The Alpine Kindred (2 page)

“Maybe she won't stay,” I remarked, checking Carla's computer screen to see what she was working on for the weekly issue due out in two days. The screen was blank. “Damn it,” I groused, “Carla and Ginny have both been gone far too long! Little Brad's asleep under my desk. What's going on around here?”

Vida peered at me over the orange rims of her big glasses. She had recently acquired new bifocals, and replaced her tortoiseshell frames with a shade that matched her raincoat. I still wasn't used to the change.

“Something's afoot,” Vida said in an undertone, though no one else was in the news office. “Ginny and Carla had their heads together earlier this morning. Buzz-buzz, whisper-whisper. I couldn't believe they wouldn't tell me what they were talking about.”

Neither could I. There was scarcely a soul in Alpine who didn't divulge the darkest of secrets to Vida Run-kel. She knew everyone, she was related to many of them, she hardly ever missed a morsel of news. If Vida had worked for the CIA, no foreign power's secrets would have been safe.

To prove the point, Vida pounced when Ginny and Carla entered the office ten seconds later. “Well?” my House & Home editor demanded, fists on broad hips and
formidable bust thrust forward. “Where in the world have you two been? It's almost one-thirty.”

“I'm sorry, I'm really sorry,” Ginny Erlandson said, wringing her thin hands. “Is Brad okay?” She turned in every direction, her glorious red hair spraying around her shoulders.

“Brad's napping,” I said, gesturing toward my office at the rear of the newsroom. “He's fine, but he'll be hungry when he wakes up.”

My office manager rushed to check on her son. Carla, however, strolled to her desk without looking at Vida— or me. “Was I supposed to get those Rasmussen Union Building pictures today?” she asked in a detached voice.

“You sure were,” I responded, waving a finger at her. “Einar Rasmussen Jr. waited around here for twenty minutes and left in a huff. He said you had a noon appointment here.”

Carla glanced at her calendar. “No, I didn't. It's tomorrow, the twelfth.”

“This
is
the twelfth,” I shot back. “Monday. You must have written it down wrong.”

“Big deal. There's plenty of time. The dedication section isn't due out for over a week.” With a languid air, Carla sat down.

I started to respond, but Vida interrupted: “What have you and Ginny been up to? It couldn't have taken you almost three hours to interview the Bourgette boys. Why would you need Ginny to go with you? It seems more likely that the two of you were out shopping at the mall or ate a very long lunch. No one takes more than an hour break at
The Advocate.
Isn't that right, Emma?” The latter comment was clearly an afterthought. Sometimes Vida has trouble remembering who is in charge. Sometimes I do, too. At sixty-plus, Vida not only can spot me by
twenty years, but she has seniority on the newspaper, having been employed for almost two decades by the previous owner, Marius Vandeventer.

I nodded. “It tends to leave the rest of us in the lurch, especially with Ginny bringing Brad to work most of the time.” As the boy began to walk and grow more active, I was beginning to think that my original offer of on-premise child care was a bad idea.

“That's it.” Carla's pretty face brightened. “We were checking out day care. Ginny thinks it may be time to find a nice place for Brad.”

Vida scowled. “Goodness, but you're a poor liar, Carla. You know perfectly well that Ginny's sister-in-law, Donna Wickstrom, has always said she'd take Brad in.
Now, where were you?”

Carla's olive skin flushed and she hid behind her long, black hair. “It's a secret.” One eye peeked out between the dark tresses.

“Nonsense!” There were no secrets in Vida's world. “Come, come, what's going on?”

Slowly, Carla brushed the hair from her face and made an attempt to stare down Vida. “I mean it. Honestly. I can't say—yet.”

“Yet?” Vida's scowl deepened.

Carla shook her head. “I really, really can't. Wait until this weekend.”

The sigh that Vida uttered could have blown down a small sapling. “Carla! I'm ashamed of you!”

Ginny was tiptoeing out of my office. She was Brad-less, so I assumed the child was still sleeping. “It's true,” our office manager put in. “Carla can't say anything just yet. But it's nothing bad.”

It seemed to me that Vida looked faintly disappointed. “Well, now. Then I suppose we'll have to wait.” She
drummed her short fingernails on the desktop. “When, this weekend?”

Carla and Ginny exchanged quick glances. “Sunday?” Carla finally said. “We'll drop by your house in the evening.”

