The Alpine Journey (16 page)

“That he did,” I said, and explained my role in the search for Rosalie's son-in-law. “So where is he now?” I inquired.

Predictably, Rosalie turned cagey. “I'm not sure. He took off not long afterward. He didn't say where to.”

It was safe to assume that Rosalie was lying. Gordon may very well have left the Dobrinz house, but I was sure that his mother-in-law knew his destination. I guessed that Vida felt the same way.

“Why doesn't he simply turn himself in?” she asked with a touch of impatience, perhaps for Gordon, maybe for Rosalie as well.

Rosalie let out a heavy sigh. “I don't know. He can't run forever. He's not a fugitive. I don't understand it.”

Our server arrived and orders were taken. Rosalie insisted she only wanted coffee, but Vida finally coaxed her into a bowl of clam chowder.

“Was this weekend the first time you've seen him since he disappeared?” Vida asked after the server had left.

Rosalie nodded in a listless manner. “I was so worried. Gordon's like a son to me. More of a son than Audrey
was a daughter, if you get right down to it. Gordon never had much of a childhood. His parents were protesters, always marching for some cause. Black people, lettuce, Vietnam—you name it, they were there with their signs and their slogans. I always felt that's why Gordon wanted to settle down and live a peaceful life. He'd been all over the place when he was growing up.”

“And yet,” Vida noted thoughtfully, “he's been on the run, as they say.”

“Yes.” Rosalie nodded twice for emphasis. “That's what I mean—it's not like him.”

“Then why?” Vida let the words fall like heavy stones.

Rosalie put a hand over her eyes. “I don't know,” she said softly. “I don't want to know.” Her chunky shoulders began to shake. “I'm afraid to know. I hope I never have to find out.”

EVENTUALLY, ROSALIE
REGAINED her composure and we talked of other things. Vida asked about Audrey's alleged helpfulness toward others. For the first time her mother brightened at the mention of her daughter's name.

“Now, that's where Audrey did her share,” Rosalie declared with enthusiasm. “Somehow she got involved with driving patients to doctor appointments, especially seniors. It was a volunteer thing through the chamber of commerce. Even after a lot of the other merchants dropped out, Audrey still carted folks around. There's only one doctor in Cannon Beach, you see, so if you go to somebody else, you have to drive into Seaside or all the way to Astoria.”

“How very kind,” Vida remarked, nibbling at her fish and chips. “I hope her efforts were appreciated.”

Rosalie's enthusiasm dimmed. “Well … you know how people are. Some take everything for granted. But Audrey didn't complain about that, except in the beginning. In a way, I was surprised she kept at it.”

“Did she have to make many trips?” I asked, deciding that the french fries definitely met my memory's muster.

“Oh …” Rosalie's forehead furrowed. “I'm not sure. We didn't chat much. I suppose she went a couple of times a week. At least that's how often she was taking
Rupe Pickering while he was having his cancer treatments, or whatever it was.”

Vida shot me a covert glance. “That would be Ruth's husband? Doesn't Ruth drive?”

Rosalie's expression showed disdain for Ruth. “Ruth doesn't do much, if you ask me, except make those ugly metal dingbats. She won't drive on the highway, and freeways scare the pants off of her. I guess that's what happens when you marry money. You get spoiled.”

I recalled the modest house where Ruth lived. “She's rich? I'm surprised.”

“I don't mean she's rolling in it,” Rosalie amended, “but Rupe's dad owned some beachfront property they sold way back. They made a bundle off it. And both Rupe and Ruth were what you'd call careful. Or,” she added with bite, “what I'd call downright tight.”

“I wondered,” I said with a small smile, “how much money you could make from building kites and beating out metal sculptures.”

Rosalie crumbled crackers into her chowder. “That's the other thing—they would have starved if they'd had to rely on what they made from their so-called work. Believe me, Audrey and Gordon couldn't afford to pay Ruth much when she came to work for them. I think the only reason she filled in at the Jaded Eye was to push those damned sculpture things.”

Vida was gazing around the big restaurant, taking in everything from the splendid ocean view to the clusters of luncheon customers. “Lovely,” she commented, more to herself than to Rosalie or me. “Though I miss the mountains. They make you feel so safe,” she added, turning to Rosalie. “Protected. The ocean is more dangerous. And there's no end to it. I'm not sure I like that.”

Rosalie gave a little shrug. “I've always lived on the
coast. I was raised in Astoria. That's where I met Rett. He was stationed in the coast guard there.”

