The Alpine Kindred (23 page)

I expected her to stomp right into the house, but she held back. “You know,” I said, “it's not fair to count the days in terms of shock and grief. Einar's death was not only a shock, but brutal. I can see why Marlys is still upset, especially if she's a shy, sensitive person.”

“Perhaps.” Vida was frowning at the Little Mermaid. “She certainly looked like a mess at the funeral.”

“When was the last time you saw her before Einar was killed?” I asked, keeping my voice down. “How was she then?”

“Let me think—it was last September, at the Labor Day picnic. Marlys was very quiet. She kept to herself, tending hot dogs at a grill in Old Mill Park.”

Deirdre returned, carrying the same manila folder she'd brought into the office earlier. “Here. Grandmama felt it would be the thing to do. She's also having it run in the Snohomish paper.”

“Thank you.” Vida accepted the envelope and offered Deirdre a tight little smile. “Please have your mother phone me when she's better. I simply wouldn't feel right if I didn't call on her.”

Deirdre nodded, but said nothing. We trooped off the porch and down the walk. Vida stopped when she heard the doors close. “This way,” she whispered, hurrying past the triple garage.

“What are we doing?” I asked, though I knew the answer.

“I just want to make sure,” Vida replied. “I can't help but wonder if Marlys is malingering.”

“Vida …” I didn't finish; it would do no good. Obediently,
I trooped behind her as she approached the side of the house and the tall windows that looked into a living room.

“Nothing.” Vida kept moving. I could hear the river rushing by the back of the house. “Ah! The kitchen. There's Deirdre, opening the refrigerator.”

“It's still light,” I protested. “She can see us.”

“She's not looking this way. Don't hop about so much. Someone else is with her. She's talking to whoever it is.”

I froze and kept quiet. Birds chirped in the evergreens overhead. I could smell the damp and feel the soft ground beneath my feet. Young rhododendrons and azaleas separated us from the house itself. I admired the landscaping while Vida watched and waited.

“My goodness!” she breathed. “Look!”

I saw a young man with long fair hair move into view. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt and was taking a soda out of the refrigerator. “Beau,” I said in a low voice.

“Not Beau,” Vida whispered. “Much too young.”

“Then who is it?” I asked.

Deirdre and the young man disappeared out of our range of sight. The river rumbled on. “There's only one person it
could
be,” Vida said, reluctantly moving back toward the driveway. “It's got to be Deirdre's missing son, Davin. Now, why in the world has he shown up now? More to the point, where has he been?”

W
HEN THE DIRT
road ended at the turn onto Highway 2, Vida surprised me. She went west, instead of east to Alpine. “What are we doing now?” I asked, and immediately knew the answer. “Calling on the senior Rasmussens in Snohomish?”

“Correct,” Vida responded. “The timing is right, for several reasons. Thyra won't yet have realized I didn't send a memorial. She and Einar Sr. ought to be at home, though you never know with her. I understand that despite failing eyesight and arthritis, she's still quite the gadabout. However, I suspect that she's officially in mourning. The social conventions are very important to Thyra. They always were. Obsessive, really.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“That's only two reasons.”

“Oh. Yes. Well, the third is obvious. If anyone knows about Davin, it'd be Thyra.”

“What about Harold and Gladys?” I asked. “Don't they live around here somewhere?”

“About a mile west of Sultan,” Vida replied, slowing down behind a large truck. “But I'm not sure they know anything about anything. Still … we'll see, on the way back.”

We followed the truck and the setting sun. There was
quite a bit of traffic, no doubt owing to the three-day weekend. Late May is a beautiful time on the western slope of the Cascades. The maples and alder and cotton-wood have all leafed out, and the trilliums are in bloom. At the higher elevations, rivulets of melting snow trickle down the moss-covered rocks, forming little creeks that run like an escort to the passing cars. Everything is green, including the river itself, which flirts with the highway in places, then disappears among the trees. I rolled the window down just enough so that I could sniff the evergreens and the permeating damp that signifies decay in the autumn, but rebirth in the spring.

“She'll be rude,” Vida said. “Be prepared.”

“Maybe she won't let us in, either,” I remarked, taking another deep breath.

“Maybe.” Vida paused. “Thyra likes to show off, though. You've never seen the inside of her house. She'll want to impress you.”

