stina, huh? She shouldn't be too hard to track down. Why don't I collect my rental car and start on my appointed rounds?”
It was after three o'clock. Vida didn't respond right away; she was concentrating on Highway 101's tricky curves.
“We should make one more stop together,” she said as the primitive beauty of Cape Fallon rose before us. “You must meet Rett.”
I grimaced. “Must I? What about Marlin?”
Vida shook her head. “Not Marlin. No
one needs to meet Marlin.”
Given my crowded schedule, I didn't argue. “Does Rett live right in Cannon Beach?”
“No. He has a trailer home just north of town. I stopped in on him yesterday,” Vida said as the highway moved away from the ocean and cut through the forest, where the leaves of the beech and alder and cottonwood had turned to burnished gold and bronze. “He's definitely not much of a housekeeper.”
Rett Runkel wasn't much of anything, as far as I could tell. While I'd only seen photographs of Ernest Runkel, I could find no resemblance, except that both had been big men. The muscle and sinew I'd perceived in Ernest at age forty had turned to fat in Rett at sixty-plus. He was a huge, shambling man with lank gray hair and a face I could only describe as blubbery: big lips, bulbous nose, heavy eyelids, triple chins. He held up his pants with one hand and shook my hand with the other while a large black dog that looked as if it were part jackal lurked behind its master.
“That's T-Bone,” Rett said, giving the dog's head a pat. “He and Brownie are my security system.”
T-Bone barked on cue. “Brownie?” Vida echoed. “I don't recall seeing another dog.”
Rett grinned, displaying uneven, stained teeth. “Brownie's not a dog. It's my Browning high-power pistol. Let's sit out here,” he said, clumsily unfolding two plastic-and-aluminum chairs that matched the one resting next to a pedestal ashtray and a wooden crate that held two cans of beer. “Indian summer, huh?” His tone was conversational, but abruptly changed. “Whaddaya want now, Vida?”
“Iced tea would be nice,” Vida said with a sickly-sweet smile. Then she, too, switched gears. “Emma wanted to meet you. She's helping me sort out this mess with Audrey.”
“Whaddaya mean, ‘this mess with Audrey’?” Rett belched none too gently as T-Bone circled our chairs before settling down at his owner's feet. “The sheriff's sorting things out just fine.”
“Nonsense.” Vida sniffed. “He hasn't caught Audrey's killer.”
“He won't.” Rett seemed complacent about the idea. “It was some sex nut, mark my words. He's long gone, probably to California.”
“That's possible,” Vida admitted. “But aren't you curious about your daughter's murder? What if it wasn't some… sex nut?”
“Then it was some guy trying to get into her pants,” Rett responded. “For once, she told him to fuck off. Instead of fuck her. Get it? I made a joke.” He rumbled with laughter.
“A very poor joke in shockingly bad taste,” Vida declared with an icy stare. “You're speaking of your daughter.”
“I'm speaking the truth,” Rett retorted. “Audrey was easy, or so I hear. But then you missed the part about the abortions in San Francisco. They were legal and all, but they still cost me a couple of bucks. Being a flower child or whatever the hell they called themselves back then meant more birds 'n bees than I could count.”
Vida appeared somewhat shaken by Rett's disclosure. “I didn't know about Audrey's youthful… promiscuity. I'm afraid I lost track of your side of the family after you and Rosalie divorced.”
“Rosalie!” Rett grunted. “That hump—you been hangin' out with her?”
“We called on her, yes,” Vida replied primly. “We also met Walt Dobrinz.”
“I call him Walt Dough-Prick,” Rett said, the laughter again rumbling out of his big belly. “What Rosie ever saw in that little toad beats the crap out of me. Want a beer?”
“I think not,” Vida said, answering for both of us. “And I wish you'd watch your language, Everett. Ernest never used such vile words in my presence.”
“Ernest was a namby-pamby,” Rett declared. “How the hell did he ever get the nerve to go over them falls in a damned barrel anyway?”
Vida was sitting up very straight, exuding dignity and self-control. “He didn't. The truck belonging to the brewery that sponsored the event ran over him first.”
Rett's laughter could have been heard all the way to Seaside. “You're shittin' me! I never heard that part! Good God Almighty!” The flimsy aluminum chair rocked beneath his weight. T-Bone tensed, his pointy ears standing straight up.
“You're vile,” Vida asserted in an angry voice. “Callous, too. No wonder you don't care about what happened to Audrey.”
Rett Runkel looked mildly shocked. “Hey, who said I didn't care?” He picked up a half-smoked cigar from the ashtray and attempted to relight it. “What I'm sayin' is that if the cops haven't collared the guy who killed Audrey by now, they won't. Not unless he's one of them serial killers roamin' up and down the coast, bumpin' off women.”
“He's not,” Vida said firmly. “There have been no reports of possible serial killers in this area. I know, I've been watching the wire. Besides, Stacie told me that her mother wasn't sexually assaulted. I should think that would eliminate a serial killer, as well as any perverts.”
