The Alpine Pursuit (24 page)

Tamara, who resembled Audrey Hepburn more than Elizabeth Taylor, broke into a big smile. “You’re investigating, aren’t you, Ms. Lord? I mean, Emma.”

“A journalist never stops working,” I said with a selfdeprecating expression.

Scott grimaced. “I’ve got to learn to be more like that.”

“You’re getting there,” I responded.

Carla, who was dressed as a pioneer woman and wore a shoulder-length red wig, came out of Omar’s bedroom. “The little guy’s worn out. I can’t understand why Debbie didn’t put him to bed.”

Ryan chuckled. “That’ll be the day,” he drawled.

I got it. He was supposed to be John Wayne. Despite the cowboy hat, the kerchief around his neck, and the toy guns in his holster, Ryan’s average height and robust physique hadn’t given me any clues.

“I’m going to make coffee nudges,” Ryan said. “Do you want one, Emma?”

“Sure,” I said. “Thanks.”

Ryan went out to the kitchen. The rest of us sat down. Carla announced that she was Maureen O’Hara.

I didn’t waste time getting to the point of my visit. “Carla, you must hear a lot of scuttlebutt at the college, especially from the students, since they’re not as discreet as the faculty and staff. What do you know about Hans Berenger?”

Carla’s big dark eyes widened. “How do you mean?”

“What was he like? How did you get along with him? What did other people on campus think about Hans?”

“I hardly knew him,” Carla said. “One of the students interviewed Hans last fall. There were a couple of mistakes in the article, and Hans pitched a fit. He couldn’t understand how we called him ‘Hams’ in the paper. Hadn’t he ever heard of a
typo
? He also got mad because he said we misquoted him about his philosophy of education. Oh, then he insisted we’d gotten the curriculum screwed up.” She clapped a hand to her wig. “Hans went on and on. He even criticized our spelling and punctuation and grammar. Finally, I told him that this was a learning experience for students, not a professional publication. Students need to express themselves in their own way. Some of them are really clever and insist on the freedom to write in their own style. So what difference did it make if our reporter wrote that Hans was ‘planning to conference in Tacoma’ or ‘planning to
attend
a conference in Tacoma’? It means the same thing. Picky, picky, picky. You’d think Hans would’ve had better things to do than criticize the newspaper.”

“Now, Carla,” Ryan chided as he balanced a tray containing five steaming mugs, “the man’s dead. He wasn’t any worse than Destiny Parsons when she complained about being called ‘Parsnips’ in the paper.”

Carla waved a dismissive hand. “They’re all alike. Bitch, bitch, bitch. And I get blamed for everything. As I told Nat Cardenas a while ago, you can’t make an omelet without cutting the cheese. Students learn from their mistakes.”

Despite discreet snickers from the others, Carla’s recital—as well as her mangled aphorism—had brought back painful memories. I couldn’t help but glance at Scott and be thankful that he’d taken Carla’s place. Scott might need a push to meet deadlines, but he could spell, punctuate, and type with a certain amount of accuracy.

“What about you, Ryan?” I asked, accepting a coffee nudge from him. “Did you have much to do with Hans?”

“Not really,” Ryan replied, sitting down on the ottoman by Carla. “Hans wasn’t a hands-on administrator. He was big on memos. Long memos. And he delegated. I don’t want to criticize him now that he’s dead, but Hans was really aloof. Nat Cardenas is warm and fuzzy by comparison. But Hans got the job done. He was especially good at keeping an eye on the budget.”

“Which didn’t make some of the faculty very happy,” Tamara interjected. “I don’t think he would have let Destiny put on her play if Thyra Rasmussen hadn’t come through with funding for it. Hans wasn’t open to new programs, and he felt the college should hire more part-timers.” She gave Carla a sympathetic look. “Like you.”

“Right.” Carla curled her lip. “Part-timers don’t make as much money and they don’t get benefits. Plus, they can be let go anytime. Hans was just plain cheap. Last summer, when Hans and Coach Ridley got into it, I was hoping Rip would punch Hans out. But somehow, Rip held his temper.”

“What were they quarreling about?” I asked. “The possibility of expanding the sports program?”

“Right,” Carla repeated. “Hans didn’t like sports. He didn’t think they belonged on a two-year college campus. He got really mean about it, according to Rey Fernandez, who was there at the time.”

“Nat must have backed Hans on his decision,” I pointed out.

