by Mary Daheim
“What about witnesses?” I asked, writing no weapon news on my notepad.
“Nothing so far.” Again, Dustin's manner conveyed apology. “Dodge talked to Carla this morning on the phone, but she couldn't give us anything. I guess she'll make her formal statement tomorrow when she feels better.”
“Has campus security reported anything?” I inquired. “Where were they, by the way? I never saw them.”
Dustin offered his engaging grin. “At night, campus security is Ron Bjorason. He's been out of work in the woods for a while now, and that farm of theirs isn't enough to make a living, so he caught on with the college. It turned out that he was unplugging a toilet in the dorm when the murder must have occurred. It seems that Mr. Bjornson gets stuck doing more than making sure the doors are locked.”
I knew Ron and Maylene Bjornson, who lived out on the Burl Creek Road and had teenagers to support. “The college has a bigger force during the day, don't they?”
“Right,” Dustin said, and grinned again. “All two of them.”
I seemed to recall as much from one of Carla's numerous stories. But with a faculty of only thirty, and a total enrollment just under five hundred students, there wasn't any need. Until now.
“What's going on at the campus?” I asked, though I planned on heading there next.
Dustin shook his head. “I haven't been out there this morning. I suppose everybody's pretty upset. Do you suppose they'll cancel the dedication?”
“I don't know,” I answered grimly. If that happened, our special section was also canceled. I needed an answer fast. “Look, Dustin,” I said, catching a few phrases from Milo in his office, “it sounds as if the Sheriff isn't going to be able to see me for a while. Is there anything else you can tell me that I can use for the paper? What about Mrs. Rasmussen and the rest of the family? How are they taking it?”
Dustin didn't know that, either. Milo had driven the short distance down the highway to inform Marlys Rasmussen of her husband's tragic demise. Dustin guessed that Beau was home when the Sheriff came by. As for the Rasmussen daughter, Dustin didn't know they had one.
“Dodge called the Snohomish County Sheriff's office and had somebody go to Snohomish and tell Mr. Rasmussen Sr. He must be a pretty old geezer.”
I hazarded a guess. “Close to ninety, maybe. Einar Jr. turned sixty-four in April.” I'd done my homework before walking over to the Sheriff's. “I'll check in with you folks before we go to press,” I said, getting to my feet and darting a glance in the direction of Milo's open door. “Right now I should go over to the campus. Thanks, Dustin.”
“Sure,” the deputy responded, also rising and making what looked like a little bow. “Sorry I couldn't be more help. But we're just getting our feet wet.”
“Right.” I hoped my smile was encouraging. The truth was that I felt Milo and company weren't even close to the water. I walked back up Front Street, got into the Jag, and drove out to the college.
It had drizzled a bit during the night, and the freshly planted lawns glistened under the morning sun. This time I parked behind the RUB in the designated visitors' place. Then I headed for the Ad Building and Nat Cardenas's office.
The president's secretary, Cynthia Kittikachorn, is an exotic young woman who was born in Thailand but raised in Tacoma. Her languid air doesn't inspire confidence, but I'm told that she's very efficient. When I arrived, she had the phone propped between her shoulder and one ear, and was diagramming what looked like a family tree on a legal pad.
“I've no idea when he'll be free,” Cynthia said into the phone, her voice musical but detached. “I suggest you call back around four.” She hung up and turned to me. “Reporters, from Seattle and everywhere else. Why don't they stick to their own crimes and leave us alone? The phone hasn't stopped ringing all morning.” Her usual air of languor wasn't evident this morning.
Despite the fact that I was inwardly seething over being scooped by the outside media, I gave Cynthia a self-deprecating smile. “I'm a reporter, but at least I'm local.”
She made a face. “I didn't mean to knock journalists in general. But this is a really ugly situation for us, especially since we're just getting Sky College off the ground. Einar Rasmussen Jr., of all people.” Her face suddenly clouded over. “He did wonderful things for us. I wonder if the state higher-education people in Olympia are ready to cancel our funding.”
“They won't,” I said. “They can't. This is hardly the college's fault. Murder can happen anywhere.”
