The Alpine Journey (4 page)

“Really, Emma, I don't think…” Vida sounded fretful.

“Directions, please.”

Reluctantly, Vida gave them. They were easy, since the Ecola Creek Lodge was right on the first turnoff into Cannon Beach. She warned me, however, that she was going out for a while and wouldn't be back until ten.

“That's okay,” I assured her. “By the time I eat and get the car, it'll be about that time before I get to Cannon
Beach. See you soon.” I rang off before Vida could change her mind.

Mavis was disappointed, but understanding. “You're sure she's not exaggerating whatever's going on?”

“No,” I answered. “Vida's not like that. Besides, this whole trip of hers has been very mysterious. There's something amiss, no doubt about it.”

“Cannon Beach,” Mavis said in a thoughtful voice. “In the off-season, it's a very small community; maybe twelve, fifteen hundred people. It seems to me there was something in the news lately, but I can't quite …” She stopped at a traffic light and rested her elbows on the steering wheel. Having purchased five pairs of shoes and one handbag between us, we were now headed for downtown and Jake's venerable seafood restaurant. “I don't remember,” Mavis admitted. “It's a funny thing—once I got out of the business, I sort of stopped being engrossed in the news. Otherwise, I found myself getting so caught up that I wanted to rush out and interview people and make a dozen phone calls and kick the living crap out of whoever was covering the story I was following.”

I nodded. “An occupational hazard. I still feel that way about stories in the met dailies. I'm stuck with reduced timber sales and Highway 2 closures and the high-school football team's latest losing season.”

“You've had at least a couple of juicy homicides, though,” Mavis pointed out as we crossed yet another of Portland's many bridges.

“More than a couple. Too many for Alpine.” The big black headlines were no solace when I knew the victims personally. “Luckily, we've gone for over a year without a murder.”

Luckily for Alpine. But, as it turned out, my own luck wouldn't hold.

I arrived in Cannon Beach at ten-thirty, snaking down the exit off Highway 101 on a narrow, dark road that wound among dense trees. The green Ford Taurus I'd rented in Portland had handled nicely during the ninety-minute drive to the coast. The first sign of civilization was the Ecola Creek Lodge, tucked in between a three-way fork. I spotted Vida's big white Buick at once and pulled into the adjacent spot. Most of the complex was old, but well maintained, with the contiguous brick-and-wood-frame units facing either the parking lot or the street. I figured that Vida was staying on the neatly landscaped street side where I could see the Pacific Ocean beyond what appeared to be a park.

During this off-season only half the lights were on in the motel. Most of the units, including Vida's, had the drapes pulled, though I could see into one of them where a senior-citizen foursome played cards. The fog was coming in, and I felt a damp chill in my bones as I went up the short walkway to number 11. Vida responded to my knock so quickly that I thought she'd probably been standing by the door.

“Emma!” she exclaimed, as if she hadn't expected to see me. “Come in, come in. I really wish you weren't here.”

I didn't know whether to believe her or not. “So what's up?” I asked, setting down my suitcase and getting out of my duffel coat.

Vida didn't answer directly. The room smelled of salt air and I could just make out the sound of the surf in the distance. “I'll make tea,” Vida said, not looking at me but in the vicinity of an older-model television set with rabbit ears. “There's a kitchen, so I bought some provisions.”

Ordinarily, when I'm at Vida's home in Alpine, I
follow her into the kitchen and we drink our tea there. But I sensed that she didn't want me to join her—yet. There was a small mirror next to a door that led into a hall where I could see the bathroom. I glanced at my image, saw my disheveled chestnut hair, bleary brown eyes, and slightly drawn round face. It had been a long day.

I settled into an armchair, shedding my shoes and working out the kinks caused by the long drive. The unit appeared to be a small suite, its living room outfitted with well-worn but comfortable furniture and a fireplace. A painting above the brown tweed sofa showed, predictably, large waves crashing against the shore. The room was warm, almost too warm, and I wondered if the sofa turned into a bed, or if I would have to sleep with Vida. We'd never traveled together before, and it occurred to me that she might snore.

I occupied my brain in this unproductive manner for at least five minutes. An occasional sound emanated from the kitchen, where Vida apparently was waiting for the water to boil. When I was considering unpacking my one small suitcase, she finally came back into the living room bearing two mugs.

