by Mary Daheim
I blinked at Bill. “Didn't Milo tell you that?”
“No.” Bill bit his lip. “Sheriff Dodge doesn't always tell us everything. He's really been kind of tight-lipped these last few months.”
“Great.” Was I to blame for that, too? “What about the crime-scene tape at the warehouse, Bill? Has it got something to do with the bones the Bourgettes dug up?”
Bill looked miserable; his glance flitted from the interrogation room off to his right and back to me. “I honestly don't think I should say anything about that. Maybe Dodge will let you know.”
“Maybe.” I bit off the word. “If not, The Advocate is going to be rife with speculation this week. In fact, I'm thinking of doing a second editorial, on the lack of cooperation from this office.”
Bill looked helpless. “That won't make Dodge very happy.”
“I'm not very happy.” It dawned on me that I hadn't been happy for quite a while. Even before I'd heard about Sandra Cavanaugh's death.
Milo came out of the interrogation room. “Ron's in the holding cell,” he said, then noticed my presence. “Yes, he's being charged with first-degree homicide. He's pleading innocent. Maybe bail will be too high for him to post. We'll find that out tomorrow at the courthouse.”
The sheriff's flow of information didn't really surprise me; he was bound to make such facts public. But since he'd volunteered, I decided to meet him halfway. Maybe it was impossible for me to be angry with Milo and Vida at the same time; they had been my two closest friends in Alpine.
“Thanks, Milo,” I said, trying to sound pleasant. “How did you come to the conclusion that it was Ron?”
Milo ran a hand through his graying sandy hair. “The usual. Motive, opportunity, et cetera. Although there'd been an attempt to wipe the weapon clean, we found a partial print. Ron had gaps in his schedule that night. In fact, he let Einar into the building. My guess is he followed Einar inside, and they got into it. The charge may drop to second degree, but we'll see about that once Ron admits he's guilty.”
“The motive,” I said as Dwight Gould and Dustin Fong entered the office from the rear, “being the alleged affair between Einar and Maylene Bjornson.”
Milo nodded at his deputies, then turned to face me over the counter. I noticed how tired he looked, especially around the eyes. His face seemed to sag, making it even longer and more melancholy than usual. It was as if he had grown old overnight, while I wasn't looking.
“I can't talk about that,” he said, passing a hand over his forehead.
Jack Mullins came out of the interrogation room, presumably having secured Ron in the holding cell. “Who'da thunk it?” Jack mused. “I hated to lock him up. Ron's a good ol' boy if there ever was one. We were in high school together, we played football for the Buckers.”
Milo didn't comment. “Are we through here?” he asked me.
“One more thing.” I held up my index finger. “What's going on at the warehouse site? Don't blow me off. I know it has something to do with that bunch of bones the Bourgettes dug up.”
Milo sighed and reached for his cigarettes, despite the “No Smoking” sign posted on the counter. “Tomorrow's your deadline, right?”
“We haven't changed it,” I deadpanned.
“I'll let you know then,” he said, turning his back and lighting up.
I wasn't going to get any more out of the Sheriff. The morning clouds had cleared and the sun was shining when I got back outside. The afternoon's brightness seemed to mock my mood, as did the generally cheerful attitude of passersby, presumably buoyed by the holiday.
Leo was on the phone when I returned, Carla was just leaving to drop her film off at Buddy Bayard's, and Vida had her head bent over her ancient typewriter. I hesitated to see if she'd look up, but she didn't, so I went into my office. Ten minutes later, when I went out to check the wire service, Vida was the only one in the newsroom. She still didn't look up.
Resignedly, I went over to her desk. “Vida,” I began, “I'm sorry about what happened at the Sheriff's office earlier. But sometimes you sort of tend to take over, and it makes me feel…”
She finally met my gaze. To my astonishment, she'd been crying. “You humiliated me,” she declared. “In front of Billy.”
“Oh, Vida!” I sat down in her visitor's chair and put my arm around her. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen her cry. “I'm really, really sorry. Look, I've been in a bad mood myself lately. I've been crabby and snappish and impatient with everyone.”
