by Mary Daheim
“I'm beginning to wonder if those protesters aren't right,” I said in a worried voice. “If Dennis Kelly's parading around with a sign, maybe Ron didn't kill Einar.”
“My guess is that Den's out there for the principle of the thing,” said Leo, who has come to respect our pastor's good sense and compassion. “Either that, or he wants to make sure those two dippy nuns don't get run over by a couple of Southern Baptists in a pickup truck.”
Leo had a point, yet I didn't think that Father Den would get involved in any public display unless he could somehow justify his position. On my way back from the Burger Barn, I'd stopped to get quotes from the protesters who then numbered twenty-six. Richie Magruder, our deputy mayor, and husband of salon owner Stella, thinks with his heart, not his head.
“Ron's a good guy,” Richie had asserted. “And Stella says Maylene's not the kind to play around. This whole thing's out of control, if you ask me.”
Scott Kuramoto based his reaction on similar “empirical evidence.” “I haven't known Ron long, but I enjoy studying people. He doesn't strike me as impulsive or rash. If you work as a repairman, either on trucks or toilets, you need a great deal of patience. This kind of murder doesn't fit the man.”
Donald Nielsen, pastor of Faith Lutheran, had concurred. “Ron Bjornson has a good heart. He would never harm another human being. Nor does the evidence—as we know it—support this charge.”
Since almost none of the Sheriff's evidence had yet appeared in The Advocate, I assumed there were leaks, maybe from Maylene, or Ron himself. As I sorted through my notes, Richie Magruder's name caught my eye. On a whim, I called his wife, Stella, at the salon.
“I've had Milo in here asking about those lipsticks,” Stella said in her throaty voice. “ 'Midnight Mauve,' it's called. I ordered—or thought I ordered—'Midnight Rose.' Anyway, despite the fact I don't think they look very good on just about anybody unless they've got a Malibu tan, I've sold almost all of them. That happens when you stick a fifty-percent-off sign on a display.”
“I suppose Dodge asked who bought them,” I said.
“Natch,” Stella responded. “I could only remember four or five, and Maylene wasn't one of them.”
“She admitted she bought the lipstick,” I pointed out.
“Sure she did,” Stella said. “But I'm not the only one who rings up sales around here. I do recall Irene Baugh, Heather Bardeen, your Ginny Erlandson, and Amanda Hanson, who's almost dark enough to get away with that shade. Oh, the other one I remember is Cynthia Kittika-chorn from the college. With her exotic coloring, it might look very nice.”
Cynthia Kittikachorn. Nat Cardenas's secretary, and one of the few people in town who had expressed an anti-Ron Bjornson opinion. “Interesting,” I remarked.
“Is it?” Stella sounded dubious. “Got to run, Emma.
Ella Hinshaw just came in for her bimonthly blue-hair special. By the way, you're due for a cut. I saw you at that rally or whatever it was that Richie got all worked up about. You don't look so hot.”
Only a hairdresser can utter such criticism without hurting another woman's feelings. Or at least suggesting that there's a cure. I hung up, and thought not about my unruly locks, but about Cynthia Kittikachorn's Midnight Mauve lips.
I was still thinking when I heard Vida enter the newsroom. It wasn't quite two o'clock, and I couldn't imagine why she'd gotten back so soon from Snohomish.
“What happened?” I asked, standing in the door of my office.
Vida harrumphed. “Edna Mae Dalrymple is what happened. She was already at The Tribune, researching Rasmussens.”
“Why?” I asked, leaning on Vida's desk.
“Ohhh … You know what Edna Mae's like. Give her an opening for research, and she drives through it like a Kenworth lowboy. Really,” she huffed, “we should never have allowed her to get involved.”
“I don't think,” I said dryly, “it's a question of allowing Edna Mae. She doesn't need our permission. Has she found anything?”
“Yes,” Vida said with an expression of disgust. “That's why I came back to Alpine.”
“And?” It seemed to me that Vida was being rather grudging in her admission of Edna Mae's discoveries.
Vida heaved a sigh. “She tracked down the obituary of Christina Andersen. She died in 1913.”
I stared at Vida. “She must have been very young.” Then it dawned on me: “Christina Andersen was her married name?”
