The Alpine Journey (30 page)

“What?” Vida had started reading the diary, though she hadn't yet retreated to the bedroom. “Oh—
that.
I've come to agree with you about Audrey's alleged affairs. I intended to tell Rosalie in no uncertain terms that she wasn't doing her daughter's reputation any favors by spreading such stories, or even suggesting that Audrey was promiscuous.”

“Good idea. Maybe it's easier for Rosalie to deal with Audrey's death by thinking bad things about her.” I put on my robe and started for the bathroom.

“That's possible,” Vida said. “People do some very strange things to help themselves cope. They weren't close, remember. Perhaps Rosalie always thought the worst of Audrey, simply because they weren't real friends.
A mother must feel like a failure when that happens. Thus she may want to blame the daughter. Usually, they're both at fault.”

A moment later I was in the bathroom when Vida announced she'd left her billfold in the pickup. “It must have slipped out of my purse,” she called to me through the closed door. “I so hate being careless.”

I was soaking in the tub when she returned. “Are you decent?” she shouted in what sounded like an irate voice.

“No,” I called back. “What is it?”

“It's this.”

Puzzled, I frowned at the closed door. “What?”

Then I saw a piece of white paper being shoved under the slit between the door and the tile. Big block letters, much like the ones I'd found on the Neon, read GET
OUT
BEFORE
IT
'
S
TOO
LATE.

Hurriedly, I pulled the plug and stepped out of the tub. “Hang on,” I called to Vida. “I'll be right there.”

Vida wore a grim expression when I opened the door. “I found that note on the windshield of the truck when I went to get my billfold.”

The piece of paper with its menacing message was in my hand. It was roughly the size of a steno tablet, though unlined, and looked as if an inch or so at the bottom had been torn off. “We've got to call the cops,” I declared. “Two of these is too many.”

“I agree. Though …” Vida hesitated. “Let me see that again.”

I handed her the paper. Vida took it over to the lamp that sat on the end table by the sofa bed. “It's marker pen,” she noted. “The sheet has been torn off a tablet at the top, and then torn again at the bottom. It's decent quality, more like typing or drawing paper than notebook paper.”

I felt the texture. “It's too heavy for typing paper. And it's not really white, it's almost gray.”

“But it's not stationery.” Vida pulled at her lower lip. “Where did it come from?”

I held the sheet up under the light. “Ah! I thought so. It's got a watermark—‘Vitagen.’”

Vida looked startled. “What on earth is that? A paper company?”

I shook my head. “No, there's also a symbol. See here?” I tapped the paper. “It's a combination of the male and female symbols. I suspect this came off a tablet that was a pharmaceutical freebie and that the inch at the bottom contained the company's name and logo. Haven't you noticed all the notepads and such at the Alpine Medical Clinic? Most of them have the name of some drug outfit.”

Vida, however, seemed dejected by my discovery. “Oh, dear.” Her wide shoulders slumped. “I was afraid of that.”

“You were?”

She nodded. “I was afraid … well, I'd hoped it was one of the children. So like a youngster to write silly messages. But all along, I've wondered. Now I know.”

IF VIDA
THOUGHT she was going to stall me this time, she was wrong. I'd figured it out, too. “Gordon Imhoff,” I said flatly. “He wrote both the notes.”

“Yes. I'm afraid he did.” Vida sighed and sat down in the armchair. “This one was done at the hospital. Obviously, he tore off a sheet from one of their notepads. He removed the pharmaceutical firm's name in a vain attempt to disguise where the paper came from. How foolish to write these notes!”

“He rented my Taurus in Seaside,” I reminded Vida. “Someone at the rental agency must have told him it had been turned in by a woman who had given her local address at this motel in Cannon Beach. Chitchat, I suppose. He probably saw the Neon on the lot, then spotted it again in Ruth's driveway. But how did he know it was me?”

“He didn't,” Vida said. “He thought it was me.”

“What?” I collapsed onto the sofabed.

