by Mary Daheim
“Uh … yes, I remember that.” Milo had been one of the malefactors. The sheriff had told me the tale first, and somehow his version had been much funnier than Ed's.
“Skip said every reader could relate to that incident,” Ed asserted.
I'd never been locked in a supply room with a skunk, but I wasn't arguing with Ed. “Who's Skip? And Irving?”
“The publishers. Skip O'Shea and Irving Blomberg. Now the fact is,” Ed went on, lowering his voice, “they're real entrepreneurs, and just getting this venture off the ground. I'd talked to Kip MacDuff, and to be frank, he didn't sound like he knew what he was doing when it came to publishing a book of this magnitude. Nothing against Kip, he's a good kid, but he's young, and let's face it, Emma, this is Alpine. Vane Press is located right in Redmond, practically next door to Microsoft. They're talking movie deals, TV, maybe even letting Bill Gates have a crack at something on-line. Then there's that production company Gates is tied into, DreamWorks, and once that guy gets his teeth into …”
I let Ed bluster on. Vida was drinking her tea and flipping through the pages of the local chamber-of-commerce guide. She looked as bored as I felt.
“So,” Ed finally said, winding down, “all I need is to put in the thirty grand and we're off to press. Mr. Ed should come out in time for Christmas.”
“I see.” I saw that Vane Press should have been spelled V-A-I-N, as in vanity press. The book would get published in a limited edition, and all costs would be absorbed by Ed. At least that was how I understood vanity presses to operate. I saw a rush print job that couldn't possibly offer any kind of quality—not that there was much to begin with in Ed's manuscript. I saw limited, if any, distribution, and no advertising budget. Most of all I saw Ed's money going down a long, dark drain in Redmond. “Have you signed a contract?” I asked.
“You bet,” Ed responded. “How could I pass up a chance like this? Skip and Irving say I'll have my money back in six weeks. After that, it's all gravy.”
“Did you have anyone look at the contract? A lawyer, like Marisa Foxx from the parish?”
“What do I need a lawyer for?” Ed scoffed. “What does Marisa know about publishing?”
It was hopeless. “Good luck, Ed.”
“Thanks. Will you be back in time to write the story?”
I held my head. “I should be.” It was news. No one else in Alpine had published a book, by a vanity press or otherwise, since Grace Grundle sold two of her gopher poems to an anthology put out by her alma mater, a small teachers' college in Kansas. “If not, Carla can handle it.”
“Carta!” Now Ed's voice was full of scorn. “I wouldn't trust her with this big a deal! She'd probably give me two inches on page four.”
That sounded just about right. “We'll see what the paper looks like when I get home,” I said, hoping not to convey my irritation. “Congratulations, Ed. I'll talk to you later.”
Of course Vida had to hear all about “that ninny,” as she called him. She was less horrified by his folly than I, however.
“It may teach Ed a lesson,” she declared. “Though if he keeps on spending at this rate, I can't help but think that eventually their inheritance will run out. That ridiculous house cost almost two million dollars.”
I was aware of the price tag on Ed and Shirley's boondoggle. While Ed had bragged endlessly about his inherited wealth, he'd always been a bit reticent when it came to the exact amount. I'd guessed it to be in the four-to-five-million range, but I really didn't know. The estate had been filed in Iowa, which meant that Vida hadn't been able to get at the records.
“Don't talk about the Bronskys going broke,” I groaned. “That would mean Ed might try to get back on the paper.”
“He couldn't,” Vida retorted. “You have Leo.” She grimaced slightly; Vida and Leo weren't always the best of chums.
Since we were on the subject of The Advocate, I started to tell Vida about the late-breaking news in Alpine. But before I could get the words out of my mouth, she picked up her coat from where she had set it down on the arm of the sofa.
“I know you're tired,” she said with what sounded like real sympathy, “so I won't impose. But I must meet Ruth Pickering. Now tell me exactly how to get there.”
“Shouldn't you call first?” I asked.
“I think a surprise visit is wise,” Vida responded. “Didn't you mention that she rarely goes out?”
