by Mary Daheim
“What if it's an Indian burial ground?” Dan seemed disturbed by the possibility.
Milo, however, shook his head. “I doubt it. I was born and raised here, and I never heard of any Indian burial ground. If there had been, somebody would have raised a ruckus a long time ago.”
“So what do you think, Sheriff?” Milo's assurances hadn't wiped away Dan's worried expression.
Milo shrugged. “Who knows? My best guess is that since the warehouse was next to the train tracks, some hobo jumped off a freight, hid out, and OD'd on white lightning.”
Relief flooded Dan's face, and John managed a smile. “That makes sense,” John asserted, then put out his hand. “Thanks, Sheriff.”
As Milo headed to the Cherokee Chief to get an evidence bag, I followed him. “What if you're wrong?” I asked, trying to keep up with his long, loping strides.
He barely turned to look at me. “Then I'm wrong. Why do you care? Your paper's already out this week.”
The comment rankled. John and Dan's discovery wouldn't be as old as the bones they'd dug up, but it would certainly be stale by the time the news was published in The Advocate.
“Maybe you'll have some answers by next week's edition,” I said, acid coating my words.
Milo opened the rear of his vehicle and took out a big plastic evidence bag. “Maybe I will. Don't expect me to call if I do.” He loped back to the Bourgettes.
I'd seen enough of the Sheriff. With a shout and a wave, I bade the Bourgettes farewell and got into my old Jag. Five minutes later the car was back in its usual place by The Advocate, and I was on the third floor of the Cle-mans Building, where Sandford Clay holds forth as an assay er and appraiser.
Sandy was already occupied. As I entered the small, jumbled office the assayer was talking to a thin-faced Japanese-American man in his thirties who I recognized as Scott Kuramoto, a part-time math instructor at the college.
“Emma!” Sandy's parchmentlike skin stretched into a grin. “To what do I owe this honor? I haven't seen you up here since you brought in your aunt's 1908 British gold crown.”
“It was my grandfather's,” I replied, “but you're right. How are you, Sandy? And you, Scott? I'm Emma Lord from the newspaper, and I'm not sure we've been formally introduced.” I held out my hand.
Scott shook it somewhat diffidently. “I've seen you around town,” he said in a soft voice. “You work for Mrs. Runkel.”
I grimaced. “Actually, it's the other way around. But an easy mistake to make.” And not an uncommon one. “Vida exudes authority.”
Sandy, who wears small, rectangular glasses with wire rims and very thick lenses, chuckled. “That she does, Emma. That she does.” Abruptly, he frowned. “I don't understand why Vida wasn't more interested in our little mystery. It's not like her to be uncurious.”
I drew back a bit and stared. “It's not. What little mystery are you talking about?”
Sandy lifted a chamois cloth from a battered metal chest. I knew immediately what he was talking about. But I was still puzzled. “Is this the chest the firefighters found? You say Vida wasn't interested?”
Sandy gave a nod. “That's what I heard. What's her name? Carla? She said it was old news, and nobody at the paper, Vida included, would bother writing about it.”
Delicate condition or not, I felt like kicking Carla. “When did she tell you this?”
“Urn …” Sandy scratched his bald head. “Last fall? That's right, it was just before Thanksgiving, about a month after the fire.”
I could imagine Carla, lost in the fresh haze of a new love, not wanting to bother passing on an item she wasn't interested in covering. “What was the information?” I asked, still envisioning my foot planted in Carla's backside.
“This.” Sandy tapped the box. “Scott here and I were just checking it out before we turn it over to Mayor Baugh. He wants to use the nuggets to finance a petting zoo by the Overholt farm.”
It wasn't the worst idea I'd ever heard, but it came close. “How much? Did someone say the nuggets were worth three hundred grand?”
Again, Sandy nodded once. “Approximately. That's the value I appraised them at. But the thing is, I hate to hand the nuggets over to Fuzzy until we've exhausted all possibilities of finding the rightful owner.”
Scott made a lithe movement with one hand, lifting the lid of the metal chest. The nuggets were there, not glittering like pirate loot on a movie set, but dull and lumpy and unimpressive. Only when Scott stepped back out of the direct light could I see a gleam or two of precious metal.
