The Alpine Kindred (31 page)

“Who, besides Birgitta?” I asked.

“Your new friend, Mary Jane Rasmussen Bourgette,” she said with what may have been a touch of asperity. Vida tends to become jealous of any other woman who lays even the slightest claim to my friendship. “And,” she added, with more obvious malice, “Marlys and Deirdre. Don't you think they have a right to know the family history?”

I winced. “Are you sure you have their best interests at heart, Vida? Maybe they already know.”

Emphatically, Vida shook her head. “Thyra would never have told any of her children. You heard Mary Jane say that her mother rarely mentioned the grandmother.”

I kept a straight face, though I felt like saying that Vida, who'd been eavesdropping, had also heard Mary Jane make that statement. “What about Harold and Gladys?”

“Oh.” Vida blinked several times. “Yes, they ought to be informed. For some reason, I keep forgetting about them. Harold and Gladys are forgettable people.”

“You take the Lutheran Rasmussens,” I said, figuring there was no way to talk Vida out of spilling the beans. “I'll take Catholic Mary Jane. We can flip a coin over Birgitta.”

Vida assumed a magnanimous air. “You may have Birgitta. It's only fair.”

What she meant was that she would rather drink bleach than call on the Bronskys. We had agreed on the division of labor when Ginny came to my office door.

“Charlene Vickers just stopped by with a big classified ad for next week,” she said, showing uncharacteristic excitement and waving a sheet of paper that looked like a real-estate listing. “Look!”

Charlene, another fellow bridge player and wife of Cal Vickers, the Texaco station owner, had sought relief from empty-nest syndrome by going to work for Doukas Realty. I started to get out of my chair, but Vida snatched the paper from Ginny's outstretched hand.

“My word!” Vida cried. “It's the Rasmussen house on the river! That was quick.”

Eagerly, Ginny nodded. “I knew you'd want to know. Gosh, Mr. Rasmussen's only been dead about ten days.”

Vida and I were staring at each other. “Probate? Or is it necessary with a surviving spouse?”

Vida made a face. “Not in this state with community property. I believe Marlys can do as she pleases. The question is why?”

“Memories,” I suggested. “Einar built her that house, maybe she was happy there, and now he's gone. Deirdre told us that the plan was for everybody to move in with Thyra and Einar Sr. in Snohomish.”

“Yes, but so fast.” Vida reread the listing, this time out loud. “ 'Three bedrooms, two-point-five baths, state-of-the-art kitchen, living room, dining room, family room, office, two fireplaces, triple garage, one-acre riverfront, well landscaped, three thousand five hundred square feet.' The asking price is half a million.”

“Too much,” said Ginny. “For around here, anyway. I have to proof these ads all the time, so I know prices. I'd say maybe three-fifty.”

“Typical,” Vida remarked, finally surrendering the listing to me. “The Rasmussens have always been greedy. I'm calling on Marlys and Deirdre right now. And this time I will not be denied by the Widow Rasmussen.”

I didn't bother trying to talk Vida out of her mission. It was Friday, it was after four-thirty, and I was about to call it a day. But before I went home, I'd stop by Casa de Bronska. If anyone deserved to know about Ulf Lindholm's connection to the Rasmussens, it was the au pair girl.

Though clouds had descended over the mountains, Ed and Shirley were in the pool. Molly Bronsky had let me in, and when I went out onto the patio, Ed and Shirley emerged, looking like a couple of—dare I even think it?—Polish sausages.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Ed called, water dripping from his fat form and small Speedo, “we're just having a couple of precocktail dips.”

“How appropriate,” I said, then hastily added, “for this time of day.”

Mercifully, both Bronskys wrapped themselves in large striped towels. “How about a martini?” asked Shirley, her unnaturally gold curls plastered to her head.

“No, thanks,” I replied with a fixed smile. “I came by to see Birgitta.”

Ed and Shirley exchanged quick glances. “Didn't she come to the door?” Ed asked.

“No. Molly showed me in,” I replied.

“Hunh.” Ed sat down in one of the lawn chairs, causing it to creak ominously. “Maybe she didn't hear you ring.”

Shirley let out a small squeal of annoyance. “Ed, you can hear that chime in Startup! I wish you'd figure out some way to lower the volume.” Turning to me, she seemed unusually provoked. “Either Birgitta is lazy, or she thinks she's too good for us. She told me this morning she wasn't a maid, she was an au pair. Ever since she got this notion about that gold belonging to her, she's been impossible. The next time she threatens to go back to Sweden, I'm going to help her pack.”

