The Alpine Kindred (17 page)

“That's what's so annoying,” Vida said. “I think there were prints, I think they know whose prints, I think they have a serious suspect.”

“Okay.” Leo shrugged. “Then they'll make an arrest, and when they do, they'll have to tell us. So why sweat it? We're still four days from publication.”

“We don't have much choice,” I pointed out. “But I'll be damned if I'll ever let Milo forget how shabbily he's treating us.”

“Who?” Vida barked the word.

I turned in her direction. “Who what?”

“Whose prints, of course.” She didn't add the words
you ninny
, but I knew she was thinking them.

“We can't begin to guess,” I said reasonably. “So we wait.”

Vida harrumphed. I returned to my office. And waited. For many things, including for the phone to ring.

On Saturday morning, I decided to accompany Vida to Einar Jr.'s funeral in Snohomish. It was a cloudy day, with showers that felt more like November than May. I'd half expected Vida to resent my intrusion on what she considered her journalistic territory, but she seemed grateful for the company.

There were two Lutheran churches in Snohomish. Zion
Lutheran was much older, and its worshipers were mostly of German descent. Einar Jr. was being buried out of Christ the King Lutheran, whose flock was Scandinavian. The church was situated in a hilly section of town, not far from the new version of old St. Michael's Catholic Church. It was a fairly modern brick building, probably dating back to the Fifties, with tall cedar trees shielding the back of the church. When we arrived at ten to eleven, the only parking left was on the street. Vida and I trooped a full block to the church, where the crowd was already standing-room-only.

“I should have guessed,” she murmured, elbowing her way past some elderly mourners.
“Press!”
she hissed, practically bowling over a young couple with a babe in arms.

Vida's aggressiveness carried us only so far, to the back of the last pew, to be exact. She is tall, and I am not, so the advantage was hers. I would be able to see only what was going on up front when the congregation sat or knelt.

“Family room,” Vida said in a stage whisper as she nudged my arm. “Drat. It's curtained. We can't see them.”

At last, the minister, wearing long white robes, appeared on the altar. The organ played a doleful hymn I didn't recognize as the casket was rolled in. There was no center aisle, and the procession came through the double doors, skirted the standees, and continued up the side aisle on the right.

“Pallbearers,” Vida said, again in the stage whisper that was making a few heads turn. “Harold Rasmussen, with the peculiar hair combed over his bald spot. Fuzzy Baugh? Oh, really! Surely they could have found someone more appropriate! Somebody-or-other Jorgensen from Monroe, with the pigeon toes. A shirttail relation of Thyra's, I believe. Dear me, I don't know the others.”

The service was uneventful, except for Vida's running commentary. Einar was eulogized by the pastor, the current
mayor of Snohomish, and Mr. Jorgensen who turned out to be named Victor, and was some sort of cousin to the deceased. Forty minutes later we were back in the Buick, headed for the Grand Army of the Republic Cemetery at the edge of town.

“I know it's raining, but how else will we be able to view the family?” Vida demanded after I'd issued a mild protest. “The reception is private because—I'm sure— that old beast, Thyra, insisted on having it at their house.”

It was only then that I remembered to tell Vida about Edna Mae's proposal to help us sleuth. Vida was annoyed.

“That mouse? What could she possibly find out that we couldn't?”

“Vida,” I said in mild reproach, “we haven't found out anything. How could Edna Mae do any worse?”

We had pulled into the cemetery, following the long, slow line of cars, vans, trucks, and sport utility vehicles that formed the procession. With Memorial Day at hand, the fresh green grass was already covered with flowers, both real and artificial, as well as numerous small American flags.

“I intend to call on Thyra myself,” Vida declared. “I can't go on letting the past keep me away.”

“The past?” I turned to Vida, my attention diverted from the large, time-worn monuments that sat beside the narrow road in the older part of the cemetery. Snohomish clung to its own past with a stubborn insistence on keeping up the original buildings, including the many fine old houses that predated the century. Though the outskirts grew and sprawled and congested, the heart of Snohomish beat true to the early days, when timber was king and farms flourished.

“Thyra was unkind to my mother.” Vida's lips pressed together. “There was an incident, at Klahowya Days,
Snohomish's annual summer festival. Thyra Rasmussen embarrassed my mother in public. I detest speaking of it.”

“What did she do?” I asked, undaunted by Vida's grim aspect.

