by Mary Daheim
“He doesn't live here,” Vida said with a faint sneer. “Einar Rasmussen Jr. lives off the highway on the river, between Grotto and Skykomish.” The distance from town was less than ten miles, but Vida's disparaging manner indicated that Einar Jr. might as well reside in the Florida Keys. Though I had lived in Alpine for seven years, I still marveled at the natives' insular attitude.
I literally inserted myself between Carla and Vida by standing in the middle of the news office. “Einar Ras-mussen Jr. is originally from Snohomish,” I explained to Carla, though it seemed that I'd already imparted the background information to her a week or more ago, “but he and his father, Einar Sr., have always had ties with both Snohomish and Skykomish counties. Until about eight years ago they owned a sawmill on the site where Einar Jr. built his house.”
“It was nine years ago when the mill shut down, before you came to Alpine, Emma,” Vida put in, with the usual implication that I was completely ignorant of the town's history before I moved in. “And don't forget Harold.”
“Yes … ah … Harold.” I had forgotten Harold, and my puzzled expression must have conveyed the oversight.
“Harold,” Vida intoned, “is Einar Jr.'s older brother. Harold lives between Monroe and Sultan. Harold has rather peculiar habits.”
The Rasmussens, it seemed, covered the route along Highway 2. “Such as?” I inquired.
“He drinks.” Vida's face was wreathed in staunch Presbyterian disapproval. “Some people blame his condition on his brother. Very silly of them, of course. I doubt that Einar Jr. opens the bottles and pours the liquor for Harold.”
I doubted that, too, but it wasn't Harold Rasmussen who had made generous donations to the college building fund. Until today, I had met Einar Jr. only once or twice; the rest of the family was unknown to me, except as a leitmotif in the history of Snohomish and Skykomish counties.
“Okay,” Carla said, still lacking enthusiasm, “I'll look for Einar Rasmussen Jr. in the directory's Skykomish section. I still think the photo session was for tomorrow. He got mixed up.”
It was pointless to argue. Though Carla was often wrong, she seldom admitted it. But that was typical of many people, including me.
Vida had turned away and was going through her in-basket. “I need 'Scene' items,” she announced without looking up.
“Scene Around Town” was Vida's weekly collection of local human interest, a kind of gossip column that was probably the best-read part of the paper. While Vida's eagle eye usually provided most of the snippets, she relied on the rest of us for help. I'd never been certain if she really needed our input or if she was checking to make sure she hadn't missed anything.
Leo had just come through the door. “Cal Vickers is going to add a new line of tires at the Texaco station,” our ad manager offered.
Vida gave a single nod, but didn't make a note. She never writes anything down; it all goes into her brain and sticks, like some cerebral bulletin board.
Ginny, who had finished feeding Brad, came in to check the coffeepot. “Carla talked to Dan and John Bour-gette. They really are serious about building a restaurant where the old warehouse burned down last fall.”
“That's a front-page story, not a 'Scene' item,” I pointed out. “A new restaurant would be big news in this town. Carla, what did the Bourgettes tell you?”
“Not much,” Carla said absently. “They're still involved in figuring out who holds the title.”
“Keep on it,” I urged, trying to come up with something for the gossip column. “Father Den traded in his eighty-five Honda for a ninety-four model,” I said, starting to head back to my office. “I saw it Sunday at Mass. It's blue.”
Vida nodded again. Having made my contribution, I turned away, but Carla caught me up short.
“I've got one, Vida. I'm pregnant. Does that count?”
I whirled around, Leo fell rather than sat in his chair, Ginny stifled a giggle, and Vida looked up so fast that she knocked her tan beret askew. “You're what?” she shrieked.
Carla let out an exasperated sigh. “You heard me. I'm pregnant. Ginny knows. The baby's due in December.”
Vida's eyes were bulging. “That's your news? Why didn't you say so?”
