The Alpine Kindred (32 page)

“Emma!” Amy cried, jumping up and embracing me. She is as tall as her mother, but not nearly so imposing. “Beth and Meg wanted to come, but I told them to wait,” she said, releasing me and squeezing a mangled Kleenex in one hand. “Mom will feel much better tomorrow, and it's Saturday, so that works out better every which way.”

Since the other daughters and their families lived out of town, Amy's rationale made sense. When it came to practicality, the trio took after Vida. “Your mother's in no danger, I'm told,” I said, shaking Ted's limp hand.

“No, no,” Amy replied, her round face and blunt features expressing relief. “Doc Dewey says she'll be a hundred percent in no time. But isn't it awful? All these guns! Why don't people go to one of the gravel pits if they want to shoot target practice? Just look at all the highway signs, full of bullet holes.”

Somehow, it had never occurred to me that Vida had been shot by accident. I realized that if it had occurred to Milo, he'd ruled out the possibility. Certainly he'd never suggested such a thing to me. But there was no need to alarm Amy further.

“Your mother's very strong, physically and mentally,” I pointed out, seeking safer ground than how or why Vida had ended up in the hospital. “Have you any late word on her condition?”

Amy shook her head. “Only that she should be in her room around nine. It's twenty to now.”

For the next fifteen minutes we made innocuous conversation. Or, rather, Amy did. Ted, a tall, thin man nearing fifty, always lets his wife do the talking. I suppose that was the price a man paid when he married a Runkel woman.

“So the teacher said to Roger, 'If you don't put that pelican down, I'm going to have to …' “ Amy rambled on while I wondered where Milo was. Putting up facial-reconstruction posters, I figured, maybe not only in the hospital lobby, but on utility poles nearby.

At two minutes before nine, the Sheriff finally joined us. He went through the motions of greeting Amy and Ted, then turned to me with an annoyed expression on his face.

“I checked in with the Snohomish Rasmussens just now,” he said. “I talked to the housekeeper, Mrs. Steel-man. She told me that they hadn't seen any sign of Deirdre, Beau, or Davin.”

I stared at Milo. “Where are they?”

Milo shrugged in disgust. “Who knows? We'll put out an APB. Here,” he said with a short sigh, and handed me the drawing. “Look familiar?”

The artist's sketch reminded me of those pencil portraits rendered at shopping malls and county fairs. The face looked sufficiently real, yet there was an eerie quality to it, as if I could actually see the skull that lurked underneath the imagined flesh.

“No,” I said, still studying the drawing. The woman was middle-aged, rather pretty, with wide-set eyes and strong-looking teeth. There was no character in the face, however; skeletal remains only show where you've gone, not how you got there.

Neither Amy nor Ted recognized the portrait, either. Doc Dewey entered the waiting room just then to tell us that Vida was in her room and doing just fine.

“Don't wear her out, though,” Gerald Dewey cautioned, directing his message more to Amy than the rest of us. “She's still a little woozy. Keep the visit to ten minutes.” He smiled, the same kindly expression that his father, Old Doc Dewey, had shown his patients for forty years.

I hardly recognized Vida. She was propped up on pillows, with all sorts of IVs running into her hands. Her usually tousled gray curls were limp, and her skin was very pale. Somehow she looked smaller, thinner, but that wasn't possible. Not even a bullet could diminish Vida.

Clumsily, Amy kissed her mother's cheek, then began to cry. “Oh, Ted!” she sobbed, collapsing against her husband. “Isn't it awful? Poor Mom!”

Vida emitted a noise that sounded like “shush.” I patted her hand and Milo waved. Amy took another Kleenex from a box on the stand by Vida's bed and wiped her eyes.

“This is horrible, terrible,” Amy rattled on. “Who could have done this? Oh, Mom, I wish i had a gun!”

Vida took a deep breath. “Please, Amy. You're distressing me.”

Again, Amy flung herself on her mother. I was afraid she'd dislodge the IVs. “Mom! Don't say that! I'd never do anything to upset you! I love you, Mom! I love you so!”

“Yes, yes,” panted Vida from beneath the weight of her daughter. “Now, do get up.”

Milo was holding a copy of the reconstruction. “Vida, would you mind taking a quick look? We got this back from Everett a few hours ago. So far, no takers.”

Momentarily, Vida looked confused. “What? Oh! The skull.” She tried to scoot up a bit farther on the pillows. “Oh, dear—where are my glasses?”