“The change,” Vida said in an ominous voice.
I gasped. Menopause had never entered my mind. I was still in my forties, if not by much. But of course that's usually when it happens. Maybe Vida was right. Maybe it was a more realistic explanation than having Leo tell me I hadn't been laid recently. Maybe it was both.
“I'll make an appointment with Doc Dewey,” I said. “Hopefully, I can get in to see him before I'm too old to care.”
Vida dabbed at her eyes with a floral-print handkerchief. “How will I ever face Billy again?”
I hung my head. Keeping up appearances was so important to Vida. “You knew I was covering this story,” I said, keeping calm. “I felt as if you were trying to take over.”
“I thought you'd given it back to Carla.” Vida sniffed. “It seems that the college is her beat.”
“It usually is, but not this time.” I forced a smile. “She can't handle it, and you know it. Even if she weren't pregnant, I wouldn't let her cover a big story like this.”
“I was only trying to help.” A piteous note had crept into Vida's voice.
“I want you to,” I insisted. “I always want your help. But that's not the impression I got. Do you want me to explain all this to Billy?”
“It's too late,” Vida replied. “It happened. It can't be undone.”
I supposed that was true. There was only one way out of this mess, and I had to take it or risk losing Vida's friendship. “We'll cover it together. It's that big. We'll both write the stories.”
Vida's eyes grew wary. “That will be awkward.”
“No, it won't. I'll do the hard news, you do the sidebars.” I could probably edit the House & Home style out of them without too much trouble.
“Well …” She fingered her chin. “You'll let Billy and Milo and the rest of them know I'm assigned to the case, too?”
“Of course. In fact,” I said, so relieved to see Vida softening a bit that I went a step too far, “Milo is going to have some news for us tomorrow on those bones at the warehouse site. You handle that while I take care of the charges against Ron Bjornson.”
“That's another thing,” Vida said, receding back into gloom. “Ron's arrest upset me. Not merely the fact that I had to hear it from Leo, but that Milo thinks Ron killed Einar. It's not possible. Ron has his faults, but he's not a killer. Why, I've known him since the day he was born.”
I couldn't claim such knowledge of Ron Bjornson. From my chance encounters with him over the years, I'd gotten the impression that he was a decent sort, but embittered by the timber industry's decline. If, however, the latter adversity could turn a man into a murderer, then half of Alpine would be wiped out and the other half would be in jail.
“You know Milo,” I said. “He's very cautious. He wouldn't arrest Ron unless he had a good case.”
Vida didn't comment. She put her handkerchief back in her purse and squared her shoulders. “I shan't disappoint you,” she asserted.
“You never do, Vida,” I said, and reached over to give her a quick hug.
“Do you want to go with me tonight when I call on Marlys Rasmussen?” she asked.
I didn't, actually, but I dared not turn the invitation down. “Sure. What time?”
“Sevenish. I'll pick you up.”
“Great.” I smiled, much more brightly. “Are we still friends?”
Vida had to think about it for a moment. “Yes. Yes, I believe so. Friendships, like hearts, are hard to break.”
And even har
der to mend, I thought as I walked over to the wire service. Maybe it wasn't my uterus that was bothering me. Maybe it was my heart. It had hurt for a very long time.
I had to stop feeling sorry for myself. There were other stories besides Ron's arrest and the breaking news on the bones. As usual, timber legislation would take up at least fifteen inches on the front page, along with Carla's Memorial Day parade pictures. The photo that she'd taken of the state official at the RUB dedication was better than the one of President Cardenas, but Nat was local, and the other man was from Olympia. We'd go with Nat, and put the state official and George Engebretsen inside. I'd try to squeeze in an article concerning a rumor about the proposed Icicle Creek Bridge. After all the hassles and delays, the college was lobbying to move the span west of town, by the campus. Leo informed me that Deirdre Ras-mussen had called to say that apparently Marlys and the rest of the family were willing to pay to run the portrait of Einar Jr. She'd drop the photo off in the morning.
We could pick it up when we called on the Ras-mussens, said Vida, who was in a subdued mood for the rest of the afternoon; but at least she wasn't hostile. As usual, she sought items for “Scene.”
