The Alpine Journey (23 page)

Vida tapped her chin. “Perhaps. It might have taken them some time to get a search warrant issued. Still, I wonder.…”

We were silent for a few moments, standing in the dark turnaround. The deputies had disappeared, either in back of one of the sheds or up the trail. The only sound was the wind in the trees and a croaking frog. A mile from the ocean, we could no longer hear the surf.

The lights remained on inside Martin's house. I imagined him barricaded behind the door, bow and arrow at the ready. Or, now that I was beginning to know Marlin better, maybe he'd sought comfort in his illegal harvest.

“Are we calling on Mr. Runkel?” I finally asked, somewhat facetiously.

Vida stared at the ramshackle dwelling. “I don't know. Marlin doesn't seem receptive to visitors.”

“Especially not to me,” I noted. “He thinks I turned him in.”

Vida didn't respond directly, but turned around and got into the pickup. I followed suit.

“Where now?” I inquired as she fought the gears and tried to reverse the truck in the narrow space. It was almost eight o'clock and my battered body was crying for rest.

“I'm not sure. Will they arrest Marlin on the spot? I've no idea how it works with… people who grow marijuana.
Is that illegal in and of itself? Or does he have to be caught selling it? Dear, dear.”

“It's illegal to grow it. At least it is in Washington. I'm not sure about Oregon,” I admitted. “It's been a while since I lived here, and laws can change.”

The grinding gears set my teeth on edge; one of the rear tires hit a rut and jarred us. Vida wasn't having much luck turning the truck around; the old Camaro was parked dangerously close. “That suitcase,” she said, huffing a bit. “The one with the marijuana in it—do you suppose Stacie and Molly took it with them to California?”

“I don't know,” I replied, wincing as the back wheels spun in yet another hole. “Did you notice if they had luggage of their own?”

“I saw a type of duffel bag,” Vida said, finally getting the pickup to move forward without hitting the Camaro. “And backpacks. Young people use backpacks more than luggage these days, I believe. I bought Roger a very handsome model for his birthday. He carries all his textbooks and studies in it.”

And grenades and handguns and extremely sharp knives
, I thought with the particular brand of venom I reserved for my House & Home editor's grandson. The pickup had executed a half turn; at least Vida was making some progress, though her green straw hat had fallen off.
Maybe a cake and a pie and a gallon of ice cream to stuff into his fat little face.
She reversed again, almost hitting a tree.
Copies of Hustler and X-rated videos and dirty postcards.
Locked in combat with the gears and the steering wheel, Vida finally had us going in the right direction.

“Can we go home?” I asked in my most plaintive voice. “I'm exhausted and I hurt all over. Tomorrow I'll be stiff as a board.”

“Of course you will,” Vida said in an annoyingly
cheerful voice. “Yes, I suppose we could go back to the motel. It wouldn't do any good to forewarn Everett.”

I sat back against the worn passenger seat, immensely relieved that our evening inquiries appeared to be over. “About what?”

“Marlin's possible arrest. I shouldn't like to bother Rosalie. She's got troubles enough with Gordon.”

“But Gordon was going to turn himself in,” I said.

“Mmmm. Perhaps.”

I didn't blame Vida for being skeptical. However, there was nothing we could do about Gordon Imhoff 's propensity for self-destruction. As we wound down the Elk Creek Road I concluded that the Oregon branch of the Runkel family had a penchant for disaster that was remarkable. Though the Alpine contingent had gotten into some scrapes over the years, to my knowledge none of them had ever faced criminal charges or been murdered. They all appeared to be ordinary folks—flawed, even eccentric, but not outrageous. Unless you counted Ernest and his fatal accident. Or Roger.

Vida took 101 back into town, driving very carefully at the turn where I'd had my accident. A moment later we were in the motel parking lot. A smallish sedan had pulled in just ahead of us; the driver got out and staggered slightly when he saw the pickup. I recognized Derek Imhoff at once.

So, of course, did Vida. “Derek?” she called, opening the cab door. “Yoo-hoo! What is it?”

“I didn't think you were here,” he said, hurrying to the truck. “Have you seen Dolly?”

We both got down from the truck. “No,” Vida replied, putting the truck's keys into her purse. “Should we have?”

In the light that illuminated the parking area, Derek's
face looked very young and very miserable. “She's run away. I thought… she might be here.”

“I see.” Vida grew quite serious, then put a hand under Derek's elbow and steered him toward the archway that led to our unit. “Come inside. I'll make some tea.”

