The Alpine Journey (21 page)

It occurred to me that with the girls gone and Gordon back on the scene, there was no need for Vida to stay in Cannon Beach. But I was mistaken.

“I'm taking a leave from work,” Vida responded with a sharp glance in my direction. “I've not had a real vacation for some time. This area is such a pleasant place to recreate, don't you think?”

“It's ideal,” Gordon said, though I thought he looked put off by Vida's words. “Just bring the pickup back when you're ready.” He held out a hand.

If he'd intended to dismiss Vida from his life, Gordon
was misguided. He didn't know her the way I did. She shook his hand and gave him a friendly smile.

“I'll be seeing you,” she said.

It sounded more like a threat than a promise.

“IT
'
S
A
CRIME of the mind,” Vida asserted after we were seated at Morris Fireside Restaurant. “There are no clues, motive is elusive, the list of suspects is vague. Whoever killed Audrey did it because of something up here.” She tapped her temple.

“You mean it was a psychological killing?” I asked.

Vida nodded. “A mind temporarily deranged. What else?”

I gazed around the restaurant with its arched ceiling and log interior. A cheerful fire crackled in the big grate, and the polished wooden tables were almost all filled with diners. Even as I studied the handsome dining room a couple was being ushered to one of the few vacant tables, which happened to be right behind Vida.

“Hey,” I said in a whisper, “the Kanes are here. Don't turn around.”

Vida turned around. “Mr. Kane,” she cried, sounding delighted. “How nice! Is that Mrs. Kane? We haven't met.”

Stuart Kane's angular face froze. “I'm sorry, I've forgotten.…”

But Stina rescued the moment. “Emma? Introduce me to your friend. How are you doing? I heard you were in a wreck this morning.”

It didn't surprise me that in a small town news would travel fast. I made the official introductions, though they scarcely broke any ice with Stu. He murmured greetings, then turned his back on us.

That didn't faze Stina, either. “Is it true Gordon Imhoff 's back in town? Somebody said he was the one who hit you.”

I assured Stina that the tale was true. “He's going to get things squared away with the sheriff this evening.” It wasn't easy leaning around Vida
and
Stuart Kane to communicate with Stina.

“Great,” Stina called back. “Gordon's a good guy, even if he won't sell the blasted shop.” She stopped making eye contact with me to look at her husband. “Isn't that right, babe?”

Stu's answer was a growl I couldn't make out.

Vida fanned herself with the big plastic menu. “My!” she said in an undertone. “Such an obnoxious man!”

Fortunately, Stu couldn't hear Vida over the din in the busy restaurant. But something set him off. A moment later he was on his feet, shouting at Stina. Then he hurled the menu onto the floor and stalked out of the dining room.

I leaned sideways in my chair to signal to Stina. “Are you okay?”

Stina was doing her best to stay composed, but that full lower lip trembled dangerously. “Sure, I'm used to it. Stu's temperamental.”

Vida had scooted around in her chair. “Come join us. We could use some company.”

Stina hesitated, then stood up, grabbed her chair, and pulled it over to our small table. “Why not? I've got to eat. At times like this, food's my only friend.”

“Men are so thoughtless,” Vida remarked, giving Stina
a sympathetic little smile. “Sometimes my Ernest had no tact whatsoever. I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but there it is.”

“Lucky you,” Stina muttered, then turned to me. “Are we drinking?”

“We can be,” I responded cheerfully.

“Lucky?” Vida echoed.

Stina nodded vigorously. “Yes. It sounds like Ernest is dead.”

“He is.” For once, Vida seemed taken aback.

“Then your troubles are over,” Stina said, tight-lipped. “Most of them, anyway.”

Our server arrived before she could go on. Stina ordered a martini; I opted for bourbon. Vida primly asked for a refill of her ice water.

“Sorry.” Stina sighed. “Stu's a prick sometimes. Luckily, he doesn't show that side when we're dealing with clients.”

“What set him off now?” I inquired. “Was it us?”

“No.” Stina started to rub at her eyes, apparently remembered she was wearing eyeliner, and carefully folded her hands in her lap. “It was what I said about Gordon Imhoff. Stu can't stand him.”

That figured. No doubt Stu was jealous of his wife's lover. Naturally, I kept my mouth shut, and so, surprisingly, did Vida. We waited for Stina to go on. Before she continued, however, our drinks arrived.

