The Alpine Kindred (11 page)

“Ridiculous old fool,” Vida huffed. “Fuzzy wouldn't last five minutes playing racquetball. The only exercise he gets is giving long-winded speeches.”

I smiled in agreement, then returned to the subject at hand. “You didn't really answer my question about Einar's reputation. Ron Bjornson said it stinks.”

“Of course he would,” Vida responded, pouring more hot water into her tea. “The haves are always envied by the have-nots. Though,” she continued, jiggling her tea bag up and down in the mug, “I've heard stories about Einar's ruthlessness. Of course his father, Einar Sr., was the same way. It's often the case, with successful people. They don't let things—or other people—stand in their way. Mr. Clemans was an exception. To this day, I've never heard anyone criticize him.”

Carl Clemans had definitely achieved saintly status in Alpine. Perhaps it was deserved; perhaps it was a fluke of memory. But Clemans had been dead for almost sixty years and Einar Rasmussen Sr. was still alive. His son, however, was not, and that was paramount in my mind.

By three-thirty, our deadline loomed before me. Whether I liked it or not, I had to check in with the Sheriff before the end of the day. I trudged the two blocks to Milo's office, aware that the sun was playing peekaboo with some ominous gray clouds. Just as I pushed open one of the double doors to the Skykomish County Sheriff's Office, Milo came through the other.

“Emma,” he said, looking startled. “Hi.” He kept going.

“Hey!” I whirled around. “Hold it! I need two minutes.”

At the curb, the Sheriff hesitated but didn't turn toward me. “For what? I'm busy.”

“So am I,” I snapped. “I've got a paper to put to bed in about ninety minutes.”

“You do that,” Milo said, still without looking at me. “You can put whatever the hell you want to bed without me.” He yanked open the door of his Cherokee Chief and slammed it shut.

“Asshole!” I yelled just as Edna Mae Dalrymple approached with a shocked expression on her face. She'd heard me, but Milo probably hadn't; he'd gunned the engine and was already pulling out of his diagonal parking space.

“Are you all right?” Edna Mae gasped, her overbite making her look even more like a scared rabbit than she usually does. Edna Mae is not only the local librarian, but a fellow member of my bridge club. Though she and others have exasperated me many times with their lamebrained card playing, I've never actually called any of them an asshole.

“I'm upset,” I admitted. “I'm up against a deadline, and the Sheriff isn't cooperating. Sorry. I shouldn't be so … irked.”

Edna Mae tittered. “You certainly sounded annoyed. Really, Emma,” she said, pressing so close that I could smell the baked goods she carried in a bag from the Upper Crust, “is it true that you and Milo are on the rocks?”

“It's been true for months,” I said, my irritation returning. Where the hell had Edna Mae been since October? Stuck in the stacks in the library basement?

But Edna Mae was wide-eyed. “Maybe it's just a tiff,” she said in her customary nervous manner. “I always thought you and Milo made such a cute couple.”

I started to snap back at Edna Mae, but fortunately, my better nature came to the fore. I couldn't take out my
frustrations on a poor woman whose only serious fault— besides not knowing a short club bid from a singing telegram—was lack of judgment when it came to her fellow human beings.

“Thanks,” I said, “but things just didn't work out. See you soon, Edna Mae.” I dashed into the Sheriff's office.

Jack Mullins was laughing. At me, as it turned out, though he tried to hide the fact. “Just missed Dodge, huh?” he said, and made an attempt at turning serious.

I realized Jack had been watching through the double doors. “Yeah, right, I got dodged by Dodge. Your boss is being difficult these days. Can you bail me out on this Rasmussen case? I want to finish my story for tomorrow's edition.”

Jack shrugged. “What's to bail? We haven't heard from the ME in Everett yet.”

“But you've been conducting interviews, haven't you?”

“Sure.” He shuffled some papers behind the curving counter. “No leads, though. Honest, Emma, there's nothing to report.”

My shoulders slumped. “That's discouraging.” After a pause I narrowed my eyes at Jack. “So now I have to write that the Sheriff has made absolutely no progress investigating Einar Rasmussen Jr.'s violent murder on the campus of Skykomish Community College?”

Jack's skin darkened. “Hey, you don't have to get nasty about it! Hell, the guy hasn't been dead for twenty-four hours yet!”

“I didn't know there was a time line for a homicide investigation,” I shot back. “Surely Milo has been going through Einar's business dealings, his financial status, his private life. Are you trying to tell me he's come up empty?”

