The Alpine Journey (25 page)

Corey had leaned across the seat. “Illegal possession,” he said, also looking somewhat discomfited. “He finally gave up when Mr. Imhoff talked him into riding with him.”

“What?” Vida whipped off her glasses.

Tami had shrunk back against her car seat, an incongruous figure against the backdrop of gun racks and wire mesh. Corey appeared to have taken over.

“You see,” he explained, very serious, “the deputies asked us to see if Mr. Imhoff could talk Mr. Runkel into giving himself up. Mr. Imhoff said he'd try, and when he told Mr. Runkel that he was giving himself up, too, then Mr. Runkel decided he might as well. Give up, that is. So they drove up to Astoria in Mr. Imhoff's car.”

During the course of this narration, Vida had been rubbing madly at her eyes. She finally stopped and blinked at Corey. “Did the deputies follow them?”

“Oh, sure,” Corey replied. “They left about an hour ago. We stayed around to help gather evidence.”

“I see.” Vida sounded grim. “Well. Thank you.”

Corey touched the bill of his regulation cap. “You're welcome, Ms. Runkel. Drive safely.”

“Wait!” Vida shouted just as Tami began to roll up her window. “Has a missing girl been reported this evening?”

Corey and Tami exchanged puzzled glances. “No,” Tami replied. “Not that we know of. Who's missing?”

“Dolores Cerrillo,” Vida replied, gesturing in the direction of the Cerrillo house down the road. “We're told she's not at home, and she's not with Derek Imhoff.”

Tami giggled. “Of course she isn't. Dolores is perfectly safe. She's at police headquarters.”

Before Vida could say another word, the squad car headed off down the Elk Creek Road.

I didn't care if Dolores was in a jail cell, if Marlin was in leg irons, or if Gordon was on the gallows. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed and pull the covers over my aching head. For once, Vida didn't argue. Maybe she was too astounded by the latest developments. Maybe she needed time to mull them over in her mind. Maybe she, too, had finally succumbed to fatigue.

Despite the slightly uneven mattress on the sofa bed, I slept like a rock. To my horror, I didn't wake up until a few minutes after nine. Vida was dressed and sitting in one of the armchairs, reading Molly's diary.

“My God!” I croaked in a froglike voice. “It's late! I've got to get out of here!”

“Good morning,” Vida said brightly. “It's another lovely day.”

I struggled with the sheet and the single blanket. Then I tried to sit up. It wasn't easy. In fact, it was almost impossible. My back had stiffened up and I felt awful. Nor did my neck respond to efforts to turn my head.
Leaning against the sofa's headboard, I took several deep breaths and tried again.

“Stiff? Sore?” Vida looked extremely sympathetic. “Just take your time. You really should have seen a doctor yesterday. Maybe,” she added, unable to completely hide the smugness in her voice, “you ought to stay in bed.”

I was beginning to think I had no choice. Finally I managed to sit up. After a brief wait I attempted to stand. But walking was another matter. With each tenuous step, pain rippled up and down my spine. Staggering into the bathroom, I leaned against the sink and stared at myself in the mirror.

I looked dreadful. That was hardly surprising, since I felt dreadful. Slowly, excruciatingly, I performed my morning ablutions. The hot shower helped, but only temporarily. Downing more Excedrin, I told myself I should have soaked in the tub. Maybe I'd do that later.

“Poor thing.” Vida clucked as I returned to the living room bearing a mug of instant coffee. “You really must take it easy today.”

I wanted to argue with Vida, to defy her, to insist that I'd feel better in an hour or so, and would be able to go home. But my body told me otherwise. I felt as if I'd be lucky to get dressed, let alone leave the motel.

“Of course I could take you to the local doctor,” Vida said in a musing tone. “I believe he's located in Sandpiper Square.”

It was probably a good idea. But at the moment I didn't feel like making the effort. “You go,” I said in a self-pitying voice as I collapsed onto the unmade sofa bed. “I'll stay here.”

“Now, now.” Vida could barely contain her glee. “I have some errands to run, so you relax, and I'll be back
around noon.” She stood in front of the mirror, jamming a yellow cloche on her head. “Oh—by the way, I tried to reach Jesse Damon again this morning. Still no luck. You might try him later on. This is getting very frustrating.”

