by Mary Daheim
“Excuse me,” I said, wishing the Excedrin would kick in, “but you must have me mixed up with one of your dissatisfied clients. I had a couple of drinks last night with your wife at the Driftwood Inn and we talked for a while. I thought we had a rather pleasant time.”
“You don't understand,” Stuart Kane said, and I sensed he was trying to be reasonable, though not succeeding very well. “Stina is easily upset. She cried all night.”
I was flummoxed. “Why?”
“Why do you think?” Stu's arrogance came through, not only in his voice, but in the set of his prominent jaw. “A complete stranger barges into her life and asks all sorts of personal questions. I don't understand it. Neither does she.”
“That makes three of us,” I said, irritated. “I didn't ask her any personal questions. We were talking about Audrey and Gordon Imhoff.”
Stu let out a beleaguered sigh. “I suspected you'd deny it. But that doesn't change things. I must insist that you keep away from Stina. I don't want to have to send her away again.” He turned on his heel and headed for the door.
Unluckily for him, Vida was standing in it. “I cannot imagine,” she said in her sternest voice, “how you expect to gain the confidence of potential clients when you impugn your wife's reputation, Mr. Kane. If someone is to be sent away, I should hope it's you. Meanwhile, don't ever bother us again.” Vida moved with amazing agility, and ushered an astonished Stuart Kane out of the motel room.
“What was that all about?” I inquired after Vida had firmly closed the door behind our departed guest.
“He thinks his wife told you something she shouldn't have,” Vida said, peeking through the window to make sure Stuart Kane had left. “I wonder what it could have been?”
Driving me into Seaside hadn't been on Vida's schedule. She wasn't particularly pleased by the prospect, but grew more affable when I reminded her that had I not been involved in an accident, we might never have known that Gordon Imhoff was alive and well in the Cannon Beach area.
We were on the road before ten. The fog had lifted, and except for some bits of glass that glistened like dew, all signs of the wreck had disappeared. The Neon was gone, presumably towed off to Seaside.
“I'm surprised you didn't call the Imhoff kids to tell them about their father,” I said to Vida as we drove past another big RV camp.
“The girls are in school,” Vida replied. “Derek's probably at work. I wouldn't confide in Dolores, even if she were home. She's not family.”
My business at the car-rental agency was no more complicated than negotiations for the average Mid-East cease-fire. I was hampered by Gordon's defection, though the agency rep was able to tell me that on Sunday Mr. Imhoff had indeed rented the Ford Taurus I'd just turned in. I was surprised that he'd used his real name, but Vida pointed out that he'd have to present a valid Oregon state driver's license.
“Which,” she noted as we left the agency, “indicates his days of hiding were numbered. If Gordon wasn't recognized immediately at the rental agency, someone might have realized who he was later.”
I only half heard Vida. I could rent another car, but since the other driver had left the scene, his coverage eventually would have to pay for the rental, no matter who was at fault. Until he was tracked down, I'd be paying for both the original rental and the replacement. There'd also be the deductible on my policy. Did I know what it was? My brain was so fuzzy that offhand I couldn't remember. I realized I should have called my agent, Brendan Shaw, earlier. I asked to use the phone and dialed the Sigurdson-Shaw number in Alpine. Brendan commiserated, but informed me that the deductible was five hundred dollars. With a sinking feeling, I thanked him and hung up. Then I told the rental rep I'd wait to get another car. I didn't feel like driving at the moment.
“Very wise,” Vida stated as we started back to Cannon Beach. “You're much too nervy.”
“Not anymore,” I countered. “I'm stiff and sore and the headache's still there, but my nerves are under control.”
“Nonsense. You could black out at any moment.” Vida left the city limits, pressed down on the accelerator, and began to hum in her off-key voice. I couldn't be sure, but the tune sounded like “Poor Jud Is Dead” from Oklahoma! If that was it, her choice didn't make me feel any better.
“Where am I being taken as an unwilling hostage?” I finally inquired. We were winding south again, passing numerous roadside gift shops, flower stalls, eateries, and the launching pad for scenic helicopter rides.
