The Alpine Kindred by Mary Daheim Page B

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, hemight 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 theirfallen 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