The Alpine Kindred

by Mary Daheim

  “Or sisters?” The words seemed to slip out of Vida's lips, like a snake let loose.

  Thyra glared. “You mean Mary Jane. That's different, and nobody's business.”

  It takes more than Thyra Rasmussen to daunt Vida. “But Mary Jane and Richard were at the funeral and the reception. I thought that showed evidence of goodwill.”

  “Evidence of greed, you mean.” Thyra compressed her lips.

  “Greed?” I said in a meek voice.

  Thrya's eyes, which I realized were as deep a blue as the couch she sat on, sparked. “Junior's dead. Those Catholics figure Senior and I are on our last legs. Why else would they come to a Lutheran funeral? I didn't think it was allowed by their stupid pope.”

  “That's not true,” I said calmly, no longer amazed by the ignorance of some non-Catholics.

  “How would you know?” Thyra retorted.

  I was about to say that I knew because I was one, but Vida intervened, probably to prevent Thyra from booting me out of the house. “When did Davin show up?” she asked in a matter-of-fact voice. “Before or after the funeral?”

  If Thyra was surprised, she didn't show it. “Before,” she said, fingering the nubby gold cross at her neck. “He didn't sit with us in the family room, but he was there all the same. Why do you ask?”

  “Because,” Vida explained, “Deirdre gave us to understand that she didn't know where he was.”

  “Deirdre!” Thyra sniffed. “She doesn't know much, does she? All that makeup, you'd think she was a tramp. She's not. Not really. She just uses poor judgment.”

  “But Davin is with her now,” Vida went on calmly. “Where was he until today?”

  “What do you care?” Thyra looked belligerent, her hands clasped in her lap and her face again thrust forward.

  “Deirdre seemed so upset,” Vida replied. “I was merely curious. Besides, I have a grandson just about his age.”

  Roger had barely entered his teens, which made him at least five years younger than Davin. He was the only boy among her grandchildren, however, which I supposed was why she doted on him, despite his many, blatant flaws. He was also, unfortunately, the only one who lived in Alpine.

  “Davin wasn't far,” Thyra said, now enigmatic. “Not far at all.” Her faulty gaze traveled around the room, to the azalea tree, the potted freesia, the red and white chrysanthemums, the tidy bed with its sky-blue spread, and finally, to a breakfront I hadn't noticed before.

  It was filled with gold objects: the gewgaws, the knick-knacks, the baubles Edna Mae had wanted to show off at the library. I got to my feet and went over to the glass-fronted cabinet.

  “These are lovely,” I remarked, wondering if I could do any good for Edna Mae by lauding the objects.

  “So they are,” Vida chimed in, apparently giving up on learning more about Davin's mysterious disappearance. She also got to her feet and came to join me.

  There were all sorts of items, including a small Buddha, a deer, various pieces of jewelry, and what might have been a representation of Mount Pilchuck. Each piece had a nubby appearance, like the cross that Thyra wore. Like the cross I'd inherited, the cross made of gold nuggets.

  “Wherever did you get all these beautiful things?” I asked, hoping to sound awestruck.

  “From my mother,” Thyra replied.

  “Your mother,” Vida echoed. “Oddly, I don't recall her. Who was she?”

  “My mother,” Thyra said. “I'm tired now. You'd better go. Have Steelie come up. It's time for my medicine.”

  I assumed that Steelie was Mrs. Steelman, house manager. Vida hesitated, then started for the door. “Again, our condolences. Your son's loss is deeply felt by many.” I noticed that Vida didn't necessarily include herself among them.

  “Thank you,” said Thyra, but there was neither gratitude nor graciousness in her voice. “By the way,” she added as we headed for the hall, “how's your mother, Vida?”

  Vida turned, her head seeming to swing as if on a stiff hinge. “My mother has been dead for almost twenty years.”

  “Good,” said Thyra.

  Vida's eyes bulged. “Better if it had been you,” she retorted, and with a swish of her swing coat, stomped off down the hall.

  Thyra's laughter followed us practically to the bottom of the staircase.

  We did not bother to seek out Mrs. Steelman.

  “Wretched old harridan.” Vida fumed as we got into the Buick. “Can you imagine what her mother must have been like?”

  “You didn't know Thyra's mother?” I said, vaguely surprised.

