The Alpine Obituary

by Mary Daheim

  Marsha Foster-Klein didn’t pick up the phone. I got her answering machine, which was typically to the point. “I’m unavailable. Leave a message.”

  Maybe the judge had taken to her bed. I’d try again later. Meanwhile, I scoured the wire service and the Internet for items that might be related—however tenuously—to Alpine. I didn’t find much except for a timber story and some traffic revisions around Monroe.

  Shortly after three, I got hold of Marsha. “No appointment yet,” she said, sounding only half-conscious. “I’ll explain when I see you.”

  At four-thirty, I told our backshop wizard, Kip MacDuff, that we were ready to roll. Kip, who is as good-hearted as he is competent, gazed at the front-page mock-up. “The lead story is ETHEL PIKE WINS LOTTERY PRIZE? But Ethel only won twenty-seven dollars with four numbers.”

  “Right,” I agreed. “Ethel is the bottom of the barrel. What’s worse is that she bought her ticket in Snohomish, not Alpine. I couldn’t see running all those Labor Day weekend fender benders as the lead. We got lucky this year—or at least the travelers did. No fatalities, no injuries. Wouldn’t you know it.” Such was the plight of the journalist. Good news for everybody else was bad news for us.

  Such was the drivel that passed for news on this late summer Tuesday. I arrived at The Pines Village at precisely five P.M. Even though it’s ten years old, the apartment complex is one of the newer buildings in Alpine. It has a security system, and after a croaking response from Judge Marsha, I was buzzed inside.

  Her Honor lives in the penthouse apartment, though I’ve never figured out why it’s been given that designation. The only thing that distinguishes it from the other units is that it’s on the top floor.

  “Stupid,” Marsha said to me upon opening the door. Given her sharp tongue, I hoped she wasn’t referring to me. “Stupid to get this damned cold. But I do. Every year.”

  I’d never been inside the apartment since she rented it almost a year ago. The hundred-mile commute from Everett had worn her down.

  “Excuse the junk,” she said, waving an arm around the sparsely furnished living room. “I rented this stuff cheap. No point in buying anything when I don’t know where I’ll settle permanently. My own furniture’s in storage.”

  I sat down in an armchair covered in big orange, red, and purple flowers. It was comfortable enough, but the wild pattern almost blinded me. The judge seated herself in the room’s other armchair, a dull gray.

  “Can I trust you?” Despite the croaking of her voice, the question came through loud and clear.

  “What do you mean?” I replied. There are certain conditions under which no journalist can be trusted. It’s the nature of the beast—and the nose for news.

  There was a cheap faux-wood end table next to Marsha’s chair. She reached into the single drawer and extracted a standard-sized white envelope.

  “What I mean,” Marsha explained, speaking more slowly than usual, “is that I don’t want you putting what I tell you in a story.”

  I made a face. “Sorry. That’s a promise I can’t make.”

  Marsha’s blue eyes narrowed. “Even as a friend?”

  I didn’t know we were friends. We’d gotten to know each other during the murder trial. We had lunch together twice and dinner once. But it was all business. Or so I thought.

  I didn’t know what to say. Friends were not easy to make in Alpine when much of the citizenry regarded anyone not born in the town as a stranger. Or maybe it wasn’t easy for me to make friends. I’d always had a problem with throwing up barriers. Self-protection, I supposed, and had sometimes blamed it on Tom’s betrayal.

  “I can’t promise anything,” I admitted. “Is this news?”

  Marsha frowned, blew her nose, and clasped the envelope between her slim hands as if it were a sacrificial offering. Her usually perfectly coiffed blonde pageboy hung lank and listless around her pale face with its highlighted red nose. “I’m going to take a chance,” she finally said. “After I’ve told you about this letter and what I want, you decide.”

  Great. Toss the ball in Emma’s court. Make me feel even worse than I already did.

  “Okay,” I said with reluctance. “Go ahead.”

  But Marsha put the letter aside on the end table and stood up. “I forgot my manners. This may take some time. How about a drink?”

  “That sounds good,” I said. “Are you joining me?”