“Sandy asked me to take another look today,” Scott explained in that soft, soothing voice. “All I can find is the name Yoshida.” He indicated some Japanese characters on the side of the chest. “It could be a first name, it could be a last name. Frankly, it's not much to go on, especially not after all this time.”
“How old do you think the chest is?” I asked.
“I can pinpoint it to the turn of the century,” Sandy replied, “give or take a few years. It's a McFarland case, and they went out of business in 1906. But there's no trademark on it, just the name, which means it was probably manufactured before 1900, when the government tightened up regulations requiring the publication of patent registrations.”
I felt myself blanch. What if there was a connection between the chest and the bones at the warehouse site?
What if the chest and its treasure of nuggets had been the downfall of those old bones? I started to tell Sandy and Scott about the Bourgettes' discovery, then thought better of it. There was not yet any official word on whether the fragments belonged to a human being. If I couldn't print the story right away, I certainly wasn't going to spread rumors.
“Who actually found the chest?” I asked as Sandy lowered the lid.
“Urn … one of the volunteer firefighters. Which one?” He gazed at Scott, hoping for an answer.
“Pat Dugan,” Scott answered. Then, though I didn't need elucidating, he added, “Pat teaches part-time at the college, too. That's how I know. He was kind of excited. It was his first fire after he joined up as a volunteer.”
I'd seen Pat at Mass, accompanied by a pretty, dark-haired young woman who I assumed was his wife. We had never met, but Father Den had pointed Pat out to me one Sunday and identified him as one of the part-timers at SkyCoCo.
“Is there some way you could advertise?” I inquired, dismissing Pat Dugan from my mind. “You know—a blind ad in The Advocate and the other area papers to anyone named Yoshida, saying you have something of interest for him. Or her.”
Sandy rolled his eyes behind the heavy lenses. “I thought of that. But there must be thirty Yoshidas in the Seattle directory alone. We'd have a stampede on our hands, Emma. And how could any one of them prove the gold was theirs? Whoever mined those nuggets has probably been dead for one heck of a long time.”
I thought of the bones, and guessed that Sandy was right.
* * *
Vida was in a snit. “Really! So rude! I'm not sending flowers or a memorial or any such thing to Einar's funeral! Marlys has no manners!”
“What,” I asked, barely inside the door of the news office, “did she do—or didn't do—now?”
Vida set her chin on her hands. “She won't even come to the phone. Neither will Beau, the so-called genius son. And it wasn't Gladys Rasmussen who answered, but the daughter, Deirdre. I thought she lived in Mountlake Terrace.”
“Maybe she does, maybe she's here because her father died,” I said mildly.
But Vida shook her head. “No. She's not in the most recent phone book for the north Seattle suburbs. I checked. She's divorced, so I looked under both Rasmussen and her married name, Nichols. In fact, I checked all the directories west of the Cascades and north of Olympia. No Deirdre of any kind. So I must conclude that she moved in with her parents.”
“Or a man.” Leo spoke up, having just gotten off the phone. “That's what I'd figure, Duchess.”
“You would,” Vida snapped. “And
don't call me Duchess. You know how I despise nicknames.”
With Brad tugging at her slacks, Ginny came through the door to check the coffeepot. “I almost forgot, Emma. That Swedish girl who works for Ed and Shirley came by a few minutes ago to see you. I asked her to wait, but she wouldn't. I think she was upset about something.”
“Birgitta?” We'd run a brief story on her in the latest edition, but it hadn't quite yet hit the streets. “If she really needs to see me, she'll come back.” I took in the presence of three of my five regular staffers and decided to confide in them about the bones. Ginny looked horrified, Leo seemed bemused, and Vida chewed at her lower lip.
“Human, apparently?” She saw me nod. “It's quite clear, isn't it? Someone was killed over the gold that was found in that chest. If ever murder and motive were linked, there it is.”
Leo demurred. “So why was the gold with the victim and not the killer?”