  “No. They were Snohomish people. Anyway,” Vida continued, pulling out into Avenue B, “Thyra's mother might have been dead by the time I met the witch. I don't recall anything about her. Maybe she didn't have a mother. Maybe she was hatched by a vulture.”

  “All that gold,” I mused, wanting to get Vida off the subject lest she burst a blood vessel. “Does it remind you of anything?”

  “Certainly,” Vida retorted. “But that doesn't mean much. There are plenty of gold trinkets around this area, either from local mining or the Klondike or the Yukon or Alaska.”

  “The Buddha caught my eye,” I said.

  “Hmm. Yes, I did see that. Really, Emma—you aren't trying to draw farfetched conclusions, are you?”

  “Sure. Why not?” My tone was glib, but I was serious. “Doesn't all of this go beyond coincidence?”

  As we headed for Monroe, Vida grew thoughtful. “Last fall, a chest of nuggets was dug up at the old warehouse. The chest itself bears a Japanese name. The land is purchased by John and Dan Bourgette, who are the nephews of Einar Rasmussen Jr. Einar is murdered a few months later, at the college campus. Bones are found at the same site where the gold was discovered. Birgitta Lindholm suddenly shows up, claiming her great-grandfather was the rightful owner of the gold, though he left Alpine many years ago for Sweden. We visit Thyra Rasmussen and see her collection of items fashioned from nuggets, which she says were handed down by her mother.” She paused as we slowed to comply with Monroe's speed limit. “The question is, why did Birgitta show up now?”

  “That's not the only question,” I remarked. “But certainly her employment with the Bronskys was calculated.

  Word of the gold stash had been passed down to her by her father and grandfather. If the gold really belonged to Ulf—I think that was his name—why didn't he tell his descendants where he'd hidden it?”

  Again, Vida was silent, this time almost until we passed through Sultan. “Because,” she said with a sense of triumph, “he didn't know where he'd put it. Didn't Bir-gitta come into The Advocate looking for newspapers from around the turn of the century? If so, there was no Alpine. The whistle-stop, which is all it was at the time, was then called Nippon. I doubt that there was much to mark a specific spot, and can only assume that Ulf Lind-holm intended to dig up his stash, but for some reason, he didn't come back.”

  It was growing dark as we began the gradual climb into the mountains. Since we'd already gone through Sultan, I assumed that Vida had scuttled any plan to call on Harold and Gladys Rasmussen.

  “So Birgitta ends up in Alpine shortly after the gold has been dug up,” I said. “I'll admit the coincidence is a bit too—wait!” I swerved around as far as I could in the confines of my seat belt. “Ed mentioned that he'd been sending Birgitta copies of The Advocate to acquaint her with the area. What if one of those issues contained the story about finding the chest of nuggets?”

  “Hmm.” Vida sounded bemused. “Yes, that's quite possible. I wonder how that works, getting an au pair. I assume there are agencies who match the would-be employers to the applicants. Now, how many Europeans might select Skykomish County? And who around here but Ed would be extravagant enough to want an au pair girl in the first place?”

  “Maybe,” I said in a musing tone, “Ed didn't.”

  Vida turned so swiftly that she lost her grip on the steering wheel and almost sent us over the center line. “You mean that Birgitta contacted Ed and
Shirley?”

  “She may have, knowing the general vicinity of the gold,” I replied. “For all we know, three generations of Lindholms have been angling to get over here somehow.”

  “How did she find Ed?” asked Vida, again paying strict attention to her driving. “Did she look him up under Ninny!”

  “The Internet, maybe,” I suggested. “His stupid book came out not long after the fire. Or maybe she wrote to the chamber of commerce, asking who was rich around here. There are ways, with so much information available worldwide.”

  “That part makes sense,” Vida conceded. “But I don't see how it ties in with the Rasmussens.”

  “Maybe it doesn't, except for the Bourgettes now owning the warehouse site,” I said. “Unless …” My voice trailed off.

  “Unless what? Come, come, don't hold back,” Vida urged.

  “A wild idea,” I admitted. “What if Einar—or any of the Rasmussens—had let on that they had an interest in the gold?”

  “Why would they do that?” Vida responded with a frown.