Vida shook her head, and a sly look came into her eyes. “It was her maiden name. Christina never married.”
At that, both Leo and Carla looked up from their computer screens. “Old lady What'shername's a bastard?” Leo said. “And I thought she was just a bitch.”
“Mind your language, Leo,” Vida reprimanded. “Yes, Thyra was illegitimate. Edna Mae had also checked the birth records in Everett. Christina was a resident of Scenic at the time, and her occupation was listed as 'seamstress.' In those days that was often a euphemism for prostitute. She undoubtedly plied her trade at one of those wretched brothels along the railroad tracks.” She took a deep breath. “And Thyra's father was one Ulf Lindholm of Malmo, Sweden. Now what do you think of that 7'
“The secret,” I said after we'd all gasped and goggled. “That's what Birgitta is looking for. Her long-lost family. Should we tell her?”
“To heck with her,” said Carla. “I wouldn't tell her that it's Friday. She certainly didn't want to tell me anything.”
“It wouldn't be right not to tell her,” Vida said. “It's strange—no one has ever mentioned Thyra's father. Now we know why.” She paused, perhaps wondering how she herself hadn't noticed the omission. “Very well, give me the details about what's going on in front of the Sheriff's office. There must be forty people out there, carrying extremely ugly signs.”
I filled her in about the protest. She looked bemused. “Feeling runs very high,” she commented. “I wonder…”
“Don't we all?” I said, and told her about Stella's lipsticks.
“Interesting,” Vida murmured. “Are you suggesting that Cynthia, not Maylene, was having an affair with Einar?”
I shrugged. “It's possible. Who started those rumors about seeing Einar's car at the Bjomson house? It may have been Cynthia, trying to cover her own tracks.”
Leo was opening a fresh pack of cigarettes. “Was she ever questioned by Sheriff Dunce Cap about where she was the night Einar was killed?”
I admitted I didn't know. Cynthia hadn't entered the picture until my phone call to Stella.
“Somebody should put a flea in his ear,” said Vida. “I'll speak to Billy.”
Informing Vida that I hadn't seen either her nephew or Dustin Fong on duty, which meant they were probably taking the night shift, I retreated into my office. It wasn't easy, but I forced myself to work on articles not connected with the murder, the bones, or the gold. The new bridge, which was becoming the old bridge in my mind, required my attention before the next county commissioners' meeting. I checked in with one of the three commissioners, George Engebretsen, who also happened to be a member of the college board of trustees.
George, as usual, was noncommittal. Yes, the residents in the Icicle Creek development area had been promised the bridge for a long time. No, the commissioners hadn't made a final decision. Yes, the neighborhood and adjacent area had formed its own interest group to petition the county to act with all due speed. No, the commissioners weren't turning a deaf ear to the college clique who wanted the bridge near the campus. Yes, there was a problem because the railroad tracks already crossed Highway 2 near the best site for a new bridge. No, the county engineers hadn't come up with another viable site. Yes, the commissioners certainly had the bridge on their agenda. No, there wasn't any start-up date for construction. Or for making a decision. Or for getting off their dead butts.
I remained patient, or at least my telephone voice did.
“That was an awful thing about Einar,” I said after we'd worn out the subject of the bridge.
“I saw you at the funeral.”
George, who is in his late seventies, and hasn't laughed since Alf Landon lost to FDR, grumped in my ear. “Damned shame. Einar Jr. and I go way back, to my days at the mill. I worked over thirty years for Einar Sr.”
I recalled that George had been in the logging business, but I didn't know of his connection to the Rasmussens. “Did you quit when they shut the mill down?” I asked.
“I retired two, three years before that, in seventy-nine,” George replied. “Back went out on me. Could have taken a desk job, but I was almost ready to get Social Security. 'Why kill myself?' I told the wife. Anyways, I ran for commissioner in eighty. Been on the job ever since.”
The last thing I wanted was to have George ramble on about his career. “Having been involved with Einar Jr. and his family for so long, you must have been shocked when he was killed,” I said.
“Shocked is right. People have no sense these days,” George asserted. “Then they blame everything on handguns. What's wrong with protecting yourself? Anyways, Einar was stabbed, not shot. You know what kind of crazies use knives.”
