The Alpine Journey

by Mary Daheim

  Hemlock turned into a long, straight thoroughfare flanked by commercial enterprises. Though there is conformity demanded by zoning laws, Cannon Beach seems neither contrived nor self-conscious. The shake-covered buildings and log structures that make up most of the small downtown blend beautifully with the surroundings, bridging the gap between the ocean on the west and the foothills of the Coast Range to the east. The gentle slopes rise almost directly above town, while the ocean is just two blocks away, an endless vista of sky and sea. To preserve an unobstructed view, nothing in what is known as downtown is taller than three stories. Most exteriors have been stained brown, or left in their natural state. Imaginative architecture lends a grace note, and the heart of Cannon Beach invites the eye and mind, along with the tourist dollar.

  During summer, Hemlock is clogged with pedestrian and foot traffic, but on this Sunday in October, driving was relatively hassle-free. Past the many art galleries, restaurants, and specialty shops I went, until one storefront in particular caught my attention: on my left, not far from the post office and across from the live theatre, stood the Jaded Eye. The carved wooden sign showed a big green eye, and the windows appeared filled with objects intended to seduce the tourist trade. There was a “Closed” notice on the door, and the interior looked dark. I kept driving, up a little hill and around a bend, then onto the flat again, with Haystack Rock looming before me. This was a more eclectic part of town, with bicycle rentals and motels and restaurants sitting side by side with private residences. Most of the houses looked as if they had originally been summer homes, and their blue and gray and white exteriors reflected the ocean.

  Ruth Pickering lived in a small pale green bungalow where a profusion of dahlias, chrysanthemums, marigolds, and several species I didn't recognize brightened the exterior. There were tubs of flowers, baskets of flowers, window boxes overflowing with flowers. Seashells provided edging for the flower beds, the drive, and the walkway. Instead of the plaster animals and gnomes that cluttered Rosalie and Walt Dobrinz's yard, a half-dozen metal sculptures were set into the lawn. A couple of them looked like birds; the rest didn't look like much of anything.

  Upon hearing my car scrunch in the gravel drive, Ruth came around from the side of the house, looking much like a flower herself in a red-and-green-and-orange smock that reached to her knees.

  “May I help you?” she inquired in a cautious voice.

  “I hope so,” I said, suddenly feeling embarrassed by my unannounced arrival. Hurriedly, I introduced myself, explaining that Stacie Imhoff had suggested I talk to Ruth about the Jaded Eye.

  “I don't understand,” Ruth said in her soft voice. “Are you interested in buying the shop? I'm not certain it's for sale.”

  “No, no,” I answered hastily. “I'm here with Audrey's aunt, who is trying to learn what might have happened to her niece. Vida Runkel—Aunt Vida—isn't satisfied with the investigation so far.”

  “Oh. I see.” But judging from Ruth's manner, she didn't. “I really can't be of much help. I've told the sheriff's people all I know.”

  “I'm sure you have,” I said in my most agreeable fashion. “That's the problem—we haven't been able to talk to the investigating officers.”

  Ruth Pickering gazed out toward the ocean, her fine blue eyes troubled. I guessed her to be in her early sixties, a thin woman of medium height with a prematurely wrinkled face and short silver hair.

  “Murder is very unusual around these parts,” she said at last. “I've lived here for thirty years, and I can't recall anything like this. I still think it was some sort of freakish accident.”

  “Why do you say that?” I moved to one side to avoid the sun, which was starting to dip down over the ocean.

  “Because we don't have murders here,” Ruth said doggedly. “Audrey must have fallen and hit her head. Or she ran into something while she was swimming and just managed to get back on the dock before she … expired.”

  “You liked her?” I asked, wishing that Ruth would invite me inside or kick my butt down the drive. The sun was giving me a headache.

  Again, Ruth didn't respond immediately. “Yes, I think I did,” she finally said. “She had a good heart.”

  “And Gordon? Did you like him as well?”

  “Oh, yes.” A faint smile played at Ruth's small mouth. “Gordon was—is—a good man. He genuinely loves Cannon Beach.”