But Carla shook her head, the long black hair sweeping around her shoulders. “That's not my news. I mean, it's not what I have to tell you this weekend. But maybe it's not right for 'Scene.' You usually don't put baby stuff in the column until after they get here, right? You know— 'Sally So-and-so seen pushing her newborn along Railroad Avenue in a red-and-white-striped stroller.' “
“Well … I …” For once, Vida was flummoxed. “Carla!” My House & Home editor put a hand to her heaving bosom. “Really, I don't know what to say!”
Carla shrugged. “Then don't use it. I know the staff isn't supposed to be mentioned unless it's something really wild.”
“This,” I said, moving slowly but deliberately toward Carla, “qualifies as wild. Not,” I added hastily, “in a bad way.” After all, I had borne my only son out of wedlock. “How do you feel?”
“About what?” Carla gave me a puzzled look.
“In general. Physically.” I waved a hand in an agitated manner. “You know—remember how sick Ginny was the first few months when she was expecting little Brad?”
“I feel fine.” Carla continued to look at me as if I were the one who was acting strangely. “I dialed Einar Ras-mussen's number, but nobody answered. How come they don't have a machine?”
The change of subject indicated that Carla had told us as much as we were going to hear. For now. Even Vida held back, sitting up straight and adjusting her beret.
“The Rasmussens—the junior Rasmussens—” Vida began, “don't need a machine, because there's always someone home. I suspect they either didn't hear the phone or they chose not to pick it up.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, turning my gaze to Vida. “Why are they always home? I thought Einar Jr. was a busy man.”
“He is,” Vida responded, taking a sip of the ice water she always kept at hand. “I wasn't referring to him. I meant his wife, Marlys, and their son, Beau.” She gave me her gimlet eye. “Surely you've heard people around here say, 'Do you know Beau?'—and chuckle.”
If I'd ever heard the phrase, I didn't remember it. But I had heard of Marlys, and was aware of their son, Beau. They also had a daughter, as I recalled. “I don't get it,” I confessed.
With a sigh, Vida put one fist on her hip and enlightened me. “Marlys Rasmussen is rather odd. I understand that one of the reasons they built the house along the river was because Marlys didn't like being around other people. She wanted to move out of Snohomish to someplace where the neighbors weren't so close. She appears for certain social occasions, but I must say, she usually acts like a robot. A pity, too, because on one of the rare occasions that I've seen her, she actually smiled, and it simply turned her into a different person. You must wonder what makes a woman so withdrawn and unhappy.”
It wasn't surprising that I'd never met Marlys Rasmussen. “What about Beau?” I inquired.
“You tell me” Vida said in a huffy voice. “To my knowledge, no one has seen Beau in years. Yet his father refers to him constantly. Beau this, Beau that—which is why people ask, 'Do you know Beau?' It's a catchphrase, suggesting something elusive.”
“It sounds more reclusive than elusive,” I murmured.
“It sounds like a bunch of nuts,” Leo asserted.
“Now, now,” Vida demurred, with a wave of one finger. “The Rasmussens are merely different, perhaps a bit eccentric. I must admit, I don't know the family that well. As I mentioned, they've never actually lived in Alpine.” Her disparaging manner suggested that the family fed small children to circus animals.
Carla was back on the phone, perhaps trying to reach the Rasmussens. Leo had turned to his computer, and Vida, who wouldn't have surrendered her battered manual typewriter for a one-on-one software seminar with Bill Gates, began rattling the keys with her
two-finger touch system. I retreated into my office to finish the latest logging-crisis story. The afternoon wound down, its soft spring sunlight filtering through my little window. The occasional rumble of a truck or a train passing through reminded me that there was life outside of The Advocate's four walls.
Shortly before four-thirty, I'd just finished conferring with Carla and Kip MacDuff, our back-shop manager, when Vida hurtled into my office.
“Honestly!” she exclaimed. “I thought Carla would never leave! She finally went out to the back shop with Kip. Now, what is this baby business? Is it that college dean?”
“It must be,” I responded. “She's been going with Ryan Talliaferro for a year.”
Vida began to pace in her splayfooted manner. “Are they living together?”
