by Mary Daheim
“He'd mention it now and then,” Rosalie responded, “but we never went. He thought his relatives were a bunch of stuffed shirts.” Realizing too late what she had said, Rosalie put a hand to her mouth. “Sorry. That was his opinion, not mine. How could I know one way or the other?”
“You couldn't,” Vida replied, tight-lipped.
“Rett had a lot of opinions,” Rosalie said, obviously trying to explain away her ex-husband's attitude toward the rest of the Runkels. “I didn't agree with half of them. That's one reason we got divorced. That, and his drinking.”
Vida's censorious manner fled. “Does he still drink?” she inquired in a confidential tone.
“Not like he used to. His liver got to acting up, and the doctor told him if he didn't quit, or at least cut down, he'd be dead within a year. That was in 1990. But of course we'd split up long before that.”
“Hmmm.” Vida finished her coleslaw, propped an elbow on the rough wood, and leaned her cheek against her hand. “Ernest was such a wonderful man. I can't help but think that Everett must have shared some of his finer qualities. Are you ever sorry you left him?”
The color rose in Rosalie's weathered face. “You bet. No man is perfect. At least Rett had a sense of humor. Walt's a sourpuss. Half the time he turns off those damned hearing aids so he doesn't have to listen to me. And I don't know what your husband was like in bed, but I'll tell you his brother was some top gun. Walt's like a limp noodle, if you'll forgive my frankness.”
Having never, ever heard Vida discuss the physical side of her marriage, I was fascinated. Indeed, I expected her to take umbrage at Rosalie's candor. But Vida surprised me.
“Ernest was an excellent mate, in every sense,” she declared, wrapping the statement in her own brand of dignity.
Rosalie nodded, as if the two women had suddenly bonded over the bedside manner of the Runkel brothers. “You know what they say—if a marriage is on the rocks, the rocks are in the mattress. But that wasn't the case with Rett. Except, of course, when he drank. Then he lost it. He lost everything, including me. If (5nly his liver had pooped out on him sooner.”
Vida stared at Rosalie over the rims of her glasses. “You'd still be there?”
“You bet. And we'd both be the better for it,” Rosalie asserted, her eyes roaming the high ceiling as if she could envision a happier time, a better place. “He wouldn't be stuck out there in that damned trailer with that damned dog. We'd still be a family.”
Vida didn't blink. “With Marlin and Audrey and Gordon and the youngsters?”
Rosalie's lower lip quivered. “Maybe Marlin wouldn't have needed all that dope. He was only fifteen when Rett and I split up. Maybe Audrey wouldn't have run off to California. Maybe,” she went on, her voice breaking, “Audrey wouldn't be dead.”
“My, my,” Vida exclaimed as we drove back into Cannon Beach, “such a do-gooder! Who would have thought it of Audrey?”
“You sound skeptical.” I had just taken two more Excedrin; my aches and pains seemed to have intensified.
“The elderly are gullible,” Vida said as we slowed behind a big camper. “Think of all those pigeon-drop schemes or whatever they are. Old people fall for them constantly.”
Vida's reaction intrigued me. “You think Audrey was a schemer?”
“Where else did she get all that money in the separate account?”
I kicked myself for being so slow on the uptake. “You're right. It's possible. Rupe Pickering?”
“Among others, I suspect. Take Opal Iverson.” Vida glanced at me to be certain I recognized the name. “Opal has a sixth sense when it comes to people who are about to die. Dust Bucket Cooper was barely seventy, and seemed healthy as a horse when Opal started to bake him pies and offer to run errands. Three months later Pastor Purebeck was giving the funeral eulogy. Dust Bucket left her three thousand dollars. Then there was Alva Peabody, who was in her eighties, but very spry. Three trips to the Grocery Basket, and an afternoon going over dress patterns at Sew 'N Sew, and Alva was six feet under. Opal got Alva's car and fur coat, though frankly, it looked as if it had been made out of dog hair. The coat, I mean, not the car. It was a Pontiac. Just last winter, Opal started calling on Bertha May Amundson, and you know what happened to her in that big February windstorm. Whomp!” Vida slapped her hand against the dashboard, in apparent imitation of the cedar tree that had fallen on poor Bertha May. “Opal ended up with the sterling silver, a spinet piano, and two nice lamps.”