“I'll fetch sugar and milk,” she said, still avoiding eye contact.

I waited. Just as Vida reappeared the phone rang. It was sitting on a table between my chair and the sofa. “Shall I?” I inquired.

“I'll get it.” Vida set the milk pitcher and a bowl of sugar cubes on the coffee table, then flung herself across the sofa and picked up the receiver. “Yes?…Yes, she did … No, Stacie, I really don't think I should do that now … You already have a houseful … Yes, of course … I'll be there early … Please don't fuss …
We'll work this out … And do tell Molly to stop crying … Very well, dear. Good night.”

In a somewhat ungainly fashion, Vida sat down on the sofa. “Well.” She continued to stare straight ahead.

There was no point in prodding her. I stirred my tea and kept quiet. At last Vida turned to me, her gray eyes troubled behind the big glasses with the tortoiseshell frames.

“Have you ever heard me mention Ernest's brother, Everett?” she asked in a tight voice.

I tried to remember. Vida talked about so many of her relatives, both shirttail and otherwise. “I don't think so,” I finally said. “I've heard you speak of an Elmo and an Edward, but maybe not Everett.”

Vida gave a brief nod. “If I didn't speak of him, it was because he no longer existed in Ernest's family. Everett, you see, was the black sheep.” She nodded again, as if to underscore Everett's unworthiness.

“But he exists?” I asked, trying hard not to smile. To my knowledge, Ernest Runkel's family had always been pillars of the community. Ernest's father, Rufus, had been one of the risk takers who'd built the ski lodge that had helped save Alpine.

“Oh, yes. He exists.” Vida sipped her tea, then heaved a deep sigh. “Everett—he was called Ev by the family, but insisted on calling himself Rett, which explains quite a bit, if you ask me—was the youngest of the six children. When he was seventeen, he quit school and ran off to join the coast guard. That was 1949, and he ended up serving in the Korean War. After he was discharged, Ev—or Rett, if I must call him that—married a woman named Rosalie and settled in Cannon Beach. Ev—Rett—never returned to Alpine.” Vida uttered the words as if
she'd announced that her brother-in-law had turned his back on the Pearly Gates.

“So he lives here?”

“Yes. He and Rosalie were divorced some years later. There was a brief period before Ernest died when … Rett—or perhaps it was Rosalie—sent Christmas cards. But after my husband met his unfortunate end, I stopped hearing from them, and so did the rest of the family. I suspect it was about then that Rosalie left Rett.”

I was well acquainted with the demise of Ernest Runkel, which had involved an ill-fated attempt to go over Deception Falls in a barrel. “So you've come to Cannon Beach because of Rett?” I asked, wondering when Vida would get to the point.

“Not exactly.” Vida stroked her upper lip. “Rett and Rosalie had two children, Marlin and Audrey. Marlin is a bit peculiar, I'm told, and lives alone up in the hills above the town. Audrey married a man named Gordon Imhoff twenty years ago, and lived in San Francisco for a time. Then she and Gordon moved back here with their three children—Derek, Stacie, and Molly.”

I finally heard a name that rang a bell. “That was Stacie who called just now?”

“Yes. She's a high-school senior, a pretty thing, but lacking in self-discipline. They live at the other end of the town, almost to Tolovana.”

I recalled how the spur from Highway 101 cut through Cannon Beach, then rose to zigzag above the ocean until it dropped almost to sea level. Houses were built in the pockets of rock and along the steep hillsides and, in some cases, jutted out on stilts. The perches had always struck me as precarious, but the views must have been spectacular.

“It must be lovely,” I remarked. “Do they all enjoy living in a beach town?”

Vida's face had turned grim. “That's the problem, you see. They're not all living.”

I must have looked stupid; certainly I felt that way. “What do you mean?”

The rumble of a stereo's bass throbbed as a car passed outside. “Really, I don't know.…” Vida bit her lip.

While I was accustomed to my House & Home editor's long-winded family histories, her sudden reticence was uncharacteristic.

“Vida,” I began in a reproachful tone, “I interrupt my vacation and drive all this way so that you could turn into a clam?”

The gray eyes fixed on my face, though the light struck the tortoise-framed glasses in such a way that all I could see was glare. “Audrey was murdered last month, and her husband, Gordon, has disappeared,” Vida said in a flat, emotionless voice. “That's why I came to Cannon Beach.”

