The Alpine Journey (11 page)

“I guess.” Molly let out a big sigh. “Stacie and I wanted to stay in school here, Derek wouldn't leave Dolores, and Dad likes it here a lot.”

“So,” Vida said smoothly, “the only way your mother could leave was to go alone.”

Again, the sisters exchanged glances. “I guess,” Molly said again. “But that didn't mean she was going to get a divorce. Portland's not that far away. Mom and Dad could have … commuted.”

“They wouldn't,” Stacie said flatly. “Molly, can't you get it through your thick head? Mom and Dad were finished with each other. They both had found other people. They didn't love each other anymore and they weren't going to stay married. Why do you have a problem with that?”

Molly clamped her mouth shut and glared at Stacie. “I don't believe it,” she finally said, her face flushing. “They wouldn't get a divorce. Not after all this time. Divorce sucks.”

Stacie rolled her eyes. “Look, bratfinger, how many of the kids in your class have parents who're divorced? Half of our senior class have stepmothers or stepfathers or single parents. Wake up, it's almost the twenty-first century.”

“It's not right.” Molly turned mulish.

“Are your classmates happy with their situations?” Vida inquired of Stacie.

It was a question that Stacie obviously had considered, but answering it weakened her argument with Molly. “Oh—some of them are okay with it. But until they're eighteen, they have to do all this switching back and forth on weekends and holidays and during the summer. That can be a pain, especially when one of the parents moves somewhere else. And then there are kids who don't get along with their stepparents. That's a bummer.”

“See?” Molly said, her pudgy chin jutting. “You're right, lots of kids in my class come from broken families. Half the time their parents don't know where they are or what they're doing because their families are all screwed up. That's why kids get into so much trouble. Last year Kelly Stafford tried to commit suicide when her mom and dad broke up because she thought it was her fault. Two years ago Kevin Nerstad broke a bunch of windows in Seaside because he was so mad when his parents split. And ever since school started this fall, Jason Claypool gets high on catnip between classes.”

Stacie bestowed a patronizing look on her sister. “You can't get high on catnip unless you're a cat, dummy.”

“Jason can,” Molly replied, on the defensive. “He just sort of rolls around the halls.”

“And purrs,” I muttered under my breath. Aloud, I ventured an opinion. “I don't think anyone can argue that
divorce is good for children except in extreme cases where a parent is abusive. Too many people fail to work at staying together because they're just plain selfish. They're thinking about themselves, not about the family unit.”

It was the wrong thing to say, and I should have known that. Stacie bridled and Molly looked as if she were going to cry again.

“You have to live your own life,” Stacie asserted. “If you're not happy, you're not going to make anybody else happy, either.”

“Define happy,” I retorted. My perverse nature had gotten the better of me; I wasn't backing down.

“That depends,” Stacie responded. “I mean, what might make me happy might not make somebody else happy. Take Mom—she wasn't happy in Cannon Beach.”

“There's always compromise,” Vida remarked as the waiter removed our salad plates. “Your parents could have moved closer to Portland, but stayed in a small town. Did they ever discuss that?”

“I don't know.” Stacie folded and refolded her napkin, then spread it out again in her lap. “I doubt it. Dad was determined to stay here. He loved—loves—the ocean.”

“That's my point,” I said, trying to sound reasonable. “Maybe they could have considered moving to Puget Sound, to one of the smaller communities on the water but within a ferryboat ride of Seattle.”

Stacie picked up the napkin, crumpled it, and tossed it onto the table. “What difference does it make if they didn't love each other?” Her eyes flashed with anger, but her overall expression was miserable.

“Define love,” I said, still perverse.

“You define it,” Stacie snapped. “How long have you been married?”

I was taken aback, deservedly so. “I'm single,” I said. “I've never married.”

“See?” said Stacie, almost gleeful. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

She was right. I didn't.

But neither did Stacie and Molly.

“I've done my duty by the children,” Vida said after we'd returned to the motel. “At least as far as treating them goes. Thank you for helping. You didn't have to.”

“I know,” I said. “But I wanted to. Besides,” I went on, with a sheepish look for Vida, “maybe it makes up for my visit with Marlin.”

“Marlin!” Vida whirled on me. “You didn't! I told you …”

I held up my hands. “I know, I know. But it didn't seem right that he'd be the only family member I hadn't met. How do you expect me to get any perspective on these people if I don't meet all of them?”

