The Alpine Journey

by Mary Daheim

  Vida, however, seemed dejected by my discovery. “Oh, dear.” Her wide shoulders slumped. “I was afraid of that.”

  “You were?”

  She nodded. “I was afraid … well, I'd hoped it was one of the children. So like a youngster to write silly messages. But all along, I've wondered. Now I know.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  IF VIDA THOUGHT she was going to stall me this time, she was wrong. I'd figured it out, too. “Gordon Imhoff,” I said flatly. “He wrote both the notes.”

  “Yes. I'm afraid he did.” Vida sighed and sat down in the armchair. “This one was done at the hospital. Obviously, he tore off a sheet from one of their notepads. He removed the pharmaceutical firm's name in a vain attempt to disguise where the paper came from. How foolish to write these notes!”

  “He rented my Taurus in Seaside,” I reminded Vida. “Someone at the rental agency must have told him it had been turned in by a woman who had given her local address at this motel in Cannon Beach. Chitchat, I suppose. He probably saw the Neon on the lot, then spotted it again in Ruth's driveway. But how did he know it was me?”

  “He didn't,” Vida said. “He thought it was me.”

  “What?” I collapsed onto the sofabed.

  “That's right.” Vida pursed her lips. “We'd just come from visiting Rosalie. The Taurus was parked there, and no doubt Gordon was inside the house. As soon as Rosalie returned with Walt from the cafe, she undoubtedly told Gordon about our visit. He probably didn't see the Buick, and Rosalie may not have known what make of car it was—only that it was white. As I recall, your rental had Washington plates. Rosalie may have mentioned that since we were making the rounds, we'd probably visit Ruth Pickering. Gordon drove by while you were there, saw a car he didn't recognize—I suspect Ruth doesn't entertain much—and noticed that it was white, with a Washington license. There you have it.”

  The rationale made sense. But Gordon's actions didn't. “Why would he do such a thing? In person, he seems quite pleasant. Why does he want us to leave?”

  Vida's glance was shrewd. “Isn't it obvious? He doesn't want us to find out who killed Audrey.”

  Now that we knew—or thought we knew—who had posted the signs on our vehicles, it seemed pointless to notify the police. Yet Gordon's behavior was more than annoying; it was frightening.

  Or so I told Vida, who didn't disagree. “The police wouldn't do anything, except warn him,” she pointed out. “We must simply be on our guard.”

  That was not the most comforting thought to take to bed, but I did it anyway. I didn't sleep as soundly as I had the night before, though I felt better when I woke up in the morning. Vida was already making instant coffee, but as soon as I joined her in the kitchen, I noticed that she was unusually silent.

  “What's the matter?” I asked. “Did you hear some bad news about Rosalie?” It was going on nine, and for all I knew, Vida had been out and about on this fresh, crisp fall morning.

  “No, though I should call the hospital now that you're up.” She poured us each a mug of coffee that was almost as vile as the sludge Milo made at the sheriff's headquarters. “It's Molly's diary. I finished it last night.”

  “And?” I braced myself for the second sip of coffee.

  “The last entry is Friday, September thirteenth.” Vida cleared her throat. “Molly obviously was unable to deal with her mother's death. I find that very sad. It would be more natural, more therapeutic, for her to write, write, write, to let it all out in that dreadful maudlin teenage fashion. But she didn't.”

  “I agree it might have been helpful,” I said, “but I understand how she feels.” Though I had been much older when my parents had died, it had been a long time before I could discuss their fatal accident with anybody except Ben.

  “There's another thing,” Vida went on, putting so much creamer into her coffee that it was almost white, “which is that Molly never does allude to her parents' marital problems. She doesn't mention Audrey's desire to leave or Gordon moving out. During the summer months she dwells on horses. Apparently, she had a part-time job at that place right by here that rents horses.”

  I'd noticed both the sign and the stables, just across the Ecola Creek Bridge. During the course of our stay I'd also seen people riding horseback along the beach. I assumed the mounts had come from the nearby horse ranch.

  “There was one horse of which she was particularly fond,” Vida continued. “His name was—is—Commander, but she called him Fudge. She wrote a poem about him. It was rather silly.”

