The Alpine Kindred (6 page)

Exasperated, I surrendered my canary fantasy and sighed. “It wasn't a confrontation,” I fibbed. “And that isn't what I was talking about. It's something we missed in a story Carla wrote about the warehouse fire.”

“Missed?” Vida sounded aghast. “What could we miss? Oh, drat!”

I wasn't sure if Vida's outcry was caused by Cupcake's latest misconduct or her chagrin at having committed an oversight. “If you have time, drop by and I'll make tea,” I offered. “Or lunch, if you come around noon.”

“Dear me, I can't today,” Vida said with what sounded like genuine regret. “I'm going to Everett with Amy to shop at the mall. One of her girlfriends is getting married for the third time, and she's had the nerve to register at the Bon Marche.”

Naturally, a shopping expedition with Vida's daughter would have priority. Amy Runkel Hibbert was the only one of her three girls who lived in Alpine. The other two resided in Seattle and Bellingham.

I left Vida to her canary, and spent the rest of the morning trying to get my garden in shape. The growing season comes later to Alpine. In Seattle, the daffodils would be past their prime and the tulips in full bloom. But here at the three-thousand-foot level, my bulbs were just beginning to unfold. Except for a few early crocuses and one brave yellow primrose, my yard looked barren.

But gardening is therapy for me. After filling two plastic bags and one metal bin, I felt marginally better than I had for some time. I also felt filthy, and was heading for the shower when the phone rang.

It was Leo. “I've got some damned bug,” he said in a hoarse voice I barely recognized. “It came on last night,
which is why I didn't go to Ed's big party. Can we do dinner next week?”

To my surprise, I was very disappointed. Though I hadn't thought much about the proposed trip to Seattle, I must have been looking forward to it. “Sure,” I said, trying not to sound too bleak. “But we'll have to wait two weeks. The RUB dedication is next Saturday, and I should stick around for that.”

“I thought it was in the afternoon,” Leo croaked.

“It is, it starts at three, but there's a reception afterward, and I told President Cardenas I'd be there.” Now I was wondering why I'd made the commitment. Carla had the assignment, and my attendance wasn't required except as a PR gesture.

“Okay, that's fine. I'm not going without you.” Leo coughed several times. “Sorry. Hope I can make it into work Monday.”

“Don't push yourself,” I said, and meant it. Leo was well organized, and probably could put the ads together Tuesday to meet deadline.

My mood had plummeted again as I faced another empty Saturday night. Briefly, I considered checking out the latest offerings at Videos-to-Go, but somehow that seemed like running up the white flag on my personal life. I'd simply stay home and watch the Mariners on TV. Just like Milo was going to do. Just like the way we used to do together.

The Mariners lost to the Orioles at home.

On Sunday after Mass, I tried to call my brother Ben in Tuba City, Arizona. He was out, no doubt making the rounds of his parishioners on the Navajo reservation. I longed to call my son in St. Paul, but having chosen to follow in the godly footsteps of his uncle, Adam was only
allowed a certain number of telephone conversations per month at the seminary. We'd already used up his allotment for May.

Nor did Vida answer her phone. Perhaps she was with Amy again. Disconsolately, I went out into the backyard, but didn't feel like another bout of gardening. Instead, I watched the Mariners. They lost again, a three-game sweep by Baltimore.

The phone rang at precisely nine o'clock. “I was right,” Vida said, and sounded disappointed. “Carla and Dean Talliaferro are getting married in November. You'll never guess where.”

“Where?” I didn't need to guess and be wrong. I'd had enough of losing for one weekend.

“The Petroleum Museum in Seattle. Now, who on earth gets married in a petroleum museum?” Vida sounded flabbergasted.

“Carla and Ryan?” I said in a feeble attempt at humor.

“Oh, honestly! Why can't they get married in a church like sensible people?” Vida heaved a heavy sigh.

“Maybe because Carla's Jewish and Ryan's not,” I suggested. “With a name like Talliaferro, he may have been raised a Catholic. They might be hedging their bets.”

“Ridiculous. Who's going to marry them? An auto mechanic?” Vida was no doubt wringing her hands, at least metaphorically.

“But she came by your house tonight?” I inquired. “Was Ryan with her?”

