The Alpine Kindred (34 page)

“I came in this morning to tie up some loose ends,” Sandy explained, opening the lid, but leaving the nuggets at the bottom. “Then I got to thinking about that Swedish girl who said the gold belonged to her. Just for the heck of it, I got the chest out and gave it a really thorough going-over. I should've done it before, but I hated to tamper with the chest. Even with some exterior damage, these McFarland cases are a collector's item.” Gingerly, he inserted a letter opener in the gauzy lining of the lid. “You see?”

Several yellowed pieces of paper lay behind the lining. “Wow,” I breathed. “What is it?”

“See for yourself.” Sandy carefully removed the papers and handed them to me.

The handwriting was cramped and old-fashioned; the awkward English was difficult to understand. But I could read the signature, which had been written with a flourish: Ulf Lindholm, Malmo, Sweden. The date was November 3,1908.

The gist of the letter was that Ulf had saved the life of
Kenzo Yoshida, a railroad worker and amateur miner. Yoshida had discovered a large quantity of gold near what had then been called Wellington and was now Tye. A pair of unscrupulous men whose names were given only as Cap and Axel had tried to kill him and steal the gold. Ulf had rescued Yoshida and hidden him in one of the ovens that the Greek workers had dug into the mountainside to bake their favorite breads. In gratitude, Yoshida had given half of his treasure to Ulf before fleeing to safety in Seattle. But the would-be thieves and murderers sought vengeance. It became Ulf's turn to go on the run. He planned to hop a freight and head east for New York, where he would use some of his nuggets to pay his passage home. Several ounces of gold had been entrusted to one of the Greeks to deliver to the love of Ulf's life, Christina Andersen. The remaining share was to be buried for Ulf, awaiting his return to America.

“For some reason, Ulf never came back,” Sandy said with a wry little smile. “Maybe he found another love in Malmo.”

“Birgitta's claim is solid,” I said. “She has not suffered the Bronskys in vain. But she'll still have to cope with the Rasmussens.”

Sandy looked puzzled. “How is that?”

I explained about Edna Mae Dalrymple's genealogical research. Sandy whistled softly. “The girl won't get any of that gold from Thyra Rasmussen,” he said. “I hear she's a real pistol.”

I agreed. “Of course Birgitta isn't entitled to their share, only what you have here.” I tapped the chest. “I don't know how Christina earned her living—or Ulf's gratitude—but she was going to have his baby. Thyra was born the following spring.”

“Fascinating,” said Sandy, caressing the chest. “This
job can take some interesting twists and turns. Gold, silver, precious gems, antiques—I enjoy working with them. But it's the stories behind the objects that make my work worthwhile.”

“Mine, too,” I said.

Sandy Clay planned to notify both the Sheriff and Mayor Baugh as soon as possible. I tried to imagine Birgitta's reaction when she learned that the nuggets were hers. There would be no squeals of excitement, no jumping for joy. She would behave calmly, coolly. Birgitta expected to get the gold. If not in name, she was a Rasmussen in spirit.

When I got back to the Jag, Averill Fairbanks approached me.

“Emma,” he called. “Got some news.”

Was I never going to leave Pine Street? The last thing I needed was another nutty sighting from Averill. “Can you call it in Monday?”

“Won't keep.” He leaned his stubby body against the Jag's bonnet. “I been trying to tell Vida, but that mule of a woman won't listen. It's about them prospectors.”

I was trapped. “What prospectors?” I asked, my voice weary.

Averill rubbed at his nose. “Where they're mining. You know—the old firetrap that burned down a while back.”

“The warehouse?” Something flitted through my mind, something to do with Averill, something pertaining to gold. A snatch of Robert Service, a hint of the Yukon. “Are you talking about the nuggets that were found after the fire?”

“Ah …” Averill looked uncertain. “Maybe. Maybe not. I'm talking about the guy who was digging before the fire. Only he was burying something, now I come to think of it.”

Impulsively, I grabbed Averill's arm. “Was this just before the fire? Maybe the same night?”

Averill's forehead creased in concentration. “Might have been at that. Was it 'round about Halloween?”

Not having been in Alpine at the time, I couldn't remember the exact date. “A week or so before, maybe.”

“Hm-mm.” Averill nodded slowly. “Sounds right. He had one of them moon-walking machines with him.”