Derek shook her off. “No, I can't. I need to keep looking. Maybe she's on the beach.” He gestured in the direction of the ocean.

Vida reclaimed Derek's elbow, this time with a firmer grip. “We'll help. But first, you must tell us what happened. Come along.”

To my surprise, Derek obeyed. A moment later we were in the living room, the lights were turned on and the drapes drawn. “I'll put the kettle on,” Vida said. “You sit down and catch your breath.”

Derek didn't sit, but began pacing the small room, stopping once to peer between the drapes. “She's never done this before,” he murmured, more to himself than to me. “God, she can get mad! I never saw her so mad!”

My mind flew back to similar laments from Adam. At about the same age as Derek, he had dated a girl called Storm whose name definitely described her temperament. She screamed, she hit, she threw things, she drove my son crazy. In between eruptions, she was quiet, thoughtful, and kind; literally, the calm before the storm. Adam didn't know what to make of her, and after two months he made her his ex-girlfriend. Naturally, I was relieved.

“What set her off?” I kept my voice matter-of-fact.

“Dad,” Derek answered, and then looked at me in surprise. I had the feeling that he hadn't really intended to answer the question. “I mean, Dad came home, and—” He stopped, swinging a fist at the air.

“Upset the balance?” I suggested.

“What?”

“You know—the status quo.” I gave Derek an encouraging smile. “Your dad likes Dolores, though. Didn't she want to give up the master bedroom?”

Derek flushed. “No. I mean, maybe. I don't know. She just went off like a freaking rocket.”

“She's not at her folks' place?”

Derek looked at me as if I were daft. “She wouldn't go back there. Anyway, I already checked. She's not there, none of her girlfriends have seen her, nobody from work, either. I thought maybe, since Dolly's met Aunt Vida, she might have come here to hang out.”

The image of Vida and Dolores hanging out didn't play for me, but I made no comment. “Does she have a car?” I asked as Vida came back into the living room.

Derek shook his head. “She used to, but it broke down and she sold it for junk a couple of weeks ago. It was an 'eighty-one Citation.”

“Tea will be ready in five minutes,” Vida announced, standing in front of the fireplace with her arms folded across her bosom. “How long has Dolores been gone?”

Derek regarded his great-aunt warily. “Since about six-thirty.”

Vida adjusted her glasses. “Not so long, then. Where's your father?”

Derek seemed taken aback by the question. “Home? I don't know. He was there when I left.”

“You left right after Dolores?” Vida inquired.

“No. Not right away.” Derek avoided Vida's gaze, then flopped down in one of the armchairs. “I was steamed. I didn't take off after her until about seven. I thought she'd come back.” There was despair in his voice.

Vida gave a brief nod. “One might assume as much.
But she didn't. Have you looked along the beach by your house?”

Derek's head jerked up and down several times. “That's the first place I went. Like I said, she spends a lot of time on the beach, especially when she wants to think.”

Glancing at her watch, Vida gave Derek a tight little smile. “She's been gone less than two hours. There's a great deal of beach to walk. She may still be there.”

Derek swiveled around in the chair, eyeing the front window. “That's why 1 wanted to look at this end. Hey, I'm going now. I don't like tea much anyway.” He jumped out of the chair and headed for the door.

Vida took a step forward as if to detain him, then stopped. “Good luck,” she called.

He didn't quite close the door behind him. Vida marched across the room, peeked outside, then shut the door and shook her head. “Young people. They're so excitable.”

I yawned. “Dolores didn't like Gordon's intrusion. Playing house must have suited her.” I yawned again.

Vida nodded. “Yes. Her own home life sounds quite dreadful. Living with Derek and without adult supervision—or perhaps I should say interference—no doubt brought a note of normality to her life.”

The teakettle whistled, and Vida went into the kitchen. Dimly, I heard her rattling crockery; my eyes were closing, my head dropping onto my chest.

It was the ringing of the phone that yanked me out of my somnolent state. Assuming it was for Vida, I waited to see if she'd rush out to answer it. But she didn't, so I leaned over on the sofa and picked up the receiver. It was Madge, from the motel office. She asked for me, and said there was a message from Mr. Redd.

“I don't know a Mr. Redd,” I replied, searching my memory for anyone we'd encountered in Cannon Beach or Seaside by that name.

“You don't?” Madge sounded vaguely alarmed. “He said it was very important. Here's his number, just in case.…”

I recognized the number at once. It was Ed Bronsky's. “Oh—Mr.
Ed
,” I croaked. “Oh, oh. Yes, I'll call him. Thanks.”