I suppose I had. “It's easy to find,” I said. “Just keep going past downtown, then follow Hemlock as it curves, and when you get to the straight part, look for the Blue Gull and the Sand Trap inns. Her place is just a few doors down on your left. Even in the dark, you can't miss all the metal sculptures.”
“Goodness,” Vida said with a worried expression, “I don't believe I've noticed the Sea Gull and the Sand Castle inns. Are they this side of Tolovana?”
“Blue Gull and Sand Trap,” I repeated. “You must have seen them. They're smallish, cozy-looking places.”
“My night vision is getting so poor.” Vida sighed. “It's no wonder I had such trouble turning around up at Martin's. I wonder what's happened to him?”
“He's probably busted,” I said with a certain amount of satisfaction. I knew what Vida was angling for, but I wasn't going after the bait.
“I hope not. It's all so upsetting. No wonder my mind is so fragmented.” Vida was looking uncharacteristically vague. “What is Ruth's house number?”
“I don't remember. Check the phone book.”
“Alas, I can't read those tiny numbers.” Her full face assumed a pitiful mien. “As I said, my eyes have gotten very bad lately.”
“As in the last five minutes?” I snapped. “Look, Vida, do you really want me to come along?”
“It'd be a comfort.” Vida sighed again, clasping her hands.
“Okay, okay,” I grumbled. “I'll go. But make it quick. Ruth isn't very talkative, and she doesn't say much anyway.”
There was a light on at Ruth's, indicating that she stayed up at least until nine. But after we'd identified ourselves and she'd warily opened the front door, I noted that she was wearing a bathrobe. Like the smock I had seen her in the previous day, the fabric was a crazy-quilt assortment of colors.
“Mrs. Runkel,” Ruth murmured, leading us into the tiny hall but no farther. “You're Audrey's aunt?”
“That's right,” Vida replied in a mournful tone. “Such a lovely young woman. And such a tragedy. Like Gordon, I was widowed young and left with three children.”
That much was true. But Vida immediately began to press whatever advantage she thought she'd gained. “Your magnificent sculptures! I saw them in the yard just now. Do you have more in the living room?”
“Yes.” Ruth didn't budge. “What can I do for you at this hour of the night?”
“It's about your neighbors,” Vida began, throwing me—and probably Ruth—off track. “What kind of people leave threatening notes on visitors' windshields?”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” Ruth responded, her thin, wrinkled face wreathed in confusion.
Vida put a hand on my shoulder. I felt as if she were the ventriloquist and I were the dummy. But then I often had that sensation when I was with her.
“Emma had such a scare yesterday when she left your house,” Vida explained. “Someone had put a note on her car while it was in your driveway. It was worded most crudely, with vile, menacing language. Now, who could have done such a thing?”
Ruth paled a bit. “I've no idea. My neighbors are very nice people.”
“Really.” Disbelief dripped from the word.
“They are,” Ruth insisted. “Someone else must have written the note.”
“Well now.” Vida scanned the small entryway. “If you say so. Then your neighbors won't object to being interrogated by the police.”
Since we hadn't reported the incident, I felt that Vida might be going too far. But the ruse worked. Alarm showed in Ruth's face, and she put both hands to her breast.
>
“Oh, no! They've been through enough with Audrey's death!”
“They'?” Vida's eyes had narrowed.
“The Crenshaws have, at least,” Ruth said, speaking more rapidly than usual. “The sheriff's deputies were at their house again last week.”
I was tired of being the dummy. “Who are the Crenshaws?” I asked.
“Hazel and Victor,” Ruth replied. “He's a retired dentist, from Portland. She was his receptionist.”
“What was their connection with Audrey?” Vida inquired.
Ruth gathered the brilliantly colored bathrobe closer. “Victor had prostate cancer. Audrey drove him to his appointments in Portland. Hazel never learned to drive.”
“Ah,” said Vida. “Was this arrangement recent?”
“Last year.” Ruth seemed to be regaining her composure. “Victor is doing very well. The doctors caught it early. But the Crenshaws were so grateful. That's why Victor gave Audrey their condominium in Portland.”
I caught Vida's swift glance in my direction. “A condominium!” she exclaimed. “How generous! Was Audrey planning to live there?”
“I don't know,” Ruth said. “Maybe.”
