The Alpine Journey

by Mary Daheim

  “We must speak with Jesse,” Vida asserted. “Give me that phone number. I'm going to call him from here.”

  Jesse wasn't home, but another male voice answered Vida's call. Apparently, he was Jesse's roommate. He informed Vida that Jess, as he called him, would return sometime after five.

  “We'll call then,” Vida said, her finger tracing something taped to the counter. “This is the shuttle schedule. We can catch it southbound at three thirty-six.”

  According to my watch, it was now three twenty-nine. Vida locked up before we headed out onto the main street. Assuring me we could flag the shuttle down, we crossed to the other side of Hemlock and stood in front of the Cannon Beach Book Company. Sure enough, the little bus slowed when Vida waved her arms like a windmill. Five minutes later we were back at the Imhoff house.

  Molly was still in her room, but Stacie was out on the front deck, trying to catch some October rays. There was no sign of Derek or Dolores, who I assumed were at work.

  When Vida explained her plight with the Buick, she carefully omitted where the accident had happened or Martin's possible involvement. Stacie listened without any expression until her great-aunt requested the use of the pickup truck.

  “I don't know about that,” Stacie said, pulling up the straps of her bathing suit. “If you take the pickup, all we have is Mom's Tracer. Dad took the van.”

  “I take it you haven't heard from your father?” Vida made the remark sound like an accusation.

  Stacie shook her head. “I don't think we will. It's better that way.”

  “Where's the—Tracer, is it?—now?” Vida inquired.

  “Derek has it,” Stacie replied. “He drives it to work. Dolores has a crappy old beater.”

  “I must insist on borrowing your truck,” Vida said, assuming a majestic stance.

  Clearly, Stacie wasn't used to the royal prerogative. “How long?” she asked.

  “At least until tomorrow,” Vida responded.

  Stacie gave in. “The keys are in the desk in the living room. I'll get them.”

  Aware that the keys were in her purse, Vida forestalled Stacie. “Never mind, dear. I can find them myself. You enjoy the sun. Winter's coming, after all.”

  We went through the motions of searching the desk. “I found them,” Vida called.

  There was no response. “Now, I wonder,” Vida murmured, going over the big silver ring, “which ones are for the truck?”

  I started to say that we'd have to try all of the ones that looked like car keys, but was interrupted by the sound of the back door. Vida and I looked up. Gordon Imhoff stood in the doorway to the kitchen,

  “Gordon?” Vida gaped.

  He merely glanced at her, then stared at me. “You,” he breathed. “You're the one from the wreck.”

  I nodded. “Yes. And this is your aunt by—”

  Stacie bolted into the living room before I could introduce Vida. “Dad!” she shrieked. “What are you doing here?”

  Oddly, Gordon's expression was embarrassed. “I'm home.”

  “You'll be arrested,” Stacie said in an agonized voice. “Don't stay. Please, Dad. Go away again!”

  A figure had crept into the hallway. Gordon's back was turned, and he didn't see Molly, who hung back and started crying.

  “Daddy!” she sobbed. “You need to leave!”

  Gordon turned at the sound of her voice. “I'm not running anymore,” he said simply. “I'll turn myself in.”

  “No!” Molly cried. “You can't!” She flung herself at her father. “Let's all run away! I hate it here!”

  Gordon cradled Molly in his arms while Stacie kept aloof, her pretty face distorted with emotion. “Brat-finger's right for once. We should go away. It's been awful since … you left.”

  “Excuse me,” said Vida, taking a step toward Gordon and Molly. “I'm Audrey's aunt, and I think we should sit down and talk sensibly. Would you care for some tea, Gordon?”

  Gordon looked at Vida as if she'd just emerged from a spaceship. “Tea? Tea?”

  “A cocktail, perhaps,” Vida said, the suggestion sounding as if she'd offered pure poison.

  “I could use a Scotch about now,” Gordon admitted, keeping Molly under his wing as he steered her to the couch. “It's been a long day. God, it's been a long month.” He collapsed, with Molly beside him.

  I'd seen some liquor bottles in the kitchen when Vida and I were snooping. A drink didn't sound like a bad idea to me, either. I'd also had a long, harrowing day. Leaving Vida in charge of her errant relations, I exited the living room and went off to play bartender.

