The Alpine Kindred by Mary Daheim

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 raisedin 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 wasalone. 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,