“No, she came alone. Apparently they'd driven over to Spokane to visit his parents. They wanted to wait to make the announcement until they'd seen Mr. and Mrs. Talliaferro. I gather they've already conferred with her family in Bellevue.”

“November?” The date finally struck me. “But the
baby's due in December. Why don't they get married now?”

“Because Carla wants a big wedding.” Another sigh heaved over the telephone line. “Big is right. Can you imagine? She'll be big as a house!”

“Well …” I was at a loss for words. “It's their business, after all.”

“A funny business, if you ask me. Carla will announce all this at work tomorrow, so act surprised. Oh, by the way, her pictures of Einar Rasmussen Jr. didn't turn out. Something happened to her camera. They're reshooting at the RUB tomorrow night.”

“Why at night?” I asked, now holding my head. “Why not during the day when she can use natural light?”

“Because Einar Jr. is ever so busy,” Vida replied tartly. “I must go, Emma. The kettle is boiling, and I definitely need a cup of tea after Carla's visit.”

I didn't blame Vida. I could have used a drink. Instead, I made popcorn and added extra butter.

Carla duly made her announcement Monday morning. We all gushed, even Leo, who had managed to come to work despite a hacking cough. Not wanting to spoil the euphoria of the moment, I put off asking Carla about the buried gold she'd buried in her warehouse story. That could wait until Tuesday. Or so I thought at the time.

We were on target for the weekly edition, however, including the special RUB dedication section. I hadn't been in the office when Birgitta Lindholm had come in for her interview, but Vida informed me that the session had gone reasonably well. It was standard fare, my House & Home editor informed me. Birgitta had wanted to see the world, and had decided that being an au pair was a practical way to go.

It had been a busy day, as Mondays usually are, and I didn't get a chance to speak to Carla privately until just before five when I invited her into my office. Since she seemed somewhat subdued despite her big news, I wasn't sure how to approach her.

“I assume you're happy,” I said in an encouraging voice.

“Oh, sure,” she replied somewhat vaguely. “Ryan's great. He loves kids. In fact, he's one of five, but I figure two's plenty. I still want a career.”

It would have been unkind to point out that some might not consider the job of reporter on a small-town weekly as a
career.
Indeed, there were some who would quibble over whether the editor/publisher had a career. But if Carla regarded her employment at
The Advocate
as such, then I would be the last to contradict her.

“Of course,” I said. “But you'll want to take maternity leave. What date is set for the wedding? Maybe we can work it out so that your leave could begin before that.”

My reporter shook her head. “I'm not taking a leave. I'm quitting.”

Carla retained the power to amaze. “You're … quitting?”

She nodded. “November first. The wedding's November ninth. The baby's due December fifth. I'm hoping I'll be ready to start my new job a month later, on January fifth.”

“Your new job.” I continued to stare at Carla. “Which would be … ?” I stopped on a hopeful note.

“I'm going to be the adviser to the student newspaper at the college.”

I was dumbfounded. To hide my astonishment, I coughed. “Sorry. Maybe I'm getting Leo's cold.” Grabbing a Kleenex from the box in my desk drawer, I dabbed
at my mouth. “Well. That's wonderful, Carla. I didn't realize that the college was going to put out a paper.”

“They've sort of planned to all along,” Carla explained, very serious. “They won't offer any journalism classes for a while, but when they do, Ryan says I'll be first in line to teach them. The advisership is only part-time, so I won't be making quite as much money as I do here, but we'll get along okay. We're thinking of buying a house in Ptarmigan Tract. It's right next to the college.”

I felt a bit dizzy. Carla's big announcement of her impending marriage had been the least of her surprises. Now I blanched at the thought of her advising a student newspaper, and, worse yet, actually teaching journalism. Maybe it was just as well that the print medium was becoming a dinosaur. Though
The Advocate
hadn't yet been hit hard, newspaper circulation in general continued to dwindle as TV and computers filled the gap. If technology was killing the written word, Carla could deliver the deathblow all by herself.

I offered to take her to dinner to celebrate, but Carla had to meet Einar Rasmussen Jr. at seven-thirty. She had several phone calls to make, all apparently related to her November nuptials.

At home, I went to the trouble of grilling a steak, slicing a tomato, and baking a potato. Maybe I was out of sorts because I wasn't eating properly. I made a vow to pay more attention to a balanced, wholesome diet.

