The Alpine Kindred (35 page)

“Let's go,” Milo said, his voice hoarse. Roughly, he put an arm around me and steered me back up to the road. “How'd you get here?” he asked as I buried my head against his chest in order to avoid seeing Beau.

“My car's over there,” I said, muffled. “Off the dogleg.”

“Can you drive? I've got to stick around.”

I nodded. The Rasmussen property was to our rear, so I raised my head. “I'll be okay in a bit. I need some time.”

Still with his arm around me, I led Milo to the Jag. “Beau Rasmussen killed his parents,” I said.

“What?”
Milo was taken aback.

“That was Beau back there. The cougar killed him because he killed all his cats.”

“You better not drive,” said Milo, skepticism writ large on his face. “Come on back with me to the Chief.”

I started to protest, but was ignored. Milo all but shoved me headfirst into his vehicle, then came around to the driver's side. He began radioing in the information that there was a dead man at the Rasmussen house, apparently the victim of a cougar attack. Then he sat back and waited for me to collect myself.

“Okay,” he said after several minutes had gone by. “Your color is almost normal. Tell me, if you can, who that is in the driveway back there. All I know is that the guy's dead.”

I gave myself a good shake, sending raindrops flying all over the front seat and dashboard. “He's Beau Rasmussen, the man nobody ever saw. He was crazy, and don't ask me to get specific, though I'd guess he was bipolar. That's why his parents never let him out of the house. Imagine Thyra Rasmussen suffering the indignity of a grandson who'd create havoc in the real world.”

“I've never met Thyra Rasmussen.” Milo still looked dubious.

“I have. She's a dreadful woman.” I took a deep breath. “I suppose Beau got to the point where he resented his parents, where he believed they were keeping him prisoner. Marlys hardly ever left the house, either. She probably didn't dare. She must have seemed more like a prison warden than a mother. Beau had reached his mid-thirties without ever having had any personal freedom. I figure he
finally snapped last October, and killed Marlys. He was used to burying things. You saw his cat cemetery. But he could hardly bury his mother in the backyard. So he brought her into Alpine, buried her at the old warehouse, and set the place on fire.”

“This is all conjecture.” Milo's long mouth set in a firm line.

“No.” I paused to make sure my thought process was staying unscrambled. Rain ran down the windshield, which was beginning to fog up inside. “There was a witness. Averill Fairbanks saw Beau bury Marlys.”

“Averill Fairbanks?” Milo was justifiably incredulous.

I nodded. “He told me this morning. Oh, he wouldn't have made a very good witness on the stand, but he definitely saw Beau. Averill said he was burying something, and that it was probably right around the time the warehouse burned down. Averill described Beau as wearing a plutonium coat. Plutonium is a silver color, I believe, which would describe Beau's metallic leather jacket, especially by moonlight. Averill also mentioned a moon-walk machine, or something like that, but I suspect it was Beau's bicycle. He'd no doubt transported his mother on it after he killed her. Beau probably never had a driver's license, since he rarely left the house. My guess is, he went by bicycle. I'll bet you'll find one over in the woods by the highway, and that's why Vida never saw or heard a car. Neither did I. And who'd notice him on his rare forays into town? With all the students around here now, we've got people on bikes all over the place.”

The rain thrummed on the Cherokee Chief's roof. Milo was beginning to look less skeptical, though hardly convinced. “Why kill Einar Jr. six months later?”

“Maybe Einar—who wasn't a bad man, just a self-centered one—couldn't go on living with his son's guilt. Einar must have guessed what had happened to his wife.

But we've got Thyra to reckon with. First, she had to hide some sort of serious head case. Then he killed. She must have been frantic. Thyra must have warned Einar that the truth must never get out.”

Milo was rubbing his long chin. “So Beau was afraid his dad would give him up. Why kill Einar at the college? Why not at home, like Marlys?”

“Too risky. Remember, when Marlys was killed, only Beau and Einar were living here.” I waved in the direction of the Rasmussen house. “But Deirdre moved in recently. She might put up with Beau impersonating her mother— maybe she thought he was just doing it for some kind of morbid stunt—but she'd balk at murder. There was also Davin to consider.”

“Deirdre had to know,” Milo said.

