The Alpine Kindred (22 page)

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.

“What,” I practically yelled, “did the books say about your great-grandfather?”

“That many Swedish men come to Alpine.” Birgitta turned the sound up yet another notch.

“Did the books mention his name?” I'd get hoarse if I had to keep on shouting.

“Many Swedish men. He was of them. I know.” She hit the volume one more time.

I was defeated. But I wasn't stupid enough to go out via the patio. Another round with Ed would completely do me in. With my ears ringing, I left the ballroom through another exit and slipped down the hall and out through the front entrance. Carla would have to park herself at the courthouse tomorrow. Maybe we could make more sense of the potential story then.

I related my visit to both Carla and Vida. Neither was impressed by Birgitta's so-called claim.

“Gold digger,” said Carla. “Those big, blonde foreign women usually are, aren't they?”

“Well… not all of them,” I said.

“This Ulf was not mentioned specifically?” said Vida.

“Not as far as I could tell,” I responded. “Between her sometimes sketchy English and the blasted TV, I'm not sure I got everything exactly right.”

Vida adjusted the big bow on her polka-dot blouse. “The name Lindholm isn't familiar to me. But if he came here in the early part of the century, I might not have heard of him. He certainly didn't stay, but then some of
the foreigners didn't. They'd earn a decent wage, save up, and go back to the old country to make a better life for themselves and their families. Like the Japanese at Tye.”

Carla was gathering up her things. “I'll be at the courthouse when it opens at nine,” she said. “See you.”

Vida was also ready to go. “Sevenish,” she reminded me. “I'll honk.”

It was after five. Leo and Ginny had both left. I checked my messages, but there was nothing of importance. It was too late to call Doc Dewey for an appointment. I, too, might as well go home.

There was nothing there for me, either.

Vida had an easily identifiable way of honking:
Toot-toot-pause. Toot-toot-toot-pause. Long toot.
I was waiting for her when she arrived, but hadn't ventured outside. When I reached the Buick, I noticed that she seemed more like her old self. Maybe she had recovered from this morning's debacle.

“You've never met Marlys,” she said as we headed out of town. “Don't be put off by how dreary she is. The woman can't help it.”

“Which, you figure, explains Maylene Bjornson?”

“Maylene and forty other women as far as I can tell. Not that I
know,”
she added hastily, “nor do I condone adultery. But Marlys is always in the dumps. I used to think she didn't go out much because she drank. Then I decided that if she did, she ought to be a bit perkier.”

It took less than ten minutes to reach the Rasmussen home near Skykomish. I could see the house through the trees. We turned off by a half-dozen mailboxes and wound down a dirt road for some twenty yards before we arrived at a paved driveway. The large one-story stone-and-cedar house with its arched windows and at least three chimneys was built not far from the river. I sensed
that Einar Jr. had spared no expense. Maybe he had tried to cheer up Marlys.

We pulled up to a three-car garage which had all of its doors closed. “Do they know we're coming?” I asked.

“No. I thought it best to surprise them.” She got out of the car, then hissed at me over the Buick's roof. “Remind me to get that portrait of Einar. It'll save Deirdre a trip tomorrow.”

We went up the walk, which was lined with daffodils and tulips and primroses. The double doors had handles instead of knobs, and a replica of Hans Christian Andersen's Little Mermaid sat by the steps. The doorbell chimed the first ten notes of “Wonderful, Wonderful Copenhagen.”

Deirdre answered the door. She wore no makeup and seemed startled to see us. “What's going on?” she asked in a suspicious voice.

Vida put out a friendly hand. “We came to call on your dear mother. Do you think she'd mind receiving us? We'll only be a few minutes. Oh, and we'll be glad to take that picture of your father in to the paper. It will save you making the trip.”

Deirdre gave a faint nod. “Sure. Thanks. I'll go get it. I might as well cancel the lost-cat ad I called in the other day. Ruff's never coming back. Cats are indoor animals, they shouldn't be allowed to roam, especially out here in the woods. You'll want a check for the photo, right?”

Vida glanced at me. “Do you know the rate?”

I smiled at Deirdre. “Hold the check. Leo Walsh will let you know how much it is.”

“Okay.” Deirdre started back through the entry hall, which was paved in large polished stones.

“Deirdre,” Vida called after her. “May we come in? We want to see your mother.”

Deirdre turned around. “I'm afraid she's not feeling
well. This has been a terrible strain. I'll get the picture. Wait here.”

“This is ridiculous.” Vida fumed, rubbernecking around the entrance. “Marlys should be able to cope by now. Einar's been dead a full week.”