The Alpine Journey (10 page)

Vida was putting the finishing touches on her toilette when I returned to the motel. “Are you coming with us?” she asked, applying powder in her usual slapdash manner. “Fm meeting the children at the Wayfarer at five-thirty.”

“I don't think so,” I replied, holding up the sign
Yd
found on the windshield. “Fm not very popular around here.”

Putting on her glasses, Vida peered at the piece of cardboard. “Goodness! When did that show up?”

“While I was at Ruth Pickering's. Who else knew I was going there besides Stacie?”

Vida was still staring at the crude message. “Oh, dear,” she murmured. “The other children, I suppose. Perhaps, Dolores … Cerrillo, is it? Or maybe it's the rental car.”

I didn't understand. “What about the rental car?”

Vida waved a hand. “You know—rentals can be detected because of the sticker the company puts on one of the windows. This note may have been left by someone who doesn't want outsiders in Cannon Beach.”

“It's a tourist town,” I said dryly. “Besides, whoever did this knew the car was driven by a woman.” I tapped the word BITCH
.
“It's not that far from Ruth Pickering's to the Imhoff house—less than a mile, I'd guess. And anyone who's seen me since I got here could recognize my duffel coat. I left it in the backseat.”

“My, my.” Vida removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes, though not with her usual ferocity. “Have you thought about taking the note to the police? The station is a block off Hemlock, on Spruce.”

“I've seen a couple of cops on bicycles,” I said, putting
the sign on the coffee table. “No, I don't think I'll bother them. Have you asked the locals about the murder?”

“Yes,” Vida answered. “They were the ones who referred me to the sheriff's office.” She paced the living room for a moment, and then gave me a baleful look. “So you won't face the children at dinner? Assuming it was one of them who left the note?”

“I'm not afraid to face them,” I said, fingering the cardboard. “Offhand, I'd say this was from a package of typing paper. It's the kind of thing that people use to protect photos when they mail them in to
The Advocate
.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Vida said rather testily. “It tells us nothing. Are you coming or not?”

It was true that I was getting hungry. But I didn't relish spending an hour or so with the Imhoff offspring, who struck me as both callous and contentious. On the other hand, I sensed that Vida wanted moral support. Or at least a second set of ears and eyes.

“Okay, I'll go. But I've got to change first.” I reached for my suitcase, which was under the coffee table. The sofa had indeed turned into a bed, and I'd spent the night in the living room.

“Tell me about Ruth Pickering,” Vida requested, pulling the drapes.

I told her what little I'd learned. She wasn't pleased with the results. Then I argued with myself about relating the visit to Marlin. Vida hadn't wanted me to meet her nephew-in-law. If I revealed that after his initial hostility, Marlin had become almost chatty, Vida might take umbrage. I decided to keep my own counsel for the time being.

“I have some news, too,” Vida said in a tone that indicated her sleuthing had been more effective than mine. “I spent some time with the children this afternoon. With
Molly, actually. Derek and Dolores had gone out, and Stacie was on the phone with a chum.”

“And?” I said, exchanging my rumpled teal pants and Mariners T-shirt for black silk slacks and a butter-colored cotton top.

“Those youngsters had let the mail pile up. Condolences, bills, letters pertaining to their mother's death—they'd hardly touched any of them. I told Molly we should go through everything. She didn't seem to realize that there are a great many matters to attend to after a person has died.”

While Vida spoke in a brisk, matter-of-fact manner, I could picture her practically salivating over the unopened correspondence. “Well? What did you find? Salacious love letters? Blackmail threats? A signed confession by the killer?”

“Of course not.” Vida huffed. “Most of it was perfectly ordinary, like the PUD and phone and funeral bills. Even the sympathy notes and cards didn't suggest anything unusual.” She paused, the gray eyes sparking. “It was the bank statements. Gordon and Audrey had two accounts with the local branch of the Bank of Astoria, one personal, one commercial. Between the two, they had about five thousand dollars in savings and checking. But Audrey had another account under just her name at US Bank in Seaside. She had a balance of more than a hundred thousand dollars.”

“Wow!” I cried, poking my head through the cotton top. “That's a pretty big bundle for somebody running a risky business.”

“Indeed it is,” Vida agreed. “And why in Seaside? There's a US Bank here in Cannon Beach, just before you get to those shops in Ecola Square.”

