The Alpine Kindred

by Mary Daheim

  “Where's Beau?”

  Vida snorted. “Who knows? Whoever knows about Beau?”

  Harold Rasmussen helped Marlys as she threw a handful of dirt onto the casket. He was taller than his late brother, but very thin, and seemed to have none of Einar Jr.'s self-possession. In fact, he appeared almost as wobbly as his sister-in-law.

  The graveside service concluded. Several people—but none of the Bourgette contingent—clustered around the family. Only Deirdre chose not to escape. Two men in dark suits, presumably from the funeral home, gently shooed away the would-be offers of condolence. Leaning on Harold, Marlys Rasmussen got into the limousine, followed by Thyra and Gladys. Einar Sr. and his wheelchair were put in a second limo. At last, Richard and Mary Jane Bourgette approached Deirdre.

  Vida tugged my arm. “Closer,” she whispered. “We must get closer.”

  “Vida!” I exclaimed. “This is a private moment!”

  “Of course!” She gave me another tug; I had no choice but to follow.

  Victor Jorgensen, pallbearer and distant cousin, had also edged closer to Deirdre. He hung back just enough for tact's sake, but his blue eyes were vigilant.

  There would be no scene, however. Mary Jane Rasmussen Bourgette held out both gloved hands and Deirdre reluctantly took them. “You don't know me, Deirdre,” I heard Mary Jane say, “but I'm your aunt. And this,” she added, turning to her husband, “is your uncle Richard. We're both very sorry about your father. Is there anything we can do?”

  Deirdre seemed nonplussed. “Aunt Mary Jane?” She allowed the other woman to squeeze her hands before drawing back. “No. We're okay. But thanks.”

  Scott Kuramoto had quietly inserted himself between aunt and niece. I hadn't seen him until now, but he had approached from the vicinity of a tall cedar not far from the grave.

  “Deirdre has to leave,” he said in his soft, quiet voice. “The car's waiting.”

  “Of course,” said Mary Jane, her usually vivacious face somber. “Remember, if you ever need anything, anything at all, call us.”

  Deirdre murmured something which I couldn't hear. Along with the two young women, Dan and John Bour-gette joined their parents.

  “Let her go,” John said in a vexed tone. “I don't know why we came in the first place.”

  Richard Bourgette, a handsome, white-haired man near sixty, put an arm around his wife. “Your mother wanted to do this. It meant a lot to her, John.”

  John and Dan exchanged glances. There was neither sympathy nor understanding in them. But I had a feeling that their anger wasn't with Mary Jane, but with the man who had just been laid to rest in the GAR Cemetery.

  Chapter Ten

  WE STOPPED FOR lunch at the Dutch Cup in Sultan. Vida was full of surmises. “Marlys is clearly upset by Einar's death. I must speak with her. Thyra is showing the world she's indestructible. I wonder if I could stand calling on her? It was very kind of the Bourgettes to attend, but the boys only came because Mary Jane asked them to. Did you think Harold was drunk? Gladys is a waste of time. Why would she be so upset and need to lean on Harold? Maybe she was drunk, too. Deirdre seemed all right, but you told me she was angry with her father. No sign of her son—what's his name? Davin? But of course I didn't expect him to show up if he's run away. He probably doesn't know his grandfather is dead. As for Beau—well, he's a recluse, and that's that. Do you know Beau? as they say. I suspect he's mental. Which might mean he killed his father, except that he never leaves the house. It would be much easier for him to have murdered Einar at home. So convenient. What do you think?”

  My head was whirling. “As I said earlier, I think Milo knows who killed Einar. Maybe he was waiting until after the funeral to make an arrest. If,” I added, putting salt and pepper on my green salad, “the murderer is actually a member of the family circle.”

  “I don't know,” Vida mused. “Again, why follow Einar to the college to kill him? On the other hand, it's neutral turf. Maybe we were meant to think it wasn't a relative just because the murder occurred elsewhere.”

  I heaved a sigh. “Einar Sr. is too feeble. Thyra wouldn't come all the way to Alpine to kill her son. She expects to be waited on, hand and foot. According to what you've told me, Marlys is almost as much of a recluse as Beau. Besides, she seemed genuinely distraught.”

  “It could be an act,” Vida noted between mouthfuls of coleslaw.