  “Girls at that age are often nuts about horses,” I pointed out.

  “I know that. Sometimes they never grow out of it. Look at the Dithers sisters.”

  I had, often. Connie and Judy Dithers were single, middle-aged, and lived off the Icicle Creek Road, where they kept horses. The two women were so devoted to their pets—there was no other word for it—that they had once led two of them into the Grocery Basket to pick out special treats from the produce section. Jake O'Toole, the store owner, had practically had a stroke. His reaction didn't faze the Dithers sisters, though they had seemed perplexed when their pets appeared to select ice cream and beer.

  “The point is,” Vida declared, “that she talks about the horses and some of her friends to the exclusion of family matters. It doesn't seem right.”

  I thought back to the adolescent years with Adam, yet I couldn't make comparisons. There hadn't been any marital strife, because I'd never been married. It struck me anew how little I knew about the institution of matrimony. I'd never had a husband, never even lived with a man. My liaison with Milo was as close as I'd come to being a couple.

  Adam had grown up without a father. When had he begun to ask serious questions? Much earlier, I thought, perhaps when he was four or five. I'd put him off, saying that his father had a wife and other children. He lived someplace else, though at the time I didn't know where. I didn't want to know. Adam and I were both better off in ignorance.

  At fifteen, Adam had wanted to learn about himself. He'd begun to discover girls, which scared the hell out of me. He'd talked of becoming an airline pilot or working on an oil rig or joining the Peace Corps. He'd talked mainly of himself, and I'd listened. Most of the time.

  “It's her age,” I said, referring to Molly. “She's in her own little world.”

  “Perhaps.” Vida retained a worried expression. “What on earth are she and Stacie doing in Martinez, California? Are they in school? Is Gordon's cousin Kirby a decent man? Is he married? Does he have children of his own?”

  Vida got up and went into the living room. I followed her. She was calling directory assistance for the Bay Area, asking for Kirby Imhoff 's number. It occurred to me that Kirby's last name might not be Imhoff. But it was. Before I could interrupt, she had someone on the line in Martinez.

  “Kirby's at work? I see. This is Vida Runkel, a distant relation of Gordon's.” Very distant, I thought. “Oh, yes, Kathy, is it? How are my nieces, Kathy? I'm very concerned about them.”

  I gathered up my clothes and started for the bathroom to get dressed. Kathy, I assumed, was Kirby's wife. Or maybe his girlfriend. For all I knew, she could be his parole officer. I dressed, combed my hair, applied a minimum of makeup, and returned to the living room.

  Vida had just hung up, and I didn't much like the look on her face. “They're gone,” she said in a hollow voice. “Stacie and Molly ran away during the night.”

  The girls had arrived the previous afternoon in Martinez, which is located on Suisun Bay northwest of Oakland. According to Kathy, who apparently was indeed Kirby's wife, they had seemed nervous but resigned to the move. The California Imhoffs had two teenagers of their own, a boy thirteen and a girl sixteen. They had only met their cousins once before, but appeared to be making the newcomers feel at home. Yet when Kathy had gone to check on Stacie and Molly around eight in the morning, there was no sign of them or their belongings. Kirby had already left for work. Kathy had called him, but Kirby was employed by on
e of the local refineries and was unavailable because he was helping load a supertanker.

  “I told her not to notify the police,” Vida said grimly. “Not yet, even though they're runaways. If I were a wagering sort, which I am not, I'd bet that they're headed back here.”

  “I wonder.”

  “Why do you say that?” Vida sounded vexed, though I knew it wasn't with me.

  “I don't know.” I wandered over to the front window, gazing out at the park across the street and the ocean beyond. The tide was going out, with big breakers catching the sun. “Stacie and Molly would have to agree on running away and, I assume, on where they were going. I haven't noticed that they were in the habit of agreeing on much of anything.”

  “It's the two of them against the world now,” Vida pointed out. That's different.”

  I didn't argue. Maybe Vida was right. “Had the California Imhoffs called Gordon?”