I was tempted to say butchers, but refrained. “How do you mean?”
“Dagos. Spies. Guineas. Chinks. Japs. How many more do you want?” George sneered.
“I was thinking more specifically,” I replied. “You know, a particular person.”
“Take a look,” George shot back. “They're all over the place these days. I see 'em running around the college every time I go out there for a board meeting. And I don't just mean the students.”
“Then you mean … ?” I let the phrase dangle.
“Start at the top. Got to go. In more ways than one. Prostate's acting up again.” George hung up.
I held my head. Was George Engebretsen referring to Nat Cardenas? Cynthia Kittikachorn? Or even Scott Ku-ramoto? I intended to put the question to Vida, who'd handed over her story about Mary Lou Blatt's trip to Costa Rica. The fact that my House & Home editor had condescended to do the interview was surprising. Mary Lou is Vida's sister-in-law, and the two rarely speak.
Vida, however, was smirking. “Wait until you get to the part where Mary Lou was attacked by a toucan. It must be the only living thing that has a bigger beak than Mary Lou. Of course”—Vida snickered—”Mary Lou's is somewhat smaller now.”
The article was more objective than I'd expected, though the accompanying photograph, with a big bandage on Mary Lou's nose, would probably infuriate her when she saw it in print. I made a couple of minor editorial changes, then recounted my phone conversation with George Engebretsen.
“Such a ninny.” Vida sighed. “I wouldn't put much stock in what he says. It sounds to me as if his prejudices have carried him away. Besides,” she continued with a sly look, “we must inform several people about the Ras-mussen lineage.” If Vida had been a dog, she would have salivated.
“Who, besides Birgitta?” I asked.
“Your new friend, Mary Jane Rasmussen Bourgette,” she said with what may have been a touch of asperity. Vida tends to become jealous of any other woman who lays even the slightest claim to my friendship. “And,” she added, with more obvious malice, “Marlys and Deirdre. Don't you think they have a right to know the family history?”
I winced. “Are you sure you have their best interests at heart, Vida? Maybe they already know.”
Emphatically, Vida shook her head. “Thyra would never have told any of her children. You heard Mary Jane say that her mother rarely mentioned the grandmother.”
I kept a straight face, though I felt like saying that Vida, who'd been eavesdropping, had also heard Mary Jane make that statement. “What about Harold and Gladys?”
“Oh.” Vida blinked several times. “Yes, they ought to be informed. For some reason, I keep forgetting about them. Harold and Gladys are forgettable people.”
“You take the Lutheran Rasmussens,” I said, figuring there was no way to talk Vida out of spilling the beans. “I'll take Catholic Mary Jane. We can flip a coin over Birgitta.”
Vida assumed a magnanimous air. “You may have Birgitta. It's only fair.”
What she meant was that she would rather drink bleach than call on the Bronskys. We had agreed on the division of labor when Ginny came to my office door.
“Charlene Vickers just stopped by with a big classified ad for next week,” she said, showing uncharacteristic excitement and waving a sheet of paper that looked like a real-estate listing. “Look!”
Charlene, another fellow bridge player and wife of Cal Vickers, the Texaco station owner, had sought relief from empty-nest syndrome by going to work for Doukas Realty. I started to get out of my chair, but Vida snatched the paper from Ginny's outstretched hand.
“My word!” Vida cried. “It's the Rasmussen house on the river! That was quick.”
Eagerly, Ginny nodded. “I knew you'd want to know. Gosh, Mr. Rasmussen's only been dead about ten days.”
Vida and I were staring at each other. “Probate? Or is it necessary with a surviving spouse?”
Vida made a face. “Not in this state with community property. I believe Marlys can do as she pleases. The question is why?”
“Memories,” I suggested. “Einar built her that house, maybe she was happy there, and now he's gone. Deirdre told us that the plan was for everybody to move in with Thyra and Einar Sr. in Snohomish.”
“Yes, but so fast.” Vida reread the listing, this time out loud. “ 'Three bedrooms, two-point-five baths, state-of-the-art kitchen, living room, dining room, family room, office, two fireplaces, triple garage, one-acre riverfront, well landscaped, three thousand five hundred square feet.' The asking price is half a million.”