Milo looked embarrassed. “They fell off” when you got shot. In fact, they're broken. Sam and Dwight have them.

They'll bring the frames and your other stuff when they get done searching the Rasmussen place.”

Vida scowled, then turned to Amy. “You have a key to my house. Fetch my old pair, with the tortoiseshell frames. They're in the top drawer of my bureau.”

Amy started to protest, but Vida waved a finger. “Go. It won't take ten minutes. I must see this drawing.”

Amy and Ted left. Milo and I listened while Vida recounted her harrowing experience at the Rasmussens'. “I didn't realize the house was vacant,” she said after Milo informed her about the packing crates. “I didn't get quite that close. Really, it's all so hazy. I wish I could be more specific.”

I related my visit to Casa de Bronska. Vida was amused by Birgitta's pluck. “That will save me a trip to Sno-homish. I suppose I'll be out of commission for a day or two. How vexing.”

Doc Dewey had entered the room. “More than that, Vida,” he said with a smile. “I'm not letting you out of here until Monday, at least. And then I want you to take it easy for the rest of the week. Doctor's orders.”

“Gerald!” Vida started to rise from the pillows, but immediately fell back. “Dear me! I do feel a bit strange. I suppose it's that anesthetic.”

Doc nodded. “I'm about to throw your visitors out. You need some peace and quiet.”

Milo produced the drawing. “Doc, take a look. Does this face seem familiar?”

Doc peered at the drawing. “I don't think so. Should it?”

“Probably not,” Milo said with a small sigh.

Amy returned alone, glasses case in hand. “Ted's waiting in the car. He insists I shouldn't stay. Here, Mom.” She handed the case to Vida.

With effort, Vida removed the familiar tortoiseshell glasses from the case and put them on. “My. These seem
strange now that I've gotten used to the new ones. Let's see that picture, Milo.”

Doc started to intervene. “Come on, folks, you can't wear Vida out.”

Milo held up one finger. “This won't take her any longer than it took you. A yes or no is all I want.”

Vida was staring at the drawing. Her jaw had dropped and her hands shook ever so slightly. She moved the glasses up and down on her nose, then pushed the drawing back at Milo.

“Incredible,” she said in a stricken voice. “I must be hallucinating.”

Gathered around the bed, we all leaned forward. “You know who it is?” Milo asked.

Vida nodded once, her head turned away from us. “Yes.” She swallowed with difficulty. “It's Marlys Rasmussen.”

Milo started what sounded like a barrage of questions, but Doc Dewey gripped the Sheriff by the shoulder and steered him out of the room. Amy and I knew better than to linger. With shouts of love for her mother, Amy followed me into the corridor.

“Christ,” Milo breathed when we were out of hearing range. “Vida must be confused. How the hell could this be Marlys? Didn't you say you saw her at the funeral?”

I, too, doubted the current state of Vida's mental prowess. “Between the anesthetic and the shock, she must be disoriented. Show it to her again tomorrow, when she's had some rest and the anesthetic's worn off.”

Milo didn't respond. We were walking through the now empty waiting room. He kept silent until we were out on the street.

“I'm all mixed up,” the Sheriff said suddenly. “No— maybe I'm just the world's biggest dumb shit.”

It was dark, with the rain softly falling on Milo's hat and my uncovered head. I tried to study the Sheriff's face under the wide brim. “Why do you say that?” I asked.

He turned his head, gazing down Pine Street toward the library and the senior-citizen center. “Maybe I'm the one who's confused.” Unexpectedly, he grabbed me by the upper arms. “Am I screwed up?”

“Probably,” I replied. “Most of us are.”

“Shit.” He dropped his hands, again looking not at me but at his surroundings. “Ron Bjornson didn't shoot Vida.”

“So?” My own confusion was growing. “The person who did isn't necessarily the one who killed Einar.”

Milo shook his head. “Vida was shot at Einar's house. Now you're saying that Birgitta Whatever-her-name-is has a connection to the Rasmussens. The gold, maybe even the bones, they may all tie in. And none of it has jackshit to do with Ron Bjornson.”

As a native Puget Sounder accustomed to our soft rain, I never use an umbrella. If Vida was going to be off the job for a while, the last thing I needed was to catch cold. “Milo, let's go someplace and have a drink. How about the ski lodge?” I suggested.

“The Venison Inn is closer,” he said. “I've got to get back to the office. Dwight and Sam should be there pretty soon.”