“That's right.” Vida pursed her lips. “We'd just come from visiting Rosalie. The Taurus was parked there, and no doubt Gordon was inside the house. As soon as Rosalie returned with Walt from the cafe, she undoubtedly told Gordon about our visit. He probably didn't see the Buick, and Rosalie may not have known what make of car it was—only that it was white. As I recall, your
rental had Washington plates. Rosalie may have mentioned that since we were making the rounds, we'd probably visit Ruth Pickering. Gordon drove by while you were there, saw a car he didn't recognize—I suspect Ruth doesn't entertain much—and noticed that it was white, with a Washington license. There you have it.”

The rationale made sense. But Gordon's actions didn't. “Why would he do such a thing? In person, he seems quite pleasant. Why does he want us to leave?”

Vida's glance was shrewd. “Isn't it obvious? He doesn't want us to find out who killed Audrey.”

Now that we knew—or thought we knew—who had posted the signs on our vehicles, it seemed pointless to notify the police. Yet Gordon's behavior was more than annoying; it was frightening.

Or so I told Vida, who didn't disagree. “The police wouldn't do anything, except warn him,” she pointed out. “We must simply be on our guard.”

That was not the most comforting thought to take to bed, but I did it anyway. I didn't sleep as soundly as I had the night before, though I felt better when I woke up in the morning. Vida was already making instant coffee, but as soon as I joined her in the kitchen, I noticed that she was unusually silent.

“What's the matter?” I asked. “Did you hear some bad news about Rosalie?” It was going on nine, and for all I knew, Vida had been out and about on this fresh, crisp fall morning.

“No, though I should call the hospital now that you're up.” She poured us each a mug of coffee that was almost as vile as the sludge Milo made at the sheriff's headquarters. “It's Molly's diary. I finished it last night.”

“And?” I braced myself for the second sip of coffee.

“The last entry is Friday, September thirteenth.” Vida cleared her throat. “Molly obviously was unable to deal with her mother's death. I find that very sad. It would be more natural, more therapeutic, for her to write, write, write, to let it all out in that dreadful maudlin teenage fashion. But she didn't.”

“I agree it might have been helpful,” I said, “but I understand how she feels.” Though I had been much older when my parents had died, it had been a long time before I could discuss their fatal accident with anybody except Ben.

“There's another thing,” Vida went on, putting so much creamer into her coffee that it was almost white, “which is that Molly never does allude to her parents' marital problems. She doesn't mention Audrey's desire to leave or Gordon moving out. During the summer months she dwells on horses. Apparently, she had a part-time job at that place right by here that rents horses.”

I'd noticed both the sign and the stables, just across the Ecola Creek Bridge. During the course of our stay I'd also seen people riding horseback along the beach. I assumed the mounts had come from the nearby horse ranch.

“There was one horse of which she was particularly fond,” Vida continued. “His name was—is—Commander, but she called him Fudge. She wrote a poem about him. It was rather silly.”

“Girls at that age are often nuts about horses,” I pointed out.

“I know that. Sometimes they never grow out of it. Look at the Dithers sisters.”

I had, often. Connie and Judy Dithers were single, middle-aged, and lived off the Icicle Creek Road, where they kept horses. The two women were so devoted to
their pets—there was no other word for it—that they had once led two of them into the Grocery Basket to pick out special treats from the produce section. Jake O'Toole, the store owner, had practically had a stroke. His reaction didn't faze the Dithers sisters, though they had seemed perplexed when their pets appeared to select ice cream and beer.

“The point is,” Vida declared, “that she talks about the horses and some of her friends to the exclusion of family matters. It doesn't seem right.”

I thought back to the adolescent years with Adam, yet I couldn't make comparisons. There hadn't been any marital strife, because I'd never been married. It struck me anew how little I knew about the institution of matrimony. I'd never had a husband, never even lived with a man. My liaison with Milo was as close as I'd come to being a couple.

Adam had grown up without a father. When had he begun to ask serious questions? Much earlier, I thought, perhaps when he was four or five. I'd put him off, saying that his father had a wife and other children. He lived someplace else, though at the time I didn't know where. I didn't want to know. Adam and I were both better off in ignorance.

At fifteen, Adam had wanted to learn about himself. He'd begun to discover girls, which scared the hell out of me. He'd talked of becoming an airline pilot or working on an oil rig or joining the Peace Corps. He'd talked mainly of himself, and I'd listened. Most of the time.

“It's her age,” I said, referring to Molly. “She's in her own little world.”

