The Alpine Kindred (29 page)

“She's just plain incommunicado,” I said, then explained how Vida had tried to contact Marlys several times. “I realize she's devastated by Einar's death, especially since it was unexpected and brutal. I'm also aware that she's not social by nature. Mary Jane, do you have
any idea why she's such a recluse? And what about Beau?”

“I've never seen Beau,” Mary Jane said flatly. “He's the same age as our Dan. Deirdre and our Christina were also born within months of each other. You wouldn't know Chris, she and her husband, Jim, live in Lynnwood. Dick and I have seven kids, and they've never met their first cousins or their aunts and uncles.” She stopped and blinked at me. “What was the question? I tend to go off on tangents.”

I grinned at Mary Jane. “Marlys. Beau. Hiding out in the house on the Sky.”

Mary Jane snorted. “I figure Beau is retarded. Einar and my parents would consider that a source of shame rather than a wellspring of grace. When we get shortchanged in this world, we're given the strength to not only overcome the so-called tragedy, but to grow, emotionally and spiritually. My parents and my brother would never see it that way. Their view is always negative, never positive. As for Marlys, maybe she's ashamed of Beau. She feels she failed Einar and her in-laws.” She wagged a finger at me. “I'm guessing, mind you. Dick says I have too much imagination.”

Since imagination is a quality I prize, I found no fault with Mary Jane Bourgette. Nor could I see much resemblance to either of her brothers. She was dark, about average height, and much more youthful in appearance than what I knew to be mid-to-late fifties. Perhaps she took after Thyra in looks, though I couldn't conceive of Mary Jane turning into a vulture.

“Frankly,” I said, “I don't see how you can ever change your mother's mind. Your best bet is Deirdre. Did you know that Davin is staying with her at Einar and Marlys's house?”

Mary Jane jumped in the visitor's chair. “No! You're kidding me! When did that happen?”

I told her about Vida's rehab theory, which Davin seemed to have verified. “He was probably at your parents' house when you went to the funeral reception,” I added.

“The Marx Brothers could have been at the house for all I know,” Mary Jane sneered. “Dick and I were there about ten minutes before Harold told us that Mother wanted us to leave. I never even got a chance to talk to her, except at the graveside. She acted like I was a smallpox carrier.”

“Sad,” I said softly. “Maybe sadder for her than you, in the long run.” But Mary Jane hadn't come here just to complain about her relatives. I didn't really know her, though it seemed we had hit it off rather well. Certainly she had been quick to unburden herself. “Is there something I can do to help with this mess?” I asked.

“You already have,” she replied with a wry expression. “Dick and I haven't lived in Alpine very long. Except for a few people at St. Mildred's we haven't been able to make new friends. And God knows, we're not exactly introverts.”

“I've been remiss,” I admitted. “It's almost eight years since I moved here, and I haven't knocked myself out to be sociable. Maybe I'm afraid of rejection, maybe I feel a need to keep my distance because I'm a journalist, maybe,” I added, “I'm asocial.”

“I don't think so.” Mary Jane opened her drawstring bag and took out a pack of cigarettes. “Do you mind? Everybody else does.”

“No,” I said, and feeling in a congenial mood, asked if I might steal one. “I quit every so often,” I confessed. “It never quite takes.”

“I'm not sure I want to live to be as old as my mother,”
Mary Jane said, clicking her lighter for both of us. “It sure hasn't done her any good. Where were we? I lost track again.”

“My fault,” I said, trying not to inhale too deeply. “My turn for a tangent. I was wondering if you thought I could—”

“Help me,” Mary Jane put in. “Here's the situation: Dick and I have a fortieth wedding anniversary coming up in a couple of years. One of the things we'd like to do for it is to present our children and our grandchildren with a family tree. Dick's side won't be a problem—he's got a sister who has been into genealogy for ages. But I don't want to pester her for my ancestors. People are always asking her for favors like that, and it's terribly time-consuming. I was wondering if you had any sources here at the paper.” She glanced over her shoulder. “And I don't just mean your files.”

Having left the door ajar, I had sensed Vida's presence outside my office, phantomlike and on the alert. I even thought I'd heard her gasp when I asked Mary Jane for a cigarette. But Vida had already admitted she didn't know much about the Rasmussens' background.

“Wouldn't you be better off doing the research in Sno-homish?” I asked.

“Sure,” Mary Jane responded, “but if my mother found out, she's ornery enough to put up every obstacle she could find. She may be older than dirt, but she still has clout in that town.”