“So,” I interjected, “that was why the deputies questioned the Crenshaws?”
Ruth gave a brief nod. “I expect so. Hazel and Victor felt it was none of their business. They're right. What does it have to do with Audrey's death?”
“That's what we'd all like to know,” said Vida.
Chapter Fourteen
ACCORDING TO RUTH, the Crenshaws lived behind her, on Spruce Street. She warned us that they were early risers, and usually went to bed around eight-thirty. Sure enough, the house was dark when we drove by a few minutes later.
“Tomorrow, first thing,” Vida declared, glancing at her watch. “It's well after nine. Gordon should be in Astoria by now. Let's make sure.”
I started to protest, but we were less than three minutes from the Imhoff house. And, I admitted, I was curious about Gordon, too.
“Maybe Dolores has come back,” Vida said as the pickup rattled and bumped along the road to Tolovana.
But there was no sign of life at the Imhoff residence. The Tracer that Derek had been driving was gone, and so was Gordon's rented Taurus. Vida and I sat in the cab, watching the darkened house for several moments.
“I'd like to think Gordon has done the right thing,” she said. “I'd also like to think that Dolores is safe.”
“Safe? Why wouldn't she be safe?” Despite the doubt in my voice, I felt a small shiver of alarm.
“It would be different if we knew who killed Audrey and why,” Vida said in a troubled voice. “But we don't, and until we do, how do we know who is safe and who isn't?”
“We don't,” I agreed.
“What if Dolores saw something, or knows something? Or made a recent discovery?” Vida fidgeted with the steering wheel. “I don't mean that she's actively sleuthing. Perhaps she came across information that would lead to the solution of the case. Dolores might not even know what it was, but the killer would.”
I found myself sinking down in the cab's passenger seat. “Why do I think Dolores doesn't care who killed Audrey?”
“Because she's young and self-absorbed,” Vida responded. “She has troubles aplenty with her own family. She's all wrapped up in Derek.”
“Who happens to be her escape route?” I remarked in a wry tone. “Does Dolores really care about him, or does she see him as a means of getting out of a miserable home situation?”
“I've seen too much of that in Alpine,” Vida lamented. “I could tick off a dozen young people—boys and girls—in the past two years who've gotten married or moved in with someone because their home life was unbearable. Look at April Aagaard—she married a prisoner from the Monroe penitentiary just to get away from Barney and Peggy Sue. April was only fifteen, and lied about her age, and now she's married to a drug dealer who already has a wife and two children. Such a shame, but you couldn't blame her when her father and stepmother were constantly trying to kill each other with kitchen utensils. The problem is, we know very little about Dolores.” Suddenly swinging into action, Vida started the truck. “Let's hope they forgot to lock the door again,” she said, pulling into the spot where we had first claimed the pickup.
Both front and back doors were locked, however. I followed Vida as she strolled around the house, looking for a window through which we might enter.
“Why are we doing this?” I inquired in a tired voice. Though Vida has almost twenty years on me, her endurance never fails to amaze.
“Actually,” she responded, “I wanted to see the phone book so we could find out where Dolores's parents live.” Having made the full circuit, Vida gave up. “The windows all have screens. Removing them is such a bother. We'll have to find a phone booth.”
There was one by the liquor store, just across the street and a few doors down from Ruth Pickering's house. I noticed that her lights were no longer on, and wondered if she was sleeping peacefully, or worrying about the Crenshaws. At almost ten o'clock on a Monday night in October, Hemlock was virtually deserted. I waited in the truck while Vida scanned the local directory.
When she climbed back in the cab, her face was set in a hard line. “I found them. There's only one Cerrillo in the book.” Vida turned the ignition key, then gazed at me with a curious expression. “They live on Elk Creek Road. Shall we?”
“No!”
Vida was already guiding the truck in the direction of the turnoff to 101. “We won't stop. It's much too late. But I have to know where the house is located.” She recited the number. “You watch for it. My eyes, you know. So bad these days.”
I still didn't believe her, but she was doing the driving. It took less than three minutes to get to the Elk Creek Road. I'd remembered a scattering of houses not far from the RV park, and sure enough, the Cerrillo home was among them. The lights were on, which allowed us a fairly good view.