  “Sure,” Marsha replied, going to a cabinet in the dining alcove. “A little whiskey is good for a cold. I add honey, hot water, and orange juice. It’s no cure—nothing is—but it makes me feel better.”

  I laughed. Softly. It was a remedy that Adam’s pediatrician in Portland had recommended when my son was teething. He told me to rub the concoction on Adam’s gums. I’d expressed mild dismay. “But by the time I’ve mixed all that, there’ll be too much for the little guy.”

  “That’s when you drink the rest of it,” the doctor had replied. “If it doesn’t work for him, then his fussing won’t bother you so much.”

  I recounted the anecdote to Marsha, who nodded in agreement. “I wish I’d used it on my son,” she said, handing me a glass of Canadian whiskey and water. “Of course he’s making up for lost time at college. Most freshmen seem to major in drink, pot, and sex.”

  I knew Marsha had a son named Simon who was attending UCLA. I’d never known what had happened to his father, Mr. Klein. Female that I am, maybe I didn’t think of Marsha as a friend because she hadn’t shared any intimate information with me.

  We resumed our ugly armchairs. Marsha rolled up the sleeves of her flannel dressing gown, as if preparing to go to work. In a way, I guess she was.

  “What I want is your help,” she declared. “I’m in trouble.”

  I was taken aback. Why me? “What kind of trouble?” I inquired.

  “You’ve run the story about my pending appointment to the Court of Appeals.” Marsha paused to blow her nose. Through the tall windows, I could see the sun starting to set above the evergreens in the west. It had been a golden September day, with scattered clouds and the tang of fall in the air. I’d scarcely noticed until now.

  “The appointment is a cinch,” Marsha continued, picking up the envelope from the end table. “Or was, until I got this in the mail Saturday. Here, you read it.” She sailed the missive at me; I missed grabbing it on the fly, but it landed in my lap.

  I noted that the envelope was postmarked from Alpine, September third. There was no return, and the judge’s home address was written in a small, cramped hand.

  Dear Judge Foster-Klein, the salutation read.

  You think you are a big shot. But big shots can fizzle out. You don’t deserve that big job you’re supposed to get, and you know why. The past has come back to haunt you. Some of us know your deep, dark secret. If you don’t withdraw your name from consideration for that judgeship, everybody else will know, too. And you’ll be sorry.

  As expected, there was no signature. But there was a photograph attached to the single page, stuck on the back with Scotch tape. The picture, probably taken with an ordinary Kodak camera, was old. Its edges were frayed, there was a diagonal crease in the upper right-hand corner, and it was tinted brown.

  “Do you recognize that?” Marsha asked.

  The photo was of a wooden railroad trestle. The background showed a clear-cut hill, or perhaps the lower reaches of a mountain. A rope dangled from the trestle.

  “It could be anywhere,” I said, loosening the photo enough to check the back. It was blank. “What do you think?”

  “I haven’t any idea,” Marsha retorted, as if her lack of knowledge might be my fault. “All I can think of,” she went on in a less hostile tone, “is that the rope means something. A lynching, perhaps.”

  “I’ve never heard of a lynching in Alpine,” I said, reattaching the photo to the letter.

  Marsha shrugged. “Whatever. It must mean something to the person who sent this piece of crap.”

  I agreed. Then I r
eread the letter. “You honestly have no idea who sent this?”

  Marsha shook her head. “Not a clue. Keep the letter and the picture. I know from what I’ve heard and seen of you that you’re good at investigating. It’s part of your job. You’ve even helped solve a few homicide cases in the past. I want you to find out who sent this damned thing and why.”

  “Marsha,” I said, “I’m no detective. Why don’t you hand the letter over to the sheriff?”

  The judge drew back in her chair. “And have Milo Dodge and the rest of them laugh at me? No thanks. I want discretion. When you find out, the story is yours. If it is a story.”

  “As a judge, you must get all kinds of ugly mail,” I said.

  “Of course.” Marsha’s faint smile was ironic. “Usually, they go right in the trash. But this is different. Assuming from the postmark that this is someone right here in town, they can spread rumors. You know how small-town folks love gossip. It can get back to the decision-makers in Olympia. They might ignore such talk. But then again, they might not. I’m not the only qualified candidate for the Court of Appeals. Somebody in the state capital always has a shirttail relation or a good friend without baggage who could do the job.”

