The Alpine Journey (8 page)

I vaguely recalled Darla Puckett's residence, which was on the other side of Alpine from where I lived. “I think so,” I said vaguely. “Stina, huh? She shouldn't be too hard to track down. Why don't I collect my rental car and start on my appointed rounds?”

It was after three o'clock. Vida didn't respond right away; she was concentrating on Highway 101's tricky curves.

“We should make one more stop together,” she said as the primitive beauty of Cape Fallon rose before us. “You must meet Rett.”

I grimaced. “Must I? What about Marlin?”

Vida shook her head. “Not Marlin. No one needs to meet Marlin.”

Given my crowded schedule, I didn't argue. “Does Rett live right in Cannon Beach?”

“No. He has a trailer home just north of town. I stopped in on him yesterday,” Vida said as the highway moved away from the ocean and cut through the forest, where the leaves of the beech and alder and cottonwood had turned to burnished gold and bronze. “He's definitely not much of a housekeeper.”

Rett Runkel wasn't much of anything, as far as I could tell. While I'd only seen photographs of Ernest Runkel, I could find no resemblance, except that both had been big
men. The muscle and sinew I'd perceived in Ernest at age forty had turned to fat in Rett at sixty-plus. He was a huge, shambling man with lank gray hair and a face I could only describe as blubbery: big lips, bulbous nose, heavy eyelids, triple chins. He held up his pants with one hand and shook my hand with the other while a large black dog that looked as if it were part jackal lurked behind its master.

“That's T-Bone,” Rett said, giving the dog's head a pat. “He and Brownie are my security system.”

T-Bone barked on cue. “Brownie?” Vida echoed. “I don't recall seeing another dog.”

Rett grinned, displaying uneven, stained teeth. “Brownie's not a dog. It's my Browning high-power pistol. Let's sit out here,” he said, clumsily unfolding two plastic-and-aluminum chairs that matched the one resting next to a pedestal ashtray and a wooden crate that held two cans of beer. “Indian summer, huh?” His tone was conversational, but abruptly changed. “Whaddaya want now, Vida?”

“Iced tea would be nice,” Vida said with a sickly-sweet smile. Then she, too, switched gears. “Emma wanted to meet you. She's helping me sort out this mess with Audrey.”

“Whaddaya mean, ‘this mess with Audrey’?” Rett belched none too gently as T-Bone circled our chairs before settling down at his owner's feet. “The sheriff's sorting things out just fine.”

“Nonsense.” Vida sniffed. “He hasn't caught Audrey's killer.”

“He won't.” Rett seemed complacent about the idea. “It was some sex nut, mark my words. He's long gone, probably to California.”

“That's possible,” Vida admitted. “But aren't you
curious about your daughter's murder? What if it wasn't some… sex nut?”

“Then it was some guy trying to get into her pants,” Rett responded. “For once, she told him to fuck off. Instead of fuck her. Get it? I made a joke.” He rumbled with laughter.

“A very poor joke in shockingly bad taste,” Vida declared with an icy stare. “You're speaking of your daughter.”

“I'm speaking the truth,” Rett retorted. “Audrey was easy, or so I hear. But then you missed the part about the abortions in San Francisco. They were legal and all, but they still cost me a couple of bucks. Being a flower child or whatever the hell they called themselves back then meant more birds 'n bees than I could count.”

Vida appeared somewhat shaken by Rett's disclosure. “I didn't know about Audrey's youthful… promiscuity. I'm afraid I lost track of your side of the family after you and Rosalie divorced.”

“Rosalie!” Rett grunted. “That hump—you been hangin' out with her?”

“We called on her, yes,” Vida replied primly. “We also met Walt Dobrinz.”

“I call him Walt Dough-Prick,” Rett said, the laughter again rumbling out of his big belly. “What Rosie ever saw in that little toad beats the crap out of me. Want a beer?”

“I think not,” Vida said, answering for both of us. “And I wish you'd watch your language, Everett. Ernest never used such vile words in my presence.”

“Ernest was a namby-pamby,” Rett declared. “How the hell did he ever get the nerve to go over them falls in a damned barrel anyway?”

Vida was sitting up very straight, exuding dignity and self-control. “He didn't. The truck belonging to the brewery that sponsored the event ran over him first.”

Rett's laughter could have been heard all the way to Seaside. “You're shittin' me! I never heard that part! Good God Almighty!” The flimsy aluminum chair rocked beneath his weight. T-Bone tensed, his pointy ears standing straight up.

