by Mary Daheim
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.”
Chapter Four
MY 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 mi
ll 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.”
Vic Thorstensen complied. While Carla fidgeted next to the industrial-size range, I peered over Del's shoulder.
There was blood, soaking Einar's sport coat, pooling on the pristine tile floor. Carla screamed and I let out a strange, strangled cry. Jack Mullins moved swiftly between the medics.
“What the hell?” the deputy muttered. “Rasmussen's jacket is torn. It looks like he's been stabbed!”
Carla threw herself at me. “I'm going to faint! I'm going to be sick!”
Fortunately, Carla is even smaller than I am, but her sudden weight knocked me off balance. I staggered against the service counter, trying to hold her up.
“Let's get you out of here,” I said in a ragged voice. “Come on, sit down at one of the cafeteria tables.”
Somehow, I managed to get Carla out into the dining area. She didn't want to be left alone, but I insisted on going back into the kitchen, where I told Del Amundson that my reporter might need some medical attention.
“She's about three months pregnant,” I said, my voice low and still unsteady. “I don't want this to trigger a miscarriage. See if you can do anything for her.”
Since Del obviously couldn't do anything for Einar Jr., he went out into the main part of the cafeteria. Vic Thorstensen remained with Jack, examining the body. I kept my distance, but began to look around the kitchen area. There were no knives or any other sharp instruments visible.
“Who found Rasmussen?” Jack asked, getting to his feet. “You or Carla?”
“Carla,” I answered. “She'd come here to take a picture of him for the RUB dedication issue.”
“We'll have to get her to make a statement,” Jack said, taking off his regulation hat and rubbing at his curly auburn hair. He gave me his slightly cockeyed gaze. “Did you say Carla's knocked up?”
As rattled as I was by the sight of Einar Jr.'s corpse, I took offense. Indeed, Jack's crudeness helped me find my composure. “No, I didn't say that. But she is expecting a baby.”
“Yeah, right, okay.” Jack had the grace to turn red, then he stared down at Einar again. “I've called for Doc Dewey, but I don't know how soon he can get here. Now that he's the only MD in town, his job as medical examiner may take second place.”
Del had returned to the kitchen, where he motioned to his partner. “I think we'd better take the little mother-to-be to the hospital. She's pretty shook up. That okay, Jack?”
Jack gave a single nod. “Sure. Just come back afterward so you can haul Rasmussen away. I'm not going to try to stuff him into my patrol car.”
Now it was Del's turn to look faintly aghast at Jack's attitude. “I hope not. Rasmussen was a big noise around this county. You and Dodge better play this one close to your chests.”
“Right, right, we know our job.” Jack, who is usually easygoing, was getting testy. “I called Dodge. He's on his way over.”
I turned my back so that Jack couldn't see my grimace. “You don't need me,” I said. “I'll go to the hospital with Carla.”
Jack scowled. “Better not. One of you should stay around to explain how Rasmussen got here in the first place. You know what a stickler Dodge is for details.”
I knew it well. With a sigh of resignation, I went out into the dining area to check on Carla before the medics took her away.
“I don't need a stretcher, honest,” she was saying to Del Amundson. “I can walk.”
“Hey, sweetheart,” Del said in his kindly manner, “we got it right here. Let's use it. Come on, you never know. First babies can play funny tricks on you. You been seeing Doc Dewey?”
To my surprise, Carla shook her head. “No. I've been going to Dr. Conreid in Sultan.” As she allowed the medics to help her onto the gurney, she turned a wan face to me. “That's where I was last Monday. Ginny went with me. I couldn't get an appointment with Doc Dewey until this coming Wednesday.”
I gave Carla a weak little smile. “I know, he's jammed these days. You do what Doc tells you, though. He may want to keep you overnight, so let him.”
Del and Vic wheeled my reporter away. I wandered back into the kitchen area, where Jack Mullins was putting on a pair of plastic gloves. “If you're going to stick around in here, you'd better dress the part,” he said, handing me a second pair. “Have you touched anything yet?”
I tried to remember. “No, I don't think so. I know the drill.”
Jack nodded. “Where the hell's the weapon?”
“I didn't see one,” I said. “Carla and I didn't even realize Einar had been stabbed until the medics rolled him over.”
A siren sounded in the background, either the ambulance leaving or Milo arriving. I also heard other noises, then voices. Jack and I looked out into the cafeteria. A half-dozen students and President Ignacio Cardenas were marching into the dining area.
“Damn it,” Jack breathed. “We should have locked the frigging doors. Hey,” he called, hurrying out of the kitchen, “this place is off-limits.”
President Cardenas, who preferred to be called Nat, stopped halfway between the cafeteria door and the
serving counter. “Mullins, is it?” His darkly handsome face looked troubled. “What's going on? I just saw an ambulance leave.”
Jack gestured at the students. “Get these kids out of here. There's been an accident. Go on, clear out.”
The students, four girls and a boy probably not yet twenty, stared at Jack, then at each other. Cardenas put his hand on the boy's shoulder. “Go on, Angel. Do as Deputy Mullins tells you.”
With obvious reluctance, the half-dozen students moved off just as Milo Dodge came into the cafeteria. Seeing the young people, he called after them: “You! Lock those doors as you leave. You got that?”
I couldn't see from my place behind the counter, but assumed that the unmistakable authority in Milo's voice would be obeyed. At last I edged forward and saw both the college president and the Sheriff look at me in surprise.
“Emma Lord,” Nat Cardenas said with a shadow of his usual brilliant, if aloof smile.
“What're you doing here?” demanded Milo with a deep scowl.
But the Sheriff didn't really want to know, not yet at any rate. He was through the swinging half doors and into the kitchen with Cardenas at his heels.
“Good God Almighty!” Nat Cardenas cried when he saw Einar's body. “What's happened?”
“Somebody whacked your big benefactor,” Jack responded, then softened his stance. “He's been stabbed, sir. Please stand back.”
Nat Cardenas looked stricken. “Rasmussen? No! That's …” He couldn't seem to finish the sentence. “Who did this?” Suddenly Cardenas was angry, wheeling around to face Milo.
“In case you didn't notice, Nat, I just got here,” Milo said, his jaw set in that familiar manner which didn't take guff from anybody. “You got any ideas?”
Nat Cardenas glanced at me, and I could have sworn that I'd become Suspect Number One. The black eyes were hard and the finely etched mouth was set in a grim line.
“Why are you here?” he asked, his tone cold as January ice.
“Good question,” Milo said, also putting on plastic gloves. “Go ahead, Emma, explain yourself.”