The phone rang again, but Cynthia ignored it. “I'll let the switchboard take that one.” She sighed, her plump figure rippling under a beige silk dress. “But why did it have to happen hereT
“If we knew that, we might know who did it,” I said, perhaps a bit too glibly. But this wasn't my first experience with violent death. Like most other people, Cynthia was probably a novice when it came to homicide. “Is it possible to see President Cardenas now or is he really tied up?”
Nat Cardenas was busy, Cynthia explained, but he was alone. The college was in the process of hiring additional staff, and he was going over the results of recent interviews.
She tapped the diagram on her desk. “I was just filling in the blanks. We're adding faculty for English, math, and sociology.”
“Do you expect enrollment to go up in the fall?” I asked, sensing a second, less dramatic story.
“Some,” Cynthia allowed. “Overall, enrollment may be down around the state because the economy is so good. But here in Skykomish County, things are still slow, so we may be one of the state colleges to show an increase.” She picked up the phone. “Hang on, I'll see if President Cardenas can spare you a minute.”
Apparently he could. Cynthia went through the formality of ushering me into Cardenas's office, a smallish but handsome room with tall windows looking out on a stand of cedar trees, which gave a sense of calm and ex-pansiveness. The walls were finished in unbleached knotty pine, and reminded me of my house.
“Emma.” Nat Cardenas looked at me from over black-rimmed half glasses. Though we didn't know each other well, he preferred informality among his so-called peers. “Sit down, tell me how we can make the least of this mess.”
The college had no media-relations expert on staff, so the registrar, Shawna Beresford-Hall, who also taught English, produced the necessary handouts. Until enrollment increased substantially, SkyCoCo, as it was sometimes called locally, would ask its faculty to wear several hats.
“I have to tell what happened,” I said, sitting down in a comfortable leather-covered armchair across the desk from Cardenas. “It's my job.”
Nat sighed. “The college isn't culpable. You must make that understood.”
“The facts speak for themselves,” I said primly.
Nat didn't look buoyed by the comment. He is in his early fifties, a solid man of six feet with wavy iron-gray hair that was probably once jet-black, deep-set brown eyes, and just enough lines in his olive skin to indicate that the road of life hasn't always been smooth.
“Look,” he said, placing both hands on his oval desk, which looked as if it were made of teak, “Einar Ras-mussen Jr. wasn't just a benefactor, he was on the board of trustees, he helped bring the college to Alpine in the first place. He had influence not just in Skykomish and Snohomish counties, but in Olympia. His father had been a state legislator for twelve years over in Snohomish. His death is a tremendous loss to the community, as well as to his family and friends.”
Nat couldn't have phrased a statement for the press better if he'd rehearsed it. But then again, he probably had. The book on Nat Cardenas is that he's not exactly a political novice.
“What about the dedication? Is it still on?” My question was straightforward, with no political strings attached.
Nat sighed heavily. “Yes. I spent over two hours this morning with the rest of the board of trustees and our administrators. Half that time we were on the phone to Olympia, conferring with the decision makers at the state level. Since the lieutenant governor
is already slated to be on hand, they suggested we go ahead with the ceremonies, but turn them into a memorial to Einar Ras-mussen Jr.”
I nodded. As cruel as Einar's death might be, there were practical matters to resolve. My brain began to buzz with changes for our special edition. With Carla out, I'd be the one making them.
“Do you have any theories about who might have killed Einar?” I asked.
Nat's face, which is usually quite mobile, shut down. “That's up to Sheriff Dodge to find out. If he can.” His tone didn't convey confidence in Milo's abilities.
I was still feeling perverse, not an uncommon trait of mine. “May I quote you?”
The heavy lids dropped down over the brown eyes. “Saying what? That I hope the Sheriff is able to arrest the killer? Certainly.”
I hadn't come to play word games. “You were on campus last night. Did you see or hear anything unusual?”
If he wasn't guarded by nature, Nat Cardenas now seemed to withdraw even further. “Other than a tragically murdered man in the RUB kitchen?” There was no hint of humor in his manner. But perhaps there was irony. I couldn't be sure. “No,” the college president went on, “I noticed nothing unusual. I already mentioned that to the Sheriff.”
