The Alpine Kindred (18 page)

The Rasmussens had seated themselves across the aisle from us and several booths away, near the door. Gladys had removed both hat and veil. I caught a glimpse of her puddinglike face for the first time. She now seemed composed, even docile. All I could see of Harold was his comb-over.

“They live around here, right?” I'd lowered my voice, though the restaurant was busy, and I doubted that the Rasmussens could hear us.

“Just the other side of Sultan,” Vida responded, still trying to discreetly ogle the newcomers. “Toward Monroe. Do you think they're drunk?”

“How should I know?” I grumbled. “Quit harping on booze. They drove here without killing anybody, didn't they?”

“Don't be flippant,” Vida admonished. “Really, I should speak with them. Condolences, you know.” With a hand to her black straw with its twin black birds, Vida slid out of the booth and made for the Rasmussens.

It took at least a full minute before she finagled an invitation to sit down next to Gladys. I ate and observed. The birds on Vida's hat dipped in sympathy, tilted with interest, and swooped with curiosity. I had finished my meal when she returned to our booth.

“They're not drunk,” Vida announced in a voice that might have carried to the Rasmussens. “They didn't go to the private reception because Gladys is terrified of her mother-in-law. But guess who did.”

“The senior Bourgettes?” It seemed like a logical guess.

Vida looked disappointed. “Yes. I was surprised. Just Mary Jane and Richard. None of the others.”

Admittedly, I didn't know Mary Jane and her husband.

But I had seen their faces at the cemetery, and if not steeped in sorrow, they had shown regret. It was too late for Mary Jane to reconcile with her brother, but perhaps she could come to terms with her parents.

“How are Harold and Gladys reacting to Einar's murder?” I asked as a pair of fishermen sat down in the booth across from us.

“Well …” Vida paused in devouring her pork chop. “Harold expressed great sadness. Gladys said little, but indicated a sense of loss. Form, I thought, rather than genuine feeling. But I could be wrong.”

“At least they weren't malicious,” I remarked. “Even if Einar drew quite a crowd, I wonder how many of the so-called mourners were actually sorry to see him go.”

“Yes.” Vida lapped up the sage stuffing. “Pretense, hypocrisy, social obligations. That's what I sensed.”

The fishermen were grousing about the lack of steel-head in the Sky, an old refrain that I'd often heard from Milo. We paid our bill and left, with a nod to Harold and Gladys Rasmussen. It was still raining, with a stiff wind blowing across the highway. We went through Startup, where I was amused, as always, by the small white church with its long-standing sign which read
FOR SALE BY OWNER.
We passed the road into Buck Bardeen's house, and I asked Vida how dinner had gone Thursday night at Cafe Flore.

“Fine,” she said. “I think Henry Bardeen and Linda Grant are courting.”

Henry, who was manager of the ski lodge, had been widowed for many years, and had a grown daughter who worked for him. Linda had been teaching high school PE long before I arrived in Alpine. Like Edna Mae, she was a member of our bridge group.

“That's nice,” I said. “I get the feeling that Henry would like to marry again.” Then, because I couldn't resist
the puckish question, I asked Vida if Buck was also so inclined.

“Buck is very satisfied with his present situation,” she answered in an even tone. “His wife has only been dead five years. Their four children are nicely settled in various parts of the country, and because Buck is retired from the air force, he can fly for free and visit whenever he wishes. Not all men—or women—leap from one marriage to the next after a spouse has passed away.”

Vida's message was hardly subtle, and the retaliation was deserved. I didn't respond. During the rest of the journey, we spoke of other things, including her proposed trip to the college library.

“I've gone through everything at the public library,” she explained, “which is virtually what's always been there, and isn't news to me. However, I have yet to visit the library on campus. I've been remiss, and now I ought to see if they have more historical information about the area than Edna Mae and her cronies have been able to acquire.”

I volunteered to go with Vida. I'd used the college library a couple of times, seeking material for editorials. Its business-and-public-affairs collection was impressive, and partially donated by the Doukas family, whose members were some of Alpine's wealthier citizens. In fact, Simon Doukas, who was an attorney, served on the college's board of trustees. I wondered if he had been the other member who had gone along with Einar Jr.'s rejection of Scott Kuramoto and Pat Dugan. As I recalled from a family tragedy several years ago, Simon had prejudices of his own.