“To call on Rett Runkel,” Vida responded. “We owe it to him to let him know his son is all right.”
“Rett? Oh, great. Now my stomach can get upset, too. What about telling Rosalie?”
Vida sniffed. “Why bother? Rosalie knows.”
Rett was tinkering with his pickup, an old rusted-out Ford model with a broken windshield. T-Bone was lying on the sparse grass, but went into his guard-dog stance when we pulled up.
It took a while for Vida to relay the information about Gordon and his involvement in my accident. It took even longer for the news to sink in on Rett Runkel. When it did, he evinced no surprise.
“I figured Gordy was around here someplace,” Rett said, wiping his dirty hands on an even dirtier rag. “Them cops aren't much good when it comes to lookin' for somebody who don't want to be found.”
I could tell that Vida had expected a different sort of reaction from her brother-in-law. “Will he stop in to see you?” she asked, groping for some kind of solid information.
Rett and T-Bone both eyed Vida curiously. “Gordy? Naw, we aren't real close. I never saw that much of Audrey, to tell the truth. You raise kids, they raise hell, and then they're old enough to be on their own. That's the way it ought to be, anyhow.”
“You don't see Marlin, either?” I put in, just to make sure Rett remembered that I was present.
“Marlin comes by now and then,” Rett responded, leaning against the pickup. “He was here about a month ago to borrow some tools. Always borrowin' something. Says he doesn't own much 'cause he don't need much. But when he needs something, he comes to oF Dad. 'Course he never returns anything, either.” Rett's blubbery face wore a scowl. “Someday I'm goin' up to his place with this pickup and collect my stuff. I could probably fill this thing with what's mine.”
“Indeed,” Vida said in an undertone. She and the dog were eyeing each other with suspicion. It was T-Bone who gave up, sitting back on his haunches and scratching himself. “If Gordon should drop by,” Vida said, now redirecting her attention to Rett, “would you tell him I'd be pleased to meet him? I'd hate to leave without having met Audrey's husband.”
“Why's that?” Rett asked, puzzled. “You never met Audrey.”
“All the more reason,” Vida replied cryptically. Then, with a sweeping gesture, she indicated the shabby trailer. “Perhaps he'll want to stay with you.”
“Like hell he will,” Rett rumbled. “I don't need no company.”
“I gathered that,” Vida said, and turned on her heel. “Good day, Everett.”
Rett Runkel belched at Vida's departing figure. T-Bone growled low in his throat. If not closely related to a jackal, the dog might have been part wolf.
I wasn't sure about Rett's species, either.
We didn't take the first turnoff into Cannon Beach, but drove on until we reached the RV camp and the Elk Creek Road. I presumed that we were headed for Marlin's; instead, Vida pulled into the parking lot by the RV headquarters and used a pay phone to call Rosalie Dobrinz.
“Rosalie will meet us at Mo's,” Vida informed me when she returned to the car. “I promised to treat her to lunch.”
“Did you tell her about Gordon?”
“No. It's better not to until she's with us in person.”
Mo's was a longtime tradition on the Oregon coast. The local Mo's was part of a chain of seafood restaurants between Astoria and the California state line, all of which touted the clam chowder. While working for The Oregonian, I had occasion to visit almost all t
hem, though I personally considered the french fries as their standout menu item. Not that I was any expert—it had taken me ten years to figure out that Mo was a woman, not a man. I suppose I was too busy eating.
During the tourist season, there is almost always a long line waiting to get into the restaurant. But as the year moved deeper into October there were no lines, at least not on this Monday at midday. A dozen cars bearing out-of-state license plates, mostly from Washington and California, were parked in the big lot. Since we had traveled the shorter distance, Rosalie hadn't arrived yet.
“How did you talk her into driving up from Manzanita?” I asked Vida as we waited outside in the sunshine.
“I told her I had something very important to discuss,” Vida responded, adjusting the wide-brimmed straw hat she usually reserved for summer wear. “Judging from her tone, Rosalie is rarely invited to discuss anything of importance. Life must be very dull for her, don't you think?”
“I don't think having your daughter murdered is dull,” I replied.