I roused myself enough to ask Vida about Molly's diary. “Did she reveal any deep, dark secrets?”

“Not yet,” Vida answered, shrugging into her swing coat and picking up her purse. “It goes back almost two years, and I only got up to last fall. You might take up where I left off—mid-November, I believe.” She pointed to the coffee table where she'd left the diary. “Most of what Molly's written is what you'd expect—maudlin, adolescent prattle, and some very bad poetry. However, her handwriting is quite legible and precise.”

Ten minutes after Vida left, I was soaking in the tub and perusing the diary. Vida was right: Molly was suffering all the pangs of youth, especially insecurity about her looks and her popularity at school. Still, I found one of the poems rather touching. Apparently the Imhoffs had owned a dog named Nappy that had gotten run over on the highway.

Nappy had been killed in January. Since I'd seen no sign of a dog at the Imhoff house, I assumed that he had not been replaced. I wondered if the developing problems
with Audrey and Gordon had had anything to do with not acquiring another pet. Then again, maybe Molly—and her siblings—really didn't feel like getting a new dog.

I added more hot water and continued reading. There was a boy Molly liked, Cassidy, with hair “the color of sunshine” and “eyes like the sea.” Cassidy talked to her in the halls; he ate lunch with her in February; he helped her with her homework in March. Then he was gone. His parents had divorced, and Cassidy had moved to Cor-vallis with his mother. Molly was heartbroken. There were several poems, bitter, melancholy, self-pitying. To my knowledge, Adam had never written poetry, but if he had, I was sure his teenage creations would convey the same melodramatic tone.

I'd gotten up to May by the time the bathwater had cooled again. Six months' worth of adolescent self-absorption was enough for one session. I returned the diary to the coffee table and got dressed. The hot soak had helped, but I was still semimiserable. It was clear that I wasn't returning to Alpine within the next twenty-four hours.

Reluctantly, I dialed
The Advocate.
Ginny answered in her polite, efficient voice. When I explained my predicament, she expressed sympathy, but also apprehension.

“Carta's not going to be able to stay late tonight,” Ginny said in her most serious voice. In the background, I could hear the Erlandson baby fussing. “She has a really, really hot date.”

“In Alpine? It can't be that hot.” I sounded cross. “She'll have to cancel. Under the circumstances, I don't want Kip left alone.” Ordinarily, our production manager could be relied on to put out the paper without anyone holding his hand, at least not in person. But that was
because I was always on top of what was happening and was five minutes away if he should need me.

“She can't,” Ginny replied simply. “She won't.”

“Damn! Who is this super-stud?” I demanded.

“Hush!” I gave a little start at Ginny's tone, then realized it wasn't for me but for her small son. “Here, Brad, play with the pretty bells.” Ginny cleared her throat as what sounded like small sleigh bells jingled in the distance. “Sorry, Brad's getting hungry. Anyway, Carta's going out with Ryan Talliaferro, from the college. You know,” she added reasonably, “the dean of students.”

I knew Ryan. He was single, late thirties, good-looking in a slightly chunky sort of way, and very intelligent. It was the latter attribute that made my mind boggle.

“What's he doing dating
Carla
?” I all but shouted.

It was the wrong thing to say. Ginny and Carta are close friends. “Why shouldn't he?” Ginny, of course, was on the defensive. “They started going out last month.”

Vaguely, I recalled something about Carta meeting Ryan for coffee or lunch or a drink or maybe all three, but assumed the meetings were professional, since she was covering the college.

“I don't know,” I said vaguely, trying to move my head in directions it didn't seem to want to go. “Maybe I thought he was too old for Carta. I keep forgetting she's almost thirty.”

“She
is
thirty,” Ginny responded. “Do you want her dating some kid like Kip? Anyway, they're going to Caf6 Fleur, and it's their first really formal date. You can't ask her to break it. What about Leo?”

“Leo will do,” I answered in a subdued voice. “Put him on.”

Leo assured me that he could either stick around the back shop or stay by the phone. “Everything's shaping up
just fine. Stop worrying. You must have really racked yourself up, babe.”

“More than I thought,” I admitted. “What about Vida's ‘Scene’?”