  “Not yet. I told Kathy I'd try to reach him,” Vida said, going over to the phone. “Let's hope he hasn't gone up to the hospital in Seaside.”

  It was Derek who answered. His father was walking the beach. Vida didn't say anything about Stacie and Molly, but told Derek to make sure that Gordon called her as soon as possible.

  “Derek's leaving for work,” Vida fretted. “I hope he has the sense to leave Gordon a message.”

  Exhibiting unusual agitation, Vida prowled around the motel suite, going from the living room to the kitchen to the bedroom and back again. Finally, she dialed Providence Hospital to ask after Rosalie. Mrs. Dobrinz had had a restful night, according to the nurse, but no decision would be made about her release until after the doctor had made his rounds.

  “I feel better,” I announced. I might be able to drive. But this was Wednesday, the one day of the week when the pressure was off at work. I'd see how I felt by the afternoon. “I said, I feel—”

  “Yes, yes,” Vida broke in. “I heard you. Good. That's nice. Why doesn't Gordon call back?”

  “Maybe he's still on the beach. There's plenty of it.”

  Vida grabbed her swing coat and her purse. “What are we waiting for? Let's go see him.”

  “We haven't had breakfast,” I protested.

  “Then I'll drop you off in town,” Vida replied, already out the door. “Hurry.”

  I almost took Vida up on her offer, but as we drove along Hemlock I saw the stricken look on her face. I'd come this far; I couldn't abandon her for ham and eggs.

  The Tracer was gone, indicating that Derek had left for work. It was Dolores who came to the door. She was wearing a black T-shirt and tattered blue jeans. I assessed her welcome as tepid at best.

  “I work late today,” she said, as if in need of an explanation for her casual attire.

  “Has Gordon returned?” Vida asked, marching past Dolores and going straight for the living room.

  “No.” Dolores followed us, though I had the feeling that she was playing watchdog rather than hostess.

  Vida glanced at the phone. “Has anyone called here in the last hour? Besides me, of course.”

  Dolores shook her head, the long black hair swinging at her shoulders. “I don't think so.”

  Vida was at the window, scanning the beach. The breakers were crashing far up onto the sand. Vaguely, I wondered if this had been an exceptionally high tide. Haystack Rock and its surrounding crags looked more isolated than usual. When the tide was at low ebb, beachcombers could walk around the outcroppings, exploring pools and crevices that sheltered sealife and birds. Now the smaller rocks had disappeared, and Haystack itself was partially submerged.

  “How long has Gordon been gone?” Vida asked without turning around.

  Dolores had assumed her post on the arm of the sofa. “Urn … an hour? I'm not sure. Maybe longer. I didn't get up until eight-thirty.”

  Vida swiveled around to pinion the girl with sharp gray eyes. “Was he gone then?”

  “I think so.” Dolores flinched under that hard gaze. “Yes. Derek said his dad had gone out, so it was okay to use the shower. It's stupid to have to ask permission,” she added with a pout. “This isn't a detention place, it's a house.”

  But not a home, I thought, wondering at Dolores's choice of words. Maybe she didn't understand the concept of home. Despite her belligerent manner, I felt sorry for the kid.

  “It's going on ten,” Vida said, glancing at a captain's clock on the mantel. “Gordon should be back by now.” She prowled around the room, pausing occasionally to study some of the accumulated objets d'art and just plain junk, which included Ruth Pickering's metal sculptures.

  Dolores continued keeping watch. She kept silent as well, until I asked if she liked her job. Giving a little shrug, she said it was all right. The other employees were nice enough, and the restaurant served good food. Sometimes, especially during tourist season, she got good tips. The information came not all at once, but only after a series of questions on my part. Vida kept prowling.

  “The tide's so far in, how can you walk on the beach?” she demanded. “Where is he?”

  “I think there's always some dry sand,” I said. “You can't see it from here because of the dunes and the grasses.”

  Vida went out through the front door. “I'm going down there,” she called over her shoulder.

  I started after her, then thought better of it. I still wasn't entirely comfortable walking for very long. “Dolores,” I said, giving the girl my most motherly smile, “would you mind if I got myself a bowl of cereal?”