  “This really isn’t much in the way of baggage,” I pointed out.

  “It’s enough. For me, anyway.” Marsha bit off the words.

  I remained unconvinced. “Are you sure you can’t think of someone from around here who might feel he or she got a raw deal from you? You’ve sat on the Skykomish County bench for almost two years.”

  “Everybody who goes to jail thinks they’ve gotten a raw deal,” Marsha responded. “And that’s what they say in their letters—before they get to the insults and the threats. This one’s different. There’s nothing personal. That worries me. Come on, Emma, what do you say?”

  No matter how much Marsha coaxed, I wasn’t keen on accepting such a responsibility. The judge’s request would take time and energy, neither of which I had in great abundance these days. “Wouldn’t a private detective be more appropriate?”

  “I don’t want to do that,” Marsha said flatly. “A stranger nosing around Alpine would only attract attention, which I certainly don’t want.” She paused, staring at me with her reddened eyes. “I’ll pay, of course.”

  “No, no,” I responded. “I don’t want money from you. I simply don’t think I’m the right person for the job.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not a professional investigator,” I said. “I also assume you have a time frame. I can’t devote endless hours to finding out—what? Who sent the letter? A crime lab can help you there. What else do you need to know?”

  The judge looked affronted. I’d observed Marsha in court when her dignity had been assailed. She became hostile and insulting. I braced myself for a tongue-lashing.

  But it didn’t come. Instead, Marsha slumped a bit in the chair. “What I need to know is what I’ve done that’s so terrible. Frankly, I’ve led a blameless life. Or as close to it as most people come.”

  “Then what have you got to worry about?”

  “I told you, I don’t need obstacles—no matter how far-fetched—in the way of my appointment. To achieve that, I have to be like Calpurnia, without even the hint of scandal or blame. And the Court of Appeals is a dream I’ve had for years.”

  I felt myself weakening. The judge looked so different from her usual well-groomed, brisk, vigorous demeanor on the bench that I had to feel sorry for her. Marsha’s plight took me back eleven years earlier, when I was waiting to hear if the deal for the Advocate would go through. It meant the world to me then; now it seemed almost insignificant.

  But I remembered.

  “Let me think about it overnight,” I finally said.

  The relief that swept over Marsha was visible. “Thanks so much.”

  “One thing,” I added, finishing my drink. “If I do this, I’d like to take Vida Runkel into my confidence. She knows everything there is to know about Alpine.”

  Marsha rubbed at her nose with a tissue. “True,” she allowed, “but I’m not from Alpine. Her trove of information won’t help me.”

  “Then,” I said as I slipped the envelope into my purse and stood up, “we’ve got a problem.”

  My purse seemed heavier than when I’d arrived. I couldn’t guess that the added content would weigh much heavier on me in the days to come.

  April 1916

  Olga Iversen rarely gave in to tears, but on this cloudy spring day, she was crying. Seated at the white pine table her husband had made after the family moved from Port Townsend to Alpine, she wrung her reddened hands and didn’t look up when her eldest son, Per, touched her shoulder.

  “Ma,” Per said in Norwegian, “don’t get so upset. Jonas is just showing off. He’s only sixteen.”

  “Seventeen, come September,” Olga said through her tears. “He should take a job in the mill. He won’t study. He needs to work. He has too much time on his hands.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Per said. “Again.”

  “Your father is sick of talking to him,” Olga said, her sobs finally subsiding. “Your father works hard in the mill, he has so much responsibility. I don’t want to worry him too much. You remember the last time they talked? They ended up in such a row. Your father felt bad that he had to hit Jonas so hard. His cheek still hasn’t healed.”

  Per went over to the cast-iron stove where a speckled blue co feepot sat on the ever-present fire. “Beating Jonas does no good. Talking doesn’t, either. He has to grow out of this.”

  Olga rose from the pine chair that matched the table. It, too, had been made by her husband, Trygve. Indeed, the senior Iversen had built all the furniture in the tiny three-room frame house.

  “It’s not natural,” Olga murmured. “Not to do what Jonas did.”

