by Mary Daheim
I did, briefly, also relating how Carla had come to meet Einar Jr. and retake his picture for our special section. “All we know is that he was dead when she got here shortly after seven-thirty. She didn't see anyone or hear anything.”
The suspicion was ebbing from Cardenas's eyes, but Milo was still frowning. “Are you sure about that? The body's still warm. From what I can tell, Rasmussen hasn't been dead for more than half an hour. The crime must have been committed right before Carla arrived.”
“I only know what she told me,” I said, trying not to get impatient. But I had to agree with Milo; Einar Jr. didn't strike me as the sort of man who would arrive early and have to wait around.
“So what happened to Carla?” Milo asked, now bent over the body. “I heard on the emergency-band radio that she was being taken to the hospital.”
“She's pregnant,” I replied, and heard a sharp intake of breath from Cardenas. “She was pretty upset. The medics and I thought Doc Dewey should check her out.”
“Jesus.” The word was whispered by Cardenas, who had his fingers pressed against his forehead and was pacing the kitchen. He must have sensed my watchful gaze because he stopped and turned around. “This is a terrible thing. For the college. And for Einar Rasmussen Jr.,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
Jack Mullins, who had been searching the work space, called to Milo from the sink area. “Have a look. I think I found the weapon.”
Milo straightened up and loped over to Jack, who had pried open a big drain cover. “There's a knife in here, wrapped in a towel,” the deputy informed the Sheriff. “There's blood, too.”
“Okay. Bag it.” Milo gazed all around him, to the counters, the sinks, the cupboards, the floor, and the ceiling. A closed door stood by the refrigeration units. “What's in there?” he asked of Cardenas.
“Storage,” the college president replied. “It should be locked.”
It was. “You got a key?” Milo asked.
Cardenas made a face. “I don't think so. Not here, anyway. Where's security? Why aren't they here?”
“Probably,” Milo replied in that semidrawl he reserved for fools, morons, and college presidents, “because we haven't notified them. Go ahead, call them in. We can use someone to keep people away until we're done here.”
“Christ.” Cardenas threw up his hands. “There's no phone … Christ!” he repeated. “Can I leave so I can call from my office?”
“Go ahead.” Milo didn't bother to look at the college president, but turned to Jack. “Dustman's on his way with a camera,” he said, referring to the county's youngest and newest deputy, Dustin Fong. “He got tied up on the Icicle Creek Road with a couple of campers who swore they got attacked by a bear.”
“Poor bears,” Jack said with feeling. “They've got nowhere to go these days with everybody building up the place.”
Without another word, Nat Cardenas left the cafeteria, his shoulders squared and his jaw set in a rigid line. Milo finally looked at me again. “Prick,” he muttered. “I've never liked that guy. He acts like a little king in his kingdom.”
“That's what he is,” I said, more to annoy Milo than to excuse Cardenas. “On this campus, Cardenas rules.”
“Bullshit.” Milo watched Jack carefully place the knife and the bloodied towel in a plastic bag. “Ordinary butcher knife, right, Jack?”
“That's what it looks like to me,” Jack responded, then pointed to a drawer under one of the work counters. “There's a bunch of them in there, different sizes, but all sharp as hell.”
“What are you waiting for?” Milo again addressed me, his manner truculent.
“Doc Dewey. I'm covering this story.” I picked Carla's camera up off the service counter. “May I?”
Milo raised his sandy eyebrows. “Isn't this kind of gory for your taste?”
“I want you and Jack to block out most of the body,” I said in my most businesslike voice. “The only thing I'll show in the photo are the feet and maybe some leg.”
The Sheriff tugged at one ear. “I don't think so. For one thing, this is a crime scene, and I'm in charge. I'd rather not see myself posing on page one of The Advocate over a victim. For another thing, I don't think the rest of the Ras-mussen family would like it.”
I'd been amiable for about as long as possible. “Tough,” I said, zeroing in on Einar. “This is news, and I'm in charge of The Advocate.” I clicked off three shots, but wasn't sure they'd be any good. Unlike Carla, I'm not gifted with camera skills.