“No, certainly not.” Vida watched a dark blue sedan pull into the parking lot, but it didn't belong to Rosalie. A young couple in shorts got out and headed for the restaurant. “Nor would coping with the daughter's marital breakup be dull. You must wonder—do people create crises because the rest of their lives are so unspeakably routine?”
The thought had occurred to me before, as I was sure it had to Vida. But it flirted with criticism of small-town life, or so it seemed to me. The people I had known in Seattle and in Portland hadn't seemed nearly as screwed up as my fellow Alpiners. From the start, I'd wondered if they compensated for the lack of civic and cultural distractions by actively searching for trouble.
“Audrey doesn't seem to have been the kind of person who would enjoy a rut,” I pointed out. “That was her goal, to get out of here and start over.”
Vida sighed. The young couple went past us and entered the restaurant. “It always comes back to that, doesn't it? Audrey, and what she wanted. I'm beginning to understand her, to become acquainted. Very headstrong, independent, restless. Yet not without some compensating qualities. We must ask Rosalie about Audrey's good deeds.”
Another ten minutes lapsed before Rosalie Dobrinz arrived in an aging Chev that was almost as big as Vida's Buick. Emerging from the car, Rosalie took a last drag off of her cigarette, tossed it aside, and came huffing toward us with an air of combined apology and anticipation.
“I couldn't get away,” she said in an anxious voice. “Walt needed some help with the kitchen drain. He's got a million tools, but he never seems to have the one he needs.”
As we waited to be seated at one of the trestle tables, I regarded Rosalie more closely. She seemed to have developed a tic in the last twenty-four hours, and her hands shook ever so slightly. She was still short of breath when we sat down.
“So what's going on?” she asked, her small eyes glistening. “Has something happened?”
Vida appeared to be engrossed in the menu. At last she looked up. “You must know.” The owlish expression was fixed on Rosalie.
“Know what?” Rosalie tried to look innocent, but she wasn't much of an actress.
“About Gordon. Where is he now?”
“Gordon!” The exclamation meant to convey surprise, but it wasn't convincing. “Now that's funny you should ask, because the sheriff's people came by asking the same thing.”
“And?” In contrast to Rosalie, Vida remained calm.
Rosalie held out her pudgy hands in a helpless gesture. “How should I know?”
“Rosalie.” Vida became confidential, leaning forward, with her large bust brushing the trestle table. “You and I are related by marriage. Or were,” she added hastily. “That is,” she went on, gathering steam, “we married brothers. We have to be honest with one another. 1 know perfectly well that Gordon stayed with you and Walt. I also know that he came back this morning, let's say around nine-thirty.”
Rosalie was so astounded by Vida's guesswork that her jaw dropped and she gaped like a beached trout. “Oh! I… it wasn't… it's not the way you …” She gulped and withered under Vida's gaze. “Does the sheriff know?”
“I've no idea,” Vida replied truthfully. “What did you tell the deputies today?”
“The truth,” Rosalie answered so promptly that I believed her. “Gordon hadn't shown up when they stopped by. He came along not five minutes after they left.”
“Was he watching for them?” I asked, keeping my voice down. We had just been joined by a family of four who were being seated about five feet away from us at the long table.
“I…” Rosalie hesitated, her eyes darting in the direction of the newcomers. The mother and father seemed absorbed in settling an argument between their two sons, who looked to be about eight and ten. “I guess he was. The Wilkinsons down the street both work, and they leave their garage open. Gordon knows that because he's sold things to them. He'd pulled in there to wait. He'd expected the sheriff to send someone after him. I guess he got into a wreck.”
“That he did,” I said, and explained my role in the search for Rosalie's son-in-law. “So where is he now?” I inquired.
Predictably, Rosalie turned cagey. “I'm not sure. He took off not long afterward. He didn't say where to.”
It was safe to assume that Rosalie was lying. Gordon may very well have left the Dobrinz house, but I was sure that his mother-in-law knew his destination. I guessed that Vida felt the same way.
“Why doesn't he simply turn himself in?” she asked with a touch of impatience, perhaps for Gordon, maybe for Rosalie as well.
