The Alpine Journey

by Mary Daheim

  I rose, but didn't follow Vida out of the living room. “What happened?” I called to her. “Did anybody see anything?”

  “No, not that I know of,” Vida answered, her voice carrying from the bedroom down the hall. “But then I didn't get a chance to … Ah! I thought so!” She rushed out of the room, waving a piece of paper. “It's a suicide note! Oh, good Lord! I feel sick!”

  The last thing I needed was for Vida to succumb to any sort of weakness. “I'll make tea,” I said, craning to look at the note.

  “Here.” Vida thrust the paper at me, then raced into the bathroom.

  It didn't take long to read Gordon's last message: I killed Audrey. I'm sorry. Take care of each other. I love you all.

  I was still leaning against the wall, waiting for Vida, when the sirens sounded on the highway. “Are you okay?” I called through the door.

  “Yes. Yes. I'll be right out. I hear someone coining. Go to the back door, please.”

  The familiar figures of Randy Neal and Charles St. James were the first to arrive. Right behind them came the fire department, an ambulance, the Medex unit, and a Cannon Beach patrol car with two officers I didn't recognize. I was trying to explain where Gordon had been found when Vida joined me at the door.

  “I'll show you,” she said, looking drawn and upset. “Can you drive down to the beach?”

  There was a road just beyond the vacant house next door. Vida left with the deputies, and the other emergency vehicles followed. I remained behind with Dolores.

  “What's that?” she asked, pointing to Gordon's note, which I still had clutched in my hand.

  I didn't want to show it to her. “Let's make some tea,” I said, taking her arm. “How do you feel?”

  “Awful.” She kept close to me as I put on the kettle and searched for tea bags. “Did somebody kill Mr. Imhoff?”

  “I don't think so,” I said, avoiding her big-eyed gaze.

  “Did he drown?”

  “I'm not sure.”

  “I thought he was a good swimmer. How could he drown?” Her voice sounded lost, as if it had fallen into a deep, dark hole and couldn't get out.

  “We'll have to wait for the police to tell us what happened.” I felt inept, helpless. “Should we go out on the front porch and get some air? It'll take a minute for the tea water to boil.”

  Dolores followed me like a lonely kitten. Outside, we could see the line of emergency vehicles moving toward the beach. “Who lives in that brown house on the other side of the summer place?” I asked.

  “I don't know,” Dolores replied. “They have little kids, I think.”

  I hoped the little kids weren't around. “Listen for the teakettle,” I said, leaving the porch. “I'll be right back.”

  But Dolores followed me down the stepping-stones that led to the beach. The dozen or so cement rounds ended where the bank dipped until it reached the level sand. A well-trod path wound through the grasses and thistles and clover, ending at an accumulation of drift-wood. I spotted the remnants of several beach fires, a single tennis shoe, a dirty towel, and assorted beer cans.

  To my left, Vida and the deputies were getting out of the Clatsop County patrol car. Directly in front of them was a cluster of people, who, even from a distance, seemed uneasy as they milled around near the outgoing tide.

  “Hold it,” I said, putting out a hand to detain Dolores. I had just caught sight of what I assumed was Gordon's body. It lay about twenty feet from the small crowd, and looked like a pile of old clothes. “Let's stay here,” I urged. “We'll only get in the way.”

  “I saw a dead person once,” Dolores said in an awestruck voice. “He'd been hit by a car on 101, down by Arch Cape.”

  I, too, had seen dead bodies during the course of my career, but I didn't feel like reminiscing. The deputies, along with the local police officers, were moving the onlookers farther down the beach. Meanwhile the medical personnel had gathered around Gordon's body.

  “Let's go back,” I said, putting an arm around Dolores.

  Somewhat to my surprise, she didn't seem to mind my protective gestures. Until Vida's announcement, I hadn't felt any rapport between Dolores and me. I still didn't, but I sensed a kind of mutual dependency.

  Or did, until we got to the stepping stones. Suddenly she stopped and pulled away. Her gaze was on the front of the house, with its wide porch and picture windows.