VIDA
EXPLAINED
THAT she had seen the story on our wire service. She hadn't recognized Audrey's married name, but knew how small Cannon Beach was, and that there couldn't be too many Audreys who were forty-three years old. She had made some phone calls and discovered that Audrey's maiden name was indeed Runkel.

“I waited a few days before I called the house,” Vida recounted. “I could have telephoned Rett, but I didn't know if he still lived here, or even if he was alive. There was no listing for him, you see. So about three weeks ago, I called the Imhoff residence and asked for Gordon. It didn't seem right that no one from Ernest's family had inquired or offered condolences.”

It also didn't seem like Vida to ignore anything as intriguing as murder. Her curiosity must have been at detonation level. No wonder she had been acting oddly at work.

“Did you consult with any of the other Runkels?” I asked innocently.

“Well …” Vida's mouth twisted. “No. The surviving members of Ernest's generation are either gaga or have no sense. My sister-in-law Evelyn—she's a Gustavson, you may recall—is the best of the bunch, and she talks so
much that I can't ever get a word in edgewise. Evie simply tires me out.”

I couldn't imagine such a thing. But of course I didn't say so, and thanked my lucky stars that my encounters with Evelyn Gustavson Runkel had been few and brief.

“Did Gordon tell you what had happened to Audrey when you finally called?”

“No. He'd already disappeared. I spoke first to Derek, who is—what? nineteen, twenty?—and somewhat surly.” Vida's mouth turned down in disapproval. “I got very little information from him, but Stacie was more forthcoming. The wire-service story said only that the body of a forty-three-year-old Cannon Beach woman named Audrey Imhoff had been found at the beach near her home. Foul play was suspected, local authorities investigating. There were no details, and there was never a follow-up story.

“Stacie—who really had no idea who I was—told me her mother had been hit over the head. It seems that Audrey was given to nude swims in the middle of the night, after everyone else had left the beach. Naturally, Stacie thought it was a sex maniac, and perhaps it was. But the day after the funeral service, Gordon disappeared. At that point Stacie broke down, and said that she knew that if the police didn't suspect her father before, they must now. I offered to come down then, but she hung up. I waited until the next day to call back, and got Molly instead. She's only fourteen, but seems more sensitive and sensible than either Stacie or Derek. I asked how the three of them were getting along, and she said they were all right. Their grandmother, Rosalie, had remarried some years ago and moved a few miles down the cost to Manzanita, but she's been staying with the children off and on. Molly said that she and' Stacie were
going to school and getting their homework done and doing as well as could be expected. Derek, unfortunately, has brought his girlfriend to live with him. Her name, I believe, is Dolores.”

Vida paused for breath. In the silence, I could hear the thrum of the ocean and the moan of a foghorn. “What about Rett?”

“He's here.” Vida grimaced. “I went to see him this afternoon. He wouldn't let me in.”

“Andhisson, Marlin?”

Vida shook her head. “Uncle Mar—as the children call him—is even stranger than his father.”

“Have you spoken with the law-enforcement officials?”

“No. It's county, the same as Alpine, but the seat is in Astoria. That's one reason I'm staying on—I want to drive up there Monday and speak with the sheriff or whoever is in charge of the case.”

Off the top of my head, I calculated that Astoria was about thirty minutes away. Located at the most northwestern tip of Oregon on the mouth of the Columbia River, it was the seat of Clatsop County. I had once had a contact there in my days on
The Oregonian.

“I used to know Bill Wigert,” I said. “He was in charge of their forensics division.”

“Really?” Vida brightened. “Is he still there?”

“I don't know. That was seven years ago.” I leaned back in the chair, considering my options. Tomorrow was Sunday, and if memory served from the last time I was in Cannon Beach a decade ago, I'd have to attend Mass in Seaside at Our Lady of Victory. Seaside was ten minutes away, which would cut some time off the trip to Astoria. Bill was an easygoing kind of guy, and might—just might—let Vida and me intrude on his Sunday.

The local phone book included Astoria listings. Wigert,
W. L., was still there. “I'll call him in the morning,” I said, and suddenly yawned.

“Your friend Mavis must have tired you out,” Vida said in a prim tone. “No doubt she's a bundle of fun.”