  “Maybe to spite the Bourgettes?” I offered. “Maybe because they actually have gold nuggets, and Thyra wanted to add to her collection? Maybe because she's a greedy old woman?”

  “Not impossible,” Vida admitted. “But how would Birgitta hear of it?”

  “Ed,” I said simply. “He told me he played golf with Einar Jr.”

  “And Ed is a blabbermouth,” Vida said. “Yes, I can see all that. Especially the part about the Rasmussens wanting to annoy the Bourgettes. But none of this has anything to do with Maylene and Ron Bjornson.”

  “No,” I responded in a dejected voice. “It doesn't. The way Milo sees it, jealousy is the motive, and it's always a strong one.”

  “True,” Vida agreed. “Yet I have to wonder. I've known Ron forever, and somehow I don't see him as a killer, not even in a jealous rage.”

  I knew what Vida—what Jack Mullins and all the others—were thinking. Ron was a native son, and couldn't possibly commit such a heinous crime. Never mind that it had happened before, with some other lifelong residents knocking off one of their own. The idea was still hard for Alpiners to swallow.

  For the rest of the journey, Vida and I speculated, but found ourselves going around in circles. Just as we crossed the bridge over the Sky, I remembered to ask her where she thought Davin had been before he'd showed up atEinar Jr.'s house.

  “That's not difficult,” Vida declared. “The senior Ras-mussens live in a very large house, as I'm sure you noticed. There's plenty of room for a teenager to hide.”

  “But why?”

  “Didn't you say that Einar Jr. was responsible for Davin's disappearance?”

  “Not exactly,” I said, trying to recall what Deirdre had told me. “I think she alluded to the fact that Einar knew where he was.”

  “The same thing,” Vida said, turning off onto Fir Street, where my log cabin was located. “Who else would have brought the boy to live with his grandparents? Who else could have convinced Thyra and Einar Sr. to take Davin in?”

  Vida had a point. But her argument brought something else to mind. “Where was Einar Sr. when we called on Thyra? I saw no sign of him.”

  Vida snorted. “Probably in the basement. Even when he was hale and hearty, I heard that she kept him down there. Einar Sr. was never allowed to smoke abovestairs.”

  I had a vision of the old man, huddled in his wheelchair, sitting among the water pipes and the abandoned coal bin and the other musty relics of the past. It would be cold and damp, with spiders and cobwebs and maybe a mouse or two.

  On the other hand, it might be better than living upstairs with Thyra.

  I had just hung up my jacket when someone came to my door. At nine-fifteen, it was a bit late for a casual caller. I peered through the peephole before responding.

  “Ryan!” I exclaimed, after recognizing his plumpish form and opening the door. “Come in. Is something wrong?”

  “Not exactly,” he replied, looking sheepish. “I felt I owed you an explanation.”

  I frowned. “About what?”

  “Carla,” he said, hands deep into the pockets of his windbreaker. “I didn't want you to think I wasn't a morally responsible person.”

  If we were going to discuss morals, I needed to sit down. A drink wasn't a bad idea, either. I insisted that Ryan make himself comfortable while I poured him a glass of Chardonnay and made myself a weak bourbon and water.

  Ryan began after a certain amount of fidgeting and clearing his throat. “Carla thinks a lot of you, Ms. Lord,” he said. “She's worked for you quite a while. In fact, this has been her only job since she graduated from college.”

  I knew Carla's history, and while she wasn't a demonstrative sort when it came to showering affection on her own sex, I sensed her feelings. Giving a nod, I let Ryan continue.

  “I tried not to show it when I was here last night,” he went on, “but I was very embarrassed. You see, Carla has a rather casual attitude toward being pregnant and yet not quite married.”

  “Not quite,” I repeated with a smile.

  Ryan grimaced. “When I found out she was going to have a baby, I wanted to get married right away. But Carla has always dreamed of a big wedding.”

  The biggest thing about the wedding will be Carla herself, I thought, and kept smiling. “Women often have that kind of dream,” I noted. I had, a long, long time ago.

  “Carla wouldn't budge,” Ryan said, holding his wineglass in both hands. “Her parents seemed okay with it, but when we went over to Spokane to visit mine, there was an awful ruckus. My family's Catholic, and very conservative.”