“Privacy, maybe,” I mused. “Audrey didn't want Gordon to know how much money she'd socked away. She probably opened all the mail. I'll bet that was her stash for the move to Portland.”

“Hmmm.” Vida was standing by the fireplace, looking thoughtful. “This Ruth person said the move was imminent?”

“Within days,” I replied, going to the mirror by the hall door and contemplating what I could do with my makeup without starting from scratch. “‘Mid-September’ was what Ruth said. Audrey was killed in the wee small hours of Friday, September thirteenth. I'd guess she was planning to take off Sunday or Monday.”

“Audrey didn't go.” Vida's mouth set in a grim line.

I wielded my mascara wand, with dubious results. “No, she sure didn't.”

“Is that why?” Vida asked in a pensive tone.

“Why what?”

“Why she was killed.” Vida picked up her purse from the mantel. “Someone didn't want her to leave Cannon Beach. Who was it?”

THE IMHOFF
KIDS and Dolores Cerrillo looked about as happy to see us as I was to see them. Only Molly made an effort to smile as the foursome trooped into the restaurant where Vida and I had been waiting for ten minutes.

“Well now,” Vida said with exaggerated enthusiasm after we were seated at a window table, “I hear the clam chowder here is especially delicious. Would anyone care for a soda first?”

“I just had a couple of beers at home,” Derek said from behind the menu. “I want a big steak.”

“Red meat isn't good for you,” Stacie declared. “I'm having prawns.”

“So am I,” said Dolores. “With a Caesar salad on the side.”

“Could I get spaghetti?” Molly asked, chewing on a fingernail. “It's my favorite.”

“Of course,” Vida replied stiltedly. She was scanning the prices of the other entrées, which weren't cheap, at least not by Alpine standards. “A salad and chowder sound very good to me. What about you, Emma?”

“I'm the other hostess,” I said on impulse. “Thus I'll take the plunge for the salmon.” If the family's recent tragedies hadn't dimmed the Imhoffs' appetite, I wasn't going to let the prices dampen mine.

“Really, Emma, that's not necessary,” Vida began, but I kicked her under the table. “If you insist.”

We gave our orders, and I had the temerity to ask for a Rob Roy, straight up. It had been a long day. Tomorrow, with the drive home, would be even longer.

“So,” Vida said smoothly, “it seems your mother had quite a large savings account. How was she able to save so wisely?”

Derek and Stacie looked blank. Dolores simply stared through the window at the outgoing tide. Apparently, only Molly had been privy to Vida's discovery.

“She used to make her own clothes,” Molly volunteered. “But the sewing machine broke.”

“Very economical,” Vida said. “But it doesn't quite explain such a goodly amount. Perhaps she'd made some big sales at the shop?”

Derek's laugh was harsh. “Like fifty bucks for one of Mrs. Pickering's butt-uglies? No way—Mom and Dad nickel-and-dimed it.” At last the meaning of Vida's question seemed to sink in. “What do you mean by big savings?”

“A hundred thousand dollars,” Vida responded calmly. “That's not a fortune by any means, but it's a comfortable figure.”

“Sheesh!” For once, Derek lost his complacency.

“That's impossible!” Stacie asserted. “Mom couldn't have put away that much money!”

Even Dolores had turned away from the window. “Did she inherit from someone? Or win a prize in the state lottery?”

Molly set her elbows on the table and rested her face on her hands. “It must have been the lottery. We don't have any relatives.”

Vida raised her eyebrows. “You mean you have no
relatives with whom you've kept in touch. In fact, you have many relatives in Alpine, including me.”

“But you haven't given Mom any money,” Stacie said with a touch of resentment.

“That's quite true,” Vida agreed. “Have your parents kept up with your father's side of the family?”

“Dad left home when he was eighteen,” Derek said, sounding as if he thought his father had had a good idea. “He went to San Francisco to find himself.”

“If he did,” Vida said archly, “he's managed to lose himself again. Perhaps he returned there after all these years.”

“Could be,” Derek said. “It's still a happening place.”

“The lottery,” Stacie was saying, more to herself than to the rest of us. “It's got to be the lottery.”

“Then why didn't she tell us?” Molly asked in a sullen voice. “We'd have been all thrilled.”