“I don't know.” I felt like adding, How should I, when you don't? “As far as I know, Carla hasn't had a roommate since Marilynn Lewis left town to get married to Dr. Flake.”
Vida gave a brief nod. “That was last fall,” she said, referring to the nuptials between Peyton Flake, M.D., and his nurse. Rake was Caucasian, and Marilynn was African-American. While both had courage to spare, they had felt that their interracial union stood a much better chance of survival in a more cosmopolitan environment. Yet the timing of their departure seemed somewhat ironic: since the college opened the previous year, Alpine was becoming increasingly, if somewhat microscopically, more integrated.
“That's the trouble,” Vida groused, “with you assigning so much of the campus coverage to Carla. I really don't know as much as I should about these newcomers. Goodness, I'm not sure where Dean Talliaferro lives! For all I know, he could have moved in with Carla. Tsk, tsk.”
I assumed the tsk-tsks were not aimed at the couple's illicit merger, but at their lack of communication with Vida. “I've dropped by Carla's a couple of times the past few months,” I said, “but I didn't notice if there was any sign of him living there.”
Vida shot me a disparaging look. “That's the problem— so few people notice. Really, Emma, I expect better of you.”
I let the remark pass. “So what's Carla's big news?”
“Oh, that!” Vida waved a dismissive hand. “Now that she's told us she's pregnant, I can guess. She and Dean Talliaferro no doubt are getting married. Such a letdown! And how like Carla to do things backward!”
That much was true. Carla often wrote her news stories backward, paying no attention to whether the pyramid was inverted or not. The who-what-when-where-and-why of the classic newspaper lead might get buried in various parts of the story or show up in the last paragraph. Despite a degree from the University of Washington's school of communications and six years of experience, my reporter's professional lapses still appalled me. She was, however, an excellent photographer, which, along with my wishy-washy managerial tendencies, kept her safely employed.
Yet it occurred to me that if Carla was going to have a baby before the year was out, I'd need some fill-in help while she took maternity leave. “An intern,” I muttered.
“An intern?” Vida scowled. “We don't need an intern, we need a full-fledged GP. Poor Doc Dewey—he's working himself into the ground since Peyton Flake left.”
“I meant an intern for here, while Carla's having the baby. You know,” I clarified, “maybe someone from the college. It would only be for a few weeks.”
“Oh.” Vida made a face. “I thought you were referring to our current shortage of medical personnel. Do you know that Grace Grundle has to wait four weeks to get her bunions off?”
I didn't know, nor did I care. The search for a qualified physician had gone on too long, however. Only the previous week I'd written yet another editorial about the county health department's foot-dragging. Until the influx of college students, Alpine and its environs had one of the oldest populations in the state. Between the longevity of its many Scandinavian residents and the migration of young people to the city, the average age in Skykomish County was almost five years older than that of other, larger counties. But for all my carping in The Advocate, Alpine still remained a one-doc town.
If I was temporarily disinterested in the current medical crisis, Vida wasn't concerned about a replacement for Carla. “Plenty of time to worry about that,” she said. “For now, we must concentrate on this baby business. Why don't you come over to dinner tonight at my house? I'll fix a nice casserole.”
Like most of her cooking, Vida's casseroles were a mixed bag. In fact, they tasted more like she'd used a paper bag as part of the ingredients. “Don't go to the trouble,” I said hastily. “We can eat at the Venison Inn.”
“Well …” Vida fingered her chin. “I do have some errands to run after work. Why don't I meet you there a little before six? We'll avoid the rush.”
The rush in Alpine is always a relative term. What Vida really meant was that she wanted to make sure she got a window table so she could keep her eye on the passing parade down Front Street.
“Okay,” I agreed. “I'll stick around here and get caught up on a few things.”
By five, everyone else had gone home. By five-thirty, I finished going through the handouts and news releases that had piled up in my in-basket. Turning out the lights and locking up, I stepped cautiously onto the sidewalk. I would never admit it, but every time I left the office, I checked to make sure that Milo Dodge wasn't in sight. Maybe that was why I was eating lunch in so much these days. I didn't want to see him, not because I hated him, but because he didn't want to see me.