“Too much,” said Ginny. “For around here, anyway. I have to proof these ads all the time, so I know prices. I'd say maybe three-fifty.”
“Typical,” Vida remarked, finally surrendering the listing to me. “The Rasmussens have always been greedy. I'm calling on Marlys and Deirdre right now. And this time I will not be denied by the Widow Rasmussen.”
I didn't bother trying to talk Vida out of her mission. It was Friday, it was after four-thirty, and I was about to call it a day. But before I went home, I'd stop by Casa de Bronska. If anyone deserved to know about Ulf Lindholm's connection to the Rasmussens, it was the au pair girl.
Though clouds had descended over the mountains, Ed and Shirley were in the pool. Molly Bronsky had let me in, and when I went out onto the patio, Ed and Shirley emerged, looking like a couple of—dare I even think it?—Polish sausages.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Ed called, water dripping from his fat form and small Speedo, “we're just having a couple of precocktail dips.”
“How appropriate,” I said, then hastily added, “for this time of day.”
Mercifully, both Bronskys wrapped themselves in large striped towels. “How about a martini?” asked Shirley, her unnaturally gold curls plastered to her head.
“No, thanks,” I replied with a fixed smile. “I came by to see Birgitta.”
Ed and Shirley exchanged quick glances. “Didn't she come to the door?” Ed asked.
“No. Molly showed me in,” I replied.
“Hunh.” Ed sat down in one of the lawn chairs, causing it to creak ominously. “Maybe she didn't hear you ring.”
Shirley let out a small squeal of annoyance. “Ed, you can hear that chime in Startup! I wish you'd figure out some way to lower the volume.” Turning to me, she seemed unusually provoked. “Either Birgitta is lazy, or she thinks she's too good for us. She told me this morning she wasn't a maid, she was an au pair. Ever since she got this notion about that gold belonging to her, she's been impossible. The next time she threatens to go back to Sweden, I'm going to help her pack.”
“Now, Shirl,” Ed began, “hold on. When the movie deal comes through, I'm going to need all the help I—”
Birgitta stood on the single step outside of the French doors. “You wished for me?” she asked in a chilly voice.
Ed stammered
a bit, but Shirley was still angry. “Yes, we did, Birgitta. Ms. Lord is here to see you.”
Once again, I felt insignificant. In the grocery aisle of life, if Birgitta had been a long, luscious cucumber, I'd be a midget dill pickle. But I held my ground as best I could under her withering ice-blue gaze.
“I have some information you've been seeking,” I said, grateful that my voice didn't come out in a squeak. “It's about your great-grandfather.”
The blue eyes widened and the beautiful face seemed to soften. “Great-grandfather Ulf?” she said in a hushed tone.
I nodded. “Could we go inside?”
“No need for that,” Ed all but shouted. “We're all family here. Have a seat, Gitty. Let's break out the Lab-latt's. A beer sounds good about now.”
“I think it's Labatt's,” I said under my breath. “Anyway, it's raining. Birgitta and I'll go into the … ah … ballroom.” I hurried past the au pair girl, assuming she would follow.
Birgitta did, but she obviously knew her employers very well. “My room,” she said softly. “It is upstairs, very private, very nice, except for hamsters.”
The hamsters, Beavis and Butt-head, belonged to Joey Bronsky, who likes to let his pets roam free. However, I saw no sign of the animals when we entered Birgitta's second-floor room, which, considering Ed and Shirley's propensities, was almost austere.
We sat in matching armless chairs covered in some sort of blue material with big dust ruffles. “Tell me, please, about my ancestor,” she virtually begged. “I know the gold is his, and so is now mine.”
I decided against warning Birgitta that my knowledge wouldn't necessarily help with her claim. Slowly, carefully, I explained that Ulf Lindholm had been romantically involved with a young woman named Christina Andersen. They had never married, I said, avoiding Vida's suspicion that Christina had been a hooker.
“They had daughter?” Birgitta's eyes had moistened. “What became of daughter?”
“Thyra Andersen married a man named Einar Ras-mussen,” I said. “They are both still alive and living in Snohomish.” I lowered my voice, and dared to reach out a hand to Birgitta. “It was their son, Einar Rasmussen Jr., who was murdered a week ago last Monday.”