The Alpine Journey (5 page)

“She is, actually. We went shopping.” I yawned again.

Vida took another sip of tea, which, like mine, must have grown cold. “You shouldn't have come. I've ruined your visit.”

It occurred to me that I should insist that Vida meant more to me than Mavis did, but that wasn't true. I was fond of them in equal measure. Or I should say that if Vida had troubles, I would never leave her in the lurch. That was more honest, yet it wasn't the real reason I'd come to Cannon Beach. I could even say that with the Runkel connection to Alpine, there was a story here for
The Advocate.
If we stretched it, we could run it—depending on what happened next.

“Vida,” I finally said, “haven't we been through a lot over the past seven years, murder included?”

“Well, certainly.” Behind her glasses, Vida blinked several times. “That happens on a newspaper. And when you live in the same smallish town.”

I nodded. “I wouldn't miss this for the world. And I'm not leaving until you do.”

For the first time since I arrived, Vida smiled.

The Catholic church in Cannon Beach is made of wood, painted white, and not unlike St. Mildred's in Alpine. It was about two-thirds full on this foggy Sunday morning in October, and I assumed that the attendees were mostly year-round residents.

Vida had gone off in search of a Presbyterian house of worship, warning me that she might take longer, since
members of her faith “didn't whisk through their service” in the manner of Roman Catholics.

We had agreed to meet at the Shilo Inn, which is located on the promenade that extends the length of the downtown area. I had dropped off the Ford Taurus before Mass, since, as it turned out, there was no car-rental office in Cannon Beach. Being the larger by far of the two resort towns, Seaside provides many more services and accommodations.

But in autumn, the town takes on a desolate air. There are no kites flying above the beach, the sidewalk bazaars are gone, the pedal carriages no longer clog the narrow streets. In summer, Seaside swarms with pedestrian traffic, T-shirted, shorts-wearing, thong-shod men, women, and children who drift from one souvenir shop to the next, consuming bowls of clam chowder and baskets of fish and chips and sugar and cinnamon-covered pastries called elephant ears. The carousel in the mini-mall never stops, nor does the stream of out-of-state cars, RVs, and campers.

By the time I got out of church and walked the two blocks to the Shilo Inn, the fog had dispersed and the sun was out. Having expected a cool, damp morning, Vida and I were to rendezvous inside the motel's main entrance. I was standing in the wide corridor near the pay phones when a bearded man about my age hurried through the doors and dropped something. He looked like a vagrant, and I wondered if he'd literally get the bum's rush. While the homeless seem always with us, even in Alpine, I suspected that resort towns tended to discourage their presence.

Apparently, the man had lost a quarter, which had rolled behind a terra-cotta planter. Scrambling around on the deep blue carpet, he picked up the coin and went to one of the pay phones.

Vida was the next person to enter the motel. “The
early service at the local Presbyterian church is rather short,” she said almost in apology, then spotted the row of phones. “Oh, good. Have you called your friend Bill yet?”

“No. I was waiting for you.”

Vida made a beeline for the pay phones, where the man with the heavy beard and longish hair was huddled over the receiver in the last stall. “Let's hope Mr. Wigert is in,” said Vida, standing very straight and looking slightly out of place in her Sunday best, which included an off-the-face black straw hat with big black roses.

Bill Wigert was home in Astoria. He remembered me, which was flattering, and expressed surprise that I was in Seaside at this time of year.

“It's Indian summer, all right,” he said in that faint drawl that betrayed his Alabama origins. “Can't you leave your woodsy outpost in the summertime when all the other tourists are jammed up along the coast?”

“It's not all pleasure, Bill,” I said, trying to position the phone so that Vida could catch some of his half of the conversation. I explained about the alleged Imhoff homicide, and my House & Home editor's family connection. “So what I'm wondering is, could we drive up and talk to you about it? Or were you involved?”

“I was, as a matter of fact,” Bill replied. “Sure, come ahead. The wife's gone into Portland for the day to see her sister, and the kids are both away at college. I was going to give the lawn one last mow, but my, my—it can wait until April. Here's how to get to our house.… You got a pen or is that a dumb question to put to a newspaper lady?”