“Fear,” Vida said promptly. “Someone was coming into the warehouse. The killer had to run off and leave the gold.”
“And never came back?” Leo was justifiably skeptical.
Vida, however, was undaunted. “Perhaps the killer was also killed. Violent people often meet violent ends.”
“When,” I asked of Vida, who ought to know, “was the warehouse built?”
“Oh—let me think—in the Twenties, before I was born. It had to be then,” she added, “because until a few years after World War One, the only major buildings in Alpine were the mill and the social hall.”
I knew she was right. I had a framed photograph in my office of the entire population of Alpine standing on the loading dock, with a huge American flag. They had won it for selling more Liberty Bonds per capita than any other city or town in the state. The residents' pride practically blistered the glass on the picture. But there was no warehouse next to the platform.
“Then nobody was killed in the warehouse because it didn't exist.” I explained about Sandy Clay and Scott Kuramoto's research.
Vida made a steeple of her fingers. “Nothing was here at the turn of the century,” she said. “Alpine was Nippon then, and only a whistle-stop on the new Great Northern line.”
“But there were mines,” I pointed out.
“Yes, but no dwellings. Unless,” Vida noted, “you count tents. They probably had tents.”
“You're going to read up on all this, right?”
Vida sat up very straight, thrusting her bust. “Of course! Are you calling me dilatory?”
“No.” I grinned. “Never that. But now you have a starting place for your research.”
Vida looked somewhat appeased. Ginny removed Brad from the lower drawer of a filing cabinet, Leo returned to the telephone, and I went into my office. Half an hour later Ed called. He'd just received his issue of The Advocate.
“Six lines on page/?”/-?” Ed cried. “You buried me, Emma! What's happened to your nose for news?”
“It fell off,” I retorted. “Ed, you showed up right at five. You know how tough it is getting an item in the paper after the issue's been sent to the back shop.”
“What about page one? What about giving me more space?” he complained. “You could have moved the new bridge story back inside. You're always running a new bridge story. You could have jumped the piece on Einar. The guy didn't even live up here until a few years ago. And what about this picture with Einar's feet sticking out from behind Milo and Jack? Isn't that kind of ghoulish?”
It probably was. If I hadn't been mad at Milo, I might not have run such a shot. But I wouldn't admit that to Ed. “It's news, Ed. That's how it works. You were in advertising, remember? You didn't do news. Not then, not now.”
“But I know readership,” he countered. “Believe me, Emma,” he went on, his tone darkening, “you'll hear about this from other subscribers.”
“I'll wait. Look, Ed, when you have more on the Hollywood deal, we'll definitely put it on page one, okay?” I didn't wait for his response. “And by the way, I understand Birgitta came to see me a while ago. Is she around?” I might as well use the au pair girl as a means of getting rid of Ed.
“Huh?” There was a pause at Ed's end of the line. “Bir-gitta? Hey, Shirl—is Gitty here?”
Shirley's response was indecipherable, so I waited for Ed. “Nope, she's out. She had some errands to run for us. I needed shoelaces and Shirl was out of Band-Aids.”
Though it wasn't easy, I refrained from saying anything snide. My priority was getting Ed off the line before he started complaining again. Somehow, I managed. As I replaced the receiver Vida entered the office, still looking disgruntled.
My earlier misinterpreted remarks weren't the cause of her annoyance, however. “Edna Mae Dalrymple just called from the library. She's volunteered to do a story on Thyra Rasmussen.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” Vida remained standing. “Edna Mae has been in touch with Thyra in Snohomish. The old bag has quite a collection of… well, a collection. Edna Mae has been extending her search for library exhibits to Snohomish County, since she claims to have run out of items from Skykomish County to show off in her tawdry little display case. Of course that's partly because Edna Mae has the imagination of a cedar stump. Now it seems that with Einar's murder, Edna Mae suddenly thinks she's a journalist, for heaven's sake, and wants to write the story for next week's paper, because, as she put it in that twit-tery little voice of hers that sounds like a dyspeptic chickadee, 'Anything about the Rasmussens has extra news value.' “ She made a disgusted face, but her mimicry of Edna Mae was dead on.
