refresh my memory.” Vida sipped daintily from her mug of tea.
My burger basket arrived, along with Vida's fish sticks. Fish, she assured me, was far more slimming than beef, and never mind that the minnow-sized slices of whatever bottom feeders the Burger Barn bought in bulk were thick with deep-fried breading.
“Okay,” I said, after filling my face with food, “enlighten me about Einar Jr.'s reputation in Skykomish and Snohomish counties.”
Vida dabbed a fry in tartar sauce. “I thought you knew. His father owned a sawmill, dabbled in real estate, and grew quite prosperous. There were three children— Harold, Mary Jane, and Einar Jr. Harold had no head for business, so Einar Jr. worked more closely with Einar Sr. I believe Mary Jane worked in the mill office for a while as well. But of course that ended when she became engaged to Dick Bourgette. You can imagine what a blow it was to the Rasmussens not to be able to marry their daughter off with a big fanfare. It would have been the event of the season in Snohomish.”
I was trying to picture Mary Jane and Dick Bourgetteas I remembered them from church. She was a pretty, vivacious, dark-haired woman in her fifties; Dick was a good-looking man about the same age with silver hair and glasses. Maybe it was time for me to do more than merely nod and smile at them in the St. Mildred's parking lot.
“What did they do?” I asked as an RV about the size of my house purred down Front Street.
“Dick was from Everett, so they were married by a priest from his church. Mary Jane became a convert just before the wedding. Thyra was particularly outraged. But,” Vida added, with unexpected malice, “she would be. She's a loathsome person.”
“Thyra?” The name rang a faint bell.
“Einar Sr.'s wife. She thinks she rules society in Sno-homish.” Vida all but sneered.
“Good grief,” I exclaimed, “the woman must be almost ninety! But of course,” I added in a more musing tone, “it was almost forty years ago when her daughter cheated her out of a splashy wedding.”
Vida gave a nod, her hat tipping to the left. “Yes, and of course that was before the influx of commuters and growth in general. Snohomish was much smaller then, about the size of Alpine. But Thyra Rasmussen is still the sort of self-centered woman who considers herself the queen bee. Why, when the Clemans family permanently moved to Snohomish from Alpine after Carl closed the mill, Thyra all but snubbed Mrs. Clemans. She didn't want any competition. But Mrs. Clemans was a wonderful woman who didn't let such things bother her. I'm quite sure she put Thyra in her place. Nicely, of course.”
A haggard Doc Dewey and Fuzzy Baugh were passing our booth on their way out of the restaurant. Doc merely nodded politely and continued on his way, but the mayor stopped at our table, his heady aftershave mingling with the Burger Barn's prevailing odor of grease.
“Kid gloves,” he murmured, leaning in between Vida and me. “This story about poor Einar must be handled with kid gloves. Consider the family, not to mention the college. I play racquetball with Nat Cardenas.” Fuzzy withdrew his hands from the table and followed Doc Dewey out the door.
“Ridiculous old fool,” Vida huffed. “Fuzzy wouldn't last five minutes playing racquetball. The only exercise he gets is giving long-winded speeches.”
I smiled in agreement, then returned to the subject at hand. “You didn't really answer my question about Einar's reputation. Ron Bjornson said it stinks.”
“Of course he would,” Vida responded, pouring more hot water into her tea. “The haves are always envied by the have-nots. Though,” she continued, jiggling her tea bag up and down in the mug, “I've heard stories about Einar's ruthlessness. Of course his father, Einar Sr., was the same way. It's often the case, with successful people. They don't let things—or other people—stand in their way. Mr. Clemans was an exception. To this day,
My burger basket arrived, along with Vida's fish sticks. Fish, she assured me, was far more slimming than beef, and never mind that the minnow-sized slices of whatever bottom feeders the Burger Barn bought in bulk were thick with deep-fried breading.
“Okay,” I said, after filling my face with food, “enlighten me about Einar Jr.'s reputation in Skykomish and Snohomish counties.”
Vida dabbed a fry in tartar sauce. “I thought you knew. His father owned a sawmill, dabbled in real estate, and grew quite prosperous. There were three children— Harold, Mary Jane, and Einar Jr. Harold had no head for business, so Einar Jr. worked more closely with Einar Sr. I believe Mary Jane worked in the mill office for a while as well. But of course that ended when she became engaged to Dick Bourgette. You can imagine what a blow it was to the Rasmussens not to be able to marry their daughter off with a big fanfare. It would have been the event of the season in Snohomish.”
I was trying to picture Mary Jane and Dick Bourgetteas I remembered them from church. She was a pretty, vivacious, dark-haired woman in her fifties; Dick was a good-looking man about the same age with silver hair and glasses. Maybe it was time for me to do more than merely nod and smile at them in the St. Mildred's parking lot.
“What did they do?” I asked as an RV about the size of my house purred down Front Street.
“Dick was from Everett, so they were married by a priest from his church. Mary Jane became a convert just before the wedding. Thyra was particularly outraged. But,” Vida added, with unexpected malice, “she would be. She's a loathsome person.”
“Thyra?” The name rang a faint bell.
“Einar Sr.'s wife. She thinks she rules society in Sno-homish.” Vida all but sneered.
“Good grief,” I exclaimed, “the woman must be almost ninety! But of course,” I added in a more musing tone, “it was almost forty years ago when her daughter cheated her out of a splashy wedding.”
Vida gave a nod, her hat tipping to the left. “Yes, and of course that was before the influx of commuters and growth in general. Snohomish was much smaller then, about the size of Alpine. But Thyra Rasmussen is still the sort of self-centered woman who considers herself the queen bee. Why, when the Clemans family permanently moved to Snohomish from Alpine after Carl closed the mill, Thyra all but snubbed Mrs. Clemans. She didn't want any competition. But Mrs. Clemans was a wonderful woman who didn't let such things bother her. I'm quite sure she put Thyra in her place. Nicely, of course.”
A haggard Doc Dewey and Fuzzy Baugh were passing our booth on their way out of the restaurant. Doc merely nodded politely and continued on his way, but the mayor stopped at our table, his heady aftershave mingling with the Burger Barn's prevailing odor of grease.
“Kid gloves,” he murmured, leaning in between Vida and me. “This story about poor Einar must be handled with kid gloves. Consider the family, not to mention the college. I play racquetball with Nat Cardenas.” Fuzzy withdrew his hands from the table and followed Doc Dewey out the door.
“Ridiculous old fool,” Vida huffed. “Fuzzy wouldn't last five minutes playing racquetball. The only exercise he gets is giving long-winded speeches.”
I smiled in agreement, then returned to the subject at hand. “You didn't really answer my question about Einar's reputation. Ron Bjornson said it stinks.”
“Of course he would,” Vida responded, pouring more hot water into her tea. “The haves are always envied by the have-nots. Though,” she continued, jiggling her tea bag up and down in the mug, “I've heard stories about Einar's ruthlessness. Of course his father, Einar Sr., was the same way. It's often the case, with successful people. They don't let things—or other people—stand in their way. Mr. Clemans was an exception. To this day,
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