I was using my laptop to write a letter to Adam when the phone rang around seven forty-five. It was Carla, and she sounded very odd.

“Emma,” she said, her tone uncharacteristically clipped, “I've got a problem.”

“What is it?” I hit the save key on the laptop.

“It's Mr. Einarssen.”

“Mr. Rasmussen. Carla, I hope you're not calling him by the wrong—”

“I'm not calling him anything. I can't.” Her voice broke. “He's dead.”

M
Y FIRST REACTION
was to doubt Carla's word. She's been known to exaggerate, and I couldn't take her statement literally. It was only when I perceived the panic in her voice that I began to tense.

“I checked his pulse, I even held my compact up to his mouth,” Carla said, her voice now coming in a jerky rush. “He's still warm, though. What should I do?”

“Good God.” I tried to think clearly. “Call nine-one-one,” I said, keeping calm.

“I can't,” Carla replied. “The phones aren't hooked up in the RUB yet. I'd have to leave him alone.”

“There's no one else around?” I asked, already grabbing my jacket and my purse. If Carla had called me, she had access to a phone. But I wasn't about to argue with her. “Staff? Students? Anybody?”

“Not in the RUB. It's not open, remember?”

“I'll call nine-one-one,” I said. “Then I'll be there as soon as I can.”

“He looks awful.” Carla sounded as if she were close to tears.

“That's probably because he's dead,” I said, and immediately felt remorse. Indeed, it was only then that the potential tragedy hit me. With a sense of urgency, I rang off and dialed nine-one-one. Tim Rafferty's sister, Beth, informed
me that an ambulance would be dispatched along with a Sheriff's deputy.

Skykomish Community College's campus is west of town, past the reservoir and the fish hatchery on Railroad Avenue. A mill once stood on part of the campus site, but was torn down to make room for a dorm. The official address is Old Bridge Road, though the bridge itself collapsed long before I moved to Alpine.

The Rasmussen Union Building stands between the library and the administration building. Unlike most of the other architecture, which is what I call modified sawmill with shake exteriors and shingled roofs, the three structures are curved cinder block and form a circle around a sunken pond. Benches have been provided where students can study, exchange ideas, or sell pot, depending upon their personal preference and risk quotient.

Though there were night classes in session, the area around the pond was deserted. I noted a hand-carved sign on a cedar slab outside the library informing users that closing time on Mondays was eight
P.M.
As I hurried up to the RUB's double doors, it was now almost eight-fifteen.

Carla was waiting at the entrance to let me in. “Where's the emergency crew?” she asked, her face pale and her tone breathless.

“They're coming,” I responded. “Where's Einar?”

Carla gestured toward the cafeteria, “In there. I told him to meet me by the kitchen. I thought maybe I'd get a funny picture of him pretending to serve students.”

There was nothing funny about Einar Rasmussen Jr. now. He was lying on his back, one arm flung over his head, the other at his side. His mouth was agape and his eyes—those cold, agatelike eyes—were wide open.

“Do you think it was a heart attack?” Carla asked as she bent down beside me.

“I don't know.” The look of surprise on Einar Jr.'s face could have indicated anything. Maybe when the fatal blow was struck, he'd been shocked to discover—too late—that he was mortal.

We heard sirens. “Were the doors locked?” I asked.

“No. I'd called campus security to make sure they'd be left open. Shall I … ?” Carla pointed in the direction of the hall that led to the front entrance.

“Go ahead. I'll wait here.”

Left alone, I wandered around the kitchen area with its gleaming new cooking utensils and unopened cartons of nonperishable foodstuffs. The long room was crowded with supplies, awaiting the first onrush of hungry students on Monday.

I tried to avoid getting too close to Einar Jr., but my eyes were drawn as if by a magnet. The dead man was lying between a long work space and the service counter. He was wearing dark slacks, a sport coat, and a shirt, but no tie. For Alpine, his attire was almost formal.

Carla returned almost immediately with two medics and Jack Mullins, one of Milo's longtime deputies. “Ras-mussen, huh? What happened to him?” Jack demanded, his usual droll humor under wraps.

“See for yourself,” I replied, and got out of the way while the medics went to work.

The medics began the futile but required ritual of attempting to revive Einar Jr. “He's dead, all right,” said Del Amundson, the heavier and more senior member of the team. “Let's roll him over, Vic.”