by Mary Daheim
“Wrongful arrest, huh? Have you talked to Maylene?”
“Yeah.” The Sheriff didn't elaborate.
“Do you think she believes that Ron's innocent?”
“So she claims.”
This was not an easy conversation. “Does she admit to having an affair with Einar Jr.?”
“No. She denies it.”
“She does?” Somehow, I was surprised. I shouldn't have been. Even a cheating wife can still stand by her man. No affair, no motive. I made a note to myself: “Talk to Maylene ASAP.” I asked if a trial date had been set.
“No, but he's been formally charged. We'll get a date later this week. My guess is July or August.”
Milo's sudden spurt of verbiage gave me heart. “What about those bones?”
I could hear him sigh. “I don't want to talk about them. We still don't know everything.”
“Damn it,” I said, though I tried not to sound impatient, “the bones were found. That's a fact. We're going to print the story. Can't you give us anything other than 'We don't know'? It makes you look bad.”
“So why do you care how I look?” Milo retorted.
“I care about the office. You're law enforcement for SkyCo,” I said, aware that I'd flunked tact. “That's important.”
There was a long pause at Milo's end of the line. “The reason I don't want to talk about the bones is because we're still trying to identify them.”
I let out a little gasp. “What? Does that mean they're not a hundred years old?”
“Probably not.” The glum, formal tone had crept back into his voice.
“How recent?” I was scribbling notes, sitting on the edge of my chair, excited and expectant.
“A year, maybe less.”
“Do you have a complete skeleton?”
“Just about.”
Naturally, it was impossible to shake Milo over the phone. I took a deep breath instead. “Do you think it's someone local?”
“Can't say just yet. Remember, the old warehouse was right next to the train tracks. We've got a whole new generation of people who ride the rails, and some of them are scum, especially the ones who claim to be FTRA.”
Trains, both passenger and freight, always slowed down upon reaching Alpine. I knew that men—and sometimes women—who bummed rides occasionally were mere thrill seekers. They took off from their jobs as CPAs, housepainters, attorneys, and medical technicians for a couple of weeks each year just to soak up that sense of freedom and adventure that trains offer the American soul. But there was also the FTRA, the Freight Train Riders Association, a vicious gang whose one thousand or more members preyed on those innocent vacationers. The FTRA usually rode the Burlington Northern Santa Fe High Line between Seattle and Minneapolis; Alpine was on that route; I'd grown accustomed to seeing the gang's initials painted on various buildings near the tracks.
Yet there was one flaw in Milo's hypothesis. “Don't the bums or whatever they call themselves these days just dump the body? This one was buried.”
Milo exhibited patience. “Sometimes the trains stop for another train that has the right-of-way. They'd have time to bury a body. This one wasn't deep.”
It was pointless to argue. “Can you tell if the bones belonged to an adult?”
“Yes.” Milo paused again. “Probably female.”
Again, I was startled. “Female? Doesn't that rule out an FTRA connection?”
“Not necessarily. Equal rights, and all that crap.”
It was also pointless to get mad. “Did you find anything identifiable, like jewelry or belt buckles or a watch?”
“Nope. My guess is that the body was naked.”
I racked my brain for more pointed questions, but came up empty. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“Nope. That's about it. For now.”
I thanked Milo, and hung up. For once, I didn't rush out to report to Vida. I wanted to write the story while it was still fresh in my mind. Finishing the six inches it would fill, I hit the print key, then took the piece out to my House & Home editor.
She was on the phone. “No, Ella, it wasn't blue, it was green … Yes, of course I was there … Come, come, whoever heard of a blue pear? … Well, that's why you got a stomachache …/said,” Vida continued, raising her voice and making a face at me, “that's why you got a stomachache. The pear was too green. I must go now, I'll talk to you later.”
She put the phone down with a clatter. “Honestly! Ella Hinshaw is not only deaf as a post, now she's going blind! A blue pear, indeed! She wants to sue Jake and Betsy O'Toole for selling blue fruit at the Grocery Basket.”
