Free The Alpine Journey by Mary Daheim Page B

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 overthe 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 bicyclerentals 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