“I'm not the Sheriff.” I gave Nat a tight little smile. “I'm trying to put together a story. Last night's events landed my reporter in the hospital.” I paused, waiting for a comment, but he said nothing. “Then you have no idea who might have been lurking around the RUB when it wasn't yet open to the public?”
Nat sighed again. “I understand that your reporter— Carla—asked security to leave the doors unlocked. Anyone could have entered the RUB. A vagrant, a burglar, a drug addict. If you're looking for theories, my best guess is that someone came in with the intention of robbery. It would be an outsider, someone who didn't realize that because the building wasn't yet in operation, there would be no cash on hand. Whoever it was discovered Mr. Ras-mussen, and in his—or her, of course—panic, killed him and fled.” He gave a slight shrug of his broad shoulders. “It happens, especially when drugs are involved.”
It was a nice, pat explanation. It could even be true, though burglars usually don't kill. “What about staff, students, faculty? Has anyone reported anything unusual?”
Nat shook his head, slowly, decisively. “Not a thing. Oh, I'm sure that security has heard a few wild ideas. There are always individuals who imagine they've seen something of importance. Students, of course, have active imaginations. Sometimes. But if anything genuine had turned up, I'm certain I would have heard about it.”
My eyes strayed around the tidy, tasteful room with its framed diplomas and certificates and awards. I knew he had his undergraduate degree from the University of Texas and his doctorate in education from Baylor. He also had a stuffed armadillo in a glass case, which was a rather ugly sight. I supposed, however, that it was better than having a stuffed student on display.
“I'd like to talk to your security people,” I said. “Especially Ron Bjornson.”
Faint lines appeared on Nat's forehead as he blinked twice. “Bjornson? Oh!” The college president laughed, hitting a false note. “Ron Bjornson. There's also a Bjorn Ronstadt, in social sciences. Even after almost a full school year, I'm still getting acquainted, especially with staff personnel.”
I made no comment on his remark. “I understand Ron works only at night.”
He grew very serious again. “Yes, that sounds right. You can check with Cynthia. She can give you his home number and address.”
“I know where the Bjornsons live,” I said, getting to my feet. “They're close by, actually, off the Burl Creek Road.”
Nat gave a short nod. “Good luck with your story.” He turned his attention back to the faculty interviews.
I left the office feeling like a freshman who had just been put on probation. Nat Cardenas might be smooth, he might be political, he might even be a nice guy—but he didn't exactly exude warmth. According to Carla's feature story of a year ago, Nat had been bora in San Antonio to Mexican immigrants. He had grown up poof, maybe tough, but determined to make something of himself. He'd worked his way through college, and as I recalled, it had taken him over twelve years to get his degrees. He'd taught in Texas, then moved to California in his first administrative position. The springboard to Skykomish Community College had been the academic vice-presidency of a two-year school in the Los Angeles area. I suspected that Nat's reserve grew out of his rugged background. I also figured that maybe he was suffering from cultural shock. The only thing that Alpine and L.A. have in common is that they are both on the same planet. I think.
Security was located in the same building, but at the far end of a long hall, with a much smaller, more cluttered office. As I'd expected, no one was around. Apparently both members of the day crew were out checking for student cars parked illegally in spots reserved for faculty and staff. Or, I thought, with an effort at charity, they were helping solve last night's crime.
I drove past the fish hatchery and the reservoir, then turned onto the Burl Creek Road. Along with some small older homes, there are still a few modest farms fighting off encroachment by developers. Alpine's rocky terrain isn't conducive to agricultural subsistence, but hearty earth-loving souls like the Bjorasons try to keep up the pretense.
The two-story white frame house could have used a paint job, but the surroundings were tidy. I could hear the clucking of chickens from a coop near the open garage. In the uneven pasture where a half-dozen cedar and hemlock trees had been allowed to stand amid the stumps of their fallen brethren, I could see two cows and a horse grazing in peace.