  “It's Derek's now, isn't it?” Dolores breathed. “He owns the house. He owns everything.” She clasped her hands and let out a little squeal of elation. “It's mine, too! I finally have a home!”

  I didn't know whether to slap her or hug her. Instead, I did nothing.

  St. James and Neal had taken over the investigation. Half an hour later they returned to the house with Vida. She looked weary but more composed. Naturally, she was grateful for the hot tea.

  Dolores, whose euphoria had faded, was now outside, waiting for Derek to return from Osburn's. As a result of my prodding, I had insisted that she call to inform her boyfriend of his father's death. I'd also advised her to tell him that it was an accident. Derek didn't need to know all the gruesome details at once.

  “You mentioned a note,” St. James said to Vida after she was seated at the kitchen table with her tea. “May we see it?”

  Vida looked at me. “Where is it?” Her voice was toneless.

  I produced the slip of paper, which I'd left under a canister on the counter. “Here,” I said, giving the note to the deputy.

  St. James grimaced. “It would have been better if no one had touched this,” he said, with reproachful looks for Vida and me. When we said nothing in our defense, he scanned the words, then handed the paper over to Randy Neal. “I guess that settles it. We'll be taking the note with us.”

  “Of course.” I gave both deputies a feeble smile. “What did Gordon do? Walk into the ocean?”

  Neal gave a slight nod. “So it seems. It's not uncommon around here. You just keep wading out until a wave overtakes you. Maybe it won't be the first one, or even the second, but eventually …” His voice trailed away.

  A silence fell over the kitchen. Above the ocean's roar, I could hear the captain's clock, ticking away the hours in the empty living room. I listened for the sirens that would signal the emergency vehicles' departure, then realized there was no need for haste. It didn't matter when Gordon Imhoff got wherever they were taking him. He was already gone.

  “It's rubbish, of course.”

  The three of us turned to look at Vida, who was sitting alone at the table.

  St. James coughed softly. “Pardon, ma'am?”

  Adjusting her glasses, Vida looked at each of us in turn. “The note. It's rubbish.” She gave a nod at Neal, who still held the slip of paper in his hand. “Gordon didn't kill Audrey. I know that now. If I'd known it sooner, Gordon might still be alive.” With a mighty effort, she got to her feet, threw back her shoulders, and lifted her chin. “As it turns out, I killed Gordon.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  NEAL AND ST. JAMES didn't know Vida, which explained their stupefaction. But I understood what she meant, and hastened to clarify the statement.

  “Mrs. Runkel feels guilty,” I said in a rush, “because she's been trying to find out who killed her niece. Her efforts disturbed Gordon to the point that he took his life. But that's hardly her fault.” I shot Vida a sharp look. “It's not, you know. Gordon had choices.”

  “He was in an impossible situation,” Vida asserted, maintaining her imperial stance. Then her jaw dropped and she gaped at me. “You know?”

  “I do now,” I said. “I didn't believe that note, either.”

  Derek tore into the house, going straight for the deputies. “How could my dad drown? This is crazy!”

  Still flustered by Vida's earlier pronouncement, St. James put an unsteady hand on Derek's arm. “Sit down, son. This is a rough one.”

  Surprisingly, Derek sat. Dolores came inside, too, moving to stand behind Derek's chair. I decided I might as we
ll sit; the morning's events and my aches and pains were catching up with me.

  There was no way to deliver the news easily, yet St. James tried. At first, Derek seemed uncomprehending. Then he jumped out of the chair and began beating his fists against the kitchen cabinets. “No! This is bullshit! It's a trick!” He whirled around, accusing eyes on the deputies. “Dad wouldn't do that! You're lying!”

  “It's true,” Vida said quietly. “Your father was under tremendous pressure. Do you know why?”

  Derek shot Vida a look that was short of malicious. “It can't be true,” he muttered. “It's too crazy.”

  Putting a tentative hand on Derek's arm, Dolores spoke softly: “People do crazy things all the time. Your dad's been through a lot.”

  The sympathetic remark surprised me. But it seemed to have a calming effect on Derek. He turned again to Vida, his expression now more confused than hostile. “What did you say? What am I supposed to know?”

