The Alpine Kindred by Mary Daheim Page B

I've never heard anyone criticize him.”
    Carl Clemans had definitely achieved saintly status in Alpine. Perhaps it was deserved; perhaps it was a fluke of memory. But Clemans had been dead for almost sixty years and Einar Rasmussen Sr. was still alive. His son, however, was not, and that was paramount in my mind.
    By three-thirty, our deadline loomed before me. Whether I liked it or not, I had to check in with the Sheriff before the end of the day. I trudged the two blocks to Milo's office, aware that the sun was playing peekaboo with some ominous gray clouds. Just as I pushed open one of the double doors to the Skykomish County Sheriff's Office, Milo came through the other.
    “Emma,” he said, looking startled. “Hi.” He kept going.
    “Hey!” I whirled around. “Hold it! I need two minutes.”
    At the curb, the Sheriff hesitated but didn't turn toward me. “For what? I'm busy.”
    “So am I,” I snapped. “I've got a paper to put to bed in about ninety minutes.”
    “You do that,” Milo said, still without looking at me. “You can put whatever the hell you want to bed without me.” He yanked open the door of his Cherokee Chief and slammed it shut.
    “Asshole!” I yelled just as Edna Mae Dalrymple approached with a shocked expression on her face. She'd heard me, but Milo probably hadn't; he'd gunned the engine and was already pulling out of his diagonal parking space.
    “Are you all right?” Edna Mae gasped, her overbite making her look even more like a scared rabbit than she usually does. Edna Mae is not only the local librarian, but a fellow member of my bridge club. Though she and others have exasperated me many times with their lamebrained card playing, I've never actually called any of them an asshole.
    “I'm upset,” I admitted. “I'm up against a deadline, and the Sheriff isn't cooperating. Sorry. I shouldn't be so … irked.”
    Edna Mae tittered. “You certainly sounded annoyed. Really, Emma,” she said, pressing so close that I could smell the baked goods she carried in a bag from the Upper Crust, “is it true that you and Milo are on the rocks?”
    “It's been true for months,” I said, my irritation returning. Where the hell had Edna Mae been since October? Stuck in the stacks in the library basement?
    But Edna Mae was wide-eyed. “Maybe it's just a tiff,” she said in her customary nervous manner. “I always thought you and Milo made such a cute couple.”
    I started to snap back at Edna Mae, but fortunately, my better nature came to the fore. I couldn't take out myfrustrations on a poor woman whose only serious fault— besides not knowing a short club bid from a singing telegram—was lack of judgment when it came to her fellow human beings.
    “Thanks,” I said, “but things just didn't work out. See you soon, Edna Mae.” I dashed into the Sheriff's office.
    Jack Mullins was laughing. At me, as it turned out, though he tried to hide the fact. “Just missed Dodge, huh?” he said, and made an attempt at turning serious.
    I realized Jack had been watching through the double doors. “Yeah, right, I got dodged by Dodge. Your boss is being difficult these days. Can you bail me out on this Rasmussen case? I want to finish my story for tomorrow's edition.”
    Jack shrugged. “What's to bail? We haven't heard from the ME in Everett yet.”
    “But you've been conducting interviews, haven't you?”
    “Sure.” He shuffled some papers behind the curving counter. “No leads, though. Honest, Emma, there's nothing to report.”
    My shoulders slumped. “That's discouraging.” After a pause I narrowed my eyes at Jack. “So now I have to write that the Sheriff has made absolutely no progress investigating Einar Rasmussen Jr.'s violent murder on the campus of Skykomish Community College?”
    Jack's skin darkened. “Hey, you don't have to get nasty about it! Hell, the guy hasn't been dead for twenty-four hours yet!”
    “I didn't know there was a time line for a homicide