“Tawdry,” Vida remarked. “Not unlike those disreputable places along Railroad Avenue in Alpine.”
I had to agree. While the Cerrillo house wasn't nearly as dilapidated as Marlin's, it was small, in disrepair, and featured a front yard littered with car parts, rotting cardboard cartons, and rusting appliances. There was no yard: the grass, where it was allowed to grow, was tall and riddled with weeds. A broken front window had been replaced with what looked like a piece of plywood, and a downspout dangled brokenly from the patched roof. I felt a sudden pang for Dolores.
“No wonder she moved in with Derek,” I murmured.
“True.” Vida spoke softly, though there was no one to hear us. The closest house was at least two hundred feet away. “How far are we from Marlin's?”
I sighed. “Vida …”
“I'm curious, that's all. You've been here more often than I.”
“A quarter of a mile? Maybe more. Your Buick crashed not too far from here.”
“Hmmm.” Vida fingered her chin. “I don't suppose we should check to see if the deputies have gone.”
“No, we shouldn't. Please, Vida, I want to get back to the motel.” My voice was so tired that it broke.
“Oh, all right. Let me find a turnaround.”
She found it just about where the Buick had landed. To her credit, Vida seemed to be mastering the gears. We were about to head back down the road when the headlights of another car came around the bend behind us. Vida waited for the other vehicle to pass, but it stopped alongside the pickup. Tami of the Cannon Beach Police gazed out from the open window of the official squad car.
“Are you having a problem? Oh! Ms.… Gosh, I forget!” Tami looked embarrassed.
“Runkel,” Vida replied. “We're fine. What's going on, Tami?”
I could see Corey behind the wheel. Tami turned to him as if for consultation. “Um …” she began. “Ah … Isn't Mr. Runkel your nephew or something?”
“He is both,” Vida answered crisply. “He is my nephew. And he is something. Why
do you ask?”
“Well …” The young woman's embarrassment deepened. “He's been arrested by the sheriff's deputies. I'm afraid they've sent him up to Astoria.”
“Oh dear!” Vida's face was a mask of consternation. “On what charge?” she asked after a long pause.
Corey had leaned across the seat. “Illegal possession,” he said, also looking somewhat discomfited. “He finally gave up when Mr. Imhoff talked him into riding with him.”
“What?” Vida whipped off her glasses.
Tami had shrunk back against her car seat, an incongruous figure against the backdrop of gun racks and wire mesh. Corey appeared to have taken over.
“You see,” he explained, very serious, “the deputies asked us to see if Mr. Imhoff could talk Mr. Runkel into giving himself up. Mr. Imhoff said he'd try, and when he told Mr. Runkel that he was giving himself up, too, then Mr. Runkel decided he might as well. Give up, that is. So they drove up to Astoria in Mr. Imhoff's car.”
During the course of this narration, Vida had been rubbing madly at her eyes. She finally stopped and blinked at Corey. “Did the deputies follow them?”
“Oh, sure,” Corey replied. “They left about an hour ago. We stayed around to help gather evidence.”
“I see.” Vida sounded grim. “Well. Thank you.”
Corey touched the bill of his regulation cap. “You're welcome, Ms. Runkel. Drive safely.”
“Wait!” Vida shouted just as Tami began to roll up her window. “Has a missing girl been reported this evening?”
Corey and Tami exchanged puzzled glances. “No,” Tami replied. “Not that we know of. Who's missing?”
“Dolores Cerrillo,” Vida replied, gesturing in the direction of the Cerrillo house down the road. “We're told she's not at home, and she's not with Derek Imhoff.”
Tami giggled. “Of course she isn't. Dolores is perfectly safe. She's at police headquarters.”
Before Vida could say another word, the squad car headed off down the Elk Creek Road.
I didn't care if Dolores was in a jail cell, if Marlin was in leg irons, or if Gordon was on the gallows. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed and pull the covers over my aching head. For once, Vida didn't argue. Maybe she was too astounded by the latest developments. Maybe she needed time to mull them over in her mind. Maybe she, too, had finally succumbed to fatigue.