The Alpine Kindred

by Mary Daheim

  Ryan had turned quite grave. “It was one of the deputies, Jack Mullins. He interrogated me”—he paused to make a face—”Tuesday morning. It was perfunctory. It's a five-credit sociology class, once a week, which goes from five-twenty to ten-twenty, with two ten-minute breaks.”

  “When are the breaks?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

  Apparently I failed. Ryan made another face and squirmed a bit. “There's no set time. I call them when I come to the end of a lecture segment or if a discussion period bogs down. On Monday, the first break was just before seven-thirty. The second was a little before nine.” He leaned forward, hands clasped on his knees. “I told Jack Mullins all this. During the first break I went to my office to get some notes I'd forgotten. At the second break I didn't leave the classroom. Two or three students had questions for me. But some of the ones who had gone outside to smoke or stretch their legs said they thought something was going on at the RUB. They didn't know what it was, except that there were several emergency vehicles parked outside. Later I kicked myself for not checking it out, but I'd forgotten that Little Mother had a photo assignment there. You can imagine how I felt when I heard she was at the hospital.” He gave Carla an apologetic look.

  Vida was looking leery. “You didn't check on the vehicles when you left the classroom? Some of them must have still been there.”

  “I don't go out that way,” Ryan explained. “My class is in Building B, which is quite a way from the RUB. I leave through a rear exit, cut across the main campus road, and circle around the gym to the faculty parking lot. There's a well-lighted trail by one of the bike racks.” Again, he turned to Carla. “I was anxious to get home to Little Mother. I always am.”

  Carla made kissing motions with her mouth. I suppose it was cute, but I had to check my peppers. In my absence, Vida apparently had backed off from questioning Ryan further. The talk turned to the baby, the wedding, and Ryan's background. Though he was from Spokane, he somehow had a tenuous connection to Vida through a neighbor whose late husband had once been pastor of the Presbyterian church in Alpine.

  My guests didn't stay late. Carla said she needed a back rub, and Vida had to put her canary, Cupcake, to bed. “He gets so confused this time of year when the days are so long,” she explained. “Cupcake still hasn't made the adjustment to Daylight Savings Time.”

  Carla looked stricken. “What do babies do? How can they know? Are their schedules totally disrupted? Or do we stay on regular time?” She addressed all these questions to Ryan, who seemed struck dumb.

  “Babies,” Vida said with authority, “are surprisingly adaptable. You mustn't worry so much, Carla.”

  “But you can't train to be a parent,” Carla asserted. “It's not like journalism, where you spend years studying and then applying what you've learned so that the job's a breeze.”

  That wasn't the way I'd have described it; with Carla, it was often more like a blowout.

  As usual, Monday was busy, despite the fact that it was officially Memorial Day. While my staff was forced to work, I felt obligated to pay them double time, as well as giving a paid day off at some other point in the year.

  Carla was out covering the parade, which consisted of a couple of dozen veterans, mostly from World War II and Korea, a fire engine, the Dithers sisters riding their favorite horses, the high school band, and a couple of logging rigs that were still in service. Sometimes Milo or one of the deputies joined in, but I understood the Sheriff's department wouldn't be represented this year. I assumed it was because they had more pressing matters on hand.

  There was no mail delivery, which allowed me time to write my weekly editorial. By eleven o'clock I'd finished the call for action on the battered women's shelter. It dawned on me that Brad Erlandson wasn't around. Going into the front office, I asked—hopefully—if Ginny had sent him to day care.

  “Oh, no,” she said, sounding horrified. “The banks are closed, so Rick doesn't have to work today. He took Brad to the parade and then they're going to Old Mill Park to play on the Small Thing.”

  With a civic contribution of soup labels and some matching funds, the city had recently acquired two play structures. The smaller one, which was suitable for toddlers, had been dubbed the Small Thing; the larger, and more dangerous apparatus was referred to as No Small Thing. I kept waiting for some audacious kid to break his neck on the latter. Specifically, someone like Vida's odious grandson, Roger.

  “That's nice for both Brad and Rick,” I said, “but I still think your job would be easier if you let your sister-in-law take him in at her day care.”