“Oh, he did,” Ryan asserted. “Nat rules, no doubt about it. There were plenty of issues that both men agreed on, and sports was one of them. Rey told me that Coach Ridley would hardly even look at either Nat or Hans during the play rehearsals.”

Rey. Rip. I’d only spoken to them briefly since the homicide. Rip had a temper and he was known to hold a grudge. But I couldn’t see him planning a murder. He was the type to suddenly erupt and unscrew Hans’s head from his shoulders. As for Rey, I didn’t really know him. But Spence did. Maybe he and I should talk.

I asked Ryan and Carla if they’d heard about threatening letters to Hans. Ryan didn’t recall anything. Carla said she got threatening letters all the time. I understood and sympathized. But only Tamara seemed to know firsthand that Hans had been warned he would die on Friday.

Somehow, the conversation turned to campus politics in general. Tamara felt the emergency Board of Trustees meeting had been called to consider Hans’s successor. Ryan suggested it might be a meeting for exploring ways to mend the college’s image. Carla thought the trustees were going to plan an Easter egg hunt on campus.

What wasn’t mentioned, however, seemed significant. Nobody brought up the possibility of Nat Cardenas accepting another position. The college’s rumor mill must have broken down. I was surprised. Somebody must know about the offers that Nat had received.

Maybe that somebody had been Hans Berenger.

∗ ∗ ∗

Friday morning I called Marisa Foxx. She informed me that it was perfectly legal for a state institution to hold a closed meeting.

“This is particularly true when they’re dealing with personnel or property issues,” Marisa said in her clear, calm voice. “They can’t, however, keep decisions private. If the trustees hold a vote on something, they’re required to go public.”

I thanked Marisa and hung up. Meanwhile, I was anxious for an account of Thyra Rasmussen’s funeral. It would be well into the afternoon before Vida returned. The funeral was at eleven, there was a reception to follow at the big old Victorian home in Snohomish, and the round-trip would take close to two hours.

Of course I had my own agenda that began when I phoned Spence and asked if he could meet me for lunch. He couldn’t, since he was going to be broadcasting until two o’clock, when Rey got finished with classes.

“How about dinner?” Spence inquired.

“The truth is,” I said, “I want to talk to Rey. When’s a good time?”

“God,” Spence moaned, “my ego just deflated like a cheap tire. Why do you want to see Rey?”

“I’m sleuthing,” I admitted.

“I suppose you’re mad at me about Vida,” Spence remarked.

“I’m trying not to be,” I said. “But you’d better stick to the format of using only items that wouldn’t go in the paper.”

“I didn’t hire Vida to scoop you,” Spence assured me. “I can do that on our regular news broadcasts.”

I sighed. “I know. But there’s nothing I can do about that.”

“Rey’s on the air until eight,” Spence informed me. “He takes an hour break between four and five. Come to the station then. He never strays very far. Are you considering him a suspect?” Spence’s tone was good-natured, but I felt he had to be concerned.

“No, just a witness. I’ve tried to interview the people who were most closely involved,” I explained. “Milo and his deputies have talked to everybody else.”

“Got to get back to the mike,” Spence said. “Good luck.”

I went into the newsroom to check the AP wire. There was nothing pertinent to Alpine or Skykomish County, but I got an idea. It was off-the-wall and it would force me to humble myself, but I’d take the chance. Back in the cubbyhole, I dialed the number for Seattle’s AP office.

“Rolf Fisher, please,” I said to the operator.

“May I tell him who’s calling?” the operator replied in a silky-smooth voice.

I gave my name. There was a pause before I heard Rolf speaking into my ear.

“Aha. You can’t keep away from me, can you, Emma?”

“I see your face everywhere,” I said in a tremulous tone. “In my dreams, on my computer screen, at the bottom of my recycling bin. Oh! Strange! I am haunted.” In truth, I somehow pictured Rolf as short, dumpy, bald, and lacking in personal hygiene.

“No shit,” Rolf replied. “What do you really want?”

“I want information,” I said in my normal voice.

Rolf chuckled in a lecherous manner. “It’ll cost you.”

“It’s already costing me, just to ask,” I retorted. “Really, at the next newspaper meeting I’ll buy you a drink, okay?”

“That’s not much of an offer. Will you marry me?”

“You’re already married,” I said, though I had no idea if he was or not, since I didn’t remember meeting him.

“No, I’m not,” he replied, sounding serious. “My wife died of a brain tumor two years ago.”

“Oh.” I felt remorse. “I’m truly sorry.”