It was, of course, though I had to fumble in my purse for a few seconds. An hour later we were inside the Wigert residence, which was a bright blue late Victorian
house built against the side of the steep hills that make up most of Astoria. Many of the buildings, both residential and commercial, are painted vivid colors, the result of a movie crew's visit some years ago. Having once suffered through a production company's insistence on several coats of canary yellow for
The Advocate
, I understood the surrender of personal taste.

In 1805, Lewis and Clark had built a log fort nearby, and shortly thereafter, John Jacob Astor set up a key fur-trading post. What was known then as Fort Astoria later became the last stop for weary pioneers on the Oregon Trail. Now it was primarily a fishing port at the mouth of the Columbia River, and home to Clatsop Community College. Many of its ten thousand residents lived a vertical existence on the granite slopes that rose above the river within view of the great bridge that crossed over into Washington state.

“I made coffee,” Bill announced after introductions were completed. “It's kind of early for lunch, but I could put some sandwiches together.”

Vida and I declined the offer of food. Though I had spoken to Bill many times over the phone, we had never met. My mental picture of him was all wrong—the slightly chubby, balding man I'd imagined gave way to a muscular six-footer with thick iron-gray hair.

“I take it,” Bill said after he'd delivered our coffee, “that you weren't close to your niece?” The question was directed at Vida.

“I didn't know her,” Vida replied. “In any case, Audrey would have been my husband's niece.”

“Okay.” Bill folded his hands on his knees and seemed to collect his thoughts. “Then I can be candid—no personal, sensitive feelings involved.”

“Certainly,” said Vida, at her primmest.

“Audrey Imhof T was something of a free spirit,” Bill began, the drawl diminishing as he got down to business. “She did this nude-swimming thing almost every night until about this time of year when the weather changes. The Imhoff house is right on the beach, with a wooden dock built on concrete pilings. According to family members, she'd dive off the dock and swim for about half an hour. Usually this was around one, two in the morning. In the summer, people walk the beach until pretty late.” He paused and sipped from a mug that displayed the Astor Column, a tall, slim granite cylinder that crowned the city and commemorated its history. I'd climbed it once when I was a teenager, and had vowed never to do it again.

“On Friday, the thirteenth of September”—Bill paused again, this time to allow us to catch the irony of the date—“Audrey apparently walked out of the Imhoff house, naked as a jaybird. She swam, and came back to the dock. Someone must have been waiting for her, because it was there that she was killed by a blow to the head.”

“You mean,” Vida said through taut lips, “she was all wet?”

The opposite was true, according to Bill. “Even though she'd dried off by the time she was found, we could tell she'd been in the water. There were traces of kelp and other such residue indicating that she'd already had her swim.”

“Who found her?” I asked, sensing the contrast between our grim conversation and the bright blues, greens, and yellows of the living room's cheerful decor.

“Her son, Derek,” Bill answered. “He'd come home very late—I think he'd been visiting his girlfriend—and he'd gone to bed. But he didn't really sleep, and got up
around eight so he could get to his part-time job at a local grocery store by ten. The kid's nineteen, and no whiz in the kitchen. He peeked into his mother's bedroom to see if she was awake and would make breakfast. Audrey wasn't there, so he started to look around. No sign of Mama. He went outside, and some early-morning walkers were standing around, pointing to the dock. Sure enough, there she was. Derek called the cops.”

“Whoa,” I said. “Where was Audrey's husband?”

“Good point,” Bill said with a quirky smile of approval. “Gordon and Audrey had separated about a month ago. He was living in their shop, the Jaded Eye. It's one of those tourist-oriented places with lots of glass balls and seashells and agate jewelry.”

Vida gave a little start. “No one told me,” she said, and the words reeked of accusation.

“Told you …?” Bill let the question dangle.

“That Audrey and Gordon were separated. The children presented a remarkably united front.” Displeasure radiated from Vida. “It was like a conspiracy.”

“Maybe,” Bill suggested as the drawl resurfaced, “they had other things on their mind.”

Vida shook her head, causing the black roses to bob. “The estrangement is crucial information. I should have been informed.”

Bill's broad face appeared amused. “I don't think it was any secret, ma'am. According to half the town, the missus planned to file for divorce shortly.”