  Washington is virtually two states, divided by the Cascade range. The western half is rainy and mild, with the majority of the population living in its bigger cities. Early on, timber dominated the economy, then Boeing, and now Microsoft. Between the working class and the intellectuals, the Democratic party has held the majority at the ballot box. On the other side of the mountains, the terrain is almost Midwestern, and agriculture has always been the key. The weather is more extreme, with hot, dry summers and cold, snowy winters. Voters tend to be Republican, which means that the state is also divided into liberal and conservative camps. Ryan Talliaferro obviously came from a typical eastern Washington family.

  “My folks tried not to let Carla know how upset they were,” Ryan explained, “but she knew. Being Carla, she doesn't hold it against them. She has such a good heart.”

  That was generally true, despite her sometimes self-centered attitude. Motherhood would probably soften her.

  “Anyway,” Ryan went on, “when I found out you were a Catholic, too, I felt I had to let you know that it wasn't my idea to wait so long to get married. I'll admit I don't usually go to church, but I'm hoping that someday we can get our marriage blessed.”

  “How does Carla feel about that?” I asked.

  Ryan frowned. “I don't think she cares one way or the other. Between the baby and the wedding itself, she's got plenty on her mind. Carla's Jewish, but she doesn't really practice her faith. Her folks don't, either. I'm hoping that when the time comes, it won't be an issue.”

  “The time will come when the baby gets here,” I pointed out. “You're going to want to have him or her baptized.”

  “I know.” Ryan was silent for a moment. “I could wait, but my folks would have a fit. As I said, they're already upset.”

  It seemed to me that Carla's indifference would play into Ryan's hands. Still, I hated to see anyone enter marriage with extra burdens. “Since you're not getting married in the Church,” I said slowly, “Carla may agree to compromise by having the baby baptized. If religion doesn't mean that much to her—and I've never seen that it has—she may give in quite easily. Baptism doesn't change a child's ancestry.”

  An uncertain smile broke out on Ryan's face. “Put like that, it makes sense. Thanks, Ms. Lord.”

  I shrugged. “I'm only guessing. And please, please call me Emma.”

&nb
sp; Ryan had finished his wine. “I'm glad I stopped by,” he said, getting to his feet. “I was afraid I'd made a bad impression on you. I didn't want you to think I was one of those cads who gets a woman pregnant and then has to be hog-tied into doing the right thing.”

  The old-fashioned word cad would have been endearing in another context. Under the circumstances, it didn't amuse me. I was kind and gracious as I ushered Ryan out of the house. It wasn't his fault; apparently, he didn't know. Maybe he thought I was divorced, or widowed, like Vida.

  Or maybe he knew, and was simply being brutally frank.

  The phone still didn't ring.

  Chapter Fourteen

  TUESDAY, BLOODY TUESDAY, as I sometimes referred to deadline day, was upon us. No matter how hard we try, there is always the possibility of a last-minute change in an ad or a story, late-breaking news, or mechanical failure. For those of us who live with that kind of pressure, there is also the reward. The paper is printed, it's delivered, and it's read, especially in a small town where the weekly is the sole source of local information. Thus, there is a sense of accomplishment, a raison d'etre for our lives. Some people in the business procrastinate and then thrive when deadline draws nigh. They not only do their best work, but probably couldn't function without the warning tick of the clock. I'm not like that, I prefer being ahead of schedule, but the deadline is always there, like home plate or the finish line. Carla once misspelled the word, and it came out deadlive. I almost didn't correct it. There is nothing dead about deadlines, but meeting them lets you know you're alive.

  Around eight-thirty, Carla had stopped in long enough to drop off a dozen muffins from the Upper Crust, and drink a cup of coffee. Now, shortly after nine, she was at the courthouse, hoping to intercept Birgitta Lindholm. Vida was adding items to “Scene,” Leo was out corralling last-minute advertisers for the Memorial Day section, and Ginny was putting the classifieds together. I'd decided to forgo my vilification of the Sheriff's office. Maybe Milo would actually come up with some helpful information before five o'clock.

  He called a few minutes after three. The usually laconic voice was formal and glum. “Ron's not posting bail,” Milo said. “It was set at three hundred thousand dollars, and I don't know if he can't or won't. He's sticking to his guns, says he didn't do it, and he intends to sue the county.”