The Alpine Journey (18 page)

“Emma, is it?” Martin's eyes were dilated and he looked very mellow.

“Emma it is,” I said, taking advantage of his spaced-out state and edging my way inside. “I borrowed your aunt's car.”

“Why? It's a boat. You should have something more sporty, like a 'Vette.”

“My real car's a Jag,” I said, and wondered why I felt a need to impress Martin Runkel. “It's old,” I added, as if to make amends.

Most of Martin's furnishings were old, too, but some of them were obvious antiques. Indeed, the interior of the house was a far cry from the exterior. If not exactly neat, there was a certain order to it, with all the usual necessities and some intriguing objets d'art. A Native American rug, a Japanese screen, a pair of African masks, and even a couple of what looked like Ruth Pickering's metal sculptures adorned the small living room, which I assumed also served as a bedroom. A door led into a tiny kitchen and, I hoped, a bathroom.

“Toke?” Martin offered, indicating what looked like an old tin button box.

I shook my head. Even in my youth, I'd never tried marijuana. Most of my friends had, and my brother, Ben, had puffed away for several years, quitting only when he entered the seminary. But I'd always been timid about trying new things. Someone had once told me that pot could make you lose control, and that frightened me. Then I'd met Tom Cavanaugh, and lost control without the aid.of any strange substances, unless you count love. I'd spent the rest of my life paying for that surrender.

“What's happening?” Martin asked, leaning back against the faded couch that looked as if it might have dated from the Twenties.

“Not much,” I replied, wondering if I could pin Martin down in his present dreamy state. I pointed to the tin box. “You grow this stuff?”

Martin chuckled. “You the fuzz?”

“I told you, I own a newspaper. And no, this isn't for a story. I was just curious.” My manner was nonchalant; I was trying to match Martin's mellow mood.

“I'm on to you.” Martin winked through a blue haze. “You and that battle-ax aunt of mine are playing private eye.”

“Journalists always search for truth,” I remarked, picking up a carved myrtlewood pear and pretending to admire it.

“So do I.” Marlin swayed a little, the smoke encircling his head like a nimbus.

“Pot must be harder to grow in this climate,” I said, putting the pear aside.

“Truth is supposed to set you free,” Marlin said, gazing off into the distance. “Death sets you free. Audrey's free.”

I wasn't sure where this conversation was going; maybe up in smoke. “Is that good?” I asked innocently.

Marlin stared at me blankly. “What?”

“Growing pot so close to the ocean,” I said, switching gears. I might as well. Marlin and I weren't traveling the same highway.

“A dry climate's better. You get stronger stuff.” Marlin cocked his head to one side. “How's yours?”

“My …?” It didn't matter what Marlin meant. “Fine,” I said. Then, because it didn't seem to matter what I asked, I inquired about Jesse Damon. “Did you know him?”

I didn't think it was possible for Marlin to look blanker, but he did. “I don't think so. Does he write?”

“No. He's someone who knew your sister. A college student.”

“Oh!” Martin's round, pallid face actually showed a spark of interest. “I don't really know the kid. He was just one of Audrey's amigos.”

“They were … close?”

Marlin laughed, a funny little squeaking noise. “That's
cute.” He pointed his thumb at me. “You're cute. It's too bad I don't screw anymore.”

“Is it.” My voice was flat.

“Screwing is big trouble,” Marlin declared, now very serious. “Big trouble. You get some chick in trouble, and you have to marry her. Like Gord did with Audrey. Or my old man did with my old lady. It runs in the family. Anyway, you get married and you end up miserable. Honest to God, that's what happens. I know—I've seen it with my folks, I've seen it with Audrey and Gord. I don't screw, I don't get married.” He took a long drag on the joint. “It's better that way. I do all right by myself. It's better that way.”

I wasn't sure if the repetition was intended to convince me—or himself. “I'd better go,” I said, with a sense of hopelessness. There was no way I was going to get much out of Marlin Runkel. “Thanks for your time.”

“Sure.” He didn't get up as I headed for the door. “Screwing killed Audrey. You can count on it.”

I turned with my hand on the brass knob. “How so?”

Through the smoke, Marlin stared at an African wall hanging that appeared to depict a fertility rite. “Sex is death. Every time, you die a little. Audrey died a lot.”