“You're vile,” Vida asserted in an angry voice. “Callous, too. No wonder you don't care about what happened to Audrey.”

Rett Runkel looked mildly shocked. “Hey, who said I didn't care?” He picked up a half-smoked cigar from the ashtray and attempted to relight it. “What I'm sayin' is that if the cops haven't collared the guy who killed Audrey by now, they won't. Not unless he's one of them serial killers roamin' up and down the coast, bumpin' off women.”

“He's not,” Vida said firmly. “There have been no reports of possible serial killers in this area. I know, I've been watching the wire. Besides, Stacie told me that her mother wasn't sexually assaulted. I should think that would eliminate a serial killer, as well as any perverts.”

“So?” Rett was still trying to start the cigar. From the way he huffed and puffed, the task might have been the most arduous he'd tackled that day.

But Vida's face had again fallen. She sat there in the folding chair, now looking stricken.

I decided to rescue her, though under the circumstances, the phrase wasn't really apt. “What Vida means,” I said, “is that the murder was personal. Audrey probably knew her killer.”

“Yes,” Vida said in a faint voice. “It could have been
one of the family.” She leaned forward in the rickety chair and jabbed a finger at Rett. “It could have been
you
.”

RETT RUNKEL
HAD guffawed at the accusation and, in the process, expelled the half-smoked cigar onto the ground next to Vida's foot. She had withdrawn her sensibly shod feet and continued to glare at her brother-in-law.

“We're leaving,” she announced. “It was useless bringing Emma here. You don't know how to behave around civilized people. Goodbye, Rett. I hope I never see you again.”

“Now, don't go away mad,” Rett called after us.

His laughter followed us all the way to the car. Vida spent the next five minutes apologizing for her distant kin.

“Forget it, Vida,” I finally said as we pulled into the Ecola Creek Lodge's parking lot. “You're not responsible for Ernest's family.”

“The rest of them seem like jewels compared to Rett,” she fumed. “I will never, never criticize any of them again.”

“Let's not get carried away,” I said as we headed under the archway between the parking area and our unit. “I'm going to check the local phone book and try to find a real-estate company owned by somebody named Stina.”

“I don't know what to do,” Vida asserted, struggling with the motel key. “We really aren't getting anywhere.
No wonder the sheriff's people haven't made any progress.”

“Maybe it's too simple,” I said as we entered our unit, which felt very warm and a trifle stuffy. “Wife gets murdered, husband disappears. He done it.”

“He didn't disappear right away,” Vida noted. “He stayed for the funeral.”

“He panicked,” I offered, flipping through the phone book to the Yellow Pages. “Maybe the police began asking some tough questions. Maybe his alibi didn't hold up. Maybe what he'd done didn't hit him until after the funeral.”

Vida's expression was skeptical, but, for once, she said nothing. I found plenty of real-estate and vacation-rental listings for Cannon Beach, as well as in Seaside, Astoria, and Lincoln City. Several displayed the names of sales associates, but none was named Stina. Then I spotted Kane's Ocean View Properties: CALL CHRISTINA
OR STUART KANE
TO
MAKE
YOUR
DREAMS
COME
TRUE
ALONG
THE OREGON COAST
.

Figuring that Christina must be Stina, I dialed the local number. A man's recorded voice answered, telling me that Kane's Ocean View Properties, with convenient locations in Cannon Beach and Lincoln City, were open Monday through Friday from nine to five. I checked the residential listings; the Kanes had a home on Larch Street. This time I heard a woman's voice, full of girlish bubbles, informing me that Stina and Stu were out, but that they'd be delighted to return my call.

I didn't leave a message. Instead, I got out my calling card and dialed Leo's number in Alpine. His recorded message hadn't changed since he moved to Alpine. “This isn't really me. If you don't know what to do after the beep, try hanging up.”

I'd asked Leo to change the recording, lest our advertisers call him at home and take offense. But Leo had responded that any advertisers who wanted to get hold of him after working hours were too damned dumb to stay in business. I, at least, knew what to do when I heard the beep: I left a message, telling Leo that I wouldn't return to Alpine until later tomorrow, that Vida was remaining in Oregon for an indefinite period of time, and that he and/or Carla should check our in-baskets and telephone messages for any late-breaking news.