“Maybe it was a plum,” I suggested, recalling that Ella was an aged shirttail relation of Vida's. “Here, take a look at this.” I pushed the bones article across her desk.
Vida is a swift reader. “My word!” she exclaimed when she had finished. “What does this mean?”
I sat down in the visitor's chair. “The bones were charred, so they—that is, the body—was put there before the fire. You see where I quote Milo as saying 'a year, maybe less'? What does that mean to you?”
Vida frowned. “Naked. Charred. A woman. Hmm. I suppose it could mean that there might still have been hair attached to the skull. You didn't see that, did you?”
“No,” I replied, wincing a bit. “Just bones. I imagine Milo's waiting for dental records.”
“No one's turned up missing around here in the last year,” Vida said thoughtfully. “Oh, one of the Gustavsons ran away, but she came back. So did one of the Lucci girls, who'd moved in with some awful boy in Seattle. Then there was Mrs. Iverson, who disappeared from the retirement home, but I heard she'd gone to live with her daughter over on the Olympic Peninsula.”
“That is odd,” I remarked as Carla entered the office. “If someone else is missing, Milo would know.” I swiveled in the chair. “Carla, what's up at the courthouse?”
“Birgitta would hardly talk to me,” Carla said in an annoyed tone. “Sometimes I hate being short.”
Since I'm barely average height, I thought I knew what she meant. “Birgitta loomed?”
“Loomed and gloomed,” Carla replied, settling in at her desk. “When I spoke to her, she literally talked right over my head. I was so annoyed. Birgitta answered in monosyllables, long-faced and dry as a bone. I could hardly get two words out of her.”
“But you persevered,” Vida put in, her tone suggesting that evasion wasn't acceptable.
“Yes, sort of.” Carla sighed, then turned in her chair to reach for one of the muffins she'd brought from the Upper Crust. “What she did—and I found this out from the county clerk—is file a claim on the nuggets. She's supposed to provide proof of ownership, but she has none that I can tell. Hearsay isn't good enough. I gather that Birgitta didn't understand that part. Anyway, I figure she's screwed.”
Vida made a face of displeasure at Carla's terminology, but I intervened before we could get sidetracked. “Did Birgitta tell you anything of interest?”
Carla finished chewing on her muffin before she answered. “Bottom line—believe me, I really tried—Birgitta said that some Oriental man gave her great-grandfather the gold to thank him for saving his life. Her grandfather had told her the man was called 'Yo.' That much figures, since you said the name on the chest was Yoshida. But Birgitta didn't seem to know the full name, and I don't think we've ever run it in the paper, have we?”
If Carla hadn't put the name in her original article, then it hadn't appeared in print. The nickname of Yo was certainly suggestive. “So why did her great-grandfather ditch the gold and never retrieve it?”
“Ulf Lindholm had to flee, Birgitta said. It sounds like he fled all the way back to Sweden.” Carla ate the last bite of muffin and reached for the coffee.
“That's sort of what I gathered,” I said, trying to piece our scraps of information together. “Maybe some of the other loggers or miners knew Ulf had the gold. They might have threatened him, and he feared for his life. Maybe t
hey'd also threatened Mr. Yoshida. Or worse, tried to kill him, and that's how Ulf saved his life.”
Vida was sitting with her chin on her hand, looking thoughtful. “I found nothing about such an incident in the old papers from SkyCo and SnoCo at the college library. Confrontations of that sort didn't always make the news. They happened in remote, isolated areas, and if there was no arrest or trial, the general public never heard about them.”
“Very likely,” I agreed, turning back to Carla. “Is that it?”
Carla wiped her mouth on a napkin. “Just about. Bir-gitta mentioned a girl named Christina. I couldn't quite track on that one, but it sounded as if Ulf might have given her some of the gold. Christina may have been her great-grandmother, but I honestly couldn't figure it out, Birgitta was so vague and unclear. Then she took off.”