Though I'd proofed the obituaries and written the windstorm fatality story myself, I hadn't known about Opal Iverson's opportunistic role as Alpine's Angel of Death. So caught up in Vida's recital was I that we were pulling up by the Imhoff house before it dawned on me that the Buick had turned off the main road.
“We're calling on the kids?” I asked in mild surprise.
“I hope not,” Vida answered. “With any luck, they'll be in school or at work. Let's hurry.”
“Hurry and do what?” I inquired, obediently getting out of the car.
“We need to make a search,” Vida responded, walking swiftly to the back door. “Aha! As I suspected,” she said, letting us in, “they didn't lock the door.”
They didn't clean house, either. The clutter had multiplied, and the sink was full of dirty dishes. Soiled laundry was strewn all over the place, and a glimpse into one of the bedrooms revealed an unmade bed.
“This isn't legal,” I pointed out.
“It isn't illegal,” Vida asserted. “I'm their aunt. I want to straighten up. They could use some help.”
It wasn't my place to argue. “Shall I dust?”
Vida was already going through kitchen drawers. “I've checked some of these,” she said, her hands moving like a magician's. “Audrey didn't keep much of interest in here except for household bills. Really, several are past due. I must remind the children about them.”
We moved on to the master bedroom. Judging from the chaos, the room was being used. I noted a rumpled waitress's uniform, an apron that looked as if it belonged to a grocery store, pink underpants, white Jockey shorts, two pairs of blue jeans, and several T-shirts. I guessed that Derek and Dolores had moved in. Their takeover struck me as unfeeling.
Vida had gone straight to the walnut bureau. “Bankbooks,” she said in an expectant voice, holding up a manila envelope. Then her face fell. “Oh dear—these are for the joint accounts. Now, where would Audrey keep the other ones?”
I was looking through the dresser. “Not here. This is all cosmetic stuff and jewelry and panty hose.”
“A strongbox,” Vida said, heading for the closet. “Gordon and Audrey must have kept their private papers there.”
“But wouldn't Audrey hide any records of her personal account?” I asked, checking under the bed where I spotted more rumpled clothes and several shoes. There was sand everywhere, and the scent of the sea permeated the house.
“Yes,” Vida replied with a grunt as she wrestled with the contents of the closet. “That's why I'm going to look in this suitcase. It obviously belongs to a woman.”
If the bright floral tapestry pattern didn't betray the owner's gender, the contents did. The suitcase was filled with sweaters, slacks, and shoes.
“Audrey was packed and ready to leave,” Vida remarked. “Let's look at the mate to this luggage.”
The smaller tapestry bag revealed blouses, shirts, and undergarments. We checked the zippered compartments of both bags, but found nothing of interest. Vida fetched two plain black cases from the closet. They appeared to be empty. The smaller of the two, however, made me pause.
“Look,” I said to Vida, using a fingernail to pick up a bit of green flaky residue that clung in one corner.
Vida sniffed at my finger. “It looks like oregano, but it smells like something else.”
“It is something else. I'm pretty sure it's marijuana.”
Vida stared at me, then began scraping at the tiny flakes. “Goodness! Where did this come from?”
“I
can make a guess,” I responded, reaching into an inside pocket. “Ah! What's this?”
“This” was a scrap of paper, caught in the pocket's lining. “It says ‘Friday P.M. Bring two thousand dollars. Do not go to Ja …’ The rest is torn off.”
Vida snatched the note out of my hand. “‘Jail,’ I presume. An attempt at humor. But what about this two thousand dollars? And ‘Friday P.M.’?”
“Have you ever seen Martin's handwriting?” I asked as Vida carefully slipped the scrap of paper into the pocket of her poplin jacket.
“I've scarcely seen Martin,” she replied. “Why Martin?”
“Because his place reeks of pot. Audrey might have been the one who brought it to him. I don't think he gets out much,” 1 added dryly.
Vida, who was still crouched on the floor, grew thoughtful. “No, he certainly doesn't. But to whom was the two thousand dollars owed? Audrey?”
