The Alpine Kindred (13 page)

Sandy rolled his eyes behind the heavy lenses. “I thought of that. But there must be thirty Yoshidas in the Seattle directory alone. We'd have a stampede on our hands, Emma. And how could any one of them prove the gold was theirs? Whoever mined those nuggets has probably been dead for one heck of a long time.”

I thought of the bones, and guessed that Sandy was right.

* * *

Vida was in a snit. “Really! So rude! I'm not sending flowers or a memorial or any such thing to Einar's funeral! Marlys has no manners!”

“What,” I asked, barely inside the door of the news office, “did she do—or didn't do—now?”

Vida set her chin on her hands. “She won't even come to the phone. Neither will Beau, the so-called genius son. And it wasn't Gladys Rasmussen who answered, but the daughter, Deirdre. I thought she lived in Mountlake Terrace.”

“Maybe she does, maybe she's here because her father died,” I said mildly.

But Vida shook her head. “No. She's not in the most recent phone book for the north Seattle suburbs. I checked. She's divorced, so I looked under both Rasmussen and her married name, Nichols. In fact, I checked all the directories west of the Cascades and north of Olympia. No Deirdre of any kind. So I must conclude that she moved in with her parents.”

“Or a man.” Leo spoke up, having just gotten off the phone. “That's what I'd figure, Duchess.”

“You would,” Vida snapped. “And don't call me Duchess. You know how I despise nicknames.”

With Brad tugging at her slacks, Ginny came through the door to check the coffeepot. “I almost forgot, Emma. That Swedish girl who works for Ed and Shirley came by a few minutes ago to see you. I asked her to wait, but she wouldn't. I think she was upset about something.”

“Birgitta?” We'd run a brief story on her in the latest edition, but it hadn't quite yet hit the streets. “If she really needs to see me, she'll come back.” I took in the presence of three of my five regular staffers and decided to confide in them about the bones. Ginny looked horrified, Leo seemed bemused, and Vida chewed at her lower lip.

“Human, apparently?” She saw me nod. “It's quite
clear, isn't it? Someone was killed over the gold that was found in that chest. If ever murder and motive were linked, there it is.”

Leo demurred. “So why was the gold with the victim and not the killer?”

“Fear,” Vida said promptly. “Someone was coming into the warehouse. The killer had to run off and leave the gold.”

“And never came back?” Leo was justifiably skeptical.

Vida, however, was undaunted. “Perhaps the killer was also killed. Violent people often meet violent ends.”

“When,” I asked of Vida, who ought to know, “was the warehouse built?”

“Oh—let me think—in the Twenties, before I was born. It had to be then,” she added, “because until a few years after World War One, the only major buildings in Alpine were the mill and the social hall.”

I knew she was right. I had a framed photograph in my office of the entire population of Alpine standing on the loading dock, with a huge American flag. They had won it for selling more Liberty Bonds per capita than any other city or town in the state. The residents' pride practically blistered the glass on the picture. But there was no warehouse next to the platform.

“Then nobody was killed in the warehouse because it didn't exist.” I explained about Sandy Clay and Scott Kuramoto's research.

Vida made a steeple of her fingers. “Nothing was here at the turn of the century,” she said. “Alpine was Nippon then, and only a whistle-stop on the new Great Northern line.”

“But there were mines,” I pointed out.

“Yes, but no dwellings. Unless,” Vida noted, “you count tents. They probably had tents.”

“You're going to read up on all this, right?”

Vida sat up very straight, thrusting her bust. “Of course! Are you calling me dilatory?”

“No.” I grinned. “Never that. But now you have a starting place for your research.”

Vida looked somewhat appeased. Ginny removed Brad from the lower drawer of a filing cabinet, Leo returned to the telephone, and I went into my office. Half an hour later Ed called. He'd just received his issue of
The Advocate.

“Six lines on page/?”/-?” Ed cried. “You buried me, Emma! What's happened to your nose for news?”

“It fell off,” I retorted. “Ed, you showed up right at five. You know how tough it is getting an item in the paper after the issue's been sent to the back shop.”

“What about page one? What about giving me more space?” he complained. “You could have moved the new bridge story back inside. You're always running a new bridge story. You could have jumped the piece on Einar. The guy didn't even live up here until a few years ago. And what about this picture with Einar's feet sticking out from behind Milo and Jack? Isn't that kind of ghoulish?”