“She …” Vida paused, as if unable to go on. “She tromped on my mother's gourds.”

I succeeded—barely—in not laughing. “Really!”

“That's not all.” Vida gripped the steering wheel with her gloved hands. “Thyra caught her heel in the stem of a very beautiful green-and-orange specimen. The heel broke off her shoe, and she had the nerve to insist that my dear mother buy her another pair. Imagine!”

I was biting the insides of my cheeks. “Did your mother accommodate her?”

“Certainly not! Those silly shoes were very expensive, and unsuitable for Klahowya Days. Besides,” Vida said sadly, “Mother felt that she should be recompensed for her gourds. They were not only handsome, but unique.”

“Why did Thyra do such a thing in the first place?” I inquired, getting my mirth under control.

“Because my mother's gourds were superior to hers,” Vida responded, switching the windshield wipers to high as the shower grew more intense. “Thyra, as I've mentioned, couldn't stand competition.”

“Goodness.” I tried to sound appropriately aghast. But there was no more to be said: the procession had come to a halt, and we got out of the car.

Being far back in the line of vehicles, we had to walk almost a full block to the grave site. It seemed that most of the mourners had also come to the cemetery. Once again, our viewpoint was obscured. Vida was jockeying for position when someone tugged at my sleeve. I turned around and saw Edna Mae Dalrymple, attired in a baggy black raincoat and plastic rain bonnet.

“I saw you at the church,” she whispered, “but I was far
back, in the vestibule. Such a crowd! Mr. Rasmussen must have been very popular.”

That wasn't the impression I'd gotten so far, but the grave site wasn't the place to argue over the dead man's reputation. Vida acknowledged Edna Mae with a tight little smile, then craned her neck to see around the two young men who stood in front of her.

“The Bourgettes,” I murmured. “Dan and John.”

“Ah! Yes.” Vida nodded. “I'm surprised.”

So was I. The two young women standing on each side of the brothers were, I guessed, wives or girlfriends. I scanned the gathering for Pat Dugan, but couldn't find him. The senior Bourgettes, Richard and Mary Jane, were on the opposite side of the grave, just outside the shelter of the canopy. Their usually pleasant faces were set, and they held hands.

As the coffin was lowered into the ground my attention turned to the Rasmussens. Vida's gaze followed mine, and she made a hissing noise. “Veils! Who do they think they are—the Kennedys?”

The Rasmussen women were definitely heavily veiled. Only Deirdre had removed hers so that her face could be seen.

“The widow Marlys, leaning on Harold,” Vida noted, nodding once at the figure swathed in a long black coat and wearing a pillbox from which descended heavy flowing net. “Gladys, clinging at his other side.”

More black, more veils. The fourth woman in the family grouping stood apart, ramrod straight and head held high. “Thyra?” I asked.

“Thyra. Showing off, as usual. Black pearls, black fox boa. I'll bet they're both seventy years old. The fox has probably lost its glass eyes.”

I hid my amusement as I regarded Thyra's funeral finery. The hat from which her veil hung was a black toque.

She reminded me of Dowager Queen Mary at George I'ts funeral.

As the rain thrummed on the canopy like a dirge, the pastor intoned prayers for the dead. Just behind Thyra, I saw an old man huddled in a wheelchair. “Einar Sr.?” I mouthed.

Vida nodded. “The rest are Jorgensens and Malm-stroms and whoever.”

“Where's Beau?”

Vida snorted. “Who knows? Whoever knows about Beau?”

Harold Rasmussen helped Marlys as she threw a handful of dirt onto the casket. He was taller than his late brother, but very thin, and seemed to have none of Einar Jr.'s self-possession. In fact, he appeared almost as wobbly as his sister-in-law.

The graveside service concluded. Several people—but none of the Bourgette contingent—clustered around the family. Only Deirdre chose not to escape. Two men in dark suits, presumably from the funeral home, gently shooed away the would-be offers of condolence. Leaning on Harold, Marlys Rasmussen got into the limousine, followed by Thyra and Gladys. Einar Sr. and his wheelchair were put in a second limo. At last, Richard and Mary Jane Bourgette approached Deirdre.

Vida tugged my arm. “Closer,” she whispered. “We must get closer.”

“Vida!” I exclaimed. “This is a private moment!”

“Of course!” She gave me another tug; I had no choice but to follow.

Victor Jorgensen, pallbearer and distant cousin, had also edged closer to Deirdre. He hung back just enough for tact's sake, but his blue eyes were vigilant.