Jack didn't respond for several seconds. Finally, he
spoke again, his tone subdued. “We really don't have much to go on. And frankly, there hasn't been time to dig into every dark hole in Einar's life. Give us a break, Emma. You know how short-staffed we are.”

I did know. “Okay.” I sighed. “But my readership won't be pleased.”

“Luckily, you don't have a readership in Snohomish or Monroe, where Einar had most of his clout,” Jack said, all but jeering.

“Actually,” I replied with a lift of my short, unimpressive chin, “I do. You'd be surprised how many people over in Snohomish County have ties to Alpine and subscribe to
The Advocate.”

Jack made a disgruntled noise low in his throat and shook his head like an angry pup. “Okay, okay, I know you're pissed off. It's not our fault your paper comes out tomorrow. By then, we may have something. Right now it's really slow going. Hell, I couldn't even get hold of your reporter today just to find out what kind of lipstick she wears. That stick-up-his-butt boyfriend of hers said she was too weak to come to the phone.”

I was lost. “Carla? Lipstick? What are you talking about?”

Jack gazed at me with curiosity. “You were there last night. Don't you remember? Or had you already gone when Doc Dewey spotted the lipstick on Einar's shirt?”

“I'd gone,” I said faintly. Timing, they say, is everything. As usual, mine stunk. “What about this lipstick?”

Though Toni Andreas was the only other person in the office at the moment, Jack lowered his voice. “Dodge noticed lipstick on the front of Einar's shirt, just below the shoulder. Sure, it could be Mrs. Rasmussen's, but we haven't been able to check her out either. She's not talking to anybody, which, I guess, figures. The son, Beau,
said that his sister, Deirdre, has taken over the funeral arrangements.”

“It wasn't Carla's lipstick,” I asserted. “She never saw Einar that night. Besides, Einar was close to six feet tall, and Carla's barely five feet. Her mouth wouldn't reach Einar's shoulder.”

Jack's eyes danced. “It might. Who said they were standing up?”

I made a face. “You don't really think it was Carla's, do you?”

“Hey, you know Dodge—he never rules out anything or anybody.” Jack's eyes were still twinkling.

“Very funny. Have they set a date and time for the funeral?”

“Saturday, ten
A.M.
, Christ the King Lutheran Church, Snohomish.” He looked beyond me as an older man I vaguely recognized entered through the double doors. “Hi, Elmer. What's up?”

It was my signal to depart. Back at
The Advocate
, I told Vida and Leo about the lipstick-smeared shirt. “I can't use it in the story,” I said, “but it's pretty interesting.”

“Five-six,” Vida said. “Shorter, with heels.”

Leo rubbed his upper lip. “Einar's mystery date?”

“Yes. That's my calculation.” Vida adjusted her glasses, which, like her previous pair, had a tendency to slip down her nose. “Which might include Marlys. She's at least average height.”

Leo was shaking his head. “Forget Marlys. I've met Einar Jr. a few times, and he's not the type to go out of the door, especially for a picture shoot, with a dirty shirt.”

Vida sniffed. “You just want it to be something sensational.”

Leo grinned. “True. But I also want to be realistic. Has Dodge figured out where Einar was before he came to the campus?”

“Dodge,” I replied with acrimony, “hasn't figured out what year it is.”

Leo wiggled his eyebrows. “Ah. So that's how it's going to be on this one. Adversarial stances between the press and law enforcement. Go get 'em, editor-publisher babe.”

“I intend to.” With a thumbs-up gesture, I returned to my office and finished up the Rasmussen story. The copy wasn't quite as harsh as my recital to Jack Mullins, but I did write that “According to the Sheriff's office, no one has come forward yet with any information that might lead to apprehension of a suspect” and that “Sheriff Dodge has no substantial leads so far.” It was accurate, it was news, and it wasn't as unkind as I wanted to be.
Dunderhead
is a term more suitable to editorials than the front page.

The last thing I did before telling Kip MacDuff we were ready to roll was to read through Vida's long cutline, which accompanied the pictures she'd taken at the warehouse site:

“Trespassers had to be ejected by Sheriff's deputies today when they refused to cooperate and stop digging for alleged buried treasure at the site of last October's warehouse fire where John and Dan Bourgette plan to build a restaurant. The Bourgette brothers are the sons of Dick and Mary Jane Bourgette, who recently moved to Alpine, and are enjoying semiretirement in their home near the golf course.”