“Now, Shirl,” Ed began, “hold on. When the movie deal comes through, I'm going to need all the help I—”

Birgitta stood on the single step outside of the French doors. “You wished for me?” she asked in a chilly voice.

Ed stammered a bit, but Shirley was still angry. “Yes, we did, Birgitta. Ms. Lord is here to see you.”

Once again, I felt insignificant. In the grocery aisle of life, if Birgitta had been a long, luscious cucumber, I'd be a midget dill pickle. But I held my ground as best I could under her withering ice-blue gaze.

“I have some information you've been seeking,” I said, grateful that my voice didn't come out in a squeak. “It's about your great-grandfather.”

The blue eyes widened and the beautiful face seemed to soften. “Great-grandfather Ulf?” she said in a hushed tone.

I nodded. “Could we go inside?”

“No need for that,” Ed all but shouted. “We're all family here. Have a seat, Gitty. Let's break out the Lab-latt's. A beer sounds good about now.”

“I think it's Labatt's,” I said under my breath. “Anyway, it's raining. Birgitta and I'll go into the … ah … ballroom.” I hurried past the au pair girl, assuming she would follow.

Birgitta did, but she obviously knew her employers very well. “My room,” she said softly. “It is upstairs, very private, very nice, except for hamsters.”

The hamsters, Beavis and Butt-head, belonged to Joey Bronsky, who likes to let his pets roam free. However, I saw no sign of the animals when we entered Birgitta's second-floor room, which, considering Ed and Shirley's propensities, was almost austere.

We sat in matching armless chairs covered in some sort of blue material with big dust ruffles. “Tell me, please, about my ancestor,” she virtually begged. “I know the gold is his, and so is now mine.”

I decided against warning Birgitta that my knowledge wouldn't necessarily help with her claim. Slowly, carefully, I explained that Ulf Lindholm had been romantically involved with a young woman named Christina Andersen. They had never married, I said, avoiding Vida's suspicion that Christina had been a hooker.

“They had daughter?” Birgitta's eyes had moistened. “What became of daughter?”

“Thyra Andersen married a man named Einar Ras-mussen,” I said. “They are both still alive and living in Snohomish.” I lowered my voice, and dared to reach out a hand to Birgitta. “It was their son, Einar Rasmussen Jr., who was murdered a week ago last Monday.”

To my astonishment, Birgitta broke into a broad smile. “Good. He cannot claim gold. This Thyra and the other Einar—they must be very old. Soon they will die, eh?”

“I wouldn't bet on Thyra,” I said, and realized from Birgitta's puzzled expression that she didn't understand what I meant. “That is, Thyra is in fairly good health. Mr. Rasmussen is not.”

“I must see this Thyra,” Birgitta said. “She will be fair. I hear that this murdered man was very rich.”

“Thyra,” I said distinctly, “is a selfish woman. If you must see her, since she is your kinswoman, don't be too optimistic.”

The caution seemed to roll right off Birgitta's tough, beautiful hide. “I will make her see what is right. There will be no trouble.”

I had to admire the girl's spunk. Maybe Thyra was about to meet her match. The aged matriarch and the young au pair were kin, after all. I wished Birgitta good luck and stealthily slipped out of Casa de Bronska. I could have handled an encounter with Beavis and Butt-head, but Ed and Shirley in swimwear was definitely a scary sight.

Dinner was a grilled-cheese sandwich and an apple. I noted the fat red zero on my answering machine, opened my uninteresting batch of mail, turned on the baseball game, and read
The Seattle Times.
It was almost seven when I began to wonder why I hadn't heard from Vida. Perhaps after her visit to Marlys and Deirdre, she'd gone on to Snohomish, to taunt Thyra Rasmussen.

The Mariners had just made the last out to defeat the Blue Jays in Toronto when my doorbell rang. I assumed it was Vida, stopping to report on her visitations, so I opened the door without bothering to look through the peephole.

It was Milo. Raindrops had dampened his regulation hat and jacket, and his long face looked far longer than usual.

“What's wrong?” I asked as a sudden spasm of fear took hold of my heart.

Milo took one step forward, then stopped and removed his hat. “It's Vida,” he said, wiping his brow. “She's been shot.”

I
HADN'T HEARD
Milo right. The president, the pope, the puppets on
The Muppets
could all get shot, and I'd be upset, but not incredulous. Vida was indestructible, immortal, impervious to accident, disease, or weaponry. The Sheriff had to repeat his information three times before it sank in. I must have staggered, because he put an arm around me and muttered something that sounded like “steady.”