Mention of the weekend reminded me of Ed's phone call. As soon as Vida indicated she was partially appeased, I relayed the invitation. Ginny said she'd have to check with her husband, Rick; Carla hemmed and hawed.

“I just can't say,” she said at last, then pointed to a news release on her desk. “Now, what about the RUB?”

“Oh—the RUB,” I echoed, using the acronym for the student-union building named to honor Einar Rasmussen Jr.'s financial contributions to the community college. The dedication was set for Sunday, May 25. Our special section would be published Wednesday, May 21. The scheduling was awkward, because it meant we had to postpone our Memorial Day edition until after the legal holiday, but at least it would come out before the historical date, May 30. “Leo figures he can sell enough advertising for a four-page pullout,” I said. “How much space can you fill with photos and text?”

For once, Carla seemed more at ease discussing business than personal matters. “I've got plenty of photos. I've been taking them ever since construction started. I ran into Mr. Rasmussen on campus last week to set up a photo of him in front of the completed union building. Now I suppose I'll have to reschedule.” She sighed, the soul of self-sacrifice. “This is such a pain. I can't find his number in the phone book.”

“He doesn't live here,” Vida said with a faint sneer. “Einar Rasmussen Jr. lives off the highway on the river, between Grotto and Skykomish.” The distance from town was less than ten miles, but Vida's disparaging manner indicated
that Einar Jr. might as well reside in the Florida Keys. Though I had lived in Alpine for seven years, I still marveled at the natives' insular attitude.

I literally inserted myself between Carla and Vida by standing in the middle of the news office. “Einar Ras-mussen Jr. is originally from Snohomish,” I explained to Carla, though it seemed that I'd already imparted the background information to her a week or more ago, “but he and his father, Einar Sr., have always had ties with both Snohomish and Skykomish counties. Until about eight years ago they owned a sawmill on the site where Einar Jr. built his house.”

“It was nine years ago when the mill shut down, before you came to Alpine, Emma,” Vida put in, with the usual implication that I was completely ignorant of the town's history before I moved in. “And don't forget Harold.”

“Yes … ah … Harold.” I
had
forgotten Harold, and my puzzled expression must have conveyed the oversight.

“Harold,” Vida intoned, “is Einar Jr.'s older brother. Harold lives between Monroe and Sultan. Harold has rather peculiar habits.”

The Rasmussens, it seemed, covered the route along Highway 2. “Such as?” I inquired.

“He drinks.” Vida's face was wreathed in staunch Presbyterian disapproval. “Some people blame his condition on his brother. Very silly of them, of course. I doubt that Einar Jr. opens the bottles and pours the liquor for Harold.”

I doubted that, too, but it wasn't Harold Rasmussen who had made generous donations to the college building fund. Until today, I had met Einar Jr. only once or twice; the rest of the family was unknown to me, except as a leitmotif in the history of Snohomish and Skykomish counties.

“Okay,” Carla said, still lacking enthusiasm, “I'll look
for Einar Rasmussen Jr. in the directory's Skykomish section. I still think the photo session was for tomorrow. He got mixed up.”

It was pointless to argue. Though Carla was often wrong, she seldom admitted it. But that was typical of many people, including me.

Vida had turned away and was going through her in-basket. “I need 'Scene' items,” she announced without looking up.

“Scene Around Town” was Vida's weekly collection of local human interest, a kind of gossip column that was probably the best-read part of the paper. While Vida's eagle eye usually provided most of the snippets, she relied on the rest of us for help. I'd never been certain if she really needed our input or if she was checking to make sure she hadn't missed anything.

Leo had just come through the door. “Cal Vickers is going to add a new line of tires at the Texaco station,” our ad manager offered.

Vida gave a single nod, but didn't make a note. She never writes anything down; it all goes into her brain and sticks, like some cerebral bulletin board.

Ginny, who had finished feeding Brad, came in to check the coffeepot. “Carla talked to Dan and John Bour-gette. They really are serious about building a restaurant where the old warehouse burned down last fall.”

“That's a front-page story, not a 'Scene' item,” I pointed out. “A new restaurant would be big news in this town. Carla, what did the Bourgettes tell you?”

“Not much,” Carla said absently. “They're still involved in figuring out who holds the title.”