“Feel free to talk to Mrs. Runkel, our historian in residence,” I said, “though her knowledge is limited. You Rasmussens had no Alpine connection until recently.”

“I know,” my visitor said. “I didn't expect her to have personal memories.” Mary Jane smiled broadly, revealing twin dimples. “But Mrs. Runkel strikes me as having … an inquiring mind. I want her to do the research.”

* * *

It was clear that Vida was torn between flattery and suspicion. She hemmed and hawed, but eventually admitted that her acquaintanceship with
The Snohomish Tribune
went back many years, to the days of Tom Dobbs, and his wife, Vida, for whom she had been named. That was news to me, and it certainly amused Mary Jane.

“You're a natural!” Mary Jane enthused. “You see, this way, my mother won't know what I'm up to.”

“It will take some time,” Vida said, still wavering.

“I'm willing to pay you,” Mary Jane said. “Twenty dollars an hour. How's that?”

“Oh!” Vida looked stricken. “I could never accept
money
!” Judging from her expression, she might as well have said
filthy lucre.
“Consider it a favor. Or, when your boys open their restaurant, treat me to a free dinner.”

“Done,” said Mary Jane, and vigorously shook Vida's hand.

“Well … yes.” Vida had assumed a musing expression. “One thing, Mary Jane. I happened to be passing by Emma's office a few minutes ago, and I heard you mention the name Christina. How is she connected to you?”

“Our eldest daughter,” Mary Jane answered. “Do you know her? She doesn't live around here.”

Vida shook her head. “No. But I was wondering—is it a family name by any chance?”

“Yes,” Mary Jane replied, hoisting the straw bag over her shoulder. “It was my grandmother's name. My mother's mother. She died before I was born.”

Mary Jane knew very little about her grandmother, except that her last name was Andersen. Grandma Christina had always been a shadowy figure, referred to by Thyra upon rare occasion. Vida, however, hung on Mary Jane's
every word. When our visitor had left, my House & Home editor practically exploded with excitement.

“The gold! Thyra said she inherited all those nuggets and doodads from her mother! Don't you see—Ulf Lind-holm may have given some of his treasure to Christina Andersen.”

Grudgingly, I agreed. The connection between the nuggets, Ulf Lindholm, and the Rasmussens might not be coincidental. “Mary Jane verified that the gold pieces had been handed down by her grandmother,” I said. “In fact, Mary Jane, as the only daughter, was to have inherited them from Thyra. Mary Jane figures that she'll never get a sniff of the stuff because she married a Catholic.”

“Yes, yes,” Vida said, still agog. “I'm sure Mary Jane was cut out of the will the minute she brought Dick Bour-gette home to meet her parents. That is, if she ever had the nerve to introduce him.” She sat down at her desk, took off her glasses, and began to rub her eyes in typical vigorous fashion. “Ooooh! Andersen must have been Christina's maiden name, before she married Thyra's father. Why is Christina such a shadowy figure? Do I have time to go to Snohomish today and research
The Tribune's
, files?”

Naturally, it was a rhetorical question. Vida w ^'d make the time for her little project. She'd never skimp on her duties at
The Advocate.
I reminded her, however, that Mary Jane was in no rush. The fortieth anniversary was a couple of years away.

Putting her glasses back on, Vida reached for her swing coat, which she was in the habit of carelessly draping over the back of her chair. “Nonetheless,” she said, “it's a pleasant day, and I believe I'll go to Snohomish. Besides, it's almost eleven-thirty, so I'll skip lunch. If you don't see me again today, you'll know why. But if I find out anything truly exciting, I'll call.”

Vida might skip lunch, but I wouldn't. Half an hour later I was headed for the Burger Barn.

I never got that far. Down the street by the Sheriff's office, I saw a dozen or more people milling around and waving placards. I covered the two blocks from
The Advocate
at a trot. When I got to Third, the cross street, I could hear the group chanting. “Release Ron,” they shouted, marching around in circles.

I recognized most of the protesters: the Peabody brothers, Mort and Ellie Hedberg, Fred Iverson, Richie Ma-gruder, Dave Tolberg, Scott Kuramoto, Sister Clare and Sister Mary Joan, Reverend Nielsen from the Lutheran church, and my own pastor, Father Dennis Kelly. The presence of St. Mildred's two nuns didn't surprise me— they protested everything, including the new four-way stop at Fir and Alpine Way. But Father Den was much more discriminating. Perhaps, because he was black, he'd already done his share of protesting; for the same racial reason, he was careful not to make himself a target on the Alpine civic scene.