“He never suggested taking you to Alpine to meet the rest of his family?” I could hear the barely concealed scorn in Vida's voice.

“He'd mention it now and then,” Rosalie responded, “but we never went. He thought his relatives were a bunch of stuffed shirts.” Realizing too late what she had said, Rosalie put a hand to her mouth. “Sorry. That was his opinion, not mine. How could I know one way or the other?”

“You couldn't,” Vida replied, tight-lipped.

“Rett had a lot of opinions,” Rosalie said, obviously trying to explain away her ex-husband's attitude toward the rest of the Runkels. “I didn't agree with half of them. That's one reason we got divorced. That, and his drinking.”

Vida's censorious manner fled. “Does he still drink?” she inquired in a confidential tone.

“Not like he used to. His liver got to acting up, and the doctor told him if he didn't quit, or at least cut down, he'd be dead within a year. That was in 1990. But of course we'd split up long before that.”

“Hmmm.” Vida finished her coleslaw, propped an elbow on the rough wood, and leaned her cheek against her hand. “Ernest was such a wonderful man. I can't help but think that Everett must have shared some of his finer qualities. Are you ever sorry you left him?”

The color rose in Rosalie's weathered face. “You bet. No man is perfect. At least Rett had a sense of humor. Walt's a sourpuss. Half the time he turns off those damned hearing aids so he doesn't have to listen to me. And I don't know what your husband was like in bed, but I'll tell you his brother was some top gun. Walt's like a limp noodle, if you'll forgive my frankness.”

Having never, ever heard Vida discuss the physical side of her marriage, I was fascinated. Indeed, I expected her to take umbrage at Rosalie's candor. But Vida surprised me.

“Ernest was an excellent mate, in every sense,” she declared, wrapping the statement in her own brand of dignity.

Rosalie nodded, as if the two women had suddenly bonded over the bedside manner of the Runkel brothers. “You know what they say—if a marriage is on the rocks, the rocks are in the mattress. But that wasn't the case with Rett. Except, of course, when he drank. Then he lost it. He lost everything, including me. If (5nly his liver had pooped out on him sooner.”

Vida stared at Rosalie over the rims of her glasses. “You'd still be there?”

“You bet. And we'd both be the better for it,” Rosalie asserted, her eyes roaming the high ceiling as if she could envision a happier time, a better place. “He wouldn't be stuck out there in that damned trailer with that damned dog. We'd still be a family.”

Vida didn't blink. “With Marlin and Audrey and Gordon and the youngsters?”

Rosalie's lower lip quivered. “Maybe Marlin wouldn't have needed all that dope. He was only fifteen when Rett and I split up. Maybe Audrey wouldn't have run off to California. Maybe,” she went on, her voice breaking, “Audrey wouldn't be dead.”

“My, my,” Vida exclaimed as we drove back into Cannon Beach, “such a do-gooder! Who would have thought it of Audrey?”

“You sound skeptical.” I had just taken two more Excedrin; my aches and pains seemed to have intensified.

“The elderly are gullible,” Vida said as we slowed behind a big camper. “Think of all those pigeon-drop schemes or whatever they are. Old people fall for them constantly.”

Vida's reaction intrigued me. “You think Audrey was a schemer?”

“Where else did she get all that money in the separate account?”

I kicked myself for being so slow on the uptake. “You're right. It's possible. Rupe Pickering?”

“Among others, I suspect. Take Opal Iverson.” Vida glanced at me to be certain I recognized the name. “Opal has a sixth sense when it comes to people who are about to die. Dust Bucket Cooper was barely seventy, and seemed healthy as a horse when Opal started to bake him pies and offer to run errands. Three months later Pastor Purebeck was giving the funeral eulogy. Dust Bucket left her three thousand dollars. Then there was Alva Peabody, who was in her eighties, but very spry. Three trips to the Grocery Basket, and an afternoon going over dress patterns at Sew 'N Sew, and Alva was six feet under. Opal got Alva's car and fur coat, though frankly, it looked as if it had been made out of dog hair. The coat, I mean, not the car. It was a Pontiac. Just last winter, Opal started calling on Bertha May Amundson, and you know what happened to her in that big February windstorm. Whomp!” Vida slapped her hand against the dashboard, in apparent imitation of the cedar tree that had fallen on poor Bertha May. “Opal ended up with the sterling silver, a spinet piano, and two nice lamps.”

Though I'd proofed the obituaries and written the windstorm fatality story myself, I hadn't known about Opal Iverson's opportunistic role as Alpine's Angel of Death. So caught up in Vida's recital was I that we were
pulling up by the Imhoff house before it dawned on me that the Buick had turned off the main road.