  Echoes of Alpine flitted through my mind. In a small town, people who cared about their community, who openly expressed their loyalty and affection, could be forgiven a multitude of sins.

  “Then why isn't he here?” I asked, shielding my eyes with my hand.

  “Oh …” For the first time Ruth seemed to note my discomfort. “Would you care to come around to the back of the house? I have a small patio where there's some shade.”

  “Thanks, I'd like that.”

  The patio was flanked with more flower-filled pots and tubs and barrels. Another neat row of seashells lined the patio, and two more metal sculptures stood in the adjoining grass. Piles of hyacinth and tulip and daffodil bulbs lay on an old newspaper. Apparently I'd interrupted Ruth in the middle of planting for spring.

  We sat in wrought-iron lawn chairs under a striped canvas awning. Ruth asked if I'd care for a glass of wine, but I declined. The offer seemed somewhat grudging, and in any event, I'm not much of a wine drinker.

  “Was the shop still open when Audrey was killed?” I inquired, deciding that factual questions were best.

  “You mean …?” The blue eyes blinked several times. “Oh, you mean for the season. No, it stays open year-round. We have much more than the spring kite festival and the summer sandcastle competition and the arts-and-sciences program. There's the Stormy Weather Festival of the Arts in November and then all the Christmas activities, including the lamplighting ceremony. Cannon Beach does its best to be a complete vacation spot, never mind what month of the year you choose to visit.”

  The woman was beginning to sound like the chamber of commerce. Maybe she only opened up when promoting her beloved community. It was no wonder that she found murder hard to accept. It might scare away business.

  “So the shop was closed only after Audrey died and Gordon disappeared?” I tried to phrase the question in a matter-of-fact voice. Dealing with Ruth was like handling a skittish mare.

  “That's true,” Ruth agreed, then sadly shook her head. “It was my fault, really. I simply couldn't handle the whole thing by myself. My nerves haven't been the same since Rupert died.”

  “Rupert?”

  “My husband. He passed away two years ago. Cancer.” Her head drooped and her hands clutched at the wrought-iron-and-glass-topped table.

  “I'm sorry,” I said in what I hoped was a sympathetic voice. “Did you and he own a business here?”

  Ruth nodded. “He made kites. We had a shop next to the liquor store.” Her left hand gestured feebly toward Hemlock Street. “We sold it. I still make my sculptures in the basement, but my heart's not in it.”

  “What kind of sculptures?” I asked, working hard at exuding interest.

  “Metal. Beaten metal, mostly abstract. I sold them mainly through the Jaded Eye.”

  My gaze traveled to the pieces standing in the grass. One looked like the old hammer-and-sickle symbol of the Soviet Union; the other resembled a pancreas. I recalled seeing similar pieces at the Imhoff house that might have been crafted by Ruth. To my mind, they were all pretty ugly, but I'm no art expert. I was beginning to think I wasn't much of an investigative reporter, either.

  “Intriguing,” I said, for want of a better word. “I understand that Gordon had moved into the shop.” Changing the subject was mandatory for more than one reason: if I didn't drag some helpful information out of Ruth, Vida would want to kill me. “Is there an apartment in the building? It looks rattier small.”

  “It is. But there's an office at the back, and that's where Gordon stayed.”

  “It must have been cramped,” I said, for lack of anything mor
e brilliant.

  “It was. But he had no choice, until Audrey moved out of the house.”

  I tried not to miss a beat; we finally seemed to be getting somewhere. “How soon did she plan to do that?”

  “The middle of September was her deadline,” Ruth responded, inspecting her short fingernails, which showed the dark earth from her garden. “She was moving to Portland. I can't think why.”

  No Alpiner could ever figure out why someone would desert their town for a big city. Moving out was considered a betrayal. “Did Audrey have a job lined up there?” I asked.

  “No,” Ruth said on a note of disapproval. “She had no qualifications, except in retail sales.”

  “She must have known something about art objects and antiques and collectibles,” I pointed out.

  “To some extent, yes,” Ruth answered slowly. “But it was Gordon who had the knowledge. And the eye. That's most important.”