“Hey!” Milo made as if to snatch the camera out of my hand. “Stop that! I told you, this is—”
I whirled around and took two more pictures, both of Milo looking angry. Then I backed away, toward the dining area, still shooting off frames. Milo started after me, one fist raised and swearing under his breath.
“Don't you dare touch this camera!” I yelled. “And if you touch me, I'll sue your butt off!”
Stopping at the entrance to the kitchen, Milo's eyes snapped in fury. “You run any of that and I'll haul you up for interfering with a law officer! Now get your ass out of here before I throw you out!”
“Try it.” I forced myself to calm down, to lower my voice. Jack Mullins was standing by the service counter, looking wide-eyed and, I thought, more worried than dismayed.
“Emma.” The Sheriff also dropped his voice a notch. “Don't push me.”
The rational part of my brain was taking over. If I'd managed to make the camera work properly, I had all the shots I needed. There was nothing else to learn until Doc Dewey arrived, which might not be for an hour or more. Campus security still hadn't showed up, and I doubted that they knew anything. I could interview them later, along with anyone else from the college who might have seen or heard something unusual.
“I got what I wanted,” I said, lifting my chin.
“You sure did.” Milo turned his back on me, then spoke over his shoulder. “I wish to hell you knew what it was.”
Vida was agog. I had called her from the hospital with the news of Einar's death and Carla's departure in the ambulance. She had met me in the waiting room shortly after nine. Despite the fact that half of her gray hair was done up in rollers, she still wore a hat, in this case, a bilious green off-the-face straw number.
“Who called Marlys Rasmussen?” she asked in a whisper that could easily have been heard by the half-dozen others in the waiting room. “Where is Doc? Do you think we could find Carla in the emergency area? Who would want to kill Einar Jr.?”
I sorted through the barrage of questions. “Nobody has called Einar Jr.'s wife that I know of, but I'm sure Milo planned to do it soon. Or maybe he's going to drive to their house and give out the bad news in person. As for Doc, I haven't seen him. I suspect he's in emergency receiving with Carla.”
“Hmm.” Vida rested her chin on one hand, then gazed quickly around the waiting room. She nodded at a young couple who were coping with a fractious toddler. The other three, also young people, were strangers. “Motive?” Vida whispered. “Who? What? Why?”
“Good grief,” I said with a faint laugh, “how should I know? A nut, maybe, prowling around the RUB. A vagrant, looking for food.” I noted that the others, including the young couple I recognized as Sue Ann Daley and her husband, whose name I'd forgotten, were staring. “Let's wait to discuss this,” I said, and picked up an outdated magazine from the nearby table.
“Einar Jr. could make enemies,” Vida murmured. “He's that sort. Cold, abrupt, stubborn. Trucking. Teamsters. My, my!”
“Vida, Einar's not Jimmy Hoffa.” I tried to immerse myself in Sports Illustrated's Super Bowl issue.
“Perhaps Marlys is more peculiar than I thought,” Vida continued. “Some sort of mania. Then there's Beau. If there really is a Beau. You have to wonder.”
“Vida …” I hoped my tone conveyed a warning.
“Einar Sr. wouldn't do such a thing—probably. But Harold—so resentful, I'm sure. And drunk. Oh! Mary Jane! Surely she must hate all of her fam
ily.” Vida poked me. “Who have I left out?”
“The Green Bay Packers,” I retorted just as a wan-looking Carla came out through the double doors from the examining rooms.
Vida leaped to her feet. “Carla! Are you all right?”
Carla nodded, the black hair hanging limp over her shoulders. “Doc said I was just upset. I'm supposed to go home and stay in bed for a day or so.” Her dark eyes sought mine. “Tomorrow's Tuesday, though. What will you do without me?”
“We'll manage,” I replied. “Come on, we're here to give you a ride. We can go in my car.”
“Nonsense,” Vida huffed. “My Buick is much bigger and more comfortable. Emma, you can come with us.”
“Thanks, Vida,” I murmured. It wasn't worth arguing over the comparative comfort of our aging full-sized sedans.
“Now,” Vida said, after she had stuck me in the backseat and put Carla next to her up front, “tell us what happened at the RUB. You'll have to give a statement to the Sheriff, you know.”