It was Father Den who I approached, however. “What's this all about?” I asked, wishing I'd brought a camera.

The priest lowered his crude, handmade placard and smiled somewhat sheepishly. “Some people think Ron's been railroaded. As usual, Sister Mary Joan is rallying support. I balked at first, but my colleague, Pastor Nielsen, convinced me that Dodge might have the wrong man. Ronnie got the fourth grade to make the signs,” he added, referring to the principal of St. Mildred's grade school, Veronica Wenzler-Green.

Jack Mullins came out of the Sheriff's office, looking as sheepish as Dennis Kelly. “Father,” he said with a tug at his regulation cap, “have you guys got a permit for this?”

Father Den grinned at him. “Sister Mary Joan has the
permit. She requisitioned a new filing cabinet last month. I figure she ran out of room from all of her protests. Don't feel she's picking on Alpine—I understand she's been involved in social action from Portland to Vancouver, BC.”

Jack seemed resigned, maybe even relieved. “Okay, we can't stop you.” He cocked his head at Den. “I don't have to confess interfering with a public display that makes my boss look like an idiot, do I?”

Den shook his head. “Not even the resentment part or that you think your priest
is
an idiot.”

“Thanks.” Jack's smile was still sheepish. “Go ahead, but if Dodge pitches a five-star fit, don't blame me.” The deputy continued on his way to the squad car parked at the curb.

Den turned to me. “Want a placard?”

I grimaced. “No, thanks. Though if you tried hard, you might talk me into it.”

Being the lunch hour, the curious had slowed their vehicles to see what was going on at the Sheriff's headquarters. Traffic was backed up for almost three blocks, causing the unenlightened at the rear of the line to honk their horns. Several pedestrians had gathered on the sidewalk, and one of them, Norm Carlson from Blue Sky Dairy, asked the Peabody brothers if he could have a sign.

“Ron drove truck for my dad and me before he got into logging,” Norm said with a contemptuous sneer at the Sheriff's front doors. “He's no killer. For once. Dodge has his head up his butt.”

Jack Blackwell, who owned the only working mill in Alpine, waved a fist at Norm. “You're full of it, Carlson,” he said in an angry voice. “When I had to let Ron go a while back, he punched me out. I wouldn't put anything past that bastard.”

“Who wouldn't punch you out, you crook?” raged Norm, referring to Blackwell's slightly less-than-savory
personal and professional reputation. “Get the hell out of here, before I split your skull!”

Just as Blackwell charged Norm, who dropped his sign and began beating his attacker on the head, Milo pulled up and jumped out of the squad car. “Hold it! What the hell's going on?” He grabbed Jack while Father Den and Scott Kuramoto attempted to restrain Norm.

“Jeez,” I groaned, cursing myself for being caught without a camera. “Where's Carla when I really need her?”

To my astonishment, Carla was running across Third Street. She got down on one knee and began clicking away. Making sure I didn't block her shots, I made an end-around run behind the Peabody brothers and Reverend Nielsen.

“Good work!” I cried. “You're just in time!”

“For what?” she asked, not taking her eye away from the viewfinder. “Is this some kind of major riot or did Sister Ditzwits get bored with her prayers again?”

Since some of the other onlookers were now exchanging heated words with the protesters, Carla wasn't far off the mark. “I'll explain later,” I said as Sam Heppner came out of the Sheriff's office.

“Sam!” Milo yelled as he pinioned Blackwell's arms behind him and flung him up against the squad car. “Get this traffic moving! Now!”

Sam, whose mien is usually unhurried, moved swiftly into the street, gesturing for the cars and trucks and sport utility vehicles to drive on. To add to the bedlam, the whistle of a train could be heard as it approached Alpine from the east. The freight's crossing of Alpine Way could stall traffic for up to ten minutes.

Norm Carlson had reclaimed his placard and was lecturing Father Den and Scott about the evil nature of Jack
Blackwell. Blackwell, meanwhile, was now talking in semireasonable tones with Milo. Sam Heppner had traffic moving again, albeit slowly. I could hear the warning bells ringing at Alpine Way and Railroad Avenue.

As Carla put another roll of film in her camera, I warily approached the Sheriff. At last, he sent Blackwell on his way, then scanned the protesters.