The Alpine Kindred (30 page)

“Shit,” I heard him say under his breath. He started to push through the knot of people, some of whom were calling him a Nazi or worse. I followed the Sheriff.

“Go away, Emma,” Milo said, without looking at me after the doors had swung closed behind us.

“Sorry. I have to get a quote.” I pursued him behind the curving counter, where Toni Andreas and Dwight Gould stared at us both. “A simple sentence will do. You know—subject, predicate.”

“This sucks,” Milo retorted, kicking open the door to his office. “Take a hike, Emma.”

“That'll have to be a modified indirect quote,” I shouted as he slammed the door.

“Protesters, huh?” said Dwight. “We've been watching them through the windows.”

“Does Ron know they're out there?” I asked, coming back to the front of the counter.

“Probably not,” Dwight replied. “Is Maylene there? I didn't see her.”

“No,” I answered. “I think this was organized by the nuns from St. Mildred's and maybe Pastor Nielsen from Faith Lutheran.”

Toni sighed. “Why can't religious people stick to holy stuff? I saw Father Den out there.”

Toni is a member of our parish, though she has more misses than hits when it comes to Mass attendance. “It's called social justice, Toni,” I said. “Frankly, I'm surprised at the amount of strong feeling about Ron's arrest.”

“Local boy,” Dwight put in before heading off down the hall.

I waited until he was out of hearing range. “What do you think, Toni?”

Toni, whose thinking processes were sometimes in doubt, fluffed up her curly black hair. “Honestly?”

I nodded.

“I think Dodge jumped the gun on this one.” Panic surfaced in her brown eyes. “Hey, don't quote me! Please!”

“I won't,” I promised. “This is just between us girls. Why do you say that?”

Toni winced. “Well … he's been in a majorly weird mood lately. Real short-tempered, crabby with all of us. I don't know how to say this, but when Ron got arrested, it was like Sheriff Dodge was taking out all his frustrations on him. Somehow, I felt he was in too much of a hurry to make an arrest. You know, like he had to prove something. That's not like Dodge. He's usually slow as mold.”

“So he is,” I said softly. “In any number of ways.”

Toni brightened, as any woman would when she suspects even the slightest hint of an intimate revelation. But I didn't know her well enough to make her my confidante.

“How is Ron?” I inquired, anxious to change the subject.

“Okay.” Toni shrugged. “Under the circumstances. At first he was mad, then he got depressed. Now he's just majorly worried.”

“I don't blame him.” After reassuring Toni that our conversation was off the record, I went back outside. The protest was again orderly, though at least two more people had joined it. I recognized them vaguely as college students.

Carla was gone, though Sam Heppner was still directing traffic. With a wave for Father Den, I headed for the
Burger Barn. The freight was still creeping through Alpine.

Doubts about Ron's guilt were creeping into my mind.

B
ACK AT THE
office, Leo was working on an ad for Father's Day gifts from Harvey's Hardware and Sporting Goods. “What next?” he said with a grin. “Dodge gets lynched on top of Mount Baldy?” My ad manager seemed pleased by the idea.

“I'm beginning to wonder if those protesters aren't right,” I said in a worried voice. “If Dennis Kelly's parading around with a sign, maybe Ron didn't kill Einar.”

“My guess is that Den's out there for the principle of the thing,” said Leo, who has come to respect our pastor's good sense and compassion. “Either that, or he wants to make sure those two dippy nuns don't get run over by a couple of Southern Baptists in a pickup truck.”

Leo had a point, yet I didn't think that Father Den would get involved in any public display unless he could somehow justify his position. On my way back from the Burger Barn, I'd stopped to get quotes from the protesters who then numbered twenty-six. Richie Magruder, our deputy mayor, and husband of salon owner Stella, thinks with his heart, not his head.

“Ron's a good guy,” Richie had asserted. “And Stella says Maylene's not the kind to play around. This whole thing's out of control, if you ask me.”

Scott Kuramoto based his reaction on similar “empirical evidence.” “I haven't known Ron long, but I enjoy
studying people. He doesn't strike me as impulsive or rash. If you work as a repairman, either on trucks or toilets, you need a great deal of patience. This kind of murder doesn't fit the man.”

Donald Nielsen, pastor of Faith Lutheran, had concurred. “Ron Bjornson has a good heart. He would never harm another human being. Nor does the evidence—as we know it—support this charge.”

