The Alpine Kindred by Mary Daheim Page A

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