  She didn't mind, but she followed me into the kitchen. “Go ahead and do whatever you were doing,” I said, still smiling. I didn't feel like having her watch me slurp up cornflakes.

  “That's okay,” she said, pulling herself up onto the counter. “I'm just kicking it this morning.”

  I felt like telling her that she might try housecleaning. The Imhoff residence was becoming more cluttered and less tidy by the day. Through the door to the living room I could see one of Ruth's metal sculptures, which—maybe—depicted a spear-carrying hunter. A pair of Jockey shorts was dangling from the spear.

  “Did you know Mrs. Imhoff very well?” I asked. As long as I was stuck with Dolores, I might as well try pumping her.

  “Kind of.” Dolores toyed with the long strands of hair, then picked up a headband and put it on.

  I began eating my corn flakes. “Did you like her?”

  “She was okay.”

  That hadn't been the question. “Did you spend much time here before … while Mrs. Imhoff was alive?” I amended.

  “Some.” Dolores's dark eyes sparked for just a fleeting second. “You're treating me like a criminal. How come?”

  “I'm a journalist.” The job covers a multitude of sins. “Prying is my business.” I tried to resurrect my smile.

  “Derek's mom usually wasn't around when I came here,” Dolores said, removing the headband and shaking out her hair. “She was at the shop or on the beach or hauling some old person around. If you want to know the truth, Mrs. Imhoff didn't like me. She thought I wasn't good enough for her son.”

  “I heard she thought you were too young to get married. That's not the same thing,” I noted.

  “Whatever.” Dolores rolled her eyes. “She wanted Derek to go to college. She thought I'd stand in his way. I wouldn't, and I won't. But he doesn't want to go. Not now, anyway.”

  “There's no point in him going if he hasn't decided on a career,” I said, finishing the cereal. “I don't imagine he wants to work in a grocery store forever, though.”

  “He can do lots of things,” Dolores said airily, “without going to college. My oldest brother's an auto mechanic. He makes real good money.”

  It was pointless to argue with Dolores, nor did I feel as if I should. If she wanted to spend the rest of her life hustling tips while Derek carried out sacks of potatoes and chicken parts, that was up to them. I'd seen enough of that borderline lifestyle in Alpine

  I was about to change the subject to something less contro
versial, like the abortion issue or gay rights, when Vida came staggering into the living room. I could see her from the kitchen, and rushed to meet her.

  “What's wrong?” I demanded as she collapsed against a high-backed chair and gasped for breath.

  “Call the police!” She was drained, her head down, her body limp.

  “What?” It was a stupid thing to say. I raced to the phone and dialed 911. Dolores had come into the living room, too, and was staring at Vida. The operator answered. Panicked, I turned away from the phone. “What do I tell them?”

  Vida took a deep breath and raised her head. “Gordon's dead.” She stopped, then pressed a hand against her bosom. “His body's washed up on the beach.”

  Trembling, I relayed the information. “Tell them to hurry,” Vida gasped, “or the outgoing tide might carry him off.” She fumbled with the chair and finally dropped onto the cane seat.

  Dolores was transfixed, her hands covering her mouth. A muffled “No!” erupted, followed by a piercing shriek. I hung up the phone, then looked to see who needed me most. Vida was struggling to regain her composure; Dolores had slipped onto the floor.

  I rushed to the girl's side, but she hadn't fainted. Putting my arm around her slim shoulders, I felt her shudder convulsively. No tears fell, however, just a dry, heaving sound.

  “Some other people found him first,” Vida said, her voice somewhat stronger. “It was about a hundred yards south of here. I arrived while they were trying to figure out what to do. I think they're tourists.”

  I only half heard Vida, but sensed that she needed to talk. Dolores was leaning on me, still making those strange noises that were a cross between a groan and a sob.

  Vida had stood up. She came toward us and leaned down. “Dolores—where was Gordon staying? Which room?”

  Dolores's hands fell away from her ashen face. “What? I … Oh!” She swallowed hard. “He slept in Derek's old room. Mr. Imhoff let us keep the big bedroom.” The query seemed to restore her. She sat back on her haunches and closed her eyes.