Rolf didn’t say anything.

But he’d given me a natural transition. “I’m calling about another man who was widowed,” I said. “Have you done any follow-ups on the Berenger shooting?”

“If I had, you’d have seen them on the wire,” Rolf replied, still solemn. “We won’t run a story until an arrest is made.
If
it’s made.”

“I understand,” I said. “What I want to find out is if you can check your files to see if there’s a story—probably out of San Diego eight years ago come February—about Julia Blair Berenger, Hans’s late wife. Nobody seems to know how she died. Hans never talked about it. I realize people often don’t want to discuss a tragedy, but usually, if asked, they’ll at least mention the cause of death. As you just did, Rolf.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Rolf allowed. “Okay, I’ll check it out. It may take a while. I’m a busy man,” he went on, sounding more like his cheeky self. “I’ve got all these hot babes chasing me around the office.”

“Thanks, Rolf. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem. When do we announce our engagement?”

“Let’s wait until after we meet.”

“Fair enough. I’m sending a big, wet kiss your way.” He made a smacking sound and hung up.

Going on three o’clock, I hadn’t heard anything from Milo, so I assumed there were no developments, or at least none that he was willing to share with me. I’d left a message for Rip Ridley at the high school but figured he wouldn’t return my call until late afternoon. While Rip’s main job was coaching football, he was also in charge of all the boys’ sports programs. There was scarcely a day that he didn’t have to be on hand after school for some kind of game or practice.

I was reminding Leo to make sure Spence bought an ad for
Vida’s Cupboard
when the radio star herself staggered through the door.

“Aaargh!” she cried, leaning on the door frame. “It was too horrible! I feel as if I need an antidote! I’ve been poisoned with lies! Such nonsense from the pastor! So hypocritical and false!”

“That bad, huh, Duchess?” Leo remarked, taking a fresh pack of cigarettes out of his desk drawer. “Want a smoke?”

“Ack!” Vida exclaimed, making her unwieldy way across the room. “If I were a drinking woman, I’d have a drink. But I’m not. Is there hot water for tea?”

“There’s the ticket,” Leo said. “A good strong belt of Lipton’s works wonders.”

Vida glared at Leo. “It does for me.”

I took her mug over to the big urn, poured water, and plopped in a tea bag. “Big turnout?” I asked innocently.

“Sufficient,” Vida declared, removing her beribboned black felt hat. “Curiosity seekers, of course. The woman had no friends.”

After adding creamer and plenty of sugar, I handed Vida her tea. “How were Harold and Gladys holding up?”

“They were being held up by two of the pallbearers,” Vida replied. “I believe they were both already drunk. Then Harold passed out shortly after we went back to the house for the reception. Gladys wouldn’t stop crying. But the food was tolerable. It was catered, of course. Lovely salmon finger sandwiches and quite a tasty fruit salad, though I don’t care for kiwi.”

I sat on the edge of Vida’s desk. “Did Mary Jane and Dick Bourgette come?”

Vida blew on her mug and nodded. “Very brave of them. Or at least charitable. Mary Jane was kind enough to give me a tour of the house. I’d never seen all of it. When you and I were there a few years ago, we were allowed only into Thyra’s inner sanctum. But this time, I saw everything, including the ballroom on the third floor. I must say, there are some nice pieces of furniture, if you like that sort of overdone Victorian style, which I do not. But if the house and the furnishings are sold, they should fetch a very pretty price.”

I made a face. “Which will go to Harold and Gladys, I presume.”

“I suppose.” Vida sighed. “Such a waste. That house would have been perfect for Mary Jane and Dick to have raised their children. They would have brought some joy to it, instead of all the misery that Thyra and Einar Sr. created.”

Leo blew several smoke rings, a trick he knew Vida deplored. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the old bat left everything to the college—or at least to the theater program.”

For once, Vida didn’t scold Leo for his smoking habits. “You know, you’re right. I wouldn’t be surprised, either. The estate will certainly be wasted on Harold and Gladys or any of the other wretched family members. Except Mary Jane, of course, but I’m sure she was never mentioned in the will. Oh,” Vida said, narrowing her eyes at me, “I did manage to ask Mary Jane about the Board of Trustees meeting Saturday. She didn’t know why it had been called but assumed it was to organize a search committee to find a replacement for Hans.”

“That makes sense,” I said as the phone rang in my office. “Be right back,” I promised, hurrying to pick up the call before it trunked over to Ginny.