The three Imhoffs exchanged glances, as if each thought the other might have known but hadn't told. Dolores toyed with her silverware before she spoke up in her soft, detached voice.

“She would have said if she had won. Your family was not like mine, where no one talked, except in anger.”

Derek put an arm around Dolores, who obviously brought out his softer side. “That's because your folks were always wasted, Dolly. It's not because they didn't love you.”

With one sweep of her arm, Dolores knocked over her water glass. “Stupid! You don't know what you say! My family never loved any of us! I hate my parents! I hate them so much!” She burst into tears.

Derek had suffered the brunt of the spilled water, which soaked his red Henley shirt. He ignored his girlfriend's
ranting and tried to mop himself up with his linen napkin. Dolores wound down, but continued to sob.

Stacie reached across the table and righted the glass. “It's okay, Dolores. Alcoholics don't know what they're doing. They're not really who they seem.”

Dolores flung herself on Derek. “Take me home! I want to leave. I feel sick!”

Derek was still dabbing at his jeans. “Hold on, Dolly,” he said in what wasn't an unreasonable tone, considering his own nature as well as the circumstances. “I'm kind of hungry.”

Dolores began pummeling Derek with her fists. By now, most of the other diners in the half-filled room had turned to stare. “Now! We must go! Now!”

His cheeks darkening with embarrassment, Derek awkwardly got to his feet, hauling Dolores with him. “Sorry,” he mumbled, “I guess we gotta go.”

Under her green turban, Vida's face was inscrutable. “Then please do. Your young lady is upsetting everyone. Including me.”

Derek and Dolores left. She was still sobbing and had to lean on her companion. Every eye followed them out of the restaurant. I gulped at my Rob Roy, which, happily, had arrived just before all hell had broken loose.

There was a long pause before anyone spoke. It was Stacie who broke the silence.

“Dolores's parents are drunks. She has three brothers and sisters, and at least one other's left home besides her. She dropped out of high school last spring and got a job. I don't think she's had a very happy life.”

Vida was still gazing at the entrance through which Derek and Dolores had just passed. “Your brother appears to treat her kindly. I'm rather surprised.”

Stacie and Molly exchanged knowing glances. “You
mean,” Stacie said, “because Derek usually acts like a jerk? He's really not, at least not all the time. And he's crazy about Dolores. They're going to get married as soon as she turns eighteen in November.”

“Ah.” Vida nodded once. “Did your parents approve?”

Stacie flinched and Molly ducked her head. “Not really,” Stacie finally said. “Dad thought they were too young, and Mom felt that Derek should at least give community college a try.”

“Very sensible,” Vida said. “People who live in small towns tend to marry early. Often the marriages don't work out. Not,” she added hastily, “that it's the fault of the town itself. The couples are just too immature.”

“Maybe Mom and Dad were too young,” Stacie said as the waiter approached with our salads. “Mom always said that people who got married before they knew themselves usually broke up sooner or later.”

“But they stayed married for twenty years,” I pointed out. “Most youthful marriages break up before the fifth year. Or so I've heard.”

The romaine salads were delivered to Vida and me. The Caesar, however, had been intended for Dolores.

“I'm afraid,” Vida said in apology, “that we must send it back. Oh, we meant to cancel the steak and one order of prawns as well.”

The waiter, who had been the soul of bonhomie, now frowned. “I'm sorry, but the orders already went in. There's nothing we can do. Would you like to have us put them and the Caesar in a carryout box for later?”

“I'll eat Dolores's salad,” Molly volunteered. “We could take the steak and prawns home to her and Derek.”

Vida tried not to look miffed. “Very well.” The smile she gave the waiter was strained. “By all means, put
everything in a doggy bag.” Seeing Molly's puppylike eyes, Vida relinquished the Caesar.

“I'll share with you, Stacie,” Molly offered. “It's really big.”

Stacie began to fork some of the salad off her sister's plate. “I'm never getting married,” she said. “I might live with somebody, but I wouldn't want to be tied down. I think that's what bothered Mom.”

“No, it wasn't,” Molly asserted. “She just didn't like living here anymore. It had nothing to do with Dad.”

“I didn't say it did.” Stacie gave her sister a superior look. “Mom was a free spirit. It wouldn't matter who she married, she'd still want to move around.”

“But,” Vida remarked, “your mother was the only member of the family who wanted to move. Isn't that so?”