“I'm stymied,” I said to Vida, stretching my legs out on the wooden coffee table. “The Kanes are out, we don't know Damon's first name, and we didn't find out who worked part-time at the Jaded Eye. Can I go home now?”

Vida ignored my request, which was only semiface-tious. “I'll call the children. They'll know who worked at the shop.”

She managed to reach Stacie, who said the woman's name was Ruth Pickering, and that she lived on Hemlock, “the main drag, sort of across from the Cannon Beach Hotel.” Stacie thought she'd be home because Mrs. Pickering spent all her spare time gardening.

“Okay, okay,” I said as Vida replaced the phone and gave me her gimlet eye. “I'm going. What are your plans?”

“I intend to invite the children out to dinner,” she said, looking pained. “It's a necessary expense, but I doubt that they'll turn me down. They can't be eating properly.”

“Good luck,” I said, grabbing my handbag and heading out the door. The sky was still virtually cloudless and the afternoon had grown so warm that I tossed my duffel coat into the backseat of the Neon. For the first time since arriving, I was on my own in Cannon Beach. I drove over
the bridge that spanned Ecola Creek, glimpsed the turnoff to the horse-rental stables, and continued past the kite factory. Straight ahead was the city park, located on a small bluff above the ocean. Rollerbladers and skateboarders zipped around while picnickers enjoyed the sunshine.

Hemlock turned into a long, straight thoroughfare flanked by commercial enterprises. Though there is conformity demanded by zoning laws, Cannon Beach seems neither contrived nor self-conscious. The shake-covered buildings and log structures that make up most of the small downtown blend beautifully with the surroundings, bridging the gap between the ocean on the west and the foothills of the Coast Range to the east. The gentle slopes rise almost directly above town, while the ocean is just two blocks away, an endless vista of sky and sea. To preserve an unobstructed view, nothing in what is known as downtown is taller than three stories. Most exteriors have been stained brown, or left in their natural state. Imaginative architecture lends a grace note, and the heart of Cannon Beach invites the eye and mind, along with the tourist dollar.

During summer, Hemlock is clogged with pedestrian and foot traffic, but on this Sunday in October, driving was relatively hassle-free. Past the many art galleries, restaurants, and specialty shops I went, until one storefront in particular caught my attention: on my left, not far from the post office and across from the live theatre, stood the Jaded Eye. The carved wooden sign showed a big green eye, and the windows appeared filled with objects intended to seduce the tourist trade. There was a “Closed” notice on the door, and the interior looked dark. I kept driving, up a little hill and around a bend, then onto the flat again, with Haystack Rock looming before me. This was a more eclectic part of town, with bicycle
rentals and motels and restaurants sitting side by side with private residences. Most of the houses looked as if they had originally been summer homes, and their blue and gray and white exteriors reflected the ocean.

Ruth Pickering lived in a small pale green bungalow where a profusion of dahlias, chrysanthemums, marigolds, and several species I didn't recognize brightened the exterior. There were tubs of flowers, baskets of flowers, window boxes overflowing with flowers. Seashells provided edging for the flower beds, the drive, and the walkway. Instead of the plaster animals and gnomes that cluttered Rosalie and Walt Dobrinz's yard, a half-dozen metal sculptures were set into the lawn. A couple of them looked like birds; the rest didn't look like much of anything.

Upon hearing my car scrunch in the gravel drive, Ruth came around from the side of the house, looking much like a flower herself in a red-and-green-and-orange smock that reached to her knees.

“May I help you?” she inquired in a cautious voice.

“I hope so,” I said, suddenly feeling embarrassed by my unannounced arrival. Hurriedly, I introduced myself, explaining that Stacie Imhoff had suggested I talk to Ruth about the Jaded Eye.

“I don't understand,” Ruth said in her soft voice. “Are you interested in buying the shop? I'm not certain it's for sale.”

“No, no,” I answered hastily. “I'm here with Audrey's aunt, who is trying to learn what might have happened to her niece. Vida Runkel—Aunt Vida—isn't satisfied with the investigation so far.”

“Oh. I see.” But judging from Ruth's manner, she didn't. “I really can't be of much help. I've told the sheriff's people all I know.”

“I'm sure you have,” I said in my most agreeable
fashion. “That's the problem—we haven't been able to talk to the investigating officers.”

Ruth Pickering gazed out toward the ocean, her fine blue eyes troubled. I guessed her to be in her early sixties, a thin woman of medium height with a prematurely wrinkled face and short silver hair.