Leo emitted what sounded like a grunt. “We still don't have much. Edna Mae Dalrymple's slip fell off on the library's steps yesterday. Pete Patricelli's pizza delivery truck had a flat tire over on Sixth Street. Roy Everson at the post office found a bagful of Christmas cards that never got delivered, but he doesn't want us to mention it. He says he's going to send them out the last week of November and nobody'11 know the difference.”

I winced. Roy was the local postal supervisor, and a nice guy. I didn't want to get him in trouble, but a bag of mail ten months old
was
news. “Use it,” I ordered. “But make it funny. Now that Roy's found the stuff, he shouldn't sit on it. He could get in trouble.”

“I don't know,” Leo quibbled. “If we do run the thing, maybe it should be a news story. That way, Roy could explain how mail gets lost, and how it usually doesn't happen.”

“Make excuses for himself, huh?” I shot back. “The Alpine post office isn't much bigger than my house. Where was this sack, up Roy's butt?”

“Whoa!” Leo's laugh was jagged. “You must be feeling crappy, babe. What have you got against Roy Everson?”

“Nothing,” I huffed. “And don't call me
babe
.”

“Okay, okay,” Leo responded in what may have been a soothing tone. “I'll talk to Roy. We'll work something out.”

“Anything new since we spoke yesterday?” I asked, trying to shed my irritation.

“No, not really,” Leo said. “The county commissioners will be asking for bids on the new bridge by the
golf course at their meeting tonight. Carta wrote that up in advance, since she saw the agenda this morning and those three stooges drone on until about midnight.”

I knew how the commissioners acted at their monthly meetings, many of which I'd been forced to attend. All three were past their prime, to put it mildly, and inevitably became mired in irrelevant detail, which often led to endless personal anecdotes. No one had the power to tell them to shut up, and nobody seemed willing to run against them. Position number two was on the upcoming ballot, and as usual, there was no opposition, unless you counted Crazy Eights Neffel, our resident nut, who ran for just about everything.

“Okay, I leave this edition in your hands,” I said with a sigh. “I'd like to say I'd be home tomorrow, but right now I can't be sure.”

“We'll make it,” Leo said, the usual breeziness returning to his voice.

“You mean I'm not indispensable?” The remark was only half-facetious.

“That's right,” Leo answered glibly. “Neither is the Duchess. But don't tell her that. She'd clean my clock.”

I was about to confess to Leo that
The Advocate
seemed to be the last thing on Vida's mind these days, but a knock sounded at the door. I rang off rather hastily, then dragged my pitiful body across the room.

“G'day,” Stuart Kane said with the first real smile I'd seen on his face. Indeed, he looked vaguely abject. “Should I throw in my hat first?”

His hat was a sharp-looking straw with a paisley band. “No, come in,” I said, mustering up a smile of my own. “Have a chair. I'm sorry the sofa bed isn't made up, but I'm not feeling very well today.”

“Oh?” He looked almost sympathetic. “Sorry to hear it. Flu?”

I shook my head, but didn't want to go into the details. Besides, I assumed that in a small town like Cannon Beach, everyone would know about my accident by now. They certainly would in Alpine.

“I must apologize.” Stu looked around, presumably for Vida. “Your friend isn't here?”

“No. She had errands. Would you care for coffee?” I offered.

“No, thanks.” Stu sat in one of the armchairs while I unceremoniously sank down on the unmade bed. “I was extremely rude last night at the restaurant. You must forgive me. So will your friend. Ms. Runkel, isn't it? Audrey's aunt?”

I nodded. “I'll tell her. You've made up with Stina, I take it?” The frank query didn't seem inappropriate, given Stu's present mood.

“Oh, yes.” He had removed his hat and was twirling it in his hands. “It turned out to be a good thing. We had quite a talk. I've been worried about my wife, you see.”

He seemed sincere. But he was a salesman, and now that he was behaving well, I could sense his charm. “You mentioned that Stina was high-strung,” I said. “I can't really tell.”

“She hides it well,” Stu replied. “She has to, working with the public.”

“I suppose so.” I paused, waiting for him to continue.

He hesitated until the silence began to grow awkward. Then he tossed the hat onto the coffee table and regarded me with keen blue eyes. “I was out of line when I came here the other day, too. As I mentioned, I was concerned for Stina. Ever since Audrey died, my wife has been upset. She's afraid, you see.”