“Doc Dewey says she'll be okay,” he said at last, steering me into the living room and shutting the door behind us. “Really.”

My ears were still ringing as I flopped onto the sofa. “I… I… What happened?”

Milo stood awkwardly by one of the armchairs, hat in hand. “Take it easy. Do you want a drink?”

I nodded. “Get one for yourself,” I called after him.

I heard him in the kitchen, getting glasses, taking down the bourbon and the Scotch bottles from the top shelf above the refrigerator, rattling ice, pouring water, all the familiar sounds that brought back a flood of memories. By the time he returned to the living room, I was fighting tears. For Vida, for Milo, for me.

“Vida had gone to Einar Rasmussen Jr.'s house on the Sky,” Milo began after taking a deep sip of Scotch. “You know the place?” He saw me nod. She got out of the car
and was headed up the walk when somebody shot her twice from behind. They got her in the left shoulder and through the hat. As Doc said, she should be fine, but one of her white doves is dead as a dodo.” The merest hint of a smile played at his long mouth.

“Jesus,” I breathed, my shoulders slumping in relief. “This doesn't seem real. Start over.”

Milo sat back in the armchair, also looking slightly more relaxed. “Vida got about six feet from the Buick, and was hit. That's pretty much what happened. She thinks she blacked out. Finally, she crawled to the car and started honking the horn. Nobody heard her, so somehow she managed to get back to the highway.”

I remembered the winding road that led to the driveway. It was flanked by vine maples, cottonwoods, evergreens, ferns, and salmonberry bushes. Someone could easily have hidden there. But it was the twenty yards of dirt road that upset me as I pictured Vida staggering, perhaps on hands and knees, trying desperately to seek help.

“Anyway,” Milo went on, “she flagged down a guy from Wenatchee in a pickup. He brought her into the hospital here. Luckily, Doc was still at the clinic. He removed the bullet, but she's still in the recovery room.”

My personal feelings had interfered with my professional responsibilities. I hadn't thought to ask if Milo had a suspect. When I did, he made a face.

“Not yet. It started raining while Vida was trying to get to the main road. Dwight and Sam have been looking for footprints or some other evidence, but so far, no go.”

Thoughtfully, I swirled the rest of my bourbon and water in the chimney glass. “Didn't anybody hear Vida honk the horn? What about the Rasmussens?”

Milo raised his hands, palms up. “They're gone.”

“Gone? As in 'moved out'?”

“The house is full of packing crates,” he replied.

“Dwight and Sam could see them through the windows. There are some other houses off that road, but the dipshits who live there claim they didn't hear any honking. They didn't see anything, either. It may be true. Their places aren't all that close to the Rasmussens'.”

“And poor Vida saw nothing?”

Milo shook his head. “Not that she can recall.”

I finished my drink and stood up. “I'm going to the hospital. Vida should be out of the recovery room soon. I want to be there. Have you called her daughters or Buck yet?”

Milo had also gotten to his feet. “I had Toni do that. I wanted to tell you in person.”

I felt weak. “Thanks, Milo.” Impulsively, I kissed his cheek.

“S'okay,” he mumbled, sounding not unlike an embarrassed thirteen-year-old. “You want to ride with me to the hospital?”

I hesitated. Riding there meant riding back. At the moment I wasn't capable of predicting my emotions. “No,” I said, going to get my jacket out of the front closet. “You may get a call, and then I'd be stuck. I'll take the Jag.”

“Whatever.” He put his hat back on and opened the door for me. Then, as we walked through the rain to our respective cars, he chuckled grimly. “The funny thing is, I was about to get hold of Vida when the call came in from the hospital. We got that skull-reconstruction drawing late this afternoon. I wanted her to look at it.”

I paused by my carport. “Do you have it with you?”

The Sheriff nodded. “I've got a hundred copies. Want a peek?”

“Sure. Can you bring it in with you when we get to the hospital?”

Milo nodded again. “If Doc's there, I'll show it to him. In fact, I'll post a copy in the lobby.”

“Good.” I gave him a weak smile and got into the Jag.

Vida's daughter, Amy, and her husband, Ted Hibbert, were already in the waiting room. I saw no sign of their wretched son, Roger, though I must confess to a fleeting vision of him undergoing electric-shock therapy in some shadowy corner of the hospital. In reality, a sadistic Roger would be administering it to some hapless victim. Like me.