“Buddy Bayard bought a hedgehog,” Carla volunteered. “He's got it at the studio, and its name is Pope Pius the Twelfth. I don't know why. It's not much of a pet, if you ask me. It just sits there, and you can't really see its eyes. If I had it, I'd call it Poopy.”
“Somebody over on Fourth Street between Spruce and Tyee put an American flag on their garbage can for Memorial Day,” said Ginny. “I think it's the Gustavsons' house.”
“Is it blue with white trim?” asked Vida.
Ginny frowned. “No, it's sort of cream with brown.”
“That's the Olsons,” Vida said. “Anything else?”
“I saw Principal Freeman feeling up Debra Barton outside of the Elks Club last night,” Leo offered.
Vida made a disgusted face. “I can't use that.” Then she gazed more intently at Leo. “Is it true?”
Leo shrugged. “That's what it looked like to me.”
“Goodness!” Vida clucked her tongue. “Emma, you're not contributing.”
I wasn't concentrating, either. It had just occurred to me that I should call the Bourgette boys to see what they knew about the bones. “Huh? Oh—let me think. What about Birgitta Lindholm doing research on the early days of Alpine?”
“That'll do,” said Vida. “Keep your eyes and ears open, everyone. We've still got one more day to go. I also have Dolph Swecker locked out of his truck and another cougar sighting, this time by the Overholt farm.”
In my office, I called Directory Assistance to ask for the number at the restaurant construction site. A phone hadn't yet been installed, but the operator gave me the listing for the brothers' cell phone.
John answered, sounding frazzled. I asked him if the crime-scene tape was somehow related to the bones he and Dan had found.
“Yes,” he replied, “and now we've got another delay. We'll never make our opening date at this rate.”
Surprised by his candor, I sucked in my breath. “What's the problem with the bones?”
“I don't really know,” John replied, still sounding out of sorts. “Dodge showed up Saturday afternoon after we got back from the funeral in Snohomish. We'd just started getting the trailer organized when he said we had to stop work. Then he brings out the tape. I told him we hadn't reported any new crime, so what was going on? Dodge insisted we had to clear the area so he and his men could do some digging. He'd let us know when it was okay to start up again. Dan and I haven't been back since.”
“Do you know if the Sheriff found any more bones?”
“Hell, no. We don't know squat.” John paused. “Sorry, it's just that we're pissed. First, the hassle over the gold, then the vandalism, and now this. We're giving up on the gold, it's not worth the trouble. Especially now that What'shername has gotten in the act.”
“Who?” The conversation was going off on a tangent, and I was lost.
“That girl from Sweden. You know, the one the Bron-skys threw the party for a week or so ago.”
“Birgitta,” I said, filling in the gap. “What about her?”
A big sigh came through the receiver. “She showed up downtown to file some kind of claim on the gold this morning. But the courthouse wasn't open because of the holiday. Being a foreigner, she didn't know that, and I guess she raised some kind of fuss.”
“Birgitta Lindholm filed a claim?” I was astonished. “How? Why?”
“I don't know,” said John, who also sounded as if he didn't much care. “Dan was downtown at the parade. He told me about it when he got back. Jeez, Ms. Lord, do you think our property is jinxed?”
“Of course not,” I said. But I was beginning to wonder.
I arrived at Casa de Bronska shortly before four. I could have called instead of going in person, but I felt it would be better to talk to the taciturn Ms. Lindholm face-to-face.
Ed, naturally, was face-to-face with a pile of sandwiches. “Gitty made them,” he said from his place on the patio. “Have one. Try the Norwegian lox.”
I did. It was delicious, with much to recommend it, including the fact that it had not been made by anyone bearing the name of Bronsky. “I'm here to see Gitty, as a matter of fact. Is she in?”
“Sure,” Ed replied, pointing to the sandwiches, which apparently justified her presence. “You thinking about another story on her?”
“In a way,” I hedged. “Where will I find Gitty?”