  “Mr. Rix isn’t mad at us any more,” Per pointed out.

  “He should be,” Olga declared, straightening her long muslin skirt. “It’s wrong to shoot a dog. The Rix boys loved their pet. I call it a crime.”

  “Jonas said the dog attacked him,” Per said, though there was a note of doubt in his voice.

  “I don’t think so,” Olga retorted, wiping her eyes with a wrinkled handkerchief. “Those chipmunks didn’t attack him when he shot them. Jonas should not have a rifle. He has such a temper. He may hurt a person someday.”

  Per smiled at his mother. “Jonas isn’t cruel. He’ll grow out of it.”

  Olga tried to smile back at her son. But she couldn’t. “I hope and pray you’re right,” she replied. “But I am afraid for Jonas. He’s not like you or your brother Lars.” Tears welled again in her blue eyes. “God help us, Jonas isn’t like other people.”

  Chapter Two

  “How could you have forgotten something like Marsha’s origins?” Vida exclaimed an hour later when I stopped by her neat little house on Tyee Street. “Either a person is born in Alpine or not.”

  “Yes, Vida,” I said, dutifully hanging my head. “I forgot.”

  “It makes all the difference,” Vida admonished, going to the stove as the teakettle whistled. “Are you sure you want to turn down this rather peculiar request?”

  “I don’t see that I have any choice,” I replied as Vida dunked a pair of tea bags in the kettle. “I honestly don’t have time to tackle what sounds like an impossible project. And frankly,” I added, looking gloomily at Vida’s canary, Cupcake, who was hopping about in his gilded cage, “I don’t feel up to it.”

  I heard Vida suck in her breath. “You don’t, do you?” She remained at the stove, waiting for the tea to steep. “Well, now.” Vida didn’t speak again until she’d poured the tea into English bone china cups with matching saucers. “I don’t like that attitude,” she said, still reproachful. “That’s not like you.”

  “Yes, it is.” I stirred a teaspoon of sugar into my cup.

  “No, it’s not.” Vida was emphatic. “You’re moping. You’re feeling sorry for yourself. You n
eed to stop. Are you refusing Judge Foster-Klein because she’s Jewish?”

  “What?” I’d started to raise the cup to my lips but set it down so fast that I splashed tea into the saucer. “Are you nuts, Vida? Have you ever known me to be prejudiced about anyone?”

  “Of course not,” Vida replied calmly. “That’s why I asked. Your refusal seems very odd.”

  “It’s not odd,” I said, indignant. “I’m not the right person for the task. Besides, I didn’t even know that Marsha was Jewish, and what difference would it make if I had? Carla’s Jewish, or have you forgotten?” I said, referring to our former reporter, Carla Steinmetz Talliaferro.

  “Certainly not,” Vida responded. “Though we’ve had very few Jews in Alpine over the years. In fact . . .” She stopped and frowned. “Of course. That’s how I knew.”

  “Knew what?” I was still offended.

  “That Marsha is Jewish—or part Jewish.” Vida took a sip of tea before she spoke again. “Yes, it’s coming back to me. There is a connection to Alpine, but it’s very tenuous. It came to mind when Marsha began sitting in for Judge Krogstad, after he got so . . . peculiar. Somehow, she’s related—though distantly—to the Iversons.”

  “The Iversons?” I repeated. “As in the same Iversons who are related to the late Jack-in-the-Box Froland?”

  Vida grimaced. “The very same.” Again, she paused. “But is Klein Marsha’s maiden or married name? That is, did she hyphenate her last name when she married?”

  I felt stupid. “I didn’t ask.”

  “Then do so,” Vida retorted, before assuming a perplexed expression. “I wonder . . .”

  “What?”

  Cupcake began a merry song. Vida glanced at the bird and smiled. “So cheerful. But it’s almost his bedtime.” She turned back to me. “Are you certain you ate a proper dinner?”

  “Yes,” I said resignedly. “I picked up Chinese at the mall.” Vida eyed me critically. “You’re too thin. You’re wasting away.”

  “I am not.” It wasn’t quite true. I had lost six or seven pounds since Tom died. For the first time since I was in my teens, I weighed under a hundred and twenty pounds.