There would be no scene, however. Mary Jane Rasmussen Bourgette held out both gloved hands and Deirdre
reluctantly took them. “You don't know me, Deirdre,” I heard Mary Jane say, “but I'm your aunt. And this,” she added, turning to her husband, “is your uncle Richard. We're both very sorry about your father. Is there anything we can do?”

Deirdre seemed nonplussed. “Aunt Mary Jane?” She allowed the other woman to squeeze her hands before drawing back. “No. We're okay. But thanks.”

Scott Kuramoto had quietly inserted himself between aunt and niece. I hadn't seen him until now, but he had approached from the vicinity of a tall cedar not far from the grave.

“Deirdre has to leave,” he said in his soft, quiet voice. “The car's waiting.”

“Of course,” said Mary Jane, her usually vivacious face somber. “Remember, if you ever need anything, anything at all, call us.”

Deirdre murmured something which I couldn't hear. Along with the two young women, Dan and John Bour-gette joined their parents.

“Let her go,” John said in a vexed tone. “I don't know why we came in the first place.”

Richard Bourgette, a handsome, white-haired man near sixty, put an arm around his wife. “Your mother wanted to do this. It meant a lot to her, John.”

John and Dan exchanged glances. There was neither sympathy nor understanding in them. But I had a feeling that their anger wasn't with Mary Jane, but with the man who had just been laid to rest in the GAR Cemetery.

W
E STOPPED FOR
lunch at the Dutch Cup in Sultan. Vida was full of surmises. “Marlys is clearly upset by Einar's death. I must speak with her. Thyra is showing the world she's indestructible. I wonder if I could stand calling on her? It was very kind of the Bourgettes to attend, but the boys only came because Mary Jane asked them to. Did you think Harold was drunk? Gladys is a waste of time. Why would she be so upset and need to lean on Harold? Maybe she was drunk, too. Deirdre
seemed
all right, but you told me she was angry with her father. No sign of her son—what's his name? Davin? But of course I didn't expect him to show up if he's run away. He probably doesn't know his grandfather is dead. As for Beau—well, he's a recluse, and that's that.
Do you know Beau?
as they say. I suspect he's mental. Which might mean he killed his father, except that he never leaves the house. It would be much easier for him to have murdered Einar at home. So convenient. What do you think?”

My head was whirling. “As I said earlier, I think Milo knows who killed Einar. Maybe he was waiting until after the funeral to make an arrest. If,” I added, putting salt and pepper on my green salad, “the murderer is actually a member of the family circle.”

“I don't know,” Vida mused. “Again, why follow Einar to the college to kill him? On the other hand, it's neutral
turf. Maybe we were meant to think it wasn't a relative just because the murder occurred elsewhere.”

I heaved a sigh. “Einar Sr. is too feeble. Thyra wouldn't come all the way to Alpine to kill her son. She expects to be waited on, hand and foot. According to what you've told me, Marlys is almost as much of a recluse as Beau. Besides, she seemed genuinely distraught.”

“It could be an act,” Vida noted between mouthfuls of coleslaw.

“It could,” I allowed, “but you already mentioned that she rarely goes out. Harold is another matter. Didn't you say he resented being overlooked by Einar Sr. when it came to running their business ventures?”

Vida made a face. “His resentment took the form of drinking gin out of milk cartons. Half-gallon size, I believe. Why wait forty years?”

“Good point. The same argument holds true for his wife, Gladys. I'm counting them out.”

“Mmm. Perhaps.” Vida beamed as the waitress delivered her stuffed pork chop. “Deirdre. She was angry with her father. She blamed him for her son's disappearance. Except that he didn't really disappear. Didn't you say she told you that Einar Jr. knew where Davin was?”

I nodded. “Still, I don't see Deirdre as a killer. With Einar dead, how could she ever find out where Davin was?”

“People are unpredictable,” Vida observed. “Her anger may have boiled up. But there's that lipstick on Einar's shirt. I trust—I hope—it wasn't Deirdre's.”

I'd forgotten about the lipstick. “I wonder if Milo has traced that to anyone,” I said, biting into my beef dip. “Did you ask Bill Blatt?”

“Yes,” Vida responded, her quick glance taking in the latest arrivals at the restaurant. “Nothing so far.” She
bobbed her head. “Harold and Gladys Rasmussen. Why didn't they stay at the private reception?”