Stina took a big sip of her martini. “I'm tired,” she said, and her shoulders sagged as if to prove the point.

“It must be very hard running your own business,” Vida said, still sympathetic. “Especially in the off-season when sales must drop off.”

“Oh, right,” Stina agreed. “We're used to that, though. It's not that. It's … other things.”

“Oh?” Vida's tone was encouraging.

Stina took another big drink. “You're from a small town? Then you know how people talk. They've nothing much else to do, especially after the tourists go away. Yak-yak-yak, babble-babble-babble. I hate it.”

I offered a commiserating smile. “Gossip is more than a hobby, it's a lifeline.”

“It's bilge,” Stina asserted. “It's malicious, it's cruel, and it's destructive.”

I could sense Vida bristling. To her, gossip was merely informal news. She thrived on it, she relied on it, she turned it into her daily bread.

“It's natural for people, even those who live in cities, to speculate and discuss what goes on among their friends and neighbors,” she said in a remarkably quiet voice. “Would you rather have them talk about personalities they see on television instead of real people they know and care about?”

Stina stared. Clearly, she wasn't prepared for a philosophical discussion of gossip. “What I meant,” she said in a heavy tone, “is that gossip shouldn't be vicious and it shouldn't spread lies. I'm sick—
and tired
—of hearing that I had an affair with Gordon Imhoff.”

Vida and I both exhibited extraordinary calm. “It's not true, I take it,” I said as casually as I could muster.

“Of course not.” Stina uttered a contemptuous laugh. “I like Gordon, he's a nice guy, I've tried to talk him into selling the Jaded Eye, I even tried to help him through his crisis with Audrey. But there was no romance. I'd like to know who started that rumor. How could they get it so
wrong
?”

“Wrong?” Vida breathed the word.

Stina drank from her glass, nodded, and put a hand to her mouth. “Wrong. Backward. It was Stu and Audrey.
Why do you think he stormed out when I said nice things about Gordon? Stu hates him. And why not? One of them probably killed her. I wish to God I knew which.”

It's amazing how people try to hoodwink other people—and themselves—with fallacious rationales for their behavior. Stuart's affairs had started out—or so he'd explained to his wife—as a marketing tool. Women, he'd told Stina, were almost always the ones who made decisions about buying property. Thus it was important to court the wife. Literally.

“It drove me nuts at first,” Stina admitted over her second martini. “But we were making money. Nobody's perfect, I told myself, and this was a second marriage for both of us. I didn't want to be a two-time loser, and I guess Stu didn't, either. We came to an agreement. I could spend whatever I wanted on myself—within reason—if he could have his little flings. Well, I pampered myself for a while, but then I decided we should have a baby. That was three years ago.” She made a face. “No baby. Neither of us had kids the first time around, so maybe there's something the matter. Stu insists it can't be him, and I'll be damned if I'll admit it might be me.” She put her hand to her mouth in that gesture that was becoming familiar. “Why am I telling you this? I don't know you.”

“That's why,” Vida replied. “Your story is safe with us. We have no one to tell.”

“Everybody needs to talk to somebody,” I put in, having proved how companionable I was by also ordering another drink despite Vida's glare of disapproval. “If this were Alpine, I'd—” With a jarring motion, I set my glass on the table. “Good God! I forgot to call the office! Excuse me, I must get to a pay phone.”

There were two phones just outside the restaurant entrance. I dialed hastily and hoped that Leo was home.

Milo answered. In my anxiety, I'd called his number by mistake. “How are you doing?” he asked, sounding relaxed.

I pictured the sheriff on his couch with his feet up, a TV dinner before him, and either the news or a sporting event on TV. It was not an unpleasant mental picture. Indeed, I envied him his repose.

“I'm beat,” I said. Then, because I was unwilling to admit that I'd called him by mistake, I thanked him for contacting the Clatsop County Sheriff's Office.

“No big deal,” he said. “Vida would have killed me if I hadn't. How's it going?”

“Not very well. Tell me—if you were the local authorities, what would you be looking for? Besides the killer, I mean.”

“Motive. It sounds like a crime of passion. Who cared enough to bash in What'sername's head in the middle of the night?”

Vida and I'd already considered the impulsive nature of the crime. “Love? Or hate?” I asked.

“Either. Both.” Milo laughed, a familiar, reassuring sound. “Hey, Emma, since when did you start giving me credit for insights into human nature?”