“To whoever sold Martin his pot,” I answered, then frowned. “Unless …”
“Unless what?” With a small grunt, Vida rose to her feet.
“Unless Martin is actually growing pot up there in the woods. The climate's not ideal, but it can be done.”
“Indeed. It has crossed my mind. Look at those young people who were raising plants up on Mount Sawyer last year. And then this spring Milo caught Darryl and Sheree Gottschalk growing marijuana at their place by Cass Pond. They argued that it was a much-needed business venture to help the local economy. The incoming community-college students would be wonderful customers. Darryl even tried to join the chamber of commerce.” Vida shook her head in wonder.
Vida finished going through drawers in the matching nightstands. We found nothing of further interest, nor did we locate a strongbox. I could tell that Vida was growing frustrated as we went into the living room.
“We're fighting the clock,” she declared. “We mustn't forget Jesse Damon. I'm convinced that even if he wasn't involved in Audrey's death, he knows something.”
I shrugged. “The police must have questioned him. Why would he tell us anything of interest?”
“Because we're not the police.” Vida fingered her chin while her eyes darted around the living room. “If you had a car, you could drive over to Salem.”
“Vida,” I began, irritated, “we've been through that before. I'm not going to Salem. And if I felt like driving any distance, I'd go home.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Vida dismissed my protest with a wave of one hand. “I checked that desk over there earlier. Nothing. The cupboards and bookcases speak for themselves.” She snapped her fingers. “The Jaded Eye! That must be where Audrey and Gordon kept their important papers. Do you think Ruth Pickering would let us in?”
For once, I was a step ahead of Vida. “Ruth can't have the only key. Have you looked here?”
“You're right.” Vida gave me a big smile. “I believe there were keys in the desk. They didn't mean anything to me when I peeked in there Saturday. Let's look.”
The dozen keys on the big silver ring weren't marked, but Vida was convinced that one of them must belong to the Imhoffs' shop. “Now, here's what we'll do,” she said, outlining her strategy like a general going to war. “Drop me off at the Jaded Eye. You go up to see Marlin and find out what he knows about the marijuana in the suitcase. You can drive that far, can't you?”
Vida had me in a bind. If I pleaded physical disability, I wouldn't be able to head for Alpine in the morning. If I agreed to call on Marlin, I might end up driving all over Clatsop County, not to mention inland to Salem. And, if I had to be honest, my aches and pains were bearable.
“Okay,” I conceded, “I'll go see Marlin.”
“Excellent. Let's check the children's rooms and then we'll be on our way.”
It appeared that Stacie and Molly shared a room with twin beds and a closet crammed so full that garments tumbled onto the floor. One of the beds was made, however, and in fact, one half of the room was relatively tidy. Judging from the cutout photos of younger teen idols on the wall, I guessed that Molly was the neater of the two sisters.
“Goodness,” Vida said in mild dismay. “Where shall we begin?”
“You begin,” I responded. “I'll check out Derek's room.” It occurred to me that if he and Dolores had moved into the master bedroom, Derek's former room might be easier to tackle.
“Very well,” Vida agreed a bit grimly. “Though I can't imagine we'll find much.”
I was turning in to the short hallway when we heard a commotion at the back door. Glancing over my shoulder, I exchanged startled looks with Vida. We both hurried into the kitchen, where we found Stacie and Molly screaming at each other.
“It's not my fault!” Molly cried, her voice full of tears. “It's everybody's fault! Why do I always get the blame?”
“Because you whine,” Stacie shouted. “You always want everything your way! Why can't you just shut up and chill?”
Sensing our presence, they turned at the same time and saw us in the kitchen doorway. Both sisters stared, and Molly began to blush furiously.
“What are you doing here?” Stacie demanded, catching her breath.
“We came to help you clean,” Vida replied, not missing a beat. “You need to pay bills, too. I don't suppose you have a checkbook?”
The routine question seemed to calm Stacie. “No. Derek and I've talked about opening an account, but we haven't gotten around to it.”
“I thought you had an attorney in Seaside,” Vida said, pulling out a chair from the kitchen table. “Do sit, girls. We have some important things to discuss.”