“Christina,” Vida repeated. “Very Swedish, as in Queen Christina. Ulf must have kept enough gold to take home, perhaps even to pay his passage.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “Go ahead, Carla, write up your story, and be sure to include the county clerk's statement about Birgitta not having proof. Attribute it directly. We don't want local resentment built up against her, especially when she's a foreigner.”
Briefly, I considered combining my bones article with Carla's piece, but the two didn't really go together. In any event, it would be better to tuck Birgitta's claim inside the paper than to have it go on page one.
Shortly before eleven, I drove out to the Bjornsons' place on Burl Creek Road. If memory served, Maylene didn't work on Tuesdays. She ought to be home alone, with the kids in school and Ron in jail. Given the circumstances, the family probably felt like they were all in purgatory.
The house had a deserted look when I arrived, though Ron's truck and Maylene's car were in the drive. When I stood on the front porch, I realized that the curtains were gone from the windows. Maylene, however, came to the door, her corkscrew auburn curls in disarray and a spot of high color on each plump cheek.
“Emma,” she said, and immediately grew wary. “Really, I don't think… I don't know …”
“Relax,” I said, smiling broadly. “I want to hear your side of the story before we go to press.”
She allowed me to come into the living room, which was also in disarray. 'Tm spring-cleaning,” she said on a note of apology. “I'm washing the curtains and cleaning out drawers and then I'll shampoo the carpet. I have to keep busy, or I'll go nuts.”
“I don't blame you,” I said, sitting down on a floral-covered couch. “This is a hard time.”
“It's stupid,” Maylene declared, collapsing into a rocking chair. “Ron didn't kill Mr. Rasmussen. I can't think why Milo arrested him. He knows Ron, he knows better.”
“Milo's usually very cautious,” I remarked. “But that's why I wanted to talk to you. From what I gather, he made the arrest based on discrepancies in Ron's log, and because he was told that you and Einar were having an affair.”
Maylene picked up a dust cloth from the arm of the rocker and threw it on the floor. “That is so dumb! Why would I have an affair with that old fart? Einar Rasmussen Jr. was so full of himself that I could hardly stand being around him. Mr. Pompous, I called him. And that lipstick evidence! That's so stupid. Stella sold a case of those lipsticks at half price last month at the beauty salon, and I'll bet four dozen women in Alpine are wearing that shade. Stella ordered the wrong color, and got stuck with them.”
Stella Magruder, who owns Stella's Styling Salon, wasn't the type of woman to take a loss. I vaguely recalled seeing the half-price display when I got my last haircut, but lipstick is one of my vanities. I have two favorite colors, which are only carried by Nordstrom's in Seattle.
“Then how did the rumors get started?” I asked.
Maylene shook her head. “Who knows? People in this town love gossip.”
“Was it something to do with sugar cubes?” I gave Maylene an ironic smile.
“Oh, that!” Maylene curled her lip. “Dumb. But typical. Einar thought he was God's gift to women. I was as surprised as anybody when he dropped that sugar cube down my front. Think about it, Emma,” she went on earnestly. “I could have gone one of two ways. I could have been outraged, and yelled 'sexual harassment.' That would have created a big stink, which I definitely don't need when I'm trying to get on full-time at the college. So I played it cool, and laughed it off. I suppose I thought I could win some points with Einar.”
Maylene was making sense. “What about the people who said they'd seen his car parked outside your house when Ron wasn't around?”
“Who said that?” Maylene's eyes sparked with anger.
It had been Ryan Talliaferro, and I was reluctant to mention his name. Indeed, he had been repeating what someone else had told him. “I heard it secondhand,” I admitted. “But my source was quoting at least two other people.”
The anger turned to gravity. “Einar did come by once, to ask about Diane Henderson, the head librarian. He'd heard that she was doing something strange with the budget. I don't think it was true, Diane's not like that, but I hadn't worked at the library long enough to know. Einar considered himself the expert trustee on money matters.”
“Did he make a pass?”
“Ohhh …” Maylene ran an agitated hand through her curls. “I think it was on his mind. He kept stringing out the visit, asking unnecessary questions. But finally the phone rang, and he left.”