“Perhaps.” Vida retained a worried expression. “What on earth are she and Stacie doing in Martinez, California? Are they in school? Is Gordon's cousin Kirby a
decent man? Is he married? Does he have children of his own?”

Vida got up and went into the living room. I followed her. She was calling directory assistance for the Bay Area, asking for Kirby Imhoff 's number. It occurred to me that Kirby's last name might not be Imhoff. But it was. Before I could interrupt, she had someone on the line in Martinez.

“Kirby's at work? I see. This is Vida Runkel, a distant relation of Gordon's.” Very distant, I thought. “Oh, yes, Kathy, is it? How are my nieces, Kathy? I'm very concerned about them.”

I gathered up my clothes and started for the bathroom to get dressed. Kathy, I assumed, was Kirby's wife. Or maybe his girlfriend. For all I knew, she could be his parole officer. I dressed, combed my hair, applied a minimum of makeup, and returned to the living room.

Vida had just hung up, and I didn't much like the look on her face. “They're gone,” she said in a hollow voice. “Stacie and Molly ran away during the night.”

The girls had arrived the previous afternoon in Martinez, which is located on Suisun Bay northwest of Oakland. According to Kathy, who apparently was indeed Kirby's wife, they had seemed nervous but resigned to the move. The California Imhoffs had two teenagers of their own, a boy thirteen and a girl sixteen. They had only met their cousins once before, but appeared to be making the newcomers feel at home. Yet when Kathy had gone to check on Stacie and Molly around eight in the morning, there was no sign of them or their belongings. Kirby had already left for work. Kathy had called him, but Kirby was employed by one of the local refineries
and was unavailable because he was helping load a supertanker.

“I told her not to notify the police,” Vida said grimly. “Not yet, even though they're runaways. If I were a wagering sort, which I am not, I'd bet that they're headed back here.”

“I wonder.”

“Why do you say that?” Vida sounded vexed, though I knew it wasn't with me.

“I don't know.” I wandered over to the front window, gazing out at the park across the street and the ocean beyond. The tide was going out, with big breakers catching the sun. “Stacie and Molly would have to agree on running away and, I assume, on where they were going. I haven't noticed that they were in the habit of agreeing on much of anything.”

“It's the two of them against the world now,” Vida pointed out. That's different.”

I didn't argue. Maybe Vida was right. “Had the California Imhoffs called Gordon?”

“Not yet. I told Kathy I'd try to reach him,” Vida said, going over to the phone. “Let's hope he hasn't gone up to the hospital in Seaside.”

It was Derek who answered. His father was walking the beach. Vida didn't say anything about Stacie and Molly, but told Derek to make sure that Gordon called her as soon as possible.

“Derek's leaving for work,” Vida fretted. “I hope he has the sense to leave Gordon a message.”

Exhibiting unusual agitation, Vida prowled around the motel suite, going from the living room to the kitchen to the bedroom and back again. Finally, she dialed Providence Hospital to ask after Rosalie. Mrs. Dobrinz had had a restful night, according to the nurse, but no decision
would be made about her release until after the doctor had made his rounds.

“I feel better,” I announced. I might be able to drive. But this was Wednesday, the one day of the week when the pressure was off at work. I'd see how I felt by the afternoon. “I said, I feel—”

“Yes, yes,” Vida broke in. “I heard you. Good. That's nice. Why doesn't Gordon call back?”

“Maybe he's still on the beach. There's plenty of it.”

Vida grabbed her swing coat and her purse. “What are we waiting for? Let's go see him.”

“We haven't had breakfast,” I protested.

“Then I'll drop you off in town,” Vida replied, already out the door. “Hurry.”

I almost took Vida up on her offer, but as we drove along Hemlock I saw the stricken look on her face. I'd come this far; I couldn't abandon her for ham and eggs.

The Tracer was gone, indicating that Derek had left for work. It was Dolores who came to the door. She was wearing a black T-shirt and tattered blue jeans. I assessed her welcome as tepid at best.

“I work late today,” she said, as if in need of an explanation for her casual attire.

“Has Gordon returned?” Vida asked, marching past Dolores and going straight for the living room.

“No.” Dolores followed us, though I had the feeling that she was playing watchdog rather than hostess.

Vida glanced at the phone. “Has anyone called here in the last hour? Besides me, of course.”