I let go of his arm, though I felt like shaking him. Fact and fiction mingled so closely in Averill's account that I was struggling to tell the difference. “Do you know who it was? Doing the burying, I mean? Was it President Cardenas from the college?”

Averill shook his head. “Not this time. That was way back, him and some high mucky-mucks from Olympia.”

I gritted my teeth. The groundbreaking ceremony, no doubt, almost two years earlier. “Who did you see last October?” I asked, pessimistic about getting a sensible answer.

“It was one of those Pluto guys,” Averill replied. “You can always tell 'em by their coats.”

“Coats?” I repeated.

Averill nodded some more. “Sure. They're made of plutonium.”

I gave up the idea of questioning Averill further. Maybe I'd gotten all there was to get. Milo could take over from here, as soon as he had time.

I figured the Sheriff wouldn't stay long at the hospital except to query staff. He'd been headed for the Ras-mussen place. I'd meet him there. I, too, was curious about the house.

It was pouring as I headed down Highway 2. Our May weather was behaving more like November. Usually it was pleasant in May, dreary in June, with summer finally arriving in July. El Nino was playing its tricks.

After turning off the highway to reach the Rasmussen house, I drove down the dirt road. There was no sign of Milo. It wouldn't be smart to park my car where Vida had left the Buick. Reversing, I took a right-hand turn that led to the other houses along the river. The split-level in front of me looked deserted. Perhaps the owners had gone into town. I parked the Jag as far off the drive as possible, to allow room for another vehicle. The road into the Rasmussen property was concealed by trees. With the rain pounding on the car's roof, I might not be able to hear Milo pull up. Getting out of the Jag, I walked to the fork in the dirt road. What was taking Milo so long? Over an hour had passed since I'd left the hospital.

A noise from somewhere off on my right startled me. A twig had snapped. I froze in place, but saw nothing. A deer, perhaps. I tried to relax.

After ten minutes I forced myself to make a decision: Should I go back to Alpine and find out why Milo hadn't shown up? Or, since I hadn't seen anyone lurking about, should I take a quick peek at the house?

Curiosity overcame caution. Through the rain I went, head down, but ears alert. I reached the driveway safely. Sure enough, I could see the packing crates through the windows. The kitchen, which Vida and I had viewed before from this same vantage point, was swept clean of belongings. Certain that Milo would show up at any minute, I went around to the rear of the house, which faced the river.

A flash of lightning hit just as I turned the corner. The thunderclap followed almost immediately, which meant the storm was close by. I pulled my jacket over my head and saw the river flowing past the backyard.

But it was more than a garden. While rosebushes and a few small fruit trees had been carefully planted, there was also an eerie little plot. Small crosses protruded from the
dark earth, with cedar shakes bearing hand-carved names: Dolly. Red. Peepers. Candy Man. Fluff.

It appeared to be a pet cemetery, and it made me flinch. The Rasmussens hadn't lived here very long. How could they have so many animals die on them?

Lightning struck again, then the inevitable thunder. I shuddered, and started back for the front of the house.

“Hi.” The figure standing ten feet away was that of a youngish man wearing blue jeans and a metallic leather jacket. My first reaction was that I'd never seen him before in my life, but I had. He was the deliverer of flowers to Vida, and the man who had tried to kill her. Twice.

I had to think fast. “Are you here to look at the house? It doesn't officially go on the market until Wednesday.”

The man in the leather jacket looked momentarily perplexed. He was in his thirties, slender, about average height, with thinning fair hair, and soft features that looked as if they hadn't worked very hard at life.

His hesitation impelled me to rattle on. “The ad will appear in this week's
Advocate,”
I said, trying to figure out how to get around him and reach the Jag. “It's a wonderful property, plenty of square footage, river view, three bedrooms…”

Three bedrooms.
Suddenly I knew who this man was, I knew what had happened to Marlys, to Einar, and what was about to happen to me. “Call Doukas Realty,” I said, scooting around him.

Three bedrooms.
Deirdre had implied that everyone in this house had a separate room. That accounted for her, for Davin—and for Beau. But not Marlys, who didn't need a bedroom because she'd been dead for six months.

“Hold it.” His voice, like his features, was very soft.

I turned, aware that my attempt at a smile probably looked sickly. “Yes?”