  “Donna's really overloaded,” Ginny said, at her most serious. “They need a day care at the college, and I guess one is in the works, but meanwhile, students with kids have to find other facilities. In fact, Donna's got a waiting list.”

  Great, I thought, wondering how early little ones could start preschool. With my luck, we'd have Brad screwing around in the office until he was accepted at Stanford.

  I turned to go back into the newsroom, when Averill Fairbanks came through the door. “Them horns,” he said. “I hate horns. They send signals from outer space.”

  Everything came from outer space as far as Averill was concerned. As far as I was concerned, he came from outer space, and I kept wishing he'd go back. “Good morning, Averill,” I said with what I hoped was a pleasant smile. “Aren't you enjoying the parade?” Even now, the high school band was passing down Front Street, playing its signature tune, “Fight On You Buckers.”

  “Naw.” Averill dug a finger in one ear and gave his head a vigorous shake. “Too damned loud. Like I said, them horns send signals from purple people with six eyes. Where's Vida?” He pronounced it Veeda, though he'd known her since she'd been bora.

  “In there,” I said, gesturing toward the news office. “Do you have an item for her?”

  “You bet.” Averill hooked his gnarled thumbs in his overalls. “I tried to tell her before, but she wouldn't listen. What's wrong with that woman anyway?”

  “I'm sure she'll be glad to see you,” I lied, sinking to a new low to get rid of our resident UFO sighter and general pest. “Nice to see you, Averill.”

  He took the hint, and I lingered with Ginny. But Averill was still at Vida's desk when I finally felt forced to return to my office. I tried to slip by unnoticed, but it wasn't possible. Vida was on her feet, fairly shouting at Averill.

  “Try—at least try—to get your story straight,” she demanded. “Exactly when did you see this apparition at the warehouse site?”

  Averill, who is small and brown as a nut, shrank back in Vida's visitor's chair. “Now don't get huffy. I already told you this a long time ago. But as usual, you wouldn't listen. Don't you want stuff for that gibberish you run on the front page or not?”

  “It's not gibberish,” Vida responded, sitting back down. “It's news items, featuring local personages. We call it human interest. You, of course, would call it alien visitations.”

  “Not always,” Averill said, suddenly coy. “Sometimes it's real people. Like that Cardents from the college.”

  Vida narrowed her eyes. “Cardenas? The college president?”

  “Is that what he is?” Averill rested his hands on his slight paunch. “I thought he was one of them morticians.”

  Despite myself, I couldn't leave Vida alone with Averill. I was afraid she might do him bodily harm. But to her credit, she was making a monumental effort to rein in her temper.

  “What about President Cardenas?” she asked through gritted teeth.

  “That's what I came to tell you.” Then a puzzled look passed over Averill's face. “I think.” He pulled out a rumpled red-and-white handkerchief, and blew his noise. “He was digging, just shovel after shovel.”

  “At the warehouse site?” Vida took a long drink of ice water from the glass she kept at her desk.

  “Did I say that?” Averill stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. “Nope. Never said any such thing. Don't go putting words i
n my mouth.”

  Vida looked as if she'd like to put her fist in Averill's mouth, but she kept her voice down. “Start from the beginning, please. You mentioned the warehouse, the fire, some sort of apparition, and President Cardenas. Let's start with the warehouse. What about it?”

  I had sat down in Leo's vacant chair. Averill wiggled around, then seemed to concentrate. His face was so puckered with the effort that his eyes all but disappeared.

  “It was right around Halloween,” he began, his voice deepening and distant. “You behold some mighty strange sights around that time, but this one was real peculiar. I was there on the marge of Lake Labarge—”

  Vida held up a hand. “Stop. I've read the poems of Robert Service. Lake Labarge is in the Yukon, not Alpine. Go back to Halloween.”

  Averill stood up. “You can't go back, unless you get in a time capsule. I've tried that, but I never get further than last week. Thanks for the sandwich.”

  Averill Fairbanks left. “What sandwich?” I asked.

  “There was no sandwich.” Vida tossed a pencil in disgust. “The man is mental. Why did I think he might actually have something for 'Scene'?”