  “It costs much more to live in Portland than it does in a smaller town,” I remarked, thinking of Mavis and Ray's expensive river condo. “I'd hate to think of moving to a big city without a job, at least after turning forty.”

  Ruth said nothing, which I found rather odd. The silence stretched out between us, a growing awkwardness that seemed to mingle with the salt air and the distant roar of the ocean.

  “Your garden is magnificent,” I said at last.

  “Thank you.” There was no hint of warmth in Ruth's manner; she accepted the compliment as deserved, rather than mere flattery. “The climate and soil here are conducive to plants. Cannon Beach is filled with beautiful flowers and shrubs, especially during the summer.”

  We were back strumming the chamber-of-commerce theme. I decided it was time to leave. Opening childproof aspirin bottles was a cinch compared with extracting information from Ruth Pickering.

  “Don't get up,” I urged. “I'll let you get back to planting your bulbs.”

  Ruth didn't insist on accompanying me to the car nor did she offer to shake hands. “Goodbye,” she said, perhaps in relief. “Enjoy your stay in Cannon Beach.”

  Given the circumstances, it was a funny thing to say. But there was nothing funny about the note that was plastered on the windshield of my car. Printed in black marker pen on a piece of flimsy cardboard were the words GO HOME BITCH.

  The message might have panicked someone less inured to letters and phone calls from irate readers threatening bodily harm on a weekly basis. Still, this wasn't Alpine, and my reputation as an editor hadn't preceded me. A chill crept up my spine that had nothing to do with the breeze coming off the ocean. I hurried out to the edge of the street and scanned both directions. A family of bicyclists were pedaling away from town, a pickup truck and an older-model sedan were driving in opposite directions, a young couple was strolling along hand in hand. No one else was in sight.

  Putting the note facedown on the passenger seat, I drove back into the heart of Cannon Beach. It was just after four, and I scratched my brain for some productive way of filling the next few hours. It occurred to me that I was a moving target for whoever didn't care for my presence, but I refused to be intimidated. After all, in twenty-four hours I'd be almost back home.

  Vida had indicated that I didn't need to meet Marlin Runkel. Rett, however, had passed muster, but after meeting the family patriarch, it was hard to imagine how much worse Marlin could be.

  I pulled into the parking lot next to the Mariner Market. Two phone booths stood near the entrance. Searching through the local directory, I learned that Runkel, M.E., resided on Elk Creek Road. He had a phone, but I didn't try calling him. All I wanted was a look at Martin's home.

  According to the pocket map I'd picked up at the motel, the Elk Creek Road was on the other side of Highway 101. I drove back the way I had come, slowing as I passed Ruth Pickering's house. She was nowhere in sight. A moment later I was at the left-hand turn that would take me under the highway and, hopefully, to the Elk Creek Road.

  A campground, surprisingly full for this time of year, lay on my right. A big RV park was on the left, and it, too, seemed busy. The road began to climb, weaving through the forest with its glorious golds of autumn. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the trees, and signs of civilization disappeared. The pavement ended, turning into gravel and then dirt. Maybe I'd passed Martin's house; but the number was high, compared with the mailboxes I'd seen closer to the RV park.

  The road dead-ended at a tin-roofed shack where an old brown Camaro with its wheels stripped sat in what might charitably be called the front yard. The space allowed for a turnaround was measly. Fortunately, the Neon was small, and it only took me three tries to get the car headed back in the right direction. By that time a man with a bow and arrow was blocking my way.

  “You see the sign?” he yelled, jerking his head in the direction of a big maple tree.

  I hadn't seen any sign, but now I saw the back of it, nailed about five feet from the ground.

  “Sorry,” I called through the open car window. Then, because I sometimes like to consider myself plucky as well as stupid, foolish, and prone to inviting disaster, I smiled broadly and started to ask if I had the pleasure of speaking to Marlin Runkel.

  “It says ‘No Trespassing,’” the man shouted, though he was only a few feet away. “That's what it means. Beat it.”

  Having just received an ugly message on the windshield of my rental car, and with nothing much else to do that afternoon, I continued on my road to ruin. “Come on, Marlin, put down the bow and arrow. I'm not the Sheriff of Nottingham.”