The rain had dwindled into a drizzle by the time we pulled into the parking lot. Inside the library, we found Maylene Bjornson at the main desk. Vida hailed her with
a wave and a yoo-hoo which caused some of the dozen students to look up from their reading materials.

“I heard you were working here,” Vida said, not bothering to lower her voice. “How nice. I've always thought libraries would be a pleasant environment.”

“It's okay,” Maylene said in a flat voice. “It beats hustling toilet plungers at Harvey's Hardware.”

“My yes,” Vida agreed. “I see you're here on a Saturday. Does that mean you've gotten on full-time?”

Maylene shook her head, which was covered with tiny corkscrew auburn curls. “I put in thirty hours a week, usually on Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and either Friday or Saturday. This is my week to pull Saturday duty. It's a pain. The whole weekend is blown.”

“That is hard,” Vida agreed, at her most sympathetic. “Especially with teenagers at home. Does Ron have to work weekends, too?”

“Not usually, the lucky stiff.” Maylene rested her plump elbows on the counter. “I've been trying to get him to do some car-repair work on his off days, or even in the afternoons when he doesn't go to work until five or six. But he says he needs to do stuff around the house, which is true. The only trouble is, he never does much of anything.”

As often happens, I felt like Vida's stooge. “Ron told me that the repair business had gone south,” I put in, just in case Maylene thought I'd become invisible as well as mute.

Maylene's hazel eyes widened. “He told you that? When?”

“The other day,” I said, hoping to sound casual.

Maylene gave a little snort. “Well, it's not what it used to be, with all the rigs going out of business. But there's still plenty of work, if only because he undercuts Cal Vickers and the dealerships. Ron won't admit it, but he's lazy”

A student wearing army fatigues came up to the desk to check out some books. Maylene's attention was momentarily diverted. When she got back to us, Vida asked where we might find material on early Skykomish County history. Maylene directed us to three different sections, including periodicals.

“I'll take those,” Vida said, bustling between the stacks. “You look at the books in the Pacific Northwest section.”

“Thanks, Vida.” But my sarcasm was lost; Vida had already turned a corner and was headed for the microfiche. I found a handful of volumes which dealt primarily with railroad building, mining, and timber. Sitting at an empty table, I checked out the indices. There was nothing I hadn't seen before at the public library.

Discouraged, I returned the history books and selected some biographies. There wasn't much, at least not on local personalities. Alpine has produced few people worthy of biographical fame.

I was flipping through a work on James J. Hill when Vida hurried over to my niche. Her hat was askew, and the birds looked as if they were trying to commit suicide.

“Oh, my!” Her voice had finally hushed. “I can't believe this! I never knew, truly I didn't! No one—
no one
— ever mentioned such a thing to me!”

“What?” I couldn't imagine the cause of Vida's consternation.

She held out a scrap of paper, apparently borrowed from the library. Since Vida never took notes, I was even more surprised. “Cathouses,” she whispered. “Five of them along Highway 2, between Scenic and Skykomish, which means they were just below Alpine.
Cathouses!”
she repeated.

I suppressed a smile. “When?” The scrap of paper
showed only the names, which included the Onion Patch and the Mouse's Ear.

“In the early part of the century, while the railroad was being built and then maintained. Supposedly,” Vida went on, sinking down into the chair next to mine, “they were for the pleasure of the railroad workers. How could I not know?”

Over the years I gathered that Vida's parents, Earl and Muriel Blatt, were prim and proper people, so it didn't seem strange that they'd keep such a seamy secret. The reputation of Alpine itself, especially under the beneficent aegis of Carl Clemans, was of a town steeped in old-fashioned virtues.

“So what have brothels got to do with gold?” I asked.

Vida chewed at her lower lip. “Nothing, I suppose. Still, reading about Scenic and the other towns along the Great Northern route reminded me of the Japanese workers who came here in the 1890s. Some later became section hands. I'd forgotten until now, because by the time they left, I was still a child.”

I wasn't sure where Vida's reminiscences were leading. “So you're talking about—when? The Twenties—the Thirties?”

“Both,” Vida responded. “A group of a half-dozen or so Japanese railroad workers lived at Tye, just up Highway 2 from Alpine. Very nice men, my father always said, and excellent baseball players. But I wonder if they might have known a man named Yoshida.”