“Is it impressive?” I asked as we passed the turnoff to Index.

“It was to me the last time I saw it,” said Vida, finally able to pass the truck which had been keeping us and a long line of traffic well under the legal speed limit. “Of course I was still in my teens, a most impressionable age.”

“Before the gourd incident, I take it?”

“Just before,” Vida answered. “Mother, who knew how much store Thyra placed on protocol and decorum, went to see her to make sure it would be all right for someone not from Snohomish to bring her gourds to the summer festival. I went along, because Mother didn't like to drive any distance alone. Thyra was gracious, in a condescending manner. She assured Mother it would be proper. But of course she only said that because she thought Mother's
gourds would be inferior to her own. They weren't, which is why Thyra was so infuriated.”

“So you and your mother never visited the Rasmussens again?”

“Never,” Vida said, then uttered a mirthless little laugh. “My, my. We were all teenagers then—Harold, Einar Jr., Mary Jane. No, Mary Jane was younger, still in pigtails. How time flies.”

I kept silent, perhaps a tribute to those who had since died, to the different world of the midcentury, to Vida's adolescence. It was hard to think of her as a teenager, harder yet to conjure up the child called Vida Blatt. She had probably always been big for her age, or at least tall. I had seen her wedding pictures, and the satin gown with its three-quarter train had covered a statuesque figure even then. I tried to recall Ernest, her groom, but his face was a blank. Even then, Vida had possessed the power to overwhelm whoever entered her circle.

We had passed through Monroe and were headed for Snohomish on Highway 2. “It's grown so,” Vida said almost mournfully. “The last time I was at the Rasmussen Sr.'s house, Snohomish wasn't any bigger than Alpine. The only businesses were the mills and the cannery. They're all but gone now. Creeping commuterism has taken over, and I find it rather sad.”

Certainly the town sprawled, with new developments all around the edges. Snohomish, like all the other bedroom communities within fifty miles of Seattle, had spread out to take in the commuters who found big-city housing too expensive. Single homes, town houses, and condominiums flourished on the town's outskirts. But as we drove into the old residential section, the streets were lined with beautifully kept-up homes and stately trees. Vida had turned off onto Avenue B. It was still light, and
the sun glinted like gold off the big windows of the Victorian houses.

“There, on the right,” Vida said, pulling into a parking space. “White, with the wraparound porch.”

It was one of the larger homes, in the middle of the block. Several concrete steps led up to the walk. The front door seemed massive, and the porch curved around the right side of the house. When Vida hit the doorbell, it played a vaguely familiar tune.

“The Danish national anthem?” I murmured.

“Perhaps.” Vida tapped her foot.

Just before she could press the bell again, a gaunt woman of about sixty answered the summons. “Yes?” she said in a voice as suspicious as Deirdre's had been when we'd called on Marlys.

“Mrs. Runkel and Ms. Lord to see Mrs. Rasmussen,” Vida announced in formal tones. “Of Alpine.”

The woman's washed-out blue eyes narrowed. “Is Mrs. Rasmussen expecting you?”

“No,” Vida replied. “This is a surprise visit.”

The woman didn't appear to like surprise visits. She hesitated, then went back inside. The door remained open just enough so that we could see her ascend a wide staircase with a carved banister.

“Good grief,” Vida muttered. “Can't she just yell?”

“Is she the housekeeper?” I asked.

“I suppose. The Rasmussens have always had help.” She resumed tapping her foot.

Five minutes must have passed before the woman returned. “Mrs. Rasmussen wants to know why you're here.”

“To offer our condolences,” Vida said, though she didn't sound very sorrowful. “And to make sure this is the right picture.” She flourished the envelope with its photo of Einar Jr. “We're press.”

“Press?” The presumed housekeeper made a face. “What do you mean,
press?”

“Newspaper people. We think Deirdre might have made a mistake.” The lie tripped off Vida's tongue.

“Deirdre?” The name seemed to make some sort of impression on the woman. “Come in, wait here. I'll ask again.”

She headed back up the staircase while Vida and I rubbernecked around the spacious entry hall and into the living room. The furnishings were all spare, but handsome, no doubt inspired by Danish craftsmen. There were flowers and plants everywhere, tributes, no doubt, to Einar Jr.

The woman came halfway back down the stairs. “Mrs. Rasmussen will see you. Don't stay long and tire her. Come this way. I'm Mrs. Steelman, the house manager.”