Vida bustled into the living room, carrying Melmac cups and saucers. “Ed? Did you say Ed?” She sounded as if she wished otherwise.

So did I. “It's about the book,” I said dolefully. “He left his name as Mr. Ed.”

“My, my.” Vida shook her head. “You'll have to call him, I suppose.”

I sighed. “Do I? Must I? Will I?”

“He'll keep calling until you do,” Vida said, heading back into the kitchen. “You know what he's like.”

With leaden fingers, I dialed Ed's number. His wife, Shirley, answered from somewhere in the vast and vulgar villa they'd built above the railroad tracks.

“How are you, Emma?” Shirley said in her girlish, jarring voice. “I was just saying to Ed today that we still haven't had you over to dinner since we got settled in. Of course we're planning the Christmas gala. Do you think it should be formal or costume?”

Shirley didn't want to know what I really thought, which was that hosting a gala in Alpine smacked of the absurd. “Do whatever you feel comfortable with,” I said in a dull voice, and then, because I was tired and sore and borderline cranky, I added, “make it a Dickens theme. Vida and I can come as Ignorance and Want.”

“What?” Shirley sounded nonplussed.

“It was just a thought.” I caught Vida's bemused gaze as she set sugar and milk on the coffee table in front of me. “Where's Ed? He called me here in Cannon Beach.”

“Oh!” Shirley squeaked. “That's right! I keep forgetting, you're not here, you're … there. Just a minute, I'll page him. I think he's in the billiard room.”

“Why not?” I said under my breath.

It took a while. When Ed finally got to the phone, he was huffing and puffing. “Sorry. Fuzzy Baugh and I were shooting a few rounds. Having a few, too. Haha!”

Knowing Mayor Baugh, I was sure that the drinks had flowed like … drinks. Just hearing Ed's overhearty voice turned my brain to mush. “What's going on, Ed?” I asked, in desperate need of cutting to the chase.

“I've got great news,” Ed replied, and I could imagine his chins quivering with excitement. “I've got a publisher!”

My jaw dropped. Vida, who was now sitting in one of the armchairs sipping her tea, stared at me. I mouthed
the book
, but she continued to look puzzled.

“You found a publisher?” I echoed for Vida's enlightenment. “Wonderful, Ed. Who is it?”

“Vane Press,” Ed answered. “That's V-A-N-E, out of Redmond, over on Seattle's east side. They're top-notch, and they really like
Mr. Ed.
They say it's got legs.”

“It does, huh? That's really … grand.”

“‘Down-to-earth’—that's what Skip called it,” Ed continued, his stomach no doubt expanding along with his voice. “‘Gritty realism’ is how Irving put it. Remember the part when I was in first grade, and some of the fourth graders locked me in the paint 'n paste room with the skunk?”

“Uh … yes, I remember that.” Milo had been one of
the malefactors. The sheriff had told me the tale first, and somehow his version had been much funnier than Ed's.

“Skip said every reader could relate to that incident,” Ed asserted.

I'd never been locked in a supply room with a skunk, but I wasn't arguing with Ed. “Who's Skip? And Irving?”

“The publishers. Skip O'Shea and Irving Blomberg. Now the fact is,” Ed went on, lowering his voice, “they're real entrepreneurs, and just getting this venture off the ground. I'd talked to Kip MacDuff, and to be frank, he didn't sound like he knew what he was doing when it came to publishing a book of this magnitude. Nothing against Kip, he's a good kid, but he's young, and let's face it, Emma, this is
Alpine.
Vane Press is located right in Redmond, practically next door to Microsoft. They're talking movie deals, TV, maybe even letting Bill Gates have a crack at something on-line. Then there's that production company Gates is tied into, DreamWorks, and once that guy gets his teeth into …”

I let Ed bluster on. Vida was drinking her tea and flipping through the pages of the local chamber-of-commerce guide. She looked as bored as I felt.

“So,” Ed finally said, winding down, “all I need is to put in the thirty grand and we're off to press.
Mr. Ed
should come out in time for Christmas.”

“I see.” I saw that Vane Press should have been spelled V-A-I-N, as in vanity press. The book would get published in a limited edition, and all costs would be absorbed by Ed. At least that was how I understood vanity presses to operate. I saw a rush print job that couldn't possibly offer any kind of quality—not that there was much to begin with in Ed's manuscript. I saw limited, if any, distribution, and no advertising budget. Most of all I saw Ed's money going down a long, dark
drain in Redmond. “Have you signed a contract?” I asked.