I didn't argue. We got into our respective cars and drove the three blocks to Alpine's only real watering hole in the downtown section. During the four minutes that it took to get there and park, my mind was in chaos. Why was I having drinks with Milo? Why was he leaning on me when, for the past few months, he practically spat at me on sight? Why did I feel sorry for him when he had been so blasted ornery?

I'd told him I wanted to be friends. This was friendship, hearing out the other person's troubles. It was possible that we were taking a tentative step toward resolving hostilities. The problem was that I didn't know if it was a step backward or forward.

Oren Rhodes and the regulars at the Venison Inn pelted Milo with questions about Vida. Naturally, her shooting had become the evening's hot topic. The Sheriff answered tersely, but made it clear he wasn't in the mood for idle chatter. And of course we received our share of curious stares. No one had seen us as a couple since last October.

Milo didn't speak until Oren had delivered our drinks. “You got motive, you got opportunity, you got a weapon,” the Sheriff said as he set his cigarette down in the ashtray. “You got a guy who's been on the edge for a while because of his job situation, you got a wife who people say is screwing around with the victim. The guy can't pinpoint his whereabouts, maybe he even lies to cover his ass because he did something dumb that makes him look guilty. Then you got about four thousand people in town, another couple of thousand out in the county, and even more over in Snohomish, pressuring you for an arrest because the victim was a big shot. Let's face it—most homicides aren't premeditated. Wife gets pissed off at husband, beans him with a golf club, two drunks mix it up in a bar, one puts out the other's lights. Maybe that's the problem—I see the obvious answer. And God knows, jealousy is always one hell of a motive.” He retrieved his cigarette and took a deep drag. “Where did I go wrong?”

I'd been wondering, too. Yet I had no concrete answer. Milo wasn't one to jump to conclusions. Where indeed had he gone wrong?

“It's not the case itself,” I finally said. “It's how you perceived it. You wanted to appease the public. Not as voters, because you don't have to be elected to your job
since the new legislation was passed last November. But you felt pressured. Einar Rasmussen Jr. was, as you said, a big shot. The problem is, he wasn't a native. By arresting a genuine local boy, you alienated Alpine. When it came right down to it, Einar wasn't as big as Ron. Einar was”—I paused at the irony—”from Snohomish.”

Milo revealed his own chauvinism by not betraying even the slightest of smiles. “Maybe you're right. The big question is, was I wrong to arrest Ron? That's what's driving me nuts.”

“I can't answer that,” I admitted. “Public opinion doesn't mean Ron's innocent.”

“Yeah, right.” Milo cradled his drink. “Now, with Vida getting shot, everybody's really going to be up in arms. Except for certain locals, who would've liked to shoot her themselves because she's pissed them off,” he added, finally exhibiting a touch of humor.

“Why would anyone—seriously—want to shoot Vida?” I said. “Her daughter Amy thinks it was an accident.”

“That's possible,” Milo allowed. “We've got our share of nuts who cruise Highway 2, taking potshots at whatever catches their warped fancy.”

“But,” I said dryly, “you don't believe it.”

Milo sighed. “I don't know what to believe anymore. I'd be an even bigger jackass than I already am if I didn't consider it likely that whoever shot Vida may have also killed Einar.”

“Einar wasn't shot.”

“Doesn't matter. Murderers use whatever's handy.”

“But why?” I persisted, then had a sudden brainstorm. “To keep her from getting to the house?”

Milo's sleepy eyes opened wide. “Could be. What— besides those packing crates—was in Einar's house that the perp didn't want found?”

I didn't know. “You'll have to get a search warrant. Did Dwight and Sam talk to the Rasmussens in Snohomish?”

Milo shook his head. “Out of our jurisdiction. I've asked the SnoCo Sheriff to check them out. The know-nothing neighbors by Einar's house said they hadn't seen any cars in the driveway for a couple of days.”

Vida and I had been there Wednesday. Deirdre hadn't spoken as if the move were imminent. Obviously, it had been. “What if Vida's right?” I asked, thinking of Marly s's inaccessibility.

Milo frowned. “You said you saw her at the funeral.”

I took a deep breath, asked Milo for a cigarette, and tried to explain: “We saw someone we assumed was Marlys. Thinking back, it could have been anybody. She was swathed in veils and a long coat. She stayed within the family circle at the grave site, and all of them were in the screened-off mourners' room at the church.”

Milo still looked skeptical. “The rest of the Rasmussens would know if it was Marlys.”