To my surprise, Vida was only mildly outraged. “Marlin is a disgrace. He's done nothing with his life, except to sit up there in his awful house and smoke marijuana. I suspect that he grows it, too. I hate to admit he's a Runkel.”

I hated to admit that I preferred Marlin to his father, Rett. Instead I related how Marlin had extolled his sister's virtues.

“You're right,” Vida conceded. “Marlin presents a more favorable portrait of Audrey. A regular do-gooder, if he can be believed.”

“I don't see why he'd lie,” I said, opening the drapes so that we could watch the sunset. “Unfortunately, his information doesn't help us figure out who killed her.”

“No,” Vida agreed, carefully removing her turban. “Quite the opposite. It sounds as if some people were dependent on her.”

“Motive,” I said, settling into one of the room's two armchairs. “If we're playing detective, we ought to discuss motive.”

“True.” Vida sat down in the other armchair. “Jealously comes to mind. Alas, that points to Gordon.”

“It could also be the young man, Damon Whoever,” I noted. “Or Stina Kane, Gordon's alleged lover.”

“It could be a rejected suitor,” Vida mused. “Someone we know nothing about.”

“That's the problem,” I admitted. “We don't know much.”

“Jealously often results in crimes of passion,” Vida said. “I sense that's what this was.”

The sky was turning gold. A trawler moved south, bobbing gently on the big waves. “That narrows the field a bit,” I said. “How about gain? Now that we know Audrey had a sizable savings account, who gets it?”

“I believe,” Vida said slowly, “that Oregon, like Washington, is a community-property state. Dear me.” She grimaced. “That brings us back to Gordon.”

“But Gordon may not have known about the stash,” I pointed out. “Why else would Audrey keep it at a separate bank in a different town under just her name?”

“A point well taken,” Vida allowed. “And the children didn't snoop. Goodness, they didn't even open mail addressed to the family!”

“Revenge,” I said, going down the list of possible motives. “But who for what?”

Vida shook her head. “I've no idea.” Then a sly look crept into her eyes. “Blackmail—now that's a possibility. It might be how Audrey accumulated her savings.”

“That's good,” I agreed with a sudden enthusiasm that swiftly dimmed. “But again—who for what?”

Vida didn't answer. She sat with her hands resting on the chair's arms, her head tipped back. “It's all so difficult.” She sighed. “Maybe we should concentrate on the crime scene.” Abruptly, she sat straight up. “Good grief! I forgot about ‘Scene’! What shall I do?”

“Scene Around Town” was Vida's weekly gossip column, which included such tantalizing tidbits as Cal Vickers's new gas pumps at the local Texaco station, Darlene Adcock losing control of her grocery cart at Safeway, Sunny Rhodes conducting her Avon-lady route on a new ten-speed bicycle, and the Reverend Minton Phelps singing verse two instead of verse three of “Throw Out the Anchor, Someone's Floating Away.” As trivial as these items might seem by big-city standards, they were hot news in Alpine. “Scene” was the best-read part of the paper, narrowly edging out the obituaries. When we had any.

“Think back,” I urged Vida. “What did you notice before we left for Oregon?”

Vida looked abashed. “Dear me, I don't recall. I was so distressed about Audrey. I… just… wasn't… paying attention.”

The admission was tantamount to the Pope revealing that he'd scarfed down a couple of eight-ounce T-bones on Good Friday. Maybe that was the moment when I fully realized how concerned Vida was with the murder of her niece-by-marriage. This was no whim of curiosity, no desire to poke her nose where it wasn't wanted. My House & Home editor was on a mission, and I realized that she wouldn't come back to Alpine until she'd unraveled the family mystery.

“Oh, boy,” I said under my breath.

“Beg pardon?” said Vida.

“We can't leave out ‘Scene.’ I'm going to call Leo and see if he and Carla can fill the space.” I got up and went to the phone.

“Wait!” Vida exclaimed. “Call Milo first. We need his help. He can get information out of Clatsop County that they won't give to us.”

“Milo's in Bellevue,” I replied. “He won't get home until late.”

“Oh.” Vida's face sagged. “Does he expect you back tonight?”

It dawned on me that I hadn't thought much about Milo since leaving Alpine. Except for the brief discussion with Mavis about our so-called romance, the sheriff hadn't crossed my mind. I not only didn't miss him, I realized he was becoming a peripheral figure in my life. The insight was upsetting.