“Try the ballroom,” Ed suggested, swiping at the mustard on his lower lip and missing. “We got the big-screen TV in there and she likes the soaps. If she misses one, she records it for later.”
I'd finished the sandwich. “Thanks, Ed.” I started for the side door, which led directly into the so-called ballroom.
“Hey!” Ed called. “I may have something big for you tomorrow.”
Big as you? I wanted to say, but didn't. “What?” I turned slightly, shielding my eyes from the sun.
Ed leaned back in the white wrought-iron lawn chair. “Some kind of word from Steve.”
“Steve? Steve who?”
Ed chuckled indulgently. “Spielberg. Irving and Skip tell me he usually makes all his calls in the evening, when things quiet down in L.A.”
“Spielberg, huh? Okay, let me know.” I went into the house before I lost my straight face and my snack.
Birgitta was curled up on a soft leather couch, glued to big images of beautiful people who may or may not have been working from a real script. They certainly had nice clothes. Like most of her generation, Birgitta had the sound on way too loud, and I had to stand in front of her before she noticed I was there.
“Mrs. Lord,” she said, looking none too happy with my arrival. “Mrs. Bronsky is at the …” With the TV blaring, I couldn't tell if she said tennis or dentist. It didn't really matter, though I assumed Dr. Starr wasn't working on a holiday.
“I have some questions for you,” I said, trying not to shout.
“Some what?”
“Questions,” I shouted.
“What questions?”
I waved at the huge screen, which had now switched to a commercial that was even louder than the soap opera. “Can you turn that down?” I bellowed.
“What? Turn which way?” She swiveled around in her cushiony seat.
Spotting the remote on the arm of the leather couch, I grabbed it and found the mute button. “There.” I sighed, and gave Birgitta my friendliest smile. “I'm sorry, I couldn't hear. And this is rather important.”
Birgitta looked as if I couldn't say anything important, know anything important, be of any importance. “You want what of me?” There was definitely belligerence in the set of her wide shoulders.
“As I mentioned,” I said, perching on the soft arm of the couch, “I had some questions. I understand you went to the courthouse today to make a claim on the gold that was found in Alpine some months ago.”
/> “The courthouse was not open.” Birgitta lifted her head, and the sun that was coming through the long windows turned her hair to a much brighter gold than the nuggets I'd seen in the chest at Sandy Clay's assayer's office. “It is very stupid not to have government at the job on Monday.”
I wasn't going to get into an argument over American holidays. I'd already spent seven years trying to get Vida not to call Memorial Day by its older name, Decoration Day. “What about the gold?” I persisted.
Birgitta shrugged. “It is mine. I want to take it home with me.”
“How,” I asked, holding on to my patience, “can it be yours? You've only just arrived, and that gold was buried for many, many years.”
“It is mine because it belonged to my great-grandfather, Ulf Lindholm. I have read many things in your library. I know it is mine.” She gave a toss of her head, and sent the golden hair sailing around her shoulders.
“Your great-grandfather,” I repeated. “He lived in Alpine?”
“For some years, long ago.” The belligerence hadn't quite faded, but Birgitta's face had taken on a softer look. “He was a logger man.”
“Was he also a miner?” I noted her blank expression, and made digging motions with my hands. “Did he dig for gold?”
“No. It was a gift.” The commercial segment was finished, and Birgitta's eyes traveled back to the TV.
“A gift from whom?” I asked.
Birgitta drew back on the couch. “Why should I say to you? It is the courthouse persons I must tell. Don't ask more questions. I must watch my program.”
I've never understood the lure of soap operas. Most people are living one of their own, and rarely seem to realize it. Birgitta and her great-grandfather and the chest filled with nuggets and the newly discovered bones were far more fascinating than the contrived lives of the pretty people in their pretty clothes on the pretty set which dominated the so-called ballroom.
“I assume your great-grandfather is dead,” I remarked, wishing I hadn't set the remote down by Birgitta.
“Yes, he died before I was born. My grandfather is dead, too. But he never came to America, nor my father. Only great-grandfather—and me. He came back to Sweden, to Malmo. I will also come back. With the gold.” She picked up the remote and turned the sound back on.