“We're calling on the kids?” I asked in mild surprise.

“I hope not,” Vida answered. “With any luck, they'll be in school or at work. Let's hurry.”

“Hurry and do what?” I inquired, obediently getting out of the car.

“We need to make a search,” Vida responded, walking swiftly to the back door. “Aha! As I suspected,” she said, letting us in, “they didn't lock the door.”

They didn't clean house, either. The clutter had multiplied, and the sink was full of dirty dishes. Soiled laundry was strewn all over the place, and a glimpse into one of the bedrooms revealed an unmade bed.

“This isn't legal,” I pointed out.

“It isn't
illegal
,” Vida asserted. “I'm their aunt. I want to straighten up. They could use some help.”

It wasn't my place to argue. “Shall I dust?”

Vida was already going through kitchen drawers. “I've checked some of these,” she said, her hands moving like a magician's. “Audrey didn't keep much of interest in here except for household bills. Really, several are past due. I must remind the children about them.”

We moved on to the master bedroom. Judging from the chaos, the room was being used. I noted a rumpled waitress's uniform, an apron that looked as if it belonged to a grocery store, pink underpants, white Jockey shorts, two pairs of blue jeans, and several T-shirts. I guessed that Derek and Dolores had moved in. Their takeover struck me as unfeeling.

Vida had gone straight to the walnut bureau. “Bankbooks,” she said in an expectant voice, holding up a manila envelope. Then her face fell. “Oh dear—these are
for the joint accounts. Now, where would Audrey keep the other ones?”

I was looking through the dresser. “Not here. This is all cosmetic stuff and jewelry and panty hose.”

“A strongbox,” Vida said, heading for the closet. “Gordon and Audrey must have kept their private papers there.”

“But wouldn't Audrey hide any records of her personal account?” I asked, checking under the bed where I spotted more rumpled clothes and several shoes. There was sand everywhere, and the scent of the sea permeated the house.

“Yes,” Vida replied with a grunt as she wrestled with the contents of the closet. “That's why I'm going to look in this suitcase. It obviously belongs to a woman.”

If the bright floral tapestry pattern didn't betray the owner's gender, the contents did. The suitcase was filled with sweaters, slacks, and shoes.

“Audrey was packed and ready to leave,” Vida remarked. “Let's look at the mate to this luggage.”

The smaller tapestry bag revealed blouses, shirts, and undergarments. We checked the zippered compartments of both bags, but found nothing of interest. Vida fetched two plain black cases from the closet. They appeared to be empty. The smaller of the two, however, made me pause.

“Look,” I said to Vida, using a fingernail to pick up a bit of green flaky residue that clung in one corner.

Vida sniffed at my finger. “It looks like oregano, but it smells like something else.”

“It
is
something else. I'm pretty sure it's marijuana.”

Vida stared at me, then began scraping at the tiny flakes. “Goodness! Where did this come from?”

“I can make a guess,” I responded, reaching into an inside pocket. “Ah! What's this?”

“This” was a scrap of paper, caught in the pocket's lining. “It says ‘Friday P
.
M
.
Bring two thousand dollars. Do not go to Ja …’ The rest is torn off.”

Vida snatched the note out of my hand. “‘Jail,’ I presume. An attempt at humor. But what about this two thousand dollars? And ‘Friday P
.
M.’?”

“Have you ever seen Martin's handwriting?” I asked as Vida carefully slipped the scrap of paper into the pocket of her poplin jacket.

“I've scarcely seen Martin,” she replied. “Why Martin?”

“Because his place reeks of pot. Audrey might have been the one who brought it to him. I don't think he gets out much,” 1 added dryly.

Vida, who was still crouched on the floor, grew thoughtful. “No, he certainly doesn't. But to whom was the two thousand dollars owed? Audrey?”

“To whoever sold Martin his pot,” I answered, then frowned. “Unless …”

“Unless what?” With a small grunt, Vida rose to her feet.

“Unless Martin is actually growing pot up there in the woods. The climate's not ideal, but it can be done.”

“Indeed. It has crossed my mind. Look at those young people who were raising plants up on Mount Sawyer last year. And then this spring Milo caught Darryl and Sheree Gottschalk growing marijuana at their place by Cass Pond. They argued that it was a much-needed business venture to help the local economy. The incoming community-college students would be wonderful customers. Darryl even tried to join the chamber of commerce.” Vida shook her head in wonder.