Molly removed a maroon backpack from her shoulders and hugged it to her chest. “I don't want to discuss anything. I'm tired of discussing things. I'm going to my room.” She stalked off into the hall.
“Bratfinger,” muttered Stacie. “I just tried to tell Molly that if we're going to make it on our own, she's going to have to stop acting like a baby. She's spoiled, because she's the youngest. No matter what she gets or gets to do, it's never enough. Sometimes she made my folks crazy.”
Such as it was, the admission was the first hint of sympathy I'd heard from Stacie for her parents as a unit. “Most kids are like that,” I said, recalling Adam's constant badgering over the years.
From under the blonde hair that covered most of her forehead, Stacie gave me a disbelieving glance. “I'm not. I always knew there were limits, especially with Mom. And Derek—well, Derek would say okay, and then do what he wanted anyway and hope he didn't get caught. Derek's a jerk sometimes, but at least he doesn't whine like Molly. Molly acts like she's some kind of whipped puppy. ‘Poor Molly,’ ‘poor me,’ that's her line. It gets real old.”
Vida was nodding sagely. “We need to talk about your future.” My House & Home editor gave me a sidelong look. “My car keys are in my purse, Emma dear. Go ahead and take them. I'll be here when you get back.”
The dismissal was underlined by the “Emma dear.” Vida had never called me that in all the years I'd known her. With a faint sigh, I started to look for her purse. Then I remembered that she'd probably left it in the girls' bedroom.
Molly didn't respond when I first knocked. I called to her and received a belligerent “What?” Gently, I opened the door.
“Your aunt left her purse in here,” I explained with a smile. “She was going to … ah … make Stacie's bed for her.”
Molly was curled up on her own bed, her face turned to the wall. “Stacie's a slob.”
“You're not,” I said, spying Vida's purse next to the pile of clothes that had been disgorged by the jammed closet. “How was school?”
There was a pause, as if Molly was trying to decide if the question was worthy of an answer. “Okay. We got out early.”
That explained the Imhoff sisters' unexpected arrival. “Nice. What's your favorite subject?”
“Math.” Molly still hadn't turned to look at me.
I sidled up to the foot of the bed. “I hated math. I'm still not very good at it. I liked
history best.”
There was no comment. I was scarcely surprised that Molly wasn't interested in my long-ago academic pursuits. At fourteen, Adam hadn't been interested in anything that went on outside of his adolescent self-absorption.
“So,” I said brightly, “you and Stacie plan to go on living here together?”
“I guess.” The answer was muffled; Molly had now stuck her face in the pillow.
“What about Derek and Dolores? Will they get married and find their own place?”
“I guess.”
I took a deep breath and went for it. “I saw your dad today.”
Molly's chunky little body went rigid. I waited. Finally, laboriously, she rolled over and peered at me from under her hand. “My dad? You couldn't have!” The denial was a sudden shriek. Molly jerked into a sitting position and beat her fists on her thighs. “No! He went away! He's gone!”
“Hey!” I scooted between the twin beds and sat down next to her. “He's fine. In fact, we had a car wreck. That is, we hit each other. But nobody got hurt.”
It took several moments for my words to sink in. “No,” Molly repeated, but this time without conviction. “He left. It must have been somebody else.”
“It was your dad,” I asserted. “He was very kind. He wanted to make sure I wasn't injured.”
Molly raised a pale, apprehensive face to me. “Where is he?” Her voice was almost inaudible.
“I think he went to see your grandmother, but I'm not sure where he is now.” I attempted a reassuring smile. “You'll probably hear from him soon.”
“No!” Molly's vehemence made her cough. Then the cough turned to tears, and the tears bordered on hysteria. “No, no, no! He can't! He's got to go away again!”
Her outcries had brought Vida and Stacie to the bedroom door. “What's this?” Vida exclaimed.
“See what I mean?” Stacie was angry. “Molly's a mess. She's always a mess. Shut up, bratfinger! All you ever do is cry and whine!”
With a hand on Molly's shaking shoulders, I turned to Stacie. “She has a right to be upset. I was telling her about your father.”
Stacie looked puzzled. I assumed Vida hadn't yet informed the older girl about my unconventional meeting with Gordon Imhoff.