  Vida made a brief dismissive gesture with her hand. “It doesn't matter.” She glanced at me, and I could barely see the slight shake of her head. But I knew what she meant: Derek didn't know why his father had killed himself.

  Under Dolores's soothing touch, the young man began to collect himself. Both deputies made tactful, consoling comments, but evaded Derek's specific questions. “Take some time to work with this,” Neal said. “We'll leave you two alone.”

  Vida and I caught the signal. We followed Neal and St. James through the living room and onto the front porch, where we couldn't be heard by Derek and Dolores.

  Neal turned to Vida. “Can you give us a fuller explanation of what you think happened with Mr. Imhoff?”

  “Certainly.” Vida still wore her unsettled expression, but spoke in her normal, brisk tones. “Very soon after the murder was committed, I believe that Gordon realized who had killed Audrey. That's why he ran away in the first place—he's a vacillating sort, and flight was the only way he could deal with what he felt was an impossible situation.”

  “But he came back,” St. James pointed out, “and offered a new piece of evidence.”

  “A new piece of flimflam,” Vida retorted. “Surely you people didn't believe that silly story?”

  St. James and Neal exchanged glances. “It was impossible to prove one way or the other,” Neal said.

  “Naturally.” Vida stood at the edge of the porch, the breeze ruffling her blue-and-yellow print dress. “Gordon was desperately trying to find another suspect, even if he had to invent one. Frankly, it would have been better for everyone if he'd never come back at all.”

  “He'd have been found eventually,” I remarked, leaning on a wicker chair. “It's rare that a person can disappear permanently.”

  “It can happen, though,” St. James said in an aside.

  “Gordon had a conscience,” Vida stated. “Which is why I believe he returned to the area. That, and the fact that he was terribly worried about his children. He believed that they were all in danger. Yet after Gordon got back, he realized he couldn't face the future. His world had been devastated, and life had become unbearable.” Vida's gray eyes turned to Randy Neal. “You're right about people walking into the ocean. The sea has a mighty pull, and Gordon wasn't strong enough to resist it.”

  Two county detectives, a big, fair-haired woman and a chubby, balding man, came out onto the porch. Before conferring with their colleagues, they introduced themselves to Vida and me as Anya Kuraskova and Rick Di Palma. Originally assigned to the Imhoff case, they had come to question witnesses and collect evidence.

  Having filled in Kuraskova and Di Palma, St. James and Neal turned their attention back to us.

  “Could we get to the point?” Neal inquired, trying not to show his impatience.

  “In due time,” Vida said with a reproachful look. “This is a complicated task, and one which I don't believe your agency has been able to bring to a conclusion.”

  Again, Neal and St. James exchanged hasty glances. I assumed they thought Vida was nuts. I knew better, and waited.

  “What pushed Gordon to the breaking point,” Vida continued, “was my involvement. And Emma's.” She shot me a quick look. “It was clear from his manner, as well as certain actions, that he wanted us to leave. He was terrified that we might actually discover the truth.

  “Ironically, we weren't the ones who realized the killer's identity. It was Rosalie Dobrinz who stumbled—for lack of a better word—on who killed her daughter. Comprehension dawned on her last night at the Bistro. That's why she collapsed. It was simply too much for her to bear.”

  The deputies knew nothing about Rosalie's trip to the hospital. Vida was enlightening them when the phone rang. I glanced inside to see if Derek or Dolores had picked up the receiver, but they weren't in sight. I assumed they were with the detectives.

  I grabbed the phone on the seventh ring. The voice at the other end was female, but so agitated that I couldn't recognize it.

  “Who's this? What number is it?” the semihysterical voice demanded.

  “It's the Imhoff residence,” I said. Giving my name might further confuse the party at the other end.

  “Where's my dad? I've got to talk to him!”

  I finally realized it was Stacie. With a hand to my head, I took a deep breath. “He's not here. Where are you, Stacie? This is Emma Lord, your aunt Vida's friend.”