The trail that led behind Marlin's house was well maintained, though steep in places. It wound up the hillside, past the two sheds, and among the alder and oak trees. My aches and pains intensified as I trudged along, taking an occasional backward glance. Marlin hadn't seemed inclined to follow me as far as the door, let alone anywhere else, but once he finished his joint, he might notice that the Buick was still parked in the turnaround.

Though I probably hadn't covered more than two hundred yards, it felt as if I'd gone a mile by the time I
reached Marlin's marijuana crop. It was big, a full city block, and judging by my weekend gardener's standards, the plants were thriving. I broke off a small piece and slipped it into my handbag. Then I started back down the hillside.

By the time I got to the sheds, my sense of urgency had grown. Still, I stopped to peek inside the one that was closest to the trail. Sure enough, it looked like a laboratory. Martin must cure or process his illegal substance on the premises. Not bothering to investigate the other shed, which I assumed was used for storage, I hurried back to Vida's Buick.

It was gone.

How long had I been on the trail? Fifteen, twenty minutes? I hadn't looked at my watch when I left Marlin. The car keys were in my pocket. Whoever had moved the Buick must have hot-wired it. Anxiously, I paced the turnaround for a few moments, then considered knocking on Marlin's door.

But if he'd moved his aunt's car, there could be trouble. Marlin might have come out of his pot-induced state, discovered that the Buick was still there, and realized I was snooping. Despite his openness about smoking dope, he might not want anyone to see that he was growing it and, I assumed, selling it.

I stopped pacing and started down the Elk Creek Road. I hadn't gone more than a couple of hundred feet when I saw the Buick. It had been run into a tree, and the front end was smashed. The fender on the driver's side was clamped onto the front tire. I could tell right away that the car wasn't drivable.

Two wrecks in one day were too much. I didn't wait around to see if anyone was lurking in the woods, watching
me. Ignoring the protests of my sore body, I ran all the way down to the RV park. At the halfway point, the strap came loose on my left sandal. I removed them both and kept going.

It took me several minutes to catch my breath after I reached the pay phones outside of the main building. A handful of vacationers eyed my panting, disheveled state with curiosity as they passed by on the narrow walkway. Just as I found the number for the Jaded Eye in the directory, my thoughts became less jumbled: I was only about four blocks away; I might as well walk.

They seemed like long blocks, though. Huffing and puffing, I arrived at the shop shortly after three. Vida was still inside.

“Well!” she greeted me, then took in my breathless-ness and drooping figure. “Oh, good grief! What now? Can't I leave you alone for five minutes?”

I didn't try to explain until I sat down in an antique rocker. Vida grew increasingly dismayed as I related my slightly garbled tale. Then, when I got to the part about the Buick, she exploded.

“What! You've wrecked my car, too? I can't believe it!” She whipped off her glasses and began to rub furiously at her eyes.

“I didn't wreck your car, damn it,” I said angrily. “I'm putting my money on your nephew. He knew I was nosing around and got pissed off.”

“Watch your language!” Vida practically bared her teeth.

I bristled, but didn't defend myself. While I'm not exactly a filth-mouth, I'm usually careful about profanity or vulgarity around Vida. It occurred to me that much had changed in the past two days since I'd arrived in Cannon Beach. If our roles are occasionally interchangeable
in Alpine, we both—usually—remember that I'm the boss. But two hundred and fifty miles away in this seaside town where Vida's heretofore unknown relatives resided, my House & Home editor definitely had the upper hand. I was beginning to feel like a child who had been allowed to tag along on what should have been an adults-only trip.

“Bottom line,” I said, curbing my temper, “we don't have transportation.”

Vida had stopped rubbing her eyes and was holding her head in her hands. “The children have a truck. We'll borrow that.”

“A truck?” I vaguely recalled seeing a pickup parked on the Imhoff property. “Which of us is going to drive a truck?”

“I will,” Vida responded. “Ernest had a truck for a while. I drove it now and then.” She went over to the counter where the telephone was located. “I'm going to get the Buick towed. I suppose it'll have to go to Seaside. Drat. I hope it's not totaled. It's a 1985 model, you know. I've no idea what the Blue Book value is.”

It took some time for Vida to make the arrangements. She also called Brendan Shaw to notify him of the accident. Brendan, a usually jovial man, indicated that his policyholders weren't having very good luck in Oregon. He informed Vida that under the circumstances she should notify the police. If someone else had moved the car without her permission, then it had officially been stolen.