An older-model Ford pickup was parked midway in the gravel drive. Since I'd seen Ron Bjornson drive the truck around town, I assumed it was his and that he was home.
Ron took some time to answer the doorbell, and when he finally arrived, it looked as if his T-shirt and jeans had been put on hastily. “Emma?” he said with just enough doubt in his voice to indicate that I was still sometimes a stranger to the native-born.
Noting the disheveled fair hair and the need of a shave, I realized that Ron had probably been asleep. He was on night duty, after all. Sheepishly, I apologized.
“It's okay,” he said, though he sounded wary. Or maybe just weary. “I got to bed around six, and it's going on eleven now. Come in, I'll see if Maylene left any coffee on.”
“Maylene's gone?” It was an innocent question.
Ron, however, didn't seem to take it as such. His gray-green eyes sparked with resentment as he glanced at me across the kitchen counter. “Yeah, she had to go to work. Maylene started part-time at the college a couple of months ago, helping out in the library.”
I tried to remain ingenuous. “Does she enjoy it?”
Ron handed me a mug of coffee. “Hell, no.” He paused, fingering the stubble on his blunt chin. “Well, maybe she does, in a way. But we need the money. How many eggs do you think we can sell to the Grocery Basket in a month?”
I didn't try to guess, but I got the point. “I thought you were doing some auto repair work here at the house for a while.”
Ron sat down on a stool across the counter from me. Even though the kitchen was at least as big as Nat Carde-nas's office, there was a sense of oppression. Maybe it was the clutter that had been allowed to accumulate on the counters. Maybe it was Ron's frustration. “I was into repair for a while,” he said with a grimace. “But I specialized in trucks, big rigs, mostly, and there aren't many of those left around here. The little stuff all goes to Cal Vick-ers's Texaco and the local dealerships. We just weren't making it, and with two kids, me and Maylene had to get steady jobs.”
Maybe it was the sense of something still young in Ron's unlined face; maybe it was the bad grammar. Whatever the reason, I asked if he'd thought about going back to school and acquiring a new trade.
Ron made a disparaging noise. “I got plenty of trades— logging, farming, driving truck, repair, backhoe—you name it, I can do it. B
ut not around here. Sometimes we think about moving, but prices are still down in Alpine. I wouldn't want to take a hosing like Maylene's folks did on their place down the pike in Monroe.”
The coffee was stale, but at least it was hot. We had strayed far from the reason for my visit. Curiously, Ron seemed more interested in his financial situation man in my unexpected appearance on his doorstep. But then again, most former loggers would probably react in the same way.
“It's good, though, that we have the college,” I said, trying to lead into my interrogation. “It helps people like you and Maylene by providing job opportunities.”
Ron gave a snort, then lighted a cigarette. “Right. We can both pick up our bag of peanuts twice a month.”
“But you get benefits working for the state,” I pointed out.
“I do. Maylene doesn't.” He blew out a big puff of smoke, then coughed twice. “She's only part-time.”
I started to comment that Ron's benefits should cover the whole family, but we were still off the mark. “It's a shame the college has to have a tragedy in its first academic year,” I said instead. “As you might guess, I'm writing a story about it.”
The gray-green eyes again turned wary. “You are? For the paper?”
I gritted my teeth. No, I'm carving it on an elephant's hind end and sending it off on a Caribbean cruise, I wanted to say—but refrained. “You were working security last night. Did anything out of the ordinary happen?”
Ron waved his cigarette in an impatient gesture. “Hell, no! Do I have to say it fifty times? I should've gotten off work at four, but instead I got stuck on campus until almost six. All because that Dodge prick had to ask everything over and over.”
I ignored Ron's anger. “Who unlocked the RUB doors for Mr. Rasmussen and my reporter?”
“I did, around seven-fifteen.” The query seemed to calm him a bit. “Then I went off on my rounds. Parking lots, building doors, just checking everything out. The grounds have lots of trees and shrubbery, which maybe look pretty, but they make good hiding places, too. Not that we've ever caught anybody hiding. Still, we have to follow the instructions in the frigging manual. It's a damned pain in the ass, if you ask me.”