  The silence at the other end went on for so long that I thought Stacie had hung up. “I'm in Ashland,” she finally said. “Just north of the California state line.”

  I knew Ashland and its Shakespeare Festival well, having covered it three times while working for The Oregonian. “Are you coming home?” I inquired, trying to sound calm.

  “No. I mean, I don't know. Where's Dad?” Stacie sounded miserable.

  I countered with a question of my own. If I had to deliver the bad news; I didn't want to do it twice. “Where's Molly?”

  “That's the problem,” Stacie wailed. “She's gone.”

  “Gone? Gone from Ashland?”

  “Yes.” Another pause. I envisioned Stacie at a pay phone, trying to collect herself. “We were on the bus, coming back to Oregon, and we had a stop here. Molly went to get some M&M's and never came back. The bus left without us.”

  “Call the police,” I said. “She can't have gone far. Has another bus come through since you got there?”

  “No. At least I don't think so.” Tears choked Stacie's voice. “Do you think she was kidnapped?”

  I didn't know what to think; I didn't know what to do. “Are you still at the depot?”

  “Yes.” The single word was very uncertain.

  “Stay there. Give me the number of the pay phone. If it's the kind you can't call in on, then we'll phone the station and have them page you. But don't leave, not even if Molly shows up.”

  “Okay.” Stacie's voice was calmer. Maybe having someone think for her brought relief.

  Apparently, Vida had wound up her recital. Both deputies were looking very grave when I returned to the porch with the most recent alarming news.

  “We'll notify the Ashland police and the Jackson County sheriff,” St. James said, dashing off the porch and heading around the house to his patrol car.

  “Such a bollix!” Vida exclaimed under her breath. “It's like a snowball, with the initial tragedy rolling downhill and collecting yet more sorrow.”

  “You mean Audrey's death?” I said, leaning wearily against a porch post.

  Vida shook her head. “No. I mean the divorce. Or what would have been a divorce, had Audrey lived. Why can't people use sense?”

  Neal, who may or may not have still thought Vida was nuts, wore a sympathetic expression. “For some people, divorce is the only answer,” he said mildly.

  “For some, yes,” Vida agreed. “But for many, it's just the easy way. Marriage is hard work, and don't I know it! Ernest was no angel. And …” She winced, then her voice dropped a notch. “… I have a few faults of my own. You have to work at being married.
Too many couples come up against the first whiff of boredom or some silly flaw in their spouse's behavior, and the next thing you know, they want a divorce. They think it will be easier the next time. It won't, it's themselves they want to discard, and they'll always be discontented. Meanwhile, the children suffer. And don't tell me they don't!” She pointed an accusing finger at Neal, who looked startled.

  “I'm not even married, ma'am.”

  “That's another thing,” Vida went on, gaining steam. “Too many people enter into marriage without giving it serious thought. Don't make that mistake, young man. You can't train for marriage, not even by living together. You can't study for it, research it, or get free samples. You have to do it, every minute of every day for the rest of your lives.”

  “Yes, ma'am,” Neal replied in a meek voice. “I think I'd better go check up on Charles and see what's happening.” The deputy hurried from the front porch.

  “Now what?” demanded Vida.

  “Ashland is three or four times the size of Alpine,” I said, conjuring up the picturesque town set on a hillside above lush farmland. “There's not much else around there. By the time you get to Ashland, you're heading up through the Siskiyous and into California.”

  “In other words,” Vida remarked dryly, “Molly can't have gone far. Unless someone snatched her.”

  “I don't think that's what happened, do you?”

  “No.” Vida was still standing, her gaze on the ocean where Haystack Rock was beginning to rise out of the waves. “On the other hand, I don't think she's coming back.”

  “Probably not. What about Stacie?”

  “I hope the sheriff or the police in Ashland have the good sense to escort her to Cannon Beach,” Vida said, then turned around and started for the living room. “I must call Kathy Imhoff and let her know what's happened.”

  Vida also phoned Providence Hospital in Seaside. Rosalie had been released, the nurse said, but so far her son-in-law hadn't come to take her home. Was he on his way?