  “It could,” I allowed, “but you already mentioned that she rarely goes out. Harold is another matter. Didn't you say he resented being overlooked by Einar Sr. when it came to running their business ventures?”

  Vida made a face. “His resentment took the form of drinking gin out of milk cartons. Half-gallon size, I believe. Why wait forty years?”

  “Good point. The same argument holds true for his wife, Gladys. I'm counting them out.”

  “Mmm. Perhaps.” Vida beamed as the waitress delivered her stuffed pork chop. “Deirdre. She was angry with her father. She blamed him for her son's disappearance. Except that he didn't really disappear. Didn't you say she told you that Einar Jr. knew where Davin was?”

  I nodded. “Still, I don't see Deirdre as a killer. With Einar dead, how could she ever find out where Davin was?”

  “People are unpredictable,” Vida observed. “Her anger may have boiled up. But there's that lipstick on Einar's shirt. I trust—I hope—it wasn't Deirdre's.”

  I'd forgotten about the lipstick. “I wonder if Milo has traced that to anyone,” I said, biting into my beef dip. “Did you ask Bill Blatt?”

  “Yes,” Vida responded, her quick glance taking in the latest arrivals at the restaurant. “Nothing so far.” She bobbed her head. “Harold and Gladys Rasmussen. Why didn't they stay at the private reception?”

  The Rasmussens had seated themselves across the aisle from us and several booths away, near the door. Gladys had removed both hat and veil. I caught a glimpse of her puddinglike face for the first time. She now seemed composed, even docile. All I could see of Harold was his comb-over.

  “They live around here, right?” I'd lowered my voice, though the restaurant was busy, and I doubted that the Rasmussens could hear us.

  “Just the other side of Sultan,” Vida responded, still trying to discreetly ogle the newcomers. “Toward Monroe. Do you think they're drunk?”

  “How should I know?” I grumbled. “Quit harping on booze. They drove here without killing anybody, didn't they?”

  “Don't be flippant,” Vida admonished. “Really, I should speak with them. Condolences, you know.” With a hand to her black straw with its twin black birds, Vida slid out of the booth and made for the Rasmussens.

  It took at least a full minute before she finagled an invitation to sit down next to Gladys. I ate and observed. The birds on Vida's hat dipped in sympathy, tilted with interest, and swooped with curiosity. I had finished my meal when she returned to our booth.

  “They're not drunk,” Vida announced in a voice that might have carried to the Rasmussens. “They didn't go to the private reception because Gladys is terrified of her mother-in-law. But guess who did.”

  “The senior Bourgettes?” It seemed like a logical guess.

  Vida looked disappointed. “Yes. I was surprised. Just Mary Jane and Richard. None of the others.”

  Admittedly, I didn't know Mary Jane and her husband.

  But I had seen their faces at the cemetery, and if not steeped in sorrow, they had shown regret. It was too late for Mary Jane to reconcile with her brother, but perhaps she could come to terms with her parents.

  “How are Harold and Gladys reacting to Einar's murder?” I asked as a pair of fishermen sat down in the booth across from us.

  “Well …” Vida paused in devouring her pork chop. “Harold expressed great sadness. Gladys said little, but indicated a sense of loss. Form, I thought, rather than genuine feeling. But I could be wrong.”

  “At least they weren't malicious,” I remarked. “Even if Einar drew quite a crowd, I wonder how many of the so-called m
ourners were actually sorry to see him go.”

  “Yes.” Vida lapped up the sage stuffing. “Pretense, hypocrisy, social obligations. That's what I sensed.”

  The fishermen were grousing about the lack of steel-head in the Sky, an old refrain that I'd often heard from Milo. We paid our bill and left, with a nod to Harold and Gladys Rasmussen. It was still raining, with a stiff wind blowing across the highway. We went through Startup, where I was amused, as always, by the small white church with its long-standing sign which read FOR SALE BY OWNER. We passed the road into Buck Bardeen's house, and I asked Vida how dinner had gone Thursday night at Cafe Flore.

  “Fine,” she said. “I think Henry Bardeen and Linda Grant are courting.”

  Henry, who was manager of the ski lodge, had been widowed for many years, and had a grown daughter who worked for him. Linda had been teaching high school PE long before I arrived in Alpine. Like Edna Mae, she was a member of our bridge group.