It probably was. If I hadn't been mad at Milo, I might not have run such a shot. But I wouldn't admit that to Ed. “It's news, Ed. That's how it works. You were in advertising, remember? You didn't do news. Not then, not now.”

“But I know readership,” he countered. “Believe me, Emma,” he went on, his tone darkening, “you'll hear about this from other subscribers.”

“I'll wait. Look, Ed, when you have more on the Hollywood deal, we'll definitely put it on page one, okay?” I didn't wait for his response. “And by the way, I understand Birgitta came to see me a while ago. Is she around?” I might as well use the au pair girl as a means of getting rid of Ed.

“Huh?” There was a pause at Ed's end of the line. “Bir-gitta? Hey, Shirl—is Gitty here?”

Shirley's response was indecipherable, so I waited for Ed. “Nope, she's out. She had some errands to run for us. I needed shoelaces and Shirl was out of Band-Aids.”

Though it wasn't easy, I refrained from saying anything snide. My priority was getting Ed off the line before he started complaining again. Somehow, I managed. As I replaced the receiver Vida entered the office, still looking disgruntled.

My earlier misinterpreted remarks weren't the cause of her annoyance, however. “Edna Mae Dalrymple just called from the library. She's volunteered to do a story on Thyra Rasmussen.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” Vida remained standing. “Edna Mae has been in touch with Thyra in Snohomish. The old bag has quite a collection of… well, a collection. Edna Mae has been extending her search for library exhibits to Snohomish County, since she claims to have run out of items from Skykomish County to show off in her tawdry little display case. Of course that's partly because Edna Mae has the imagination of a cedar stump. Now it seems that with Einar's murder, Edna Mae suddenly thinks she's a
journalist
, for heaven's sake, and wants to write the story for next week's paper, because, as she put it in that twit-tery little voice of hers that sounds like a dyspeptic chickadee, 'Anything about the Rasmussens has extra news value.' “ She made a disgusted face, but her mimicry of Edna Mae was dead on.

I, too, reacted with displeasure, but for a different reason. Every once in a while, we have a guest writer or columnist. Usually, it's an expert from the national parks, the fish hatchery, or the forest service. But once in a while we find someone who is semiliterate and can produce an
article that doesn't require an editorial hatchet job. In fact, Edna Mae had done a creditable job a couple of years back on how young people could and should use the public library. Putting all these rational facts aside, I demanded to know why Edna Mae hadn't called
me.

Vida's mouth twitched. “You were on the other line.”

“So?” Noting that Vida's mouth still twitched, I clapped a hand to my head. “Edna Mae told you about the small scene with Milo, right? Damn it—darn it—was she afraid I'd yell at her, too?”

“I believe,” Vida said, now composing her face into a typical owlish expression, “she did mention the word
uncouth.”

“Rats!” I was having trouble not being uncouth in front of Vida. “To heck with it. What did you tell her about the story?”

“Why, that I'd check with you, naturally.” Vida's innocence was overdone.

I slumped in my chair. “What's the peg? Besides Einar getting murdered, that is.”

“It's a bribe,” Vida responded, her tone and manner more natural. “Frankly, I think the story would be in poor taste under any circumstances so soon after Einar's death. But apparently Edna Mae wants to write about Thyra to coax the old bat into loaning her gewgaws to the library. I didn't hold out much hope for publication.”

I agreed with Vida. No matter how tactful the slant, it was impossible to run any kind of story about the Ras-mussen family that didn't deal with their recent tragedy.

“Edna Mae will have to come up with some other plan to coerce Mrs. Rasmussen,” I said, then added as an afterthought, “How long has she been needling the old girl?”

“Months,” Vida replied. “Edna Mae is many things— and also isn't—but she's not a ghoul. Nor am I surprised that Thyra isn't willing to part, even temporarily, with her
so-called collection. The wretched woman has always been incredibly selfish and given to material excess.”

While Vida tends to be critical of people in general, her attitude toward Thyra Rasmussen struck me as particularly harsh. I made no comment, however, but though I knew the answer, I asked if she intended to go to the funeral.

“Certainly. Just because I refuse to send flowers doesn't mean I won't attend the services. Someone has to cover them,” Vida responded, obviously preserving funerals for her part of the paper. “Are you going?” She looked somewhat dubious.