“You're not a Realtor.” Again, that soft voice, as if it hadn't had much use over the years.

I shrugged. “I didn't say I was. That's why you should call—”

He moved swiftly, like a snake, barring my way. “You were here before, a couple of times, with that old bat with the birds on her head. You were at the funeral with her, too. What are you doing here?” The soft words conveyed more menace than if he had shouted.

My brain was turning to mush. “I… I saw the ad, before it goes in the paper. This is a wonderful house. I wanted to have a look. I might buy it myself.”

He shook his head. “You're snooping. Like your friend.”

I took a deep breath. “You won't sell this place if you treat potential buyers so rudely. It's overpriced to begin with, Beau.”

His head jerked back. “You don't know me.”

“ 'Do you know Beau'?” I said, quoting the catch-phrase that had gone 'round the area for years. “I do now.”

“So what?” The words stayed soft, but there was a sneer on his face. “Don't you think my little cemetery is worth an extra fifty grand? Everything I ever loved is there.”

My only hope of escape was distraction. I wouldn't run for the Jag. I'd have a better chance heading for the highway, where I could flag someone down.

“I saw all the little signs,” I said, forcing my voice to sound normal. “What were they, Beau? Dogs? Cats? Hamsters?”

“Cats,” Beau replied, taking another step closer. “Persians, Siamese, Manx. All sorts of cats. They were beautiful. But they don't live long.”

Deirdre had taken out an ad for a lost cat named Fluff. But since then, Ruff's grave had been marked with a
sign, like the other cats that Deirdre had implied were runaways. They weren't. They'd been murdered, by Beau. I closed my eyes in horror, imagining what this grotesque man had done to those animals—and to his own parents.

“No, they don't,” I agreed. “You should have gotten a parrot. They live longer than humans. By the way, where's your bicycle?”

When Beau glanced over his shoulder, I ran. Around the corner I chugged, past the kitchen, the dining room, the living room. I heard him call softly behind me, still not raising his voice. Did he have the gun? Maybe not, or he would have displayed it before this.

But he was right on my heels as I raced up the drive. By the time I reached the dirt road, he was almost upon me. Another flash of lightning lit up the sky and then the thunder rumbled so close that I wondered if the house had been hit.

I felt his weight on my back, pushing me to the ground. He didn't have the gun; he would go for my throat. I writhed beneath him, hunching my shoulders to protect my neck. I think I screamed, though I'm not sure. But I know I heard Beau let out a terrified yelp. Suddenly he released me, and I rolled over to see why. Maybe Milo was standing in the road, his sidearm at the ready.

There was no Milo nor any other human. What I saw through the rain was a cougar on its hind legs, teeth bared, and forepaws raised. If Beau's cry had been of terror, the shrill sound of the big cat was a series of surreal shrieks and growls. I felt paralyzed, but Beau started to run toward the house.

The cougar pounced. Beau was dragged to the ground. The animal, with its small head and sleek gray body, must have been six feet long. He attacked almost methodically, and Beau's anguished screams could barely be heard
above the next clap of thunder. I couldn't watch, but neither could I shut my eyes as the cougar mauled Beau and the storm raged around us.

Suddenly the savagery was over. Beau didn't move. The cat sat back on its haunches, licking blood from its paws. Only then did I realize I was next. Why hadn't I escaped to the Jag? I started to sob as my foolishness sank in.

The cougar never looked my way. With lithe, graceful movements, it slunk past the house. Then it turned the corner and disappeared.

Milo pulled up in the Cherokee Chief. As he got out it was obvious he didn't see Beau at first. “Emma, you idiot,” he called, “what the hell are you doing here?”

I couldn't speak. Feeling sick, I gestured at the mangled body in the driveway. Milo stared, then drew his weapon.

“Who the hell is that?” he demanded, edging closer to Beau. “Jesus! He's one dead mess! How the hell… ?”

I still couldn't speak, but at least I could move. Avoiding Beau, I grabbed Milo's arm and mutely led him to the rear of the house. The cougar sat at the edge of the little cemetery like a sentry.

“Cats,” I finally croaked. “Beau's cats.”

Milo seemed bewildered. The cougar still didn't look at us. The animal continued sitting there, perhaps communing with his fallen brethren. Milo had raised his gun, but now he holstered it. Apparently he understood something that I didn't.