  “That's nice,” I said. “I get the feeling that Henry would like to marry again.” Then, because I couldn't resist the puckish question, I asked Vida if Buck was also so inclined.

  “Buck is very satisfied with his present situation,” she answered in an even tone. “His wife has only been dead five years. Their four children are nicely settled in various parts of the country, and because Buck is retired from the air force, he can fly for free and visit whenever he wishes. Not all men—or women—leap from one marriage to the next after a spouse has passed away.”

  Vida's message was hardly subtle, and the retaliation was deserved. I didn't respond. During the rest of the journey, we spoke of other things, including her proposed trip to the college library.

  “I've gone through everything at the public library,” she explained, “which is virtually what's always been there, and isn't news to me. However, I have yet to visit the library on campus. I've been remiss, and now I ought to see if they have more historical information about the area than Edna Mae and her cronies have been able to acquire.”

  I volunteered to go with Vida. I'd used the college library a couple of times, seeking material for editorials. Its business-and-public-affairs collection was impressive, and partially donated by the Doukas family, whose members were some of Alpine's wealthier citizens. In fact, Simon Doukas, who was an attorney, served on the college's board of trustees. I wondered if he had been the other member who had gone along with Einar Jr.'s rejection of Scott Kuramoto and Pat Dugan. As I recalled from a family tragedy several years ago, Simon had prejudices of his own.

  The rain had dwindled into a drizzle by the time we pulled into the parking lot. Inside the library, we found Maylene Bjornson at the main desk. Vida hailed her with a wave and a yoo-hoo which caused some of the dozen students to look up from their reading materials.

  “I heard you were working here,” Vida said, not bothering to lower her voice. “How nice. I've always thought libraries would be a pleasant environment.”

  “It's okay,” Maylene said in a flat voice. “It beats hustling toilet plungers at Harvey's Hardware.”

  “My yes,” Vida agreed. “I see you're here on a Saturday. Does that mean you've gotten on full-time?”

  Maylene shook her head, which was covered with tiny corkscrew auburn curls. “I put in thirty hours a week, usually on Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and either Friday or Saturday. This is my week to pull Saturday duty. It's a pain. The whole weekend is blown.”

  “That is hard,” Vida agreed, at her most sympathetic. “Especially with teenagers at home. Does Ron have to work weekends, too?”

  “Not usually, the lucky stiff.” Maylene rested her plump elbows on the counter. “I've been trying to get him to do some car-repair work on his off days, or even in the afternoons when he doesn't go to work until five or six. But he says he needs to do stuff around the house, which is true. The only trouble is, he never does much of anything.”

  As often happens, I felt like Vida's stooge. “Ron told me that the repair business had gone south,” I put in, just in case Maylene thought I'd become invisible as well as mute.

  Maylene's hazel eyes widened. “He told you that? When?”

  “The other day,” I said, hoping to sound casual.

  Maylene gave a little snort. “Well, it's not what it used to be, with all the rigs going out of business. But there's still plenty of work, if only because he undercuts Cal Vickers and the dealerships. Ron won't admit it, but he's lazy”

  A student wearing army fatigues came up to the desk to check out some books. Maylene's attention was momentarily diverted. When she got back to us, Vida asked where we might find material on early Skykomish County history. Maylene directed us to three different sections, including periodicals.

  “I'll take those,” Vida said, bustling between the stacks. “You look at the books in the Pacific Northwest section.”

  “Thanks, Vida.” But my sarcasm was lost; Vida had already turned a corner and was headed for the microfiche. I found a handful of volumes which dealt primarily with railroad building, mining, and timber. Sitting at an empty table, I checked out the indices. There was nothing I hadn't seen before at the public library.

  Discouraged, I returned the history books and selected some biographies. There wasn't much, at least not on local personalities. Alpine has produced few people worthy of biographical fame.

  I was flipping through a work on James J. Hill when Vida hurried over to my niche. Her hat was askew, and the birds looked as if they were trying to commit suicide.

  “Oh, my!” Her voice had finally hushed. “I can't believe this! I never knew, truly I didn't! No one—no one— ever mentioned such a thing to me!”

  “What?” I couldn't imagine the cause of Vida's consternation.