As usual, Vida had written the caption in her House & Home style. I deleted the last sentence, broke up the first one, and added a couple of minor touches. It was exactly five o'clock when I told Kip the paper was ready. It was one minute after five when I began collecting my things in preparation for ending my day at work. I was heading out when Ed Bronsky literally stumbled into the newsroom.

“What was
thatV
he asked in a surprised voice, glancing all around.

“Your feet, Ed,” I responded. “There's nothing on the floor.”

“Oh.” He shook himself. “Darn. It must be these new shoes. They're Gookies.”

“Guccis, Ed,” I said patiently, eyeing Ed's expensive footgear that would have been more suited to a bandleader in the Catskills than an ex-ad manager in Alpine.

“Right, gotcha.” He beamed at me. “Am I too late?”

“For what?” Ed had often been late when working for me. Shirley was sick, the plumbing was broken, his brakes had failed, their dog, Carhop, was having a liver transplant. Ed had a million excuses, some of them true.

“For this week's
Advocate”
Ed replied, still beaming. “I've got some really,
really
hot news.”

Rats
, I thought. “What is it, Ed?” I tried to look curious.

“My book.
Mr. Ed
is going into a second printing. Can you believe it? What's more, even bigger, is that Hollywood is showing some interest.”

I gaped. “Hollywood? Hollywood, as in California?”

Ed gave me an odd look. “Well, sure, where else? You know, movies, TV. I mean, somebody down there called
Mr. Ed Si project.”

A reclamation project
, I thought in my uncharitable way. But I tried to smile with some enthusiasm.

Ed, however, needed no encouragement. “Down there, in Hollywood—California—when they talk about
a project
, it's practically a done deal. The book's sold almost ten thousand copies in hardcover, and Vane Press goes back for a run of five thousand more next week. Since the book's only been out two months, it's considered a runaway best-seller in the industry.”

I didn't know enough about book publishing to comment. Maybe ten thousand copies in hardcover was a substantial
number. But I did know that Vane Press, located in Redmond on Seattle's Eastside, was a vanity publishing house, and that Ed had assumed all the expenses of getting his autobiography on the market.

“Do you have a name of the Hollywood type who's interested?” I asked, reluctantly thinking that maybe we could squeeze four or five lines into this week's edition.

Ed shook his head. “The guys at Vane are the contact. They're handling the subrights and all that other stuff for me. They don't want to say anything until the project is further along. But Skip O'Shea and Irving Blomberg both tell me is that what sells
Mr. Ed
is it's so
fresh.
Oh, there've been a zillion autobiographies lately that have done well, like Walter Cronkite's and Cal Ripken Jr.'s and a bunch of others, but none of them have a story like mine. I mean, rags-to-riches isn't new, but as Skip and Irv point out, I got that way by doing absolutely nothing.”

I looked puzzled while Ed seemed very proud of himself. “Yes,” I said slowly. “You did. Get that way. By doing nothing.” I nodded a couple of times. “That's your style, Ed.”

The irony was lost on my former ad manager. “Will you run any pix? I sent you that new one last month of Shirl and me in the trophy room.”

The trophy room was where Ed kept his three bowling awards and the first putter he'd used to break a hundred. “I don't have room for a picture this time around,” I said truthfully. “We're pretty tight, with the Rasmussen murder.”

“Oh, yeah, that. I played golf once with Einar.” Ed stroked his chins. “That was a real shame.”

“Yes, it was,” I said, not sure if he referred to his game or the murder. “Einar was a staunch supporter of the community, at least of the new college.”

“Huh?” Ed hadn't seemed to hear me. “Oh—yeah,
right.” He pivoted on his Guccis. “I meant it was a shame because it really upset Birgitta. I guess she didn't think that a little place like Alpine would have violence like they do in the big city. She said none of the
Advocates
we sent to help her get acquainted with the area had any murders in them. 'Course those were issues from last fall and winter, when things were quiet around here. Now she feels like we duped her, and has been threatening all day to go back to Sweden.”

“Will she?” I was starting to twitch a bit in my anxiety to get to Kip in the back shop.

Ed screwed up his suetlike features. “I don't know. Probably not. I mean, we've got a contract and all. Shirl and I figure she'll get over it. By the way, if you use Shirley's name in the article on
Mr. Ed
, make sure it's spelled right. Last time Carla called her Swirley.”