“That Beau was a killer? Maybe she did, and that's why she took off with Davin. I don't blame her. She was probably afraid for their lives.”

“She had a reason.” Milo grunted. “But what about Scott Kuramoto? I thought they were a duo.”

“They may be. But can you see Scott married into that family?” I countered. “He wouldn't want it, the senior Rasmussens would hate it. Let's call it a fling. Lonely people do strange things.”

Milo's hazel eyes were fixed on my face. “They sure do.”

I didn't want to get sidetracked. “I came to the Rasmussen house because I thought you'd be here with the search warrant. Where were you? I almost got killed.”

Milo looked indignant. “I was with Vida. Do you think I'd leave her alone for a third attack? I had to wait for Bill Blatt to relieve me. What was the deal? Why try to kill Vida?”

I had to smile. “Vida's reputation almost did her in. Thyra must have learned that Vida had come calling on Marlys, more than once. The old witch knew that Vida's
persistence—and curiosity—could pay off. I think Thyra gave Vida more credit than was due, but of course there was that ever-present fear of being found out. The Ras-mussens had lived with that for most of Beau's life. It must have eaten at Thyra like a cancer. Knowing that Beau had already killed, I suspect she told him to get rid of Vida. Like the rest of them, he danced to her tune.”

Milo leaned back against the driver's seat. The storm had passed over, and the thunder was now a distant rumble. “Jesus. What a family. They even fed on each other.” Jerkily, he turned back to face me. “So what the hell happened today?”

I explained about the pet cemetery, then about Beau's arrival. “We heard of cougar sightings at the edge of town,” I said. “I don't understand it, but that big cat went right for Beau, and completely ignored me. Thank God.”

Milo gave a nod. “Animals are like that. Especially cats. They're protective, they sense danger to their species. And sometimes they seek revenge.”

Milo's upbringing had made him familiar with all forms of wildlife. I'd watched him fish, but I'd never seen him hunt. He had lowered the gun on the cougar, because he respected the animal's grief. I respected Milo's understanding.

A squad car and an ambulance were arriving behind us. I hesitated. Should I wait to see what happened? But for once, my personal needs overcame my professional duties. Milo could tell me what went on. I had to get away from this place of horror.

“I can drive now,” I said, opening the door. “You have to wait here, right?”

Milo hesitated. “Yeah. I'll wait here.”

For a moment, I stared straight into his eyes. “I'll be at the hospital with Vida. I'll wait there.”

“Okay.”

I went out into the rain. When I drove past Milo on my way out, he was still waiting.

“Ooooh!” Vida was punishing her eyes again, distraught because she hadn't been in on the denouement. “You behaved so recklessly! You might have been killed! Why couldn't you use
sense!

“I already explained that I was sure Milo was there— or would be coming very soon. Anyway, you're the one who got shot and almost strangled.”

“That's different.” Vida put her tortoiseshell-framed glasses back on, then smiled wickedly. “I can't help it, I would love to be a little mouse in the corner when they tell Thyra about Beau. At last, that nasty woman will get what she deserves.”

“Actually,” I responded, “she's every bit as much of a killer as Beau. Her manipulation of the family and her obsession with keeping up appearances helped turn him into a murderer. She, too, has blood on her hands.”

Vida scowled at me. “Yes, yes, of course she does. I'm not talking about
that.”
She paused, clearing her raw throat. “I meant my mother's gourds.”

Ron Bjornson, relieved but belligerent, was released from jail Monday morning. On Friday, after the story of Beau's death and the carefully worded statement from Milo that the Rasmussen case was closed, Einar Sr. killed himself with his shotgun. I had written and rewritten the article at least six times, to avoid a libel suit. But the inferences were there: the late Beau Rasmussen had killed his parents.

If Einar Sr. had no longer been able to endure the web of evil which entwined itself around his family, Thyra
was unrepentant. She wouldn't talk to me, but she'd issued a statement which all of the local papers picked up, including
The Advocate.

“When a family becomes prosperous and prominent,” she had said, “there are always envious parasites who try to bring them down. Lies, rumors, and unfounded allegations are their tools. We have had our share of undeserved tragedy, but we shall persevere and maintain our status in the community.”