Strange, I thought, glancing the two blocks down Front Street to the Sheriff's office, how we had agreed to stay friends when we broke up. But maybe not so strange that Milo hadn't been able to keep the promise. It was my idea to stop seeing each other. He had reacted much more bitterly than I'd expected. Maybe he'd cared more than I'd ever guessed. It would have been nice if he'd told me so along the way.
There was no sign of his Cherokee Chief parked in front of the Sheriff's office. I assumed he'd gone home to his TV dinner and his baseball game. I didn't want to think about Milo sitting in front of the set and eating Swanson's Hungry-Man frozen chicken.
I didn't want to think about Milo at all.
But I did.
Chapter Two
ON TUESDAY, CARLA turned into a dynamo. She managed to get a photo of a three-car collision on Alpine Way near her apartment, she turned out a creditable story on the RUB dedication, and she filled the gaping hole on page one with the Bourgettes' restaurant plans. Last but not least, she met Einar Rasmussen Jr. at the college and shot off two rolls of film in an attempt at appeasement.
“He wasn't too awful,” Carla said later that afternoon when the paper was almost put to bed. “I think he's more bark than bite.”
“Good,” I remarked from my perch on her desk where I was proofing the cutline for the accident picture. “No injuries. That's good, too.” Two of the three vehicles, all driven by local residents, had rear-ended each other when the first had stopped short at one of Alpine's few traffic lights. Carla had managed to catch the drivers as they'd emerged from their cars and were shaking their fists in anger. I recognized an Olson, an Iverson, and a Swanson.
“I'll get the proofs back tomorrow from Buddy Bayard's,” Carla said, referring to the local photography studio that handled our developing. “I hated to do it, Emma, but I told Mr. Einarssen he could have a look.”
I glanced up from Carla's copy on the Bourgette project. “You did?” I tried not to let subjects interfere— or censor, as I termed it in the darker corner of my free press soul—with either text or visuals. But sometimes accommodations had to be made. “Well, it shouldn't be a problem. It's pretty standard stuff, isn't it? And by the way, it's Rasmussen, not Einarssen.”
“Whatever.” Carla shrugged. “Actually, I got him to stand on his head.”
My eyes widened. “You did? He could, at his age?”
At her desk, Vida harrumphed. “Einar Jr.'s not as old as I am. Why shouldn't he stand on his head?”
“I think he got a charge out of it,” Carla said, exhibiting her dimples. “Mr. Einarssen has a frisky side.”
“Rasmussen,” I repeated. I'd definitely have to check Carla's outline for accuracy. Only last week she'd typed Ku Klutz Klan into an article about Mayor Fuzzy Baugh's youth in Louisiana and his allegedly valiant stand against the KKK.
The Bourgette story read well, however. Dan and John had nailed down the title, and taken out a loan to buy the property from the city. The terms were generous, since Mayor Fuzzy was probably glad to get the fire-scarred eyesore off his hands.
“Say,” I said, finishing the story, “how come Einar Jr. is so down on the Bourgette brothers? He was very critical of them when he was in here yesterday.”
Vida eyed me over the rims of her glasses. “Really, Emma! Don't you know?”
I shook my head. “Know what? He said they weren't as smart as his son, Beau. The Bourgettes didn't have business sense.”
“Einar Jr. would say anything derogatory about the Bourgettes,” Vida responded. “They're his nephews.”
I was surprised—and puzzled. “Why is that? A family feud?” The Hatfields and McCoys had nothing on Alpine. Internecine quarrels were as common as gopher holes.
“Of course.” Vida stood up, crossed the room, and handed me “Scene Around Town.” “Mary Jane Ras-mussen Bourgette is Einar Jr. and Harold's sister. She married a Catholic. Naturally, that didn't set well with Einar Sr. and his wife, Thyra. They're Lutheran to their toes.”
I frowned at Vida. “You teased me about forgetting Harold Rasmussen. Now you tell me there's a Mary Jane, too? Did you forget her until now?”