While Vida made her calls, I fixed my sandal, then wandered around the crowded shop. There was a great deal of myrtlewood, seashells, rocks, glass balls, and driftwood. But the Imhoffs had acquired some intriguing collectibles, including antique dolls, a Lionel model
train, a Flying A gas pump, a Pacific Tel & Tel phone booth, and what might have been a genuine Tiffany lamp with a dragonfly pattern. Inevitably, various metal sculptures by Ruth Pickering sat on tables, desks, and the floor. Most of them, as Derek had put it, were definitely butt ugly.

“There,” Vida said with a sigh. “I've contacted everyone, including the police. But I didn't mention Marlin's name. We don't know he did it.”

“They'll investigate,” I pointed out. “They may find his marijuana plantation.”

Vida looked stricken. “I didn't think of that. Oh, dear.”

“It
is
illegal.”

“The Runkels don't need any more scandal,” Vida declared, as if she were the spokesperson for the entire tribe. Come to think of it, I suppose she was.

“What did you find here?” I changed the subject; I was getting sick of the Runkels.

Vida's wide shoulders slumped. “Nothing much. No bankbooks. No private papers. I'm beginning to think that Gordon and Audrey used a safety-deposit box, together and perhaps separately.”

“Could be.” I fingered one of Ruth's pieces, which looked vaguely like a two-headed symphony conductor. The edges were rough. I caught my finger and tore the skin. “Damn! Now I'm bleeding. These goofy things are dangerous.”

Vida and I locked glances. “How did your friend Bill describe the weapon?” she asked, her brain obviously working in tandem with mine.

I thought back to our conversation in Astoria the previous day. It seemed like a week had passed since then. “He said it was heavy and pointed, like a harpoon. And yes, it was probably metal.” Gingerly, I touched the long,
thin sticklike part of the sculpture that had reminded me of a conductor's baton. “Several of Ruth's pieces have sharp points. Some of these, the ones in her yard, those I've seen at the Imhoff house. I wonder.”

“So do I. But,” Vida added hastily, “we don't know.”

“The killer may have dumped the weapon in the ocean,” I said, finding a Band-Aid in my purse and applying it to my cut.

We were silent for a few moments as the time ticked away on a slightly battered grandfather clock. “Did Marlin say anything of interest?” Vida finally asked.

“Only that Audrey died because she … was promiscuous.” I was watching my language. “Or so he implied. Oh, he knew about Jesse Damon. He called him one of Audrey's ‘amigos.’”

“We must speak with Jesse,” Vida asserted. “Give me that phone number. I'm going to call him from here.”

Jesse wasn't home, but another male voice answered Vida's call. Apparently, he was Jesse's roommate. He informed Vida that Jess, as he called him, would return sometime after five.

“We'll call then,” Vida said, her finger tracing something taped to the counter. “This is the shuttle schedule. We can catch it southbound at three thirty-six.”

According to my watch, it was now three twenty-nine. Vida locked up before we headed out onto the main street. Assuring me we could flag the shuttle down, we crossed to the other side of Hemlock and stood in front of the Cannon Beach Book Company. Sure enough, the little bus slowed when Vida waved her arms like a windmill. Five minutes later we were back at the Imhoff house.

Molly was still in her room, but Stacie was out on the front deck, trying to catch some October rays. There
was no sign of Derek or Dolores, who I assumed were at work.

When Vida explained her plight with the Buick, she carefully omitted where the accident had happened or Martin's possible involvement. Stacie listened without any expression until her great-aunt requested the use of the pickup truck.

“I don't know about that,” Stacie said, pulling up the straps of her bathing suit. “If you take the pickup, all we have is Mom's Tracer. Dad took the van.”

“I take it you haven't heard from your father?” Vida made the remark sound like an accusation.

Stacie shook her head. “I don't think we will. It's better that way.”

“Where's the—Tracer, is it?—now?” Vida inquired.

“Derek has it,” Stacie replied. “He drives it to work. Dolores has a crappy old beater.”

“I must insist on borrowing your truck,” Vida said, assuming a majestic stance.

Clearly, Stacie wasn't used to the royal prerogative. “How long?” she asked.