“Divorce!” Vida cried, as if she'd never heard the word before. “Runkels don't divorce!”

I must have looked puzzled. Rett Runkel was divorced, and even in Alpine, a couple of other Runkels had been married at least twice. “Tell us about cause of death,” I
said, steering the conversation around to what I hoped might be a less volatile topic.

Bill again assumed his professional air. “It baffled me at first. Death resulted from a severe blow to the head, causing extensive damage to the lining of the brain. I won't go into the details, but there were three such blows in all, which indicates that they were dealt in rage. It's very likely that the first one didn't kill the victim, but we can't be sure. Our next problem was to identify the weapon.” Bill's face turned ironic. “We couldn't. It was heavy and pointed and almost certainly made of metal. The closest we could come was something like a harpoon.”

I shuddered. “Are you saying that Audrey Imhoff was killed by a blow—or was actually stabbed?”

“Both, in a way,” Bill said slowly. “There was a deep puncture as well as fracturing of the skull. The killer either took the weapon with him—or her—or threw it into the ocean. If it had been the latter, we hoped it'd wash up on the tide. But it didn't, and we had to send for divers. So far, no luck. There's too much kelp in that area, for one thing. Whatever it was, it could have gotten tangled and swept away in just about any direction.”

“Except the shore,” Vida put in.

Bill shrugged. “We can't even be sure of that. If a tourist is walking the beach and finds an odd object, he—excuse me again—or
she
might pick it up.
Or
ignore it. We haven't given up on finding the weapon, but we're not optimistic.”

“My, my.” Vida was resting her chin on her hands. “It sounds rather vicious, doesn't it?”

“That, as well as premeditated,” said Bill, passing the coffee carafe around. “Whatever was used probably wasn't the sort of thing you casually carry out to a dock in the middle of the night.”

“You've established time of death?” I asked after thanking Bill for the coffee warm-up.

Bill gazed at me with a bemused expression. “This is one of those cases where, if we had to go by body temperature, rigor, and the usual scientific evidence, we'd come up with about a four-hour time frame. The victim had been swimming in the ocean, which isn't exactly warm; it was night, with the temperature down in the low fifties; she was outdoors. You get the picture.” He looked up as a big, rather stiff-legged collie came into the room. “Sit, Spock,” Bill commanded the dog. Spock continued to amble around the room.

“He's old and deaf,” Bill said. “Ignore him when he starts sniffing your shoes. Where was I? Oh—but in this case, we learned the possible parameters from the victim's habits, and from Derek Imhoff 's evidence. If his mother went swimming between one and two A
.
M., and he went out looking for her around eight-thirty, then she'd probably been killed between one-thirty and two-thirty A
.
M. That jibes with our conclusions, but it does narrow the window of opportunity.”

Vida gave a short nod. “What you're saying is that once Audrey finished her half-hour swim, she wouldn't lie around the dock. Thus her killer was waiting for her.”

“Probably,” Bill agreed. “The family members said that as far as they knew, no one ever accompanied her on these moonlight swims.”

Vida was quick to pick up on the telling phrase. “‘As far as they knew’? What does that mean?”

Bill registered surprise. “Well … it means just that. Gordon and the kids said she always went alone.”

But Vida was shaking her head. “No, I'm afraid it doesn't mean that precisely. The implication is that
Audrey might have gone swimming with someone she wouldn't have mentioned to her family.”

Bill chuckled richly. “Damn, ma'am, you're sharp! You've heard about the Damon kid?”

Now it was Vida who looked surprised. “Who?”

A disconcerted look crossed Bill's face, and he turned to me. “I'm not sure where I stand here, Emma. Is this official for a newspaper story, or is it just family?”

I recognized Bill's problem. He was about to repeat hearsay. “It's just family,” I asserted. “Even with the Alpine connection, we wouldn't run more than a paragraph reporting Audrey's death. Next of kin, how related, that sort of thing.”

Maybe it was my reassurance, or perhaps Bill remembered that in the past he'd been able to depend on my discretion. Whatever the case, he relaxed. “Okay. It seems that Audrey had been seeing a much younger man, which happens these days. She was a fine-looking woman, as you know.”