“So?” Rett was still trying to start the cigar. From the way he huffed and puffed, the task might have been the most arduous he'd tackled that day.
But Vida's face had again fallen. She sat there in the folding chair, now looking stricken.
I decided to rescue her, though under the circumstances, the phrase wasn't really apt. “What Vida means,” I said, “is that the murder was personal. Audrey probably knew her killer.”
“Yes,” Vida said in a faint voice. “It could have been one of the family.” She leaned forward in the rickety chair and jabbed a finger at Rett. “It could have been you.”
Chapter Five
RETT RUNKEL HAD guffawed at the accusation and, in the process, expelled the half-smoked cigar onto the ground next to Vida's foot. She had withdrawn her sensibly shod feet and continued to glare at her brother-in-law.
“We're leaving,” she announced. “It was useless bringing Emma here. You don't know how to behave around civilized people. Goodbye, Rett. I hope I never see you again.”
“Now, don't go away mad,” Rett called after us.
His laughter followed us all the way to the car. Vida spent the next five minutes apologizing for her distant kin.
“Forget it, Vida,” I finally said as we pulled into the Ecola Creek Lodge's parking lot. “You're not responsible for Ernest's family.”
“The rest of them seem like jewels compared to Rett,” she fumed. “I will never, never criticize any of them again.”
“Let's not get carried away,” I said as we headed under the archway between the parking area and our unit. “I'm going to check the local phone book and try to find a real-estate company owned by somebody named Stina.”
“I don't know what to do,” Vida asserted, struggling with the motel key. “We really aren't getting anywhere. No wonder the sheriff's people haven't made any progress.”
“Maybe it's too simple,” I said as we entered our unit, which felt very warm and a trifle stuffy. “Wife gets murdered, husband disappears. He done it.”
“He didn't disappear right away,” Vida noted. “He stayed for the funeral.”
“He panicked,” I offered, flipping through the phone book to the Yellow Pages. “Maybe the police began asking some tough questions. Maybe his alibi didn't hold up. Maybe what he'd done didn't hit him until after the funeral.”
Vida's expression was skeptical, but, for once, she said nothing. I found plenty of real-estate and vacation-rental listings for Cannon Beach, as well as in Seaside, Astoria, and Lincoln City. Several displayed the names of sales associates, but none was named Stina. Then I spotted Kane's Ocean View Properties: CALL CHRISTINA OR STUART KANE TO MAKE YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE ALONG THE OREGON COAST.
Figuring that Christina must be Stina, I dialed the local number. A man's recorded voice answered, telling me that Kane's Ocean View Properties, with convenient locations in Cannon Beach and Lincoln City, were open Monday through Friday from nine to five. I checked the residential listings; the Kanes had a home on Larch Street. This time I heard a woman's voice, full of girlish bubbles, informing me that Stina and Stu were out, but that they'd be delighted to return my call.
I didn't leave a message. Instead, I got out my calling card and dialed Leo's number in Alpine. His recorded message hadn't changed since he moved to Alpine. “This isn't really me. If you don't know what to do after the beep, try hanging up.”
I'd asked Leo to change the recording, lest our advertisers call him at home and take offense. But Leo had responded that any advertisers who wanted to get hold of him after working hours were too damned dumb to stay in business. I, at least, knew what to do when I heard the beep: I left a message, telling Leo that I wouldn't return to Alpine until later tomorrow, that Vida was remaining in Oregon for an indefinite period of time, and that he and/or Carla should check our in-baskets and telephone messages for any late-breaking news.
“I'm stymied,” I said to Vida, stretching my legs out on the wooden coffee table. “The Kanes are out, we don't know Damon's first name, and we didn't find out who worked part-time at the Jaded Eye. Can I go home now?”
Vida ignored my request, which was only semiface-tious. “I'll call the children. They'll know who worked at the shop.”
She managed to reach Stacie, who said the woman's name was Ruth Pickering, and that she lived on Hemlock, “the main drag, sort of across from the Cannon Beach Hotel.” Stacie thought she'd be home because Mrs. Pickering spent all her spare time gardening.
“Okay, okay,” I said as Vida replaced the phone and gave me her gimlet eye. “I'm going. What are your plans?”
“I intend to invite the children out to dinner,” she said, looking pained. “It's a necessary expense, but I doubt that they'll turn me down. They can't be eating properly.”
“Good luck,” I said, grabbing my handbag and heading out the door. The sky was still virtually cloudless and the afternoon had grown so warm that I tossed my duffel coat into the backseat of the Neon. For the first time since arriving, I was on my own in Cannon Beach. I drove over the bridge that spanned Ecola Creek, glimpsed the turnoff to the horse-rental stables, and continued past the kite factory. Straight ahead was the city park, located on a small bluff above the ocean. Rollerbladers and skateboarders zipped around while picnickers enjoyed the sunshine.