“They might have known fifty Yoshidas,” I noted. “According to Sandy Clay, it's not an uncommon name. Besides, if they were here in the Thirties, they must have returned to Japan or been interned during World War Two.”

“Maud Dodd,” said Vida, seemingly from out of
nowhere. “Maud lived in Tye as a girl. Now she's in the retirement home here in Alpine.”

I still wasn't following her train of thought. “Maud Dodd would remember a Japanese section hand with a good glove at second base who just happened to know the Yoshida with a metal chest full of gold nuggets?” My skepticism was obvious. “Vida, we're going back a hundred years.”

“Oral history,” Vida said, patting the tabletop. “I should expect that strangers in a foreign land would pass on tales of their fellow countrymen. Besides, it's all we've got. I found nothing specific about a gold strike involving a Japanese man named Yoshida. Of course I imagine that not all prospectors would broadcast their discoveries.”

“Probably not.” Especially, I thought, foreigners whose skin was a different color. While greed doesn't recognize ethnic diversity, Asian immigrants might have been more vulnerable to chicanery and extortion, if only because of the language barrier.

Frustrated, we left the library. Vida asked if I'd like to accompany her to visit Maud Dodd in the retirement home, but I declined. It was going on four o'clock, and I hadn't given my house its weekly dose of cleaning.

Naturally, the first thing I did was check the phone messages. The call I'd hoped for wasn't on the recording. Instead, there were two other messages: one was from Edna Mae, asking what I thought about Einar Jr.'s funeral; the other was from Leo.

“Why wait to go to Seattle to blow my lottery loot?” his voice said on the tape. “How about dinner tonight at Cafe Flore?”

Why not? I didn't feel like sitting home alone. I returned Leo's call. He'd pick me up at six-thirty. As if to
earn my right to a free meal, I rushed around the house, vacuuming, dusting, and washing the insides of windows. By six twenty-five, I'd slipped into an orange linen dress, taken a deep breath to fasten the wide brown belt, and squeezed into brown pumps I'd bought before my feet started to spread.

“Looking good, babe,” Leo said in greeting. “How was your day off?”

I explained about the funeral and the visit to the library. Then, because I felt I owed Leo a compliment, I told him I liked his tie.

“Nordstrom's,” he rephed, heading onto Alpine Way. “The after-Christmas men's sale. I saved it for a special occasion.”

“I'm flattered,” I said, and meant it.

Just before Old Mill Park, we saw the red lights flash and heard the warning bells clang. Leo pulled to a stop as a doubleheader freight moved west through town. The sun, which had finally come out from behind the clouds, cast a golden glow on the hills above the railroad tracks. As several empty flatcars passed I could see the old loading dock and the warehouse site where the Bourgettes had now brought in a trailer.

“Hey!” I poked Leo's arm. “Am I nuts? It looks like crime-scene tape over there.”

But a long line of freight cars blocked Leo's view. At last, when the train had disappeared and the guards had been lifted, I poked Leo again. “Take a right on Railroad Avenue. Let's see if my eyes are deteriorating along with the rest of me.”

“It's probably construction tape,” Leo said, though he humored me and turned off Alpine Way. “Or maybe it's some kind of warning to trespassers.”

It was definitely crime-scene tape. A couple of kids on
bikes had stopped to study the site. Leo and I got out of the car and approached them.

“Hey, guys,” Leo called to the boys. “Do you know why this tape's been put up?”

“Uh-uh,” the taller teen responded. “Isn't this where they found the gold back around Halloween?”

“Right.” Leo was rubbing his chin. “Do you know how long it's been here?”

“Uh-uh,” the boy said. “We just seen it now.”

“It wasn't here this afternoon when Vida and I got back from Snohomish,” I put in. “We'd have noticed it. At least Vida would.”

Leo's brown eyes were fixed on my face. “So?”

I grimaced. “We've got to contact the Sheriff's office.”

“And hope he's not there?”

“That's right.” I sighed. “Maybe you had something there—it could be just another way of warning off vandals and treasure hunters.”

The boys took off on their bikes. From across the tracks and beyond the vacant lot, we could hear the river. On the opposite bank, where ferns grew almost five feet tall and second-growth timber had come to maturity, shafts of sunlight sifted through the trees. It had turned into a perfect spring evening. Except for the crime-scene tape.