Since almost none of the Sheriff's evidence had yet appeared in
The Advocate
, I assumed there were leaks, maybe from Maylene, or Ron himself. As I sorted through my notes, Richie Magruder's name caught my eye. On a whim, I called his wife, Stella, at the salon.

“I've had Milo in here asking about those lipsticks,” Stella said in her throaty voice. “ 'Midnight Mauve,' it's called. I ordered—or thought I ordered—'Midnight Rose.' Anyway, despite the fact I don't think they look very good on just about anybody unless they've got a Malibu tan, I've sold almost all of them. That happens when you stick a fifty-percent-off sign on a display.”

“I suppose Dodge asked who bought them,” I said.

“Natch,” Stella responded. “I could only remember four or five, and Maylene wasn't one of them.”

“She admitted she bought the lipstick,” I pointed out.

“Sure she did,” Stella said. “But I'm not the only one who rings up sales around here. I do recall Irene Baugh, Heather Bardeen, your Ginny Erlandson, and Amanda Hanson, who's almost dark enough to get away with that shade. Oh, the other one I remember is Cynthia Kittika-chorn from the college. With her exotic coloring, it might look very nice.”

Cynthia Kittikachorn. Nat Cardenas's secretary, and one of the few people in town who had expressed an anti-Ron Bjornson opinion. “Interesting,” I remarked.

“Is it?” Stella sounded dubious. “Got to run, Emma.

Ella Hinshaw just came in for her bimonthly blue-hair special. By the way, you're due for a cut. I saw you at that rally or whatever it was that Richie got all worked up about. You don't look so hot.”

Only a hairdresser can utter such criticism without hurting another woman's feelings. Or at least suggesting that there's a cure. I hung up, and thought not about my unruly locks, but about Cynthia Kittikachorn's Midnight Mauve lips.

I was still thinking when I heard Vida enter the newsroom. It wasn't quite two o'clock, and I couldn't imagine why she'd gotten back so soon from Snohomish.

“What happened?” I asked, standing in the door of my office.

Vida harrumphed. “Edna Mae Dalrymple is what happened. She was already at
The Tribune
, researching Rasmussens.”

“Why?” I asked, leaning on Vida's desk.

“Ohhh … You know what Edna Mae's like. Give her an opening for research, and she drives through it like a Kenworth lowboy. Really,” she huffed, “we should never have allowed her to get involved.”

“I don't think,” I said dryly, “it's a question of
allowing
Edna Mae. She doesn't need our permission. Has she found anything?”

“Yes,” Vida said with an expression of disgust. “That's why I came back to Alpine.”

“And?” It seemed to me that Vida was being rather grudging in her admission of Edna Mae's discoveries.

Vida heaved a sigh. “She tracked down the obituary of Christina Andersen. She died in 1913.”

I stared at Vida. “She must have been very young.” Then it dawned on me: “Christina Andersen was her married name?”

Vida shook her head, and a sly look came into her eyes. “It was her maiden name. Christina never married.”

At that, both Leo and Carla looked up from their computer screens. “Old lady What'shername's a bastard?” Leo said. “And I thought she was just a bitch.”

“Mind your language, Leo,” Vida reprimanded. “Yes, Thyra was illegitimate. Edna Mae had also checked the birth records in Everett. Christina was a resident of Scenic at the time, and her occupation was listed as 'seamstress.' In those days that was often a euphemism for prostitute. She undoubtedly plied her trade at one of those wretched brothels along the railroad tracks.” She took a deep breath. “And Thyra's father was one Ulf Lindholm of Malmo, Sweden. Now what do you think of
that 7'

“The secret,” I said after we'd all gasped and goggled. “That's what Birgitta is looking for. Her long-lost family. Should we tell her?”

“To heck with her,” said Carla. “I wouldn't tell her that it's Friday. She certainly didn't want to tell me anything.”

“It wouldn't be right not to tell her,” Vida said. “It's strange—no one has ever mentioned Thyra's father. Now we know why.” She paused, perhaps wondering how she herself hadn't noticed the omission. “Very well, give me the details about what's going on in front of the Sheriff's office. There must be forty people out there, carrying extremely ugly signs.”

I filled her in about the protest. She looked bemused. “Feeling runs very high,” she commented. “I wonder…”

“Don't we all?” I said, and told her about Stella's lipsticks.