“Yes, I think I told him I'd be in late,” I replied, rubbing at my forehead with both hands. “But he'd be late, too. So he won't know I'm not there. Damn.”

“What?” Vida seemed put off by my comment.

“It's nothing. But we can't call him until tomorrow.” I picked up the receiver. “It's almost seven. Maybe Leo's home by now.”

Leo answered on the second ring. “You never call me at home, babe,” he said, using the nickname I loathed. “Miss me?”

“Like blisters,” I replied. “You got my first message?”

“You mean the one where I teach Carla the difference between a subject and a predicate, and that the lead shouldn't go at the end of the story? Yeah, I got it. What now?”

Leo's breezy manner irked me, though it wasn't his fault. It was mine, for still being in Cannon Beach. “Vida didn't get a chance to finish ‘Scene,’” I said, avoiding my House & Home editor's anxious gaze. “Can you and Carla and maybe Ginny and Kip come up with some items?”

“Vida never started ‘Scene,’ and you know it,” Leo said. “After I got back from Seattle this afternoon I stopped by the office to check page layouts. Alpine Appliance has to get rid of a bunch of used stoves and refrigerators they got as trade-ins to make room for the new models. They're taking out a half page, which means—in case you've forgotten while you're beachcombing or surfboarding or whatever the hell you're doing down there—that I have to virtually redo the whole damned paper. One of the missing links was ‘Scene.’”

“Right. Have you got anything?” I kept my voice calm so as not to further agitate Vida.

“Grace Grundle walked into a phone pole at Front and Fourth. She broke her glasses. How's this: ‘Retired Grade-School Teacher Makes Spectacle of Herself, Wrecks Spectacles, Former Students Speculate If Two Plus Two Doubles Equals One Drunken Old Broad’?”

“Grace has an inner-ear problem, as you very well know,” I said testily. “I doubt that she's ever had a double anything in her life.”

“How about Clancy Barton crawling out of the Elks Club on his hands and knees Friday night? He had a G-string in his teeth.”

“Stop it, Leo.” I didn't know if my ad manager was kidding or not. “You and the rest of the staff have two days to fill that column. Do it.”

A heavy sigh emanated from the other end of the phone line. In my mind's eye, I saw Leo stretched out in
his La-Z-Boy chair, the phone in one hand, a cigarette in the other, an adult beverage on the side table. He would be rumpled but comfortable, at ease in his small apartment on Cedar Street across from St. Mildred's Catholic Church and flanked by the Alpine Medical Clinic on one side and the Baptist church on the other. Leo should have benefited from his neighbors, both spiritual and temporal, but he seemed to prefer the occasional fifth of Jack Daniel's instead.

“We'll do it,” he said at last, sounding as if he'd prefer walking down Railroad Avenue wearing buttless chaps and a sign that read TWEAK
ME
,
I
'
M
YOURS
.
“Ginny 's good at that stuff. Unlike the rest of the younger generation, she notices what's going on around her.”

“Thanks, Leo. I'll try to come up with something after I get back Monday afternoon. I should be in around three.” I started to sign off, then thought to politely inquire if he'd had a good time in Seattle.

“You bet,” Leo replied. “It was kind of off-the-wall. I got a phone call Friday night from an old pal in the Bay Area. He was in Seattle on business and wanted to see how I was doing. I used to work for the guy in Southern California, and I guess he wondered if I was still seeing little purple people doing the macarena at the foot of my bed. I told him I'd gotten a grip on my life—more or less—so he asked if I'd like to come into town and have lunch or brunch or whatever with him this morning. I said sure; he's a helluva guy, and it'd been a while since we'd gotten together, at least when I was sober enough to remember the occasion. By the way, he asked about you.”

My heart sank. “Who was it?” I queried through taut lips.

“The guy who gave you the recommendation to hire me. You remember—Tom Cavanaugh.” I remembered. Too well.

I WANTED
TO ask Leo a zillion questions about Tom, but through a monstrous act of will, I refrained. Though Leo had worked for one of the Cavanaugh weeklies years ago, and Tom had written to give him a recommendation, neither of us had ever enlightened my ad manager about our relationship. That was three years ago, during the rejuvenated halcyon days of intimacy when we shared a frayed thread of hope.