  Though he didn't exactly follow my instructions, the man I assumed was Marlin at least looked slightly curious. “Then who the hell are you?”

  “I'm a friend of your aunt Vida's,” I said, killing the engine. “She came to see you yesterday, right?”

  “She tried,” Marlin responded, then chuckled in an unpleasant manner. “I told her to get her big butt out of here.”

  “Did she?” I tried to picture the encounter between aunt and nephew. Maybe Vida only met her match when facing off with kinfolk.

  “Eventually,” Marlin replied, still smiling. “I don't need any relatives. I don't need any people hanging out at my pad.”

  Marlin didn't look particularly menacing, not even with the bow and arrow at the ready. He was over six feet tall, but had a pasty pallor and his fair hair was thinning. And any man in his forties who referred to his house as his pad had to be living in a time warp. Or, it dawned on me, as the smell of marijuana came floating into the car, maybe he was living on a pretty pink cloud.

  “Vida told me not to come.” I smirked and tossed my shaggy mane, hoping to convey a raffish air.

  Martin's sleepy eyes widened. “She did?”

  I uttered a little snort. “You thought I was a spy?” More likely he thought I was a narc. “No way. Vida told me you shouldn't be seen.” The phrase came out awkwardly, but I trusted that my meaning was clear.

  “I don't want to be seen,” Marlin retorted, lowering the bow and arrow. “That's different.”

  “Now that I've seen you, I'll be on my way. Maybe you ought to step aside. I'd hate to run you down.” I gave Marlin a simpering little smile.

  But Marlin didn't budge. “Who'd you say you were?”

  “I didn't, exactly. I'm Emma Lord, and I'm a friend of your aunt's from Alpine.”

  Marlin studied me for a moment. “You don't look like a friend of hers.”

  Maybe he meant I was too young; maybe it was my informal garb; maybe Marlin hadn't experienced enough friendships to realize that external barriers were easily broken if people liked each other. Then again, maybe his brain had turned to fuzz.

  “We work together,” I said, thinking that being colleagues would better explain the relationship. “She's very upset about your sister's death.”

  “So am I,” Marlin said, and looked as if he meant it. “Audrey was a great person.”

  I probably looked surprised. Marlin's comment was the first unqualified end
orsement I'd heard of Audrey Runkel Imhoff.

  “You were close?” I was getting a stiff neck from hanging out the window.

  “You could say that.” Marlin juggled the bow and arrow. “She's the only one I let come up here. We had some good times.” His gaze, now melancholy, wandered to the ramshackle dwelling he called home. For the first time I noticed a couple of equally dilapidated sheds farther into the woods. Marlin's layout was more elaborate than I'd realized.

  “Who do you think killed her?” I asked. The query was worth a try.

  Marlin rested the bow and arrow against his leg. The weaponry toppled to the ground, but he didn't seem to notice. “I wish I knew. I'd strangle the bastard.”

  “Did she have any … enemies?” The word seemed too strong.

  “Hell, no.” Marlin scratched at the front of his frayed T-shirt. “I told you, she was great, always knocking herself out for other people. She had the shop to run, three brats to raise, and Gordon was kind of a washout, if you ask me. She got taken advantage of because she had such a big heart.”

  This was definitely another side of Audrey. “Do you mean she was a volunteer in the community?”

  “In a way. That is,” Marlin went on, squinting up into the trees where an occasional leaf drifted downward, “she was always helping somebody, especially the old farts. They got so they relied on her. So,” he asked with a faint sneer, “what are they going to do without her? The ones that are left, I mean.”

  “Left … where?” I asked. Marlin was beginning to lose me.

  Apparently, he had lost himself. Without another word, he picked up the bow and arrow and walked slowly toward the house. I sat for a few moments, watching the front door, which he'd left open, half expecting him to come back outside. But he didn't. With a sigh, I started the car and drove back down the Elk Creek Road.

  Vida was putting the finishing touches on her toilette when I returned to the motel. “Are you coming with us?” she asked, applying powder in her usual slapdash manner. “Fm meeting the children at the Wayfarer at five-thirty.”