  “Vida,” I said, scooting Leo's chair closer, “didn't Averill have a ghost item for you earlier?”

  Vida retrieved the pencil and tapped it on her desk. “Yes, last week. I met him coming from May Madness.”

  “He's usually not so persistent, is he? I mean, he comes in or calls maybe once every six weeks. There must be something on his mind,” I ventured.

  “Absolutely not,” Vida snapped. “Or rather, what's there isn't real. It's all imaginary, like the spaceman who wore high-heeled shoes of patent leather.”

  Of course Vida was right. But something about Aver-ill's garbled report niggled at my brain. As lunchtime drew closer I let it go and headed for the Alpine Mall.

  The parade had been over for some time, but a few of the veterans and both of the logging trucks had lingered in the mall parking lot. I saw Ron Bjornson talking to the Peabody brothers, and wandered over in their direction. I wasn't sure what I intended to say to Ron, but I thought I'd try a little subterfuge to see if I could get an inkling about the possibility that Maylene was cheating on him with Einar Rasmussen Jr. Mine is a dirty job, but someone's got to do it when Vida's not around.

  I never got the chance. Milo Dodge and Bill Blatt pulled into the parking lot just as the Peabody brothers started to walk away. Before I could take a step, Milo marched up to Ron and cuffed him.

  “I'm arresting you for the murder of Einar Rasmussen Jr. Read him his rights, Bill.” Milo nodded at his deputy while stunned onlookers gaped in shock. I was one of them. So was Ron Bjornson.

  Chapter Twelve

  AFTERWARD I WONDERED if Milo would have made the arrest if he'd seen me standing there. He hadn't, and his jaw dropped as I hurried over to the squad car where Bill was reminding Ron to watch his head getting into the backseat.

  “So you've closed the case,” I said lightly. “That's great. You have evidence, I take it? And motive?”

  Milo didn't say a word. He got into the driver's seat, slammed the door, and screeched out of the parking lot. Several people gathered around me, apparently assuming that as the local publisher, I would know all the latest news. One of the Peabodys—I can never tell the two huge, hulking brothers apart—asked what the hell was going on. It seemed self-explanatory to me, and I said so.

  But a voice from behind me didn't agree. “Ron's no killer,” said Scott Kuramoto. “I've had several talks with him at the college. Under that rough-hewn exterior, he's a gentle sort of man.”

  “He's got a temper, though,” said Cynthia Kittika-chorn, who was probably with Scott on lunch break from the college. Though newcomers to Alpine, they'd already shed some of their city ways. Like the other onlookers, Scott and Cynthia didn't try to keep their distance and disassociate themselves from the rest of humanity. “I've seen Ron get real mad and throw a hammer across the room,” Cynthia said.

  “But why would he kill Mr. Rasmussen?” Scott looked genuinely perplexed.

  Put in an aggressive mood by Milo's silent rebuff, I edged between Scott and Cynthia. It wouldn't do any good to rush off to the Sheriff's office; nobody would talk until Ron was booked and interrogated. “Maybe I should discuss this with you two,” I said. “Were you going to have something to eat here at the mall?”

  “We were going to get some Mexican food,” Cynthia replied. “The RUB's still not open because they weren't able to put the final touches on the kitchen until Sheriff Dodge was finished.”

  “Mexican's fine with me,” I said.

  We headed for Dos Senores, one of whom happened to be a Swede, and the other, a German. The tiny restaurant is mainly for takeout, but can accommodate about twenty people on the premises. Cynthia grabbed the last table, and told Scott to order for her. I joined him at the counter, where we all ended up with soft chicken tacos. Instead of a side of refried beans, there was a scoop of red cabbage. Food will be integrated before people in Alpine.

  “Poor Ron,” Scott said as we sat down. “I suppose I should call Deirdre.”

  “Why bother?” Cynthia said with a faint sneer. “She won't care who gets arrested, as long as it's not her.”

  “Cynthia …” Scott was pained. “Deirdre wants to see justice done. Don't be so hard on her.”

  “I barely know the woman,” Cynthia said, then looked at me. “Sorry, Emma. You must think I'm awful. But I have this sisterly thing about Scott, and what little I've seen of Deirdre hasn't made me sympathetic. She's the kind who's always leaving for a party that's going to be better than the one she's already at.”