“I'm not sure,” I answered, then fingered the phone. “I suppose I should call to see if the autopsy report came through. Not that we're in any rush, since the paper's already out.”

“I can call,” Vida volunteered.

It was a tempting offer, but I had to keep on top of the news story. “I'll wait until later this afternoon,” I said. Maybe Milo would be gone by then.

Vida returned to her desk and I started cleaning my in-basket with its usual accumulation of news releases, press handouts, and sales pitches. Ten minutes later Bir-gitta Lindholm stepped warily into my office. Her impressive stature, her long, golden hair, and the glow from her well-scrubbed skin seemed to overwhelm my dingy little cubbyhole.

“Ms. Lindholm,” I said, rising to greet her and feeling short, dumpy, and rumpled, “I heard you came by earlier. How can I help you?”

“You
may”
she said, indicating her English grammar was better than mine, “help me by permitting to read your newspapers of old.”

The grammar illusion was dispelled, though not her
height, youth, or beauty. “You mean back issues? Earlier editions?” I searched for the proper phrase.

“From the past, yes.” She nodded gravely.

I resumed my seat, and indicated that Birgitta should sit, too. She didn't. “How far into the past?” I asked.

“I'm not certain.” The glacier-blue eyes roamed around my cubbyhole. I thought she exuded distaste for the meanness and clutter. “Where may I do this? When?”

I shrugged. “Now, if you like. The bound volumes are out in the news office. They go back to the original paper,
The Alpine Blabber.
It wasn't put out on a regular basis, but began publishing around 1916. We also have copies of the Alpine yearbook, which began somewhat earlier.” The yearbook was primarily the work of Carl Clemans, and included not only major happenings in Alpine, but the annual Thanksgiving Day dinner menu, hosted by the Alpine Logging Company.

Birgitta, however, was frowning. “How earlier?”

“What? Oh—the yearbook. Um … I think the first one came out in 1911.”

The frown deepened, then the au pair girl shook her head. “No, that will not suffice.” She turned away. “Thank you all the same.”

“Wait!” I called after her, getting back on my feet. “There are other papers, at the library. They keep some of the publications from Skykomish and Snohomish and Sultan. I think at least some of them go back to the turn of the century.”

Birgitta glanced over her shoulder. “The library. That is good. Yes. Thank you.”

She left, no longer wary. But I was still short, dumpy, and rumpled.

Dwight Gould answered when I called the Sheriff's office around four-thirty. The ME's report had just come in
from Everett. Milo was out on a call and hadn't yet seen it. Dwight didn't feel right about releasing any information until his superior had digested it first. The deputy was mildly apologetic, but firm.

With no deadline looming, I didn't argue. I was about to call and check on Carla when I heard a woman arguing with Vida in the other office. I didn't recognize the newcomer's voice, so I stepped to the doorway to get a discreet peek.

“Look,” the woman was saying in a husky, ragged voice that should have inhabited a body much older than what appeared to be some thirty-odd years, “I don't give a damn what you do with this thing, but my grandmother insists you run it.” She was waving a manila envelope at my House & Home editor.

“That's not the point,” Vida asserted. “We ran a picture of your father today, a formal portrait taken quite recently. Indeed, I suspect it's the same one you have in that envelope.”

“It's not,” said the woman, who I guessed was Deirdre Rasmussen. “It's different. He had it taken in Seattle.”

I had almost sidled up to Vida's desk when both women noticed my presence. “Emma,” said Vida, “this is Deirdre Rasmussen Nichols, Einar Jr.'s daughter.”

“Deirdre Rasmussen will do fine,” the woman said, holding out what I perceived to be a grudging hand. “I took my maiden name back when I got my divorce from Jerk-off.”

“I see.” I smiled, somewhat feebly. “Let's see the photo, Ms. Rasmussen.”

“Deirdre will do fine.” She opened the envelope clasp and slipped out an eight-by-ten color portrait. “See? This is much better than that stuffed-shirt shot you ran in your paper today.”

That was debatable. Einar Rasmussen Jr. was posed kneeling by a large tree. He was wearing a dark green cardigan, white shirt, and striped tie. Next to him lay a large collie dog with its tongue hanging out. The shot was meant to convey warmth and devotion and all sorts of fuzzy, nice feelings, but my reaction was that the hand Einar Jr. had placed on the dog's neck contained an electric-shock device. Einar was smiling, but he looked far from benign.