“Keep on it,” I urged, trying to come up with something for the gossip column. “Father Den traded in his eighty-five Honda for a ninety-four model,” I said, starting
to head back to my office. “I saw it Sunday at Mass. It's blue.”

Vida nodded again. Having made my contribution, I turned away, but Carla caught me up short.

“I've got one, Vida. I'm pregnant. Does that count?”

I whirled around, Leo fell rather than sat in his chair, Ginny stifled a giggle, and Vida looked up so fast that she knocked her tan beret askew. “You're
what?”
she shrieked.

Carla let out an exasperated sigh. “You heard me. I'm pregnant. Ginny knows. The baby's due in December.”

Vida's eyes were bulging. “That's your news? Why didn't you say so?”

But Carla shook her head, the long black hair sweeping around her shoulders. “That's
not
my news. I mean, it's not what I have to tell you this weekend. But maybe it's not right for 'Scene.' You usually don't put baby stuff in the column until after they get here, right? You know— 'Sally So-and-so seen pushing her newborn along Railroad Avenue in a red-and-white-striped stroller.' “

“Well … I …” For once, Vida was flummoxed. “Carla!” My House & Home editor put a hand to her heaving bosom. “Really, I don't know what to say!”

Carla shrugged. “Then don't use it. I know the staff isn't supposed to be mentioned unless it's something really wild.”

“This,” I said, moving slowly but deliberately toward Carla, “qualifies as wild. Not,” I added hastily, “in a
bad
way.” After all, I had borne my only son out of wedlock. “How do you feel?”

“About what?” Carla gave me a puzzled look.

“In general. Physically.” I waved a hand in an agitated manner. “You know—remember how sick Ginny was the first few months when she was expecting little Brad?”

“I feel fine.” Carla continued to look at me as if I were
the one who was acting strangely. “I dialed Einar Ras-mussen's number, but nobody answered. How come they don't have a machine?”

The change of subject indicated that Carla had told us as much as we were going to hear. For now. Even Vida held back, sitting up straight and adjusting her beret.

“The Rasmussens—the junior Rasmussens—” Vida began, “don't need a machine, because there's always someone home. I suspect they either didn't hear the phone or they chose not to pick it up.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, turning my gaze to Vida. “Why are they always home? I thought Einar Jr. was a busy man.”

“He is,” Vida responded, taking a sip of the ice water she always kept at hand. “I wasn't referring to him. I meant his wife, Marlys, and their son, Beau.” She gave me her gimlet eye. “Surely you've heard people around here say, 'Do you know Beau?'—and chuckle.”

If I'd ever heard the phrase, I didn't remember it. But I had heard of Marlys, and was aware of their son, Beau. They also had a daughter, as I recalled. “I don't get it,” I confessed.

With a sigh, Vida put one fist on her hip and enlightened me. “Marlys Rasmussen is rather odd. I understand that one of the reasons they built the house along the river was because Marlys didn't like being around other people. She wanted to move out of Snohomish to someplace where the neighbors weren't so close. She appears for certain social occasions, but I must say, she usually acts like a robot. A pity, too, because on one of the rare occasions that I've seen her, she actually smiled, and it simply turned her into a different person. You must wonder what makes a woman so withdrawn and unhappy.”

It wasn't surprising that I'd never met Marlys Rasmussen. “What about Beau?” I inquired.

“You
tell
me”
Vida said in a huffy voice. “To my knowledge, no one has seen Beau in years. Yet his father refers to him constantly. Beau this, Beau that—which is why people ask, 'Do you know Beau?' It's a catchphrase, suggesting something elusive.”

“It sounds more reclusive than elusive,” I murmured.

“It sounds like a bunch of nuts,” Leo asserted.

“Now, now,” Vida demurred, with a wave of one finger. “The Rasmussens are merely different, perhaps a bit eccentric. I must admit, I don't know the family that well. As I mentioned, they've never actually lived in Alpine.” Her disparaging manner suggested that the family fed small children to circus animals.

Carla was back on the phone, perhaps trying to reach the Rasmussens. Leo had turned to his computer, and Vida, who wouldn't have surrendered her battered manual typewriter for a one-on-one software seminar with Bill Gates, began rattling the keys with her two-finger touch system. I retreated into my office to finish the latest logging-crisis story. The afternoon wound down, its soft spring sunlight filtering through my little window. The occasional rumble of a truck or a train passing through reminded me that there was life outside of
The Advocate
's four walls.