“Sure, I'll do that later.” Carla still sounded subdued, and very tired.
“Well?” Vida had paused at the intersection of Second and Cedar.
“Well what?” I could see Carla wrinkle her nose as she turned to Vida.
Vida sighed and stepped on the gas. “What happened. You had a seven-thirty appointment with Einar Jr., correct? What took place when you arrived at the RUB?”
“I was a couple of minutes late,” Carla said, still in that same dull tone.
“How late?” Vida broke in.
“Um… five minutes?” Carla wrinkled her nose again, and I figured that she probably hadn't gotten to the RUB until almost seven forty-five. “Anyway, the doors were unlocked, so I went inside to the cafeteria where I'd told Mr. Einar—Mr. Rasmussen—that I'd meet him. The lights were on, but I didn't see him anywhere, so I waited a couple of minutes, and then I wandered into the kitchen. That's where I found him, lying on the floor. I thought he'd had a heart attack.”
As Vida glanced at Carla, the bilious green straw hat struck the car's roof. “Did you see anyone? Or hear anything?” With a firm hand, Vida jammed the hat down on top of her curlers.
“No.” Carla leaned back on the passenger seat's headrest. “Nobody was around. And the phones weren't hooked up, so I had to go out to a pay phone by the Ad Building to call Emma.”
At the Alpine Way arterial, Vida swiveled around to look at me. “Where did Einar Jr. park?” She swiveled back to Carla. “Where did you park?”
“I parked in the faculty lot behind the RUB,” Carla replied. “I don't know where Mr. Rasmussen parked. Probably in the same place. That's where they send visitors at the gate.”
I leaned forward, straining at my seat belt. “No one was at the gate when I came in,” I said. “The little kiosk was empty.”
Carla nodded once. “No one was there when I arrived, either. I don't think they have anybody on duty once night classes get under way. There's a sign posted, though, telling visitors where to park.”
In my excitement, I hadn't noticed the sign, and had pulled into one of the student lots that was closest to the RUB. Since I'd been there for close to an hour and hadn't gotten ticketed, I began to wonder about the efficiency of campus security.
Vida had covered the six blocks to Carla's apartment building, which stood across Alpine Way from the upscale Pines development and was sheltered by forest land on the other. “We'll come in,” Vida announced, shutting off the engine.
“Don't,” Carla said abruptly. “I'll be fine.”
“Nonsense.” Vida opened the door on the driver's side.
“I mean it.” Carla's voice was unusually severe. “Doc Dewey told me I was fine, I just needed to rest.”
Vida hesitated. “I planned to make you a nice cup of hot tea.”
Carla shook her head, very firmly. “That's nice, but hot tea would keep me awake, unless it was herbal, which I ran out of yesterday. Besides, Ryan will take care of me when he gets home. On Mondays, he's done at the college around ten.”
“I see.” Vida closed the car door. “Well now. Will he bring your car back?”
“No. He has his own. We'll pick it up tomorrow or Wednesday morning. See you.” Carla got out of the car and moved with surprising alacrity to the apartment entrance.
Vida waited to see if she got in safely. Even in a small town like Alpine, danger can lurk in unsuspected places. As, I realized, Einar Rasmussen Jr. had found out too late.
“That settles it,” Vida declared. “Carla is indeed living with Ryan. He must teach a class in addition to his other duties,” she mused, pulling away from the curb. “So he was on campus all along.”
“So were a lot of people,” I said, still sitting in the back. “What does Ryan Talliaferro have to do with Einar Rasmussen Jr.?”
“Nothing. But who was there who did have something to do with Einar Jr.?”
“That's the most pressing question,” I conceded. “Where are we going?”
“To get your car,” Vida replied.
We had turned west on Tonga Road. “But we're going in the opposite direction of the hospital,” I pointed out.
“My, my. So we are. I forgot.”
It was a lie. We were heading for Skykomish Community College. “Turn around, Vida,” I commanded.
“Why? It's not that late.”
“Because I said so. I want to go home. If you want to see what's happening at the RUB, you can go to the college without me.”