  Eavesdropping was easy. Vida asked Gordon where he'd been since his disappearance. He'd stayed mostly on the coast, as it turned out, living in his van, which had eventually broken down Saturday night some thirty miles down the coast, outside of Tillamook. On Sunday he'd hitchhiked into Seaside, where he rented the Ford Taurus. Then he'd headed south again, to stay with his mother-in-law in Manzanita. When he'd hit me earlier in the day, his plans were unformed. Gordon hadn't yet decided whether to come home, turn himself in, or go back to Rosalie and Walt's place to think some more.

  “I considered heading for the Bay Area,” he was saying as I brought him a Scotch and served sodas to Vida and the girls. There hadn't been any bourbon, so I'd made myself a screwdriver. I'd rather drink Drano than Scotch. “But that seemed foolish,” Gordon went on after taking a deep sip. “There were too many loose ends here, and I couldn't let you kids take responsibility for them.” Gordon eyed both his daughters with a fond expression.

  Molly had stopped crying and was curled up next to her father. “I love you, Daddy,” she said.

  He hugged her. “I love you, too, kitten.”

  “This is all very well and good,” Vida said, ignoring her soda. “But we must be practical. If you turn yourself in, what will you tell the sheriff, Gordon?”

  His pale blue eyes regarded Vida with bewilderment. “I'm a fugitive. What else can I say?”

  “Technically, that may not be true.” Vida cleared her throat. “I don't care to be indelicate, but are you also a felon?”

  Gordon's mouth twisted into what might have been a smile—or a grimace. “That's pretty up-front, Vida. Or should I call you Aunt Vida?”

  Gordon's concern for etiquette seemed inappropriate. Apparently, Vida thought so, too. “Vida is acceptable,” she replied tersely. “You didn't answer my question.”

  Gordon sighed. “I can't discuss it. After all, I don't know you, do I?”

  “Oh, good grief!” Vida exploded. “We're related, for heaven's sake!” She glanced at Stacie and Molly, who both looked frightened. “We can talk about it later,” she added, apparently figuring that Gordon's reticence was caused by the presence of his daughters “Perhaps it's more important to decide on what you're going to do now.”

  “We should go away,” Stacie insisted. “I can pack in ten minutes.”

  “Me, too,” Molly put in, still clinging to her father.

  Gordon scratched at his trim beard. “I don't know.… It doesn't seem right.”

  “Dad!” Stacie had gotten to her feet and was standing by the sofa. “Make up your mind for once! What's to hold us here?”

  “What about Derek?” Gordon asked in a mild, unruffled tone.

  “Derek can stay with Dolores,” Stacie countered. “They're going to get married anyway. We can sell the house to whoever it was that wanted it so bad. We can sell the shop to the Kanes. We'll have enough money to start over.”

  Gordon grew thoughtful, but finally gave a slight shake of his head. “I never wanted to move or give up the shop. It seems kind of pointless to change my mind now.”

  Stacie's eyes were hard. “Does it?”

  “May I put in a word?” Vida spoke from her place by the hearth.

  None of the Imhoffs responded, but all gazed at her with varying degrees of curiosity.

  “Gordon, you must turn yourself in to the police. Otherwise, you remain a missing person, or, as y
ou put it, a fugitive. You can hardly conduct business of any sort if you're running from the law. Be realistic,” Vida added. Like me, she apparently was beginning to comprehend that Gordon had problems facing hard, cold facts.

  Taking a big gulp of Scotch, Gordon closed his eyes. “I don't know.”

  Molly, who had been dislodged while her father drank, grabbed his free arm and shook it. “I want to go! Let's pack!”

  Gordon started to say something, apparently thought better of it, and put a hand on his younger daughter's knee. “Okay, you two get your stuff together.”

  Molly let out a shriek of joy while Stacie rushed from the room. Vida stared at Gordon with a damning expression.

  “You're making a terrible mistake,” she said.

  Gordon cradled his drink in his hands. “I don't want to talk about it.”

  Vida continued to stare at her nephew by marriage, then shrugged. “As you will. We're borrowing your pickup, by the way.”

  “What?” Gordon was puzzled.