  “Cynthia …” Scott repeated, this time in a peevish tone.

  But Cynthia wasn't easily silenced. “I don't want to see you hurt, Scott. I know it's not easy for minorities like us to find romance in a town like Alpine. But you can do better than Deirdre.”

  Scott didn't look as if he agreed. However, the conversation wasn't going in the direction I'd hoped, and I couldn't afford to waste too much time with my lunchmates.

  “Speaking of romance,” I said, “have you heard any rumors involving Einar Rasmussen Jr.?”

  “Sure,” Cynthia replied. “Einar and Maylene. Another odd couple, if you ask me.”

  Scott, who seemed relieved that we'd changed the subject, waggled a plastic fork at Cynthia. “That's just gossip. You don't know for certain, and neither does anybody else.”

  “Ha!” Cynthia laughed out loud. “I know Maylene, and she hasn't kept their affair a big secret. At least not from some of us. Why do you think Ron killed Einar?”

  “Did he?” Scott gave Cynthia a baleful look.

  “The Sheriff says he did.” Her tone was dogged. “Dodge doesn't strike me as the type who jumps to conclusions.”

  “He's not,” I allowed. “He's a very cautious person.”

  “If I had a vote,” Cynthia said with a smirk, “I'd put my money on that weird son of Einar's. Assuming, of course, that he really exists.”

  Given the fact that nobody had seen Beau in a very long time, I thought it was a fair assumption. Maybe Beau was a phantom, like George and Martha's son in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

  But this script wasn't being written by Edward Albee, and the scene was going nowhere. I finished my taco and excused myself. Five minutes later I was at the Sheriff's office. Vida was already ensconced, standing behind the curving counter and badgering Bill Blatt.

  “Admit it, Billy,” she commanded. “The fingerprints on the knife belonged to Ron. The motive is Einar's affair with Maylene. It was her lipstick that was found on his shirt. Really, it's all quite simple. Why not say so?”

  “Because we've got a trial ahead of us,” Bill replied, his fair complexion turning red. “We can't give out information like that, Aunt Vida. You know better.”

  “Better?” Vida glared at her nephew as Toni Andreas cowered at her desk. “I always know better. That's why I'm here.” She tur
ned slightly, acknowledging my presence for the first time. “I really can't imagine why I had to find out about Ron's arrest from Leo Walsh”—the glare now included me—”but this isn't the only matter that this so-called law-enforcement agency is holding back on. Now tell me about the warehouse site, Billy, or I'm going to have to speak to your mother.”

  “Vida,” I began, “I was going to tell you as soon as I could, but—”

  “Not soon enough,” she interrupted. “Ron was arrested half an hour ago.”

  “It's not your story.” I made a feeble gesture with my hands.

  “It's an orphan of a story,” Vida declared. “You knew Ron was arrested? Or were you shopping at the mall instead of tending to business?”

  There are limits to what I will take from Vida. She had overstepped her bounds by mouthing off in front of other people. “That's it,” I said grimly. “I'm covering this story, and you know it. I was following another angle at the mall, which we won't discuss now. Please come around to this side of the counter and stop berating your nephew, who is simply following instructions as well as legalities.”

  Vida was aghast. “Are you giving me orders?”

  “Yes. I'm the boss.” My stern expression felt a little shaky.

  Vida stared at me. Then, with one last, dark look for Bill Blatt, she tromped through the swinging half-door in her splayfooted manner and exited the office.

  “Whew!” cried Bill, wiping his brow.

  “Gosh,” breathed Toni, leaning back in her chair.

  “Damn,” I muttered, then offered them both a pitiful smile. “Vida will get over it. So will I. But we still need some answers here. What's going on with Ron and the Sheriff?”

  Bill's face was returning to its normal pinkish hue. “Ron's being interrogated by Dodge and Jack Mullins.”

  “Ron hasn't admitted he killed Einar?” I asked, leaning on the counter.

  Bill shook his head. “He insisted he wasn't guilty on the ride from the mall. Is it true that Mr. Rasmussen and Mrs. Bjornson were having an affair?”