It wasn't that Milo lacked perceptiveness about people. Rather, it was his narrow focus, his strict adherence to going by the book. The Skykomish County sheriff relied on facts, not feelings, when conducting a criminal investigation.

“I guess you're thinking differently because this isn't your case,” I responded, feeling a breeze stirring the shrubbery next to the restaurant. “You don't have to bring it into court.”

“I'm glad I don't,” Milo said. “It sounds like a tough one. So when are you coming home?”

I sighed. “Hopefully, tomorrow.” I explained about Gordon Imhoff and his apparent willingness to take responsibility for the wreck.

“He's got to,” Milo said. “No matter who's really at fault, if a driver leaves the scene, it's considered a hit-and-run. He's screwed.”

Gordon had only himself to blame, so I tried not to spare him any pity. “Has anything big happened at home?” I inquired. “Anything for the paper?”

“A bunch of cows got loose from the Overholt farm and wandered onto the road by the reservoir. Then a couple got on the railroad tracks, and they had to flag down the Burlington Northern.”

This sounded promising. “Did Carla get a picture?”

“I don't know,” Milo replied. “Oh, Darla Puckett's gourds got stolen off her front porch last night, and whoever did it apparently knocked the head off some kind of statue she had in the yard.”

“Bo-Peep?” I recalled Vida's description of Darla's walleyed garden statuary. It occurred to me that had my House & Home editor been in town, she might be considered a suspect.

“Could be. Jack Mullins checked it out.” Milo paused, and I envisioned him lighting a cigarette or taking a swig of beer or polishing off the last of his Hungry Man frozen TV entrée. “Otherwise, it's been pretty quiet now that they're getting the fire damage cleaned up.”

“Fire damage?” My grip on the receiver tightened. “What fire?”

“The one at the old loading dock and the abandoned warehouse on Railroad Avenue. Didn't I tell Vida?” Milo sounded mildly surprised.

“No.” The word dropped out of my mouth like a rock. If Milo had mentioned a fire, Vida certainly would have passed on the news. “When did it happen? Was anyone hurt? How did it start? What's the damage estimate?”

“Whoa!” Milo laughed, but not as wholeheartedly as usual. “We don't know yet how it started. It was during the night. The first alarm went off around three. No injuries, because the warehouse is vacant and nobody was on the loading dock. An investigative team is being brought in tomorrow. Maybe this'U be the spark—excuse the expression—to put over the bond issue for a paid fire department.”

Alpine had relied on volunteer firefighters for most of its history. Part of the reason was lack of funding; another part was tradition. Most of the fires in the area occurred in the woods, and special crews were always brought in to fight the flames. In the course of any given year, there were rarely more than a dozen alarms, most of them minor. Voters couldn't see why they should spend money to pay for employees to sit around and play cards. But with the advent of the college, I'd mounted an editorial campaign to create a county-wide firefighting department. Coupled with my crusade to get the sheriff appointed instead of elected, I felt I had a large stake in the upcoming election.

“I hope Carla covered the story,” I said, feeling annoyed with myself for being in Cannon Beach instead of on the scene in Alpine.

“She was there,” Milo assured me. “I saw her.”

“Thank goodness.” I leaned against the pay-phone stall. “We should have a strong front page. I'm going to call Leo.” Then, lest Milo think me self-absorbed, I asked how things were going for him off the job.

“Mulehide and I are really getting into it over this
Europe deal with Brandon,” he said, sounding vexed. “She says she paid for most of Tanya's wedding, which is a damned lie, so I should cough up for Brandon's trip. I pointed out that ever since our divorce, she's had the kids almost all to herself. Those visiting rights are so much bullshit. How many times do you remember me having any of them come up here?”

While there had been some holidays and a few weeks during the summer, I had to admit that the Dodge offspring weren't frequent visitors to Alpine.

“You're damned right,” Milo said, more heatedly. “They may have grown up here, but they lost touch real quick. They made new friends in Bellevue, and then they got involved in sports and social activities and they always had excuses for not coming to see me. I'd say fine, no problem, and the truth is, I was usually tied up with the job and didn't have much spare time to spend with them. But now, whenever the subject of money comes up, it's Old Dad who gets tapped. I'm sick of it. I haven't seen Michelle for three months, and the last time I talked to Tanya was in June right after the wedding.”