  “We need a vehicle.” Vida didn't explain why.

  Gordon turned to look at me. “Because of this morning?”

  “Partly,” I responded. “Are you really selling the house and the shop?”

  Gordon didn't answer. His glass was empty; he got up to head for the kitchen and, I assumed, to get a refill. “The gearshift sticks sometimes,” he called from the other room, “and the left rear tire needs replacing. Otherwise, good luck.”

  Vida and I heard the tinkling of ice and the sound of running tap water. We gazed at each other in bewilderment, and I wondered if we also heard the sound of doom.

  Chapter Eleven

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER the three Imhoffs had departed. Their farewells to us were perfunctory at best, and I felt sorry for Vida. While I might criticize her for inserting herself in their midst, I knew she was basically well intentioned.

  But if Vida felt rejected, she didn't complain. “You've been drinking,” she said, starting for the back door. “I'll drive.”

  “You were going to drive anyway,” I pointed out. “Besides, one drink doesn't turn me into a highway marauder.”

  “You're right,” she agreed, stopping to take a look at the girls' empty bedroom. “You don't need to drink to drive badly. This morning's accident was proof of that.”

  I was standing in the kitchen door that led into the hall. “That's the first wreck I've had since I bought the Jag,” I argued. “And that's saying something, considering the weird people we've got behind the wheel at home.”

  “Durwood Parker has had his license taken away,” Vida said, referring to Alpine's most infamous driver. “Oh, I know he sneaked off in his wife's car last summer and ran into the Gay Loggers' float at the Summer Solstice parade. I also know that there were some ridiculous fools who applauded his effort. But after Milo put him in jail for three days, Durwood swore he'd never—ah! Just as I suspected! A diary.” As she spoke Vida had been rummaging around in drawers. Now she turned to face me and held up a mock-leather diary with a gold clasp. “It's Molly's, of course. Girls Stacie's age don't keep diaries.”

  Watching Vida slip the diary into her purse made me feel uneasy. “Are you going to read it?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “It will help me become better acquainted with Molly,” she replied, going through another drawer. “Perhaps I'll learn more about the family's dynamics. I may even find a clue to Audrey's murder. You know,” she said, shutting the last of the drawers and turning to leave the bedroom, “a mention of something that a fourteen-year-old might not consider important but which may actually shed light on her mother's death.”

  It occurred to me that stealing Molly's diary might be revenge for the family's ingratitude. “It's your grand-niece,” I said with a shrug. Then, after we had clambered into the pickup, which was an older Chevrolet model, I remarked that it was hard to believe that Gordon and the girls would simply take off.

  “Did they leave a note for Derek?” I asked.

  “I don't think so,” Vida answered, struggling with the gears. Her hat, a bilious green straw, kept hitting the cab's roof.

  “But won't he wonder where they went?”

  “Derek doesn't know his father returned,” Vida said, finally putting the truck into reverse. “Oh, he may hear about it through the grapevine. Then he might put two and two together.”

  “It's crazy,” I muttered as we bounced along on the dirt drive that led to the main road. “Speaking of crazy, where are we going?”

  “It's almost five,” Vida answered, fighting both the steering wheel and the green straw hat, the crown of which had been flattened by the cab's roof. “I want to talk to Milo before he leaves work. We're going back to the motel. He may have left a message.”

  I doubted it, but I was wrong. Milo had called the Ecola Creek Lodge shortly after three. Vida furiously dialed his number while I left the door open and raised a window to air out our lodging. The sun still shone brightly, and the unit seemed stuffy.

  Unfortunately, there was no extension that would allow me to listen in on the conversation between Vida and the sheriff. I tried to guess what Milo was saying from what I could hear on my end, but gave up after the first couple of minutes. Vida didn't take notes. She never does, no matter how complicated the interview or story. Everything is filed away in my House & Home editor's efficient brain.

  I strolled outside, wandering across the street to a grassy expanse that bore a sign denoting Les Shirley Park. I watched the ocean for a few minutes and took big breaths of sea air. The setting was peaceful, beautiful, soothing. It had been a long time since I'd been to the coast. Maybe someday I could visit when I wasn't embroiled in murder and mayhem.