Rosalie let out a heavy sigh. “I don't know. He can't run forever. He's not a fugitive. I don't understand it.”
Our server arrived and orders were taken. Rosalie insisted she only wanted coffee, but Vida finally coaxed her into a bowl of clam chowder.
“Was this weekend the first time you've seen him since he disappeared?” Vida asked after the server had left.
Rosalie nodded in a listless manner. “I was so worried. Gordon's like a son to me. More of a son than Audrey was a daughter, if you get right down to it. Gordon never had much of a childhood. His parents were protesters, always marching for some cause. Black people, lettuce, Vietnam—you name it, they were there with their signs and their slogans. I always felt that's why Gordon wanted to settle down and live a peaceful life. He'd been all over the place when he was growing up.”
“And yet,” Vida noted thoughtfully, “he's been on the run, as they say.”
“Yes.” Rosalie nodded twice for emphasis. “That's what I mean—it's not like him.”
“Then why?” Vida let the words fall like heavy stones.
Rosalie put a hand over her eyes. “I don't know,” she said softly. “I don't want to know.” Her chunky shoulders began to shake. “I'm afraid to know. I hope I never have to find out.”
Chapter Nine
EVENTUALLY, ROSALIE REGAINED her composure and we talked of other things. Vida asked about Audrey's alleged helpfulness toward others. For the first time her mother brightened at the mention of her daughter's name.
“Now, that's where Audrey did her share,” Rosalie declared with enthusiasm. “Somehow she got involved with driving patients to doctor appointments, especially seniors. It was a volunteer thing through the chamber of commerce. Even after a lot of the other merchants dropped out, Audrey still carted folks around. There's only one doctor in Cannon Beach, you see, so if you go to somebody else, you have to drive into Seaside or all the way to Astoria.”
“How very kind,” Vida remarked, nibbling at her fish and chips. “I hope her efforts were appreciated.”
Rosalie's enthusiasm dimmed. “Well … you know how people are. Some take everything for granted. But Audrey didn't complain about that, except in the beginning. In a way, I was surprised she kept at it.”
“Did she have to make many trips?” I asked, deciding that the french fries definitely met my memory's muster.
“
Oh …” Rosalie's forehead furrowed. “I'm not sure. We didn't chat much. I suppose she went a couple of times a week. At least that's how often she was taking Rupe Pickering while he was having his cancer treatments, or whatever it was.”
Vida shot me a covert glance. “That would be Ruth's husband? Doesn't Ruth drive?”
Rosalie's expression showed disdain for Ruth. “Ruth doesn't do much, if you ask me, except make those ugly metal dingbats. She won't drive on the highway, and freeways scare the pants off of her. I guess that's what happens when you marry money. You get spoiled.”
I recalled the modest house where Ruth lived. “She's rich? I'm surprised.”
“I don't mean she's rolling in it,” Rosalie amended, “but Rupe's dad owned some beachfront property they sold way back. They made a bundle off it. And both Rupe and Ruth were what you'd call careful. Or,” she added with bite, “what I'd call downright tight.”
“I wondered,” I said with a small smile, “how much money you could make from building kites and beating out metal sculptures.”
Rosalie crumbled crackers into her chowder. “That's the other thing—they would have starved if they'd had to rely on what they made from their so-called work. Believe me, Audrey and Gordon couldn't afford to pay Ruth much when she came to work for them. I think the only reason she filled in at the Jaded Eye was to push those damned sculpture things.”
Vida was gazing around the big restaurant, taking in everything from the splendid ocean view to the clusters of luncheon customers. “Lovely,” she commented, more to herself than to Rosalie or me. “Though I miss the mountains. They make you feel so safe,” she added, turning to Rosalie. “Protected. The ocean is more dangerous. And there's no end to it. I'm not sure I like that.”
Rosalie gave a little shrug. “I've always lived on the coast. I was raised in Astoria. That's where I met Rett. He was stationed in the coast guard there.”
“He never suggested taking you to Alpine to meet the rest of his family?” I could hear the barely concealed scorn in Vida's voice.