Vida, who was out of the hospital, but confined at home for another week, had no comment. She was still savoring what she considered a personal victory over Thyra Rasmussen.

It was a subdued, haggard Deirdre who was the most willing to talk to me. She came into the office the following Monday, after her grandfather's funeral.

“Davin and I are moving to Seattle,” she said, almost in a whisper. “I don't care what I have to do to get work. I could never stay with Grandmama, and Davin needs a big support network for his drinking, which he can get in a big city. I don't belong around here, anyway. I've never liked small towns.”

I smiled, a bit sadly. “Belonging is a tough concept. I'm not sure I belong in Alpine. And I know that even after all the years I've been here, the locals
know
I don't belong. I guess it comes to where your heart feels at home.”

“I never felt at home with my family,” Deirdre declared, her usually soft features strained and hard. “Beau and his horrendous problems got all the attention. That's why I married Jerk-off when I was so young. I had to get away. Then I came back to this.” She made a sharp gesture with one hand. “Beau was what they used to call manic-depressive. My parents took him to doctors when he was younger, but they didn't have as many medications
then. Later Grandmama put a stop to more sophisticated treatment. She insisted Beau was fine, just moody. My mother did her best to get him to take some kind of medicine, but as he got older he became more rebellious. If that's the word for his kind of madness.” She spoke with great bitterness.

“Did your father tell you that Beau had killed your mother?” I asked.

Deirdre shook her head. “He said she'd just gone off, she couldn't take being Beau's keeper anymore. I almost believed it. But I immediately sensed the tension between my father and Beau. I knew what had happened. Then Dad was killed, and I was sure I was right. I thought I'd go mad myself when Beau decided to dress up as Mom at Dad's funeral. It was horrible.”

“But you wouldn't tell?”

“No. I couldn't, then. I was too upset. And I was afraid for Davin. Can you imagine what a nightmare this has been since I moved in with Dad and Beau? That house— I'd like to give it away.”

“Not at that price,” I noted.

Deirdre snorted. “That was Beau's idea. He wanted to live with Grandmama. He knew she'd take care of him. I think they were kindred spirits.”

It was Deirdre who enlightened me about the woman Einar had been seeing on the sly. She was Cynthia Kit-tikachorn, not Maylene Bjornson. Scott Kuramoto knew about the affair, and thought that Cynthia and Einar had gotten together briefly just before his appointment with Carla at the RUB. Cynthia, afraid of getting in trouble with Nat Cardenas, had spread rumors about Maylene even before the murder.

Deirdre left my office around five. I was bringing dinner in for Vida, which meant a stop at the Grocery Basket's deli. As I drove down Front Street, Milo hailed me
from the curb. Almost getting rear-ended, I pulled around the corner and waited for him to join me.

“I solved the Bjornson problem,” he said, looking more cheerful than I'd seen him in a long time. “I hired him.”

“What?” I started to laugh.

Milo was leaning through the Jag's side window. “You got it. By cutting out some of the overtime the deputies are working, especially behind the desk at night, we can afford Ron. He's used to working graveyard, so that won't bother him. He can do some of the handyman stuff around the office, even repairs on the patrol cars.”

“That's brilliant,” I said. “So no lawsuit.”

“Right. Ron's pretty pleased. He gets benefits, too, as a county employee.”

“Wonderful.” The smile that had lingered from the laugh felt frozen on my face as a sudden silence grew between us.

“You want to catch the Mariners on TV tonight?” Milo finally said. “I'll make dinner at my place. I owe you one.”

“You don't owe me anything, Milo.” The smile was gone. “Anyway,” I said, trying to make my voice sound light, “I'm taking dinner to Vida. Some other time, okay?”

Milo ducked his head under his regulation hat. “Tomorrow?”

“Call me in the morning before I leave for work, around seven-thirty.”

“Okay.” The Sheriff sounded a little uncertain. He stood up, leaving me to stare at his midsection.

I wished I could have seen his face. I hoped he couldn't see mine.

After dinner and a long visit with Vida, I went home to my little log nest at the edge of the forest.

There were no letters in the mail, no calls on the
answering machine. I considered phoning Milo. But I didn't.

As I was finishing my second cup of coffee around seven-forty the next morning, the phone rang. I started to reach for the receiver, then stopped. It rang again.

And again.