I, too, reacted with displeasure, but for a different reason. Every once in a while, we have a guest writer or columnist. Usually, it's an expert from the national parks, the fish hatchery, or the forest service. But once in a while we find someone who is semiliterate and can produce an article that doesn't require an editorial hatchet job. In fact, Edna Mae had done a creditable job a couple of years back on how young people could and should use the public library. Putting all these rational facts aside, I demanded to know why Edna Mae hadn't called me.
Vida's mouth twitched. “You were on the other line.”
“So?” Noting that Vida's mouth still twitched, I clapped a hand to my head. “Edna Mae told you about the small scene with Milo, right? Damn it—darn it—was she afraid I'd yell at her, too?”
“I believe,” Vida said, now composing her face into a typical owlish expression, “she did mention the word uncouth.”
“Rats!” I was having trouble not being uncouth in front of Vida. “To heck with it. What did you tell her about the story?”
“Why, that I'd check with you, naturally.” Vida's innocence was overdone.
I slumped in my chair. “What's the peg? Besides Einar getting murdered, that is.”
“It's a bribe,” Vida responded, her tone and manner more natural. “Frankly, I think the story would be in poor taste under any circumstances so soon after Einar's death. But apparently Edna Mae wants to write about Thyra to coax the old bat into loaning her gewgaws to the library. I didn't hold out much hope for publication.”
I agreed with Vida. No matter how tactful the slant, it was impossible to run any kind of story about the Ras-mussen family that didn't deal with their recent tragedy.
“Edna Mae will have to come up with some other plan to coerce Mrs. Rasmussen,” I said, then added as an afterthought, “How long has she been needling the old girl?”
“Months,” Vida replied. “Edna Mae is many things— and also isn't—but she's not a ghoul. Nor am I surprised that Thyra isn't willing to part, even temporarily, with her so-called collection. The wretched woman has always been incredibly selfish and given to material excess.”
While Vida tends to be critical of people in general, her attitude toward Thyra Rasmussen struck me as particularly harsh. I made no comment, however, but though I knew the answer, I asked if she intended to go to the funeral.
“Certainly. Just because I refuse to send flowers do
esn't mean I won't attend the services. Someone has to cover them,” Vida responded, obviously preserving funerals for her part of the paper. “Are you going?” She looked somewhat dubious.
“I'm not sure,” I answered, then fingered the phone. “I suppose I should call to see if the autopsy report came through. Not that we're in any rush, since the paper's already out.”
“I can call,” Vida volunteered.
It was a tempting offer, but I had to keep on top of the news story. “I'll wait until later this afternoon,” I said. Maybe Milo would be gone by then.
Vida returned to her desk and I started cleaning my in-basket with its usual accumulation of news releases, press handouts, and sales pitches. Ten minutes later Bir-gitta Lindholm stepped warily into my office. Her impressive stature, her long, golden hair, and the glow from her well-scrubbed skin seemed to overwhelm my dingy little cubbyhole.
“Ms. Lindholm,” I said, rising to greet her and feeling short, dumpy, and rumpled, “I heard you came by earlier. How can I help you?”
“You may” she said, indicating her English grammar was better than mine, “help me by permitting to read your newspapers of old.”
The grammar illusion was dispelled, though not her height, youth, or beauty. “You mean back issues? Earlier editions?” I searched for the proper phrase.
“From the past, yes.” She nodded gravely.
I resumed my seat, and indicated that Birgitta should sit, too. She didn't. “How far into the past?” I asked.
“I'm not certain.” The glacier-blue eyes roamed around my cubbyhole. I thought she exuded distaste for the meanness and clutter. “Where may I do this? When?”
I shrugged. “Now, if you like. The bound volumes are out in the news office. They go back to the original paper, The Alpine Blabber. It wasn't put out on a regular basis, but began publishing around 1916. We also have copies of the Alpine yearbook, which began somewhat earlier.” The yearbook was primarily the work of Carl Clemans, and included not only major happenings in Alpine, but the annual Thanksgiving Day dinner menu, hosted by the Alpine Logging Company.