“Interesting,” Vida murmured. “Are you suggesting that Cynthia, not Maylene, was having an affair with Einar?”

I shrugged. “It's possible. Who started those rumors about seeing Einar's car at the Bjomson house? It may have been Cynthia, trying to cover her own tracks.”

Leo was opening a fresh pack of cigarettes. “Was she ever questioned by Sheriff Dunce Cap about where she was the night Einar was killed?”

I admitted I didn't know. Cynthia hadn't entered the picture until my phone call to Stella.

“Somebody should put a flea in his ear,” said Vida. “I'll speak to Billy.”

Informing Vida that I hadn't seen either her nephew or Dustin Fong on duty, which meant they were probably taking the night shift, I retreated into my office. It wasn't easy, but I forced myself to work on articles not connected with the murder, the bones, or the gold. The new bridge, which was becoming the old bridge in my mind, required my attention before the next county commissioners' meeting. I checked in with one of the three commissioners, George Engebretsen, who also happened to be a member of the college board of trustees.

George, as usual, was noncommittal. Yes, the residents in the Icicle Creek development area had been promised the bridge for a long time. No, the commissioners hadn't made a final decision. Yes, the neighborhood and adjacent area had formed its own interest group to petition the county to act with all due speed. No, the commissioners weren't turning a deaf ear to the college clique who wanted the bridge near the campus. Yes, there was a problem because the railroad tracks already crossed Highway 2 near the best site for a new bridge. No, the county engineers hadn't come up with another viable site. Yes, the commissioners certainly had the bridge on their agenda. No, there wasn't any start-up date for construction. Or for making a decision. Or for getting off their dead butts.

I remained patient, or at least my telephone voice did.

“That was an awful thing about Einar,” I said after we'd worn out the subject of the bridge. “I saw you at the funeral.”

George, who is in his late seventies, and hasn't laughed since Alf Landon lost to FDR, grumped in my ear. “Damned shame. Einar Jr. and I go way back, to my days at the mill. I worked over thirty years for Einar Sr.”

I recalled that George had been in the logging business, but I didn't know of his connection to the Rasmussens. “Did you quit when they shut the mill down?” I asked.

“I retired two, three years before that, in seventy-nine,” George replied. “Back went out on me. Could have taken a desk job, but I was almost ready to get Social Security. 'Why kill myself?' I told the wife. Anyways, I ran for commissioner in eighty. Been on the job ever since.”

The last thing I wanted was to have George ramble on about his career. “Having been involved with Einar Jr. and his family for so long, you must have been shocked when he was killed,” I said.

“Shocked is right. People have no sense these days,” George asserted. “Then they blame everything on handguns. What's wrong with protecting yourself? Anyways, Einar was stabbed, not shot. You know what kind of crazies use knives.”

I was tempted to say
butchers
, but refrained. “How do you mean?”

“Dagos. Spies. Guineas. Chinks. Japs. How many more do you want?” George sneered.

“I was thinking more specifically,” I replied. “You know, a particular person.”

“Take a look,” George shot back. “They're all over the place these days. I see 'em running around the college every time I go out there for a board meeting. And I don't just mean the students.”

“Then you mean … ?” I let the phrase dangle.

“Start at the top. Got to go. In more ways than one. Prostate's acting up again.” George hung up.

I held my head. Was George Engebretsen referring to Nat Cardenas? Cynthia Kittikachorn? Or even Scott Ku-ramoto? I intended to put the question to Vida, who'd handed over her story about Mary Lou Blatt's trip to Costa Rica. The fact that my House & Home editor had condescended to do the interview was surprising. Mary Lou is Vida's sister-in-law, and the two rarely speak.

Vida, however, was smirking. “Wait until you get to the part where Mary Lou was attacked by a toucan. It must be the only living thing that has a bigger beak than Mary Lou. Of course”—Vida snickered—”Mary Lou's is somewhat smaller now.”

The article was more objective than I'd expected, though the accompanying photograph, with a big bandage on Mary Lou's nose, would probably infuriate her when she saw it in print. I made a couple of minor editorial changes, then recounted my phone conversation with George Engebretsen.

“Such a ninny.” Vida sighed. “I wouldn't put much stock in what he says. It sounds to me as if his prejudices have carried him away. Besides,” she continued with a sly look, “we must inform several people about the Ras-mussen lineage.” If Vida had been a dog, she would have salivated.