  Vida was still talking to Milo when I went back inside, but she hung up after another minute or so had passed. I flopped into one of the easy chairs while she remained on the sofa.

  “Well!” she exclaimed. “That was most enlightening. I think.”

  “Milo did some digging?” I asked, mildly surprised, though I don't know why. He would have paid dearly if he hadn't.

  “Yes, he was very helpful, and assures me that the Clatsop County law-enforcement personnel are working very hard on the investigation. There's nothing new on the weapon. But,” Vida continued, looking pleased, “Milo was able to learn some things about the people who might be considered suspects.”

  “Such as?” I asked.

  She grimaced. “The family, of course. The children were all in bed and asleep, which really isn't an alibi, but at least they weren't awakened by any odd noises. Gordon was staying at the shop, and told the sheriff's people he was sleeping, too.

  “Then we get to Marlin, who claimed he wasn't asleep, but sitting up watching some old movie on TV. I gather Marlin doesn't have ordinary sleep habits.” Vida looked mildly disdainful. “Everett was questioned, but said he was asleep in his trailer home. Indeed, he stated that he had passed out that night. I don't doubt it. Rosalie and Walt were home in bed. Ruth Pickering, also. As for Stuart and Stina Kane—who were interrogated because of the allegations of an affair between Gordon and Mrs. Kane—they said they were asleep at home—together.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

  “This is all pretty weak stuff,” I noted.

  “Yes”—Vida nodded—“which is what makes it interesting.”

  I asked about Jesse Damon, but Vida said Milo hadn't mentioned him. “Maybe,” I suggested, “that's because he was so far away at the time of the murder. I've never really figured him for the killer if only because of the distance between Cannon Beach and Salem.”

  Vida didn't comment. After the fact, it occurred to me that the younger generation doesn't always view long drives in the same light that we somewhat older, less flexible folks do. Adam, for example, thought nothing of making frequent two-hundred-and-fifty-mile trips between Ben's mission church in Tuba City and the Arizona State campus in Tempe.

  “Others were questioned, including the neighbors, John and Marie Skelly,” Vi
da continued. “I'd intended to talk to them myself, but they've been away for the weekend. It turns out that John Skelly has a bad back and is a very light sleeper. He stated that he heard nothing.” She gave me a quizzical look.

  “You mean…?” At first, I wasn't sure what Vida was getting at. Then it dawned on me. “No car arriving? No shouts? No running footsteps?”

  “That's right.” Vida acknowledged my astuteness with a single nod. “Now, to be fair, the Skelly house is the one on the north. The house on the south side belongs to summer people. If you picture the Skellys' place, it's about a hundred feet away from the Imhoffs'. And it's a great deal further from the dock. Even if John Skelly was awake, he might not hear voices. But he'd probably hear a car.”

  “Which leaves us with two choices,” I mused. “There was no car, or else whoever drove it left it parked by the road.”

  “That's credible, given the hour. There wouldn't be much traffic, and there's plenty of room to park between the road and the driveway.” Vida paused, apparently thinking through the scenario. “There's also the possibility of a boat.”

  “True,” I agreed. “John Skelly probably wouldn't hear a motor over the roar of the ocean. If the boat had a motor,” I added, then thought of something else. “What about tire tracks?”

  “It was too dry,” Vida answered. “They couldn't get much from the drive. As for the beach, the tide was coming in. Any tracks below the waterline would have been washed away. And closer in, where the waves rarely hit, the sand is far too powderlike.”

  “Hunh. No wonder the local sheriff isn't getting very far. Who else did they interview?”

  “Half the town,” Vida responded. “Milo didn't get all the names or responses, but the gist was rather the same as what we've found out on our own—Audrey had a tarnished reputation, she suffered from wanderlust, she should never have left Cannon Beach in the first place. Gordon is a very decent man, if a bit weak, but after the initial adjustments to small-town life, he pitched in and did his share. The children are regarded as nice enough, though Derek is often sullen and drives too fast. Stacie was termed ‘stuck-up’ by at least two of her peers. Molly's teachers called her very bright, but having low self-esteem. In other words, they're typical teenagers.” The concept somehow seemed to please Vida, maybe because it excused their personal flaws.