“Oh, dear!” Vida gave me a sharp glance over her shoulder. “This won't do! Whatever occurred between you and Milo?”
I ground my teeth. As a rule, Vida's perceptive powers are much appreciated and admired. But not when she takes my personal life into her purview.
I ignored her question. “Doc probably still hasn't shown up. I did everything I could do while I was there. I'm tired, and I want to go home. Please, Vida.”
She slowed the Buick just before we reached the Burl Creek Road. “No one seems to want my company tonight,” she said in mock self-pity. “Carla has Dean Tal-liaferro and you have—what? Managed to somehow further annoy Milo?”
“It wasn't hard to do.” I could feel my teeth clamp together.
Vida pulled into the road that led to the ski lodge, then turned around. “You'll have to get over it by morning. Both of you.”
“Why?” Now I was starting to get angry at Vida.
“Because Carla isn't coming to work, and you'll have to cover the story for Wednesday's edition. Unless, of course, you want me to handle it.”
Hard news was not Vida's forte. “Naturally I'll cover the story. I'm the editor, for God's sake.”
“I should think so!” Vida, a usually sensible driver, headed back down Tonga Road at what I considered an excessive speed. “Any story of this magnitude involving the Rasmussen family is bound to be tricky. We'll— you'll—need all the help you can get.”
I didn't respond. It passed through my tired mind that I needed help, all right. In more ways than one.
Chapter Five
“WHY THE HEEL couldn't they have built a College in Snohomish instead of Alpine?” I overheard Milo say to someone in his office the next morning. “Then Einar could've gotten whacked in Snohomish County instead of here. Hell, they're mostly Snohomish types, not Alpiners.”
Toni Andreas, the Sheriff department's receptionist, gave me an apologetic smile. “I'm afraid the Sheriff isn't in a very good mood today. He's filling in his other deputies about last night's homicide. Dwight Gould and Sam Heppner and Bill Blatt were off duty.”
I didn't know about Sam and Dwight, but guessed that Bill hadn't been working the late shift. He is one of Vida's numerous nephews, and is trained, under penalty of God-knows-what, to relay any big news to his aunt immediately.
“How long before Milo finishes with his merry men?” I inquired as Dustin Fong entered from the vicinity of the evidence and interrogation rooms.
Toni rolled her big brown eyes. �
�Who knows? Do you want some coffee while you wait?”
The Sheriff's coffee is not unlike the current state of our relationship—weak, bitter, and irritating. I declined Toni's offer. Instead, I collared Dustin.
“What's going on?” I asked the youngest of Milo's deputies, a quiet-spoken Asian-American from Seattle.
Dustin gestured at the Sheriff's office. “You mean the briefing?”
I shook my head. “I mean the investigation itself. You might as well fill me in. I gather Milo may be busy for a while.” Now that I was on the premises, I wasn't sure how much I wanted to go one-on-one with the Sheriff this early in the day.
Dustin motioned for me to come around to his side of the curving wood counter and sit at his desk. “Did you hear anything about a weapon?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
I told Dustin I'd been in the cafeteria kitchen when Jack Mullins found the knife. “Are they sure that's what did it?” I asked.
Dustin, who is the very soul of discretion, cleared his throat. “There has to be an autopsy. As usual, we can't do it here because of our limited facilities, so the body has been shipped to SnoCo, in Everett. It'll take a couple of days. As usual. We're not a priority in the other county. As usual.” He gave me a rueful look.
Despite passage of a bond issue a couple of years earlier, SkyCo still was hampered by lack of adequate funding. Headquarters had been renovated and expanded, a small-scale lab had been added, Dustin had been hired to ease the manpower shortage, and the jail's security had been beefed up so that prisoners couldn't escape by kicking a hole in the wall and crawling out onto the sidewalk across from the Sears catalogue pickup office. Indeed, many years ago an escapee who had been serving time for assault with a deadly weapon had gone directly from his cell to the Sears outlet and tried to order a double-barreled shotgun.
“So nothing definite on the weapon until the autopsy, right?”
Dustin nodded. “Sorry. I know you come out tomorrow.”
That was the curse of the weekly. If news didn't break within twenty-four hours of publication, it was stale by the next edition.