Maylene was still making sense. I had only one question left. “What about Ron's discrepancies in the log?”
“That's bilge,” Maylene asserted. “The log's a joke. Ron can't keep track of every minute he's on the job. He writes down what he did and where he did it, and the general time, but he's not exactly precise. If he were, he'd spend half his working life figuring it all out. That's not what the log's for in the first place. It's to show what problems he's run into and what he's done about them and any unusual occurrences.”
“There weren't any that Monday night?”
Maylene shook her head. “Not that he knew of. He opened the door for Einar, then he went to check out the rest of the building. Then he …” Maylene blanched. “That's the part he didn't originally tell the Sheriff. He was scared.”
I leaned forward on the couch. “Why was that?”
“Ron went back via the RUB dining room. He thought he heard someone leaving. When he didn't see Einar, he went into the kitchen. That's when he found him. Ron rolled Einar over and saw the knife. He pulled it out, because he wasn't sure Einar was dead. When he realized he was beyond help, Ron panicked and ran out of the building. He washed up over at one of the dorms, where the toilet was plugged. The whole thing scared the hell out of him, and he didn't tell Milo.”
“That was a mistake,” I said, with a shake of my head.
“Of course it was! I told him so when he came home.” Maylene looked angry, as if she were reliving the encounter with Ron.
“So Ron actually ditched the knife?”
“Ditched it?” Maylene frowned. “He couldn't remember exactly what he did with it. I think he tried to wipe off his prints, and then put it somewhere. Ron's kind of … what's the word? Erratic, maybe? He panicked when he found Einar with the knife stuck in him, then after he got out of the RUB, he had time to calm down before the Sheriff came looking for him. I guess he held up pretty well during the rest of the night, even when Milo or whoever questioned him. But when he got home, he fell apart all over again.”
I recalled talking to Ron later that morning. Admittedly, he hadn't seemed like himself. “Can you think of anything else that would support your husband's story?”
Maylene drew back in the rocker. “Why? Are you starting a campaign for him at the paper?”
“No. But I need background,” I explained. “I want to be fair to Ron. In fact, I won't print most of what you just told me. Not now. It will all come out in the trial.”
“Trial!” Maylene jumped to her feet and began pacing. “There shouldn't be a trial! Why
do Ron and the kids and me have to go through all this when he's innocent?” She stopped abruptly and whirled on me. “Know what? When this mess is over, we're moving. I'm not from here, I'm from Monroe. I've never liked Alpine that much, especially after the logging business went down the toilet. I told Ron we ought to settle in Marysville. That's where my folks ended up, after they sold the family home. Maybe Ron and I could get on at the college in Everett.”
Marysville, like Snohomish, was another burgeoning town filled with commuters. I couldn't blame Maylene for wanting to escape Alpine. I felt particularly sorry for the Bjornson children, who, as teenagers, were no doubt suffering at the hands of their peer group.
I started to head back into town a few minutes later, leaving an angry and desolate Maylene on the front porch. Briefly, I thought of stopping at the college. I'd been wondering all along why Nat Cardenas was still on campus when Einar's body was found. The Administration Building had been dark that night, so he wasn't in his office. But many people had been around at seven-thirty. It wasn't really strange that the president should be one of them. Maybe Cardenas had been about to leave when he saw the emergency vehicles. I kept driving.
Lunch was a burger and fries from the Burger Barn. Vida, who had been gone when I left to see Maylene, joined me with her carrot and celery sticks. If she was annoyed because I hadn't waited until she could accompany me to the Bjornsons', she didn't show it. Her proprietary air didn't extend to days when we had a deadline to meet.
“That's rather odd,” she said. “I don't know Maylene very well, but she doesn't strike me as a liar. Of course I expect any woman would lie to protect her husband from the gallows.”
I opened my mouth to agree when an idea struck. “Vida,” I said, trying not to get too excited, “wouldn't a man lie to protect his wife?”
Vida knew exactly what I was thinking. “If Maylene killed Einar, certainly Ron would want to shield her.”