  She held out a scrap of paper, apparently borrowed from the library. Since Vida never took notes, I was even more surprised. “Cathouses,” she whispered. “Five of them along Highway 2, between Scenic and Skykomish, which means they were just below Alpine. Cathouses!” she repeated.

  I suppressed a smile. “When?” The scrap of paper showed only the names, which included the Onion Patch and the Mouse's Ear.

  “In the early part of the century, while the railroad was being built and then maintained. Supposedly,” Vida went on, sinking down into the chair next to mine, “they were for the pleasure of the railroad workers. How could I not know?”

  Over the years I gathered that Vida's parents, Earl and Muriel Blatt, were prim and proper people, so it didn't seem strange that they'd keep such a seamy secret. The reputation of Alpine itself, especially under the beneficent aegis of Carl Clemans, was of a town steeped in old-fashioned virtues.

  “So what have brothels got to do with gold?” I asked.

  Vida chewed at her lower lip. “Nothing, I suppose. Still, reading about Scenic and the other towns along the Great Northern route reminded me of the Japanese workers who came here in the 1890s. Some later became section hands. I'd forgotten until now, because by the time they left, I was still a child.”

  I wasn't sure where Vida's reminiscences were leading. “So you're talking about—when? The Twenties—the Thirties?”

  “Both,” Vida responded. “A group of a half-dozen or so Japanese railroad workers lived at Tye, just up Highway 2 from Alpine. Very nice men, my father always said, and excellent baseball players. But I wonder if they might have known a man named Yoshida.”

  “They might have known fifty Yoshidas,” I noted. “According to Sandy Clay, it's not an uncommon name. Besides, if they were here in the Thirties, they must have returned to Japan or been interned during World War Two.”

  “Maud Dodd,” said Vida, seemingly from out of nowhere. “Maud lived in Tye as a girl. Now she's in the retirement home here in Alpine.”

  I still wasn't following her train of thought. “Maud Dodd would remember a Japanese section hand with a good glove at second base who just happened to know the Yoshida with a metal chest full of gold nuggets?” My skepticism was obvious. “Vida,
we're going back a hundred years.”

  “Oral history,” Vida said, patting the tabletop. “I should expect that strangers in a foreign land would pass on tales of their fellow countrymen. Besides, it's all we've got. I found nothing specific about a gold strike involving a Japanese man named Yoshida. Of course I imagine that not all prospectors would broadcast their discoveries.”

  “Probably not.” Especially, I thought, foreigners whose skin was a different color. While greed doesn't recognize ethnic diversity, Asian immigrants might have been more vulnerable to chicanery and extortion, if only because of the language barrier.

  Frustrated, we left the library. Vida asked if I'd like to accompany her to visit Maud Dodd in the retirement home, but I declined. It was going on four o'clock, and I hadn't given my house its weekly dose of cleaning.

  Naturally, the first thing I did was check the phone messages. The call I'd hoped for wasn't on the recording. Instead, there were two other messages: one was from Edna Mae, asking what I thought about Einar Jr.'s funeral; the other was from Leo.

  “Why wait to go to Seattle to blow my lottery loot?” his voice said on the tape. “How about dinner tonight at Cafe Flore?”

  Why not? I didn't feel like sitting home alone. I returned Leo's call. He'd pick me up at six-thirty. As if to earn my right to a free meal, I rushed around the house, vacuuming, dusting, and washing the insides of windows. By six twenty-five, I'd slipped into an orange linen dress, taken a deep breath to fasten the wide brown belt, and squeezed into brown pumps I'd bought before my feet started to spread.

  “Looking good, babe,” Leo said in greeting. “How was your day off?”

  I explained about the funeral and the visit to the library. Then, because I felt I owed Leo a compliment, I told him I liked his tie.

  “Nordstrom's,” he rephed, heading onto Alpine Way. “The after-Christmas men's sale. I saved it for a special occasion.”

  “I'm flattered,” I said, and meant it.

  Just before Old Mill Park, we saw the red lights flash and heard the warning bells clang. Leo pulled to a stop as a doubleheader freight moved west through town. The sun, which had finally come out from behind the clouds, cast a golden glow on the hills above the railroad tracks. As several empty flatcars passed I could see the old loading dock and the warehouse site where the Bourgettes had now brought in a trailer.