“Couldn't have just a housekeeper,” Vida whispered. “My, my.”

On the first landing there was a large picture of Helsin-gor's Kronborg castle.
Hamlets Elsinore
, I thought, and tried to picture Einar Jr. in that role, with Thyra as Gertrude. It didn't play. But of course in real life, it was the son, not the father, who had been murdered.

We followed the scent of freesia down the long hall. Sure enough, there were more flowers, including a four-foot tree azalea in brilliant pink. The master bedroom was big, and obviously served as Thyra's sitting room. In addition to the double bed, there was a couch, several curving wooden chairs, and a TV. Mercifully, it was turned off. I didn't want to have two shouting matches in one day.

“Vida Blatt,” Thyra said in a bored voice. “What are you doing here?”

“It's been Vida Runkel for almost fifty years,” Vida responded, and sat down in one of the curved wooden
chairs without being asked. “Emma Lord and I are here to offer our condolences. We were at the funeral.”

“Who?” From her place on the deep blue couch, Thyra peered at me. “Do I know you?”

“No,” I replied politely. “I work with Vida at
The Advocate.
In Alpine,” I added, in case Thyra was so insular that anything or anyone outside of Snohomish wasn't worthy of her attention.

“What's your name?” Thyra didn't wear glasses, and I doubted that she used contacts. Vida had mentioned that the old lady didn't see well. Certainly, she was squinting. With her eyes practically disappearing and her face thrust forward, Thyra's sharp features reminded me of some ancient bird of prey.

Despite Vida's attempt at an introduction, I said my name and stepped forward to take Thyra's hand. To my surprise, her grip was strong. Maybe the arthritis plagued other parts of her body.

“Emma,” Thyra repeated. “That's a nice, old-fashioned name. Not at all like these crazy names they give kids nowadays. Madison. Brewster. Parachute. What next?”

“My son's name is Adam,” I said, as if I felt a need to win Thyra over. “That's about as old-fashioned as you can get.”

“Very nice.” Thyra sat back among the cushions, her rather large feet propped on a leather footstool. Even sitting down, she seemed tall, and now that she wasn't squinting, I could see that she had once been a handsome woman. The bone structure was there, though the skin that covered it was flaccid and deeply lined.

“We tried to call on Marlys,” Vida began as I joined her in a matching chair. “She's too unwell to receive visitors.”

“Leave her be,” Thyra snapped. “Marlys needs privacy.”

Somewhat to my surprise, Vida didn't argue. “I spoke
with Harold and Gladys in Sultan after the funeral. They seem to be coping.”

Thyra seemed uninterested in her elder son and his wife. “Gladys went to pieces at the services. I can't think why. She hardly ever spoke to Junior. Always acted like she was afraid of him. Maybe she was. Gladys is a goose.”

“But Einar—Junior—and Harold had mended their fences, I gather,” said Vida.

“They had to.” Thyra's face hardened. “I told them to make up. It's not right for brothers to quarrel.”

“Or sisters?” The words seemed to slip out of Vida's lips, like a snake let loose.

Thyra glared. “You mean Mary Jane. That's different, and nobody's business.”

It takes more than Thyra Rasmussen to daunt Vida. “But Mary Jane and Richard were at the funeral and the reception. I thought that showed evidence of goodwill.”

“Evidence of greed, you mean.” Thyra compressed her lips.

“Greed?” I said in a meek voice.

Thrya's eyes, which I realized were as deep a blue as the couch she sat on, sparked. “Junior's dead. Those Catholics figure Senior and I are on our last legs. Why else would they come to a Lutheran funeral? I didn't think it was allowed by their stupid pope.”

“That's not true,” I said calmly, no longer amazed by the ignorance of some non-Catholics.

“How would you know?” Thyra retorted.

I was about to say that I knew because I was one, but Vida intervened, probably to prevent Thyra from booting me out of the house. “When did Davin show up?” she asked in a matter-of-fact voice. “Before or after the funeral?”

If Thyra was surprised, she didn't show it. “Before,” she said, fingering the nubby gold cross at her neck. “He
didn't sit with us in the family room, but he was there all the same. Why do you ask?”

“Because,” Vida explained, “Deirdre gave us to understand that she didn't know where he was.”