by Mary Daheim
“Do you remember how Marsha Foster-Klein is connected to the family?” I inquired.
Vida shook her head. The Victorian lady swayed precariously. “I plan to ask someone tonight at Jack Froland’s wake.”
I stared. “You’re actually going to see Jack-in-the-Box?”
“Duty calls.” Vida spoke with a martyr’s air.
So did curiosity. “Let me know what you find out,” I said and left to seek Buddy Bayard’s photographic counsel.
It was another fine September day. At the lower levels where deciduous trees flourished among the evergreens, the cottonwoods, maples, and alders sported bright patches of gold and orange. A few wispy clouds cruised across the sky. In autumns past, I had relished this time of year more than any other. But not the previous year, three months after Tom’s death, and not this year. If anything, the beautiful signs of autumn seemed to mock me.
Roseanna Bayard did not mock or chaff. She offered me her gaptoothed smile and a warm welcome. Buddy was in the darkroom, she told me, and offered coffee. I declined, having fulfilled my caffeine requirement for the day.
“Too bad about Jack Froland,” Roseanna said as she sorted negatives behind the counter in the waiting room. “I didn’t realize he was that sick.”
“Cancer, wasn’t it?” I replied, admiring the latest Bayard portraits, displayed with soft lighting.
“Yes,” Roseanna said. “Colon, I think. But the last I heard, Jack was doing fairly well.”
“He was eighty,” I pointed out.
“True.” Roseanna turned as Buddy emerged from the back. “Here’s Himself now.”
Buddy’s greeting was less enthusiastic than his wife’s. “What did we screw up this time?” he asked, the corners of his mouth turned down inside his graying blond goatee.
“Nothing,” I replied. “You hardly ever screw up, Buddy.”
“But when I do, I hear about it.” Our darkroom maven seemed in an uncharacteristically bad mood this morning.
“I want your advice,” I said, taking out the snapshot, which I’d detached from the letter. “What can you tell me about this?”
Buddy scowled as he studied the photo on the counter. “You mean what is it? How would I know? Call the Burlington-Northern office.”
The Burlington-Northern & Santa Fe was the railroad company that now ran on the original Great Northern tracks. Amtrak’s passenger train also passed through Alpine.
But even as I accepted Buddy’s advice, he had one eye focussed on his magnifier. “I know this shot. That is, I’ve seen other photos taken of the trestle. It’s at Burl Creek, even though you can’t see it from this angle. That’s Mount Baldy in the background. In fact,” he went on, no longer grumpy, “I’ve got a similar shot in my archives. Hold on.”
Buddy disappeared again into the back of the studio.
Roseanna grinned at me. “Buddy’s a butt today. He’s mad because he has to take pictures of Jack Froland in his casket tonight at the viewing. Buddy hates dead bodies.”
“I’m not keen on them, either,” I admitted. “Does Buddy often get asked to photograph corpses?”
“You’d be surprised,” Roseanna replied as Mayor Fuzzy Baugh could be seen about to enter through the glass-paned door. “There are more fools in Alpine than you might imagine,” she added, lowering her voice as His Honor entered the studio.
“Well, well,” Fuzzy called out in a voice still tinged by his Louisiana roots, “two of our city’s fairest ladies are here to greet me. Emma.” He offered his hand. “You brave thing.”
I’d probably run into the mayor three dozen times since Tom’s death; on every occasion, he said the same thing. I tried not to wince as he gave me his perfunctory office seeker’s handshake.
“And Roseanna,” he said, beaming as he approached the counter. “Lovely as ever.”
Judging from the fixed smile on Roseanna’s face, I assumed she had heard that salutation at least a hundred times. “Eleven-thirty,” she said to Fuzzy. “You’re right on time for your portrait sitting.”
Fuzzy had his picture taken every year, and each time Buddy used more filters, more airbrushing, and more touch-ups. But it was good business, since the mayor ordered several dozen copies to be placed in various city, county, and business sites.
“Hey, Fuzz,” Buddy called as he reemerged from the back. “Get your butt into the dressing room and make pretty. I’ll be right with you.”
The mayor continued to smile as he nodded deeply at Roseanna and me before heading off to serve his vanity. Buddy, meanwhile, had laid out three photographs of varying age and size on the counter.
“There you are,” he said to me. “This first one is virtually the same shot, same time period, but during the winter.”
I gazed at the picture, which was mounted on heavy gray cardboard. It was tinted brown like the snapshot, but there was snow in the background, not deep, only in patches, as if the picture had been taken in late autumn or early spring.
The second photo was a standard black-and-white eight-by-ten, with three men standing on the trestle. Judging from their work clothes, they looked as if they were railroad workers, probably during the Thirties. There were trees on the face of Baldy, perhaps ten to twenty years old. The trestle itself looked different.
“It is different,” Buddy replied. “It’s new. The Great Northern rebuilt the tracks in the Twenties.” He pointed to the third and final photo, which was also an eight-by-ten, also black and white. “I took this one myself about eight years ago. You’re looking at third-growth timber. I think it’s due to be harvested in another five or six years. If it’s allowed.”
I hoped it wasn’t. At a somewhat higher elevation, the stately evergreens were visible from my house. I supported the loggers, but I didn’t want to look at a clear-cut gouge.
“So where is this trestle exactly?” I inquired.
Buddy gave me a curious look. “You don’t know?”
“I’m not sure. It could be anywhere along the line outside of town. There aren’t any buildings or landmarks in your more recent shot.”
“That’s the angle I took it from,” Buddy explained. “If I’d gone a little lower—which I did in some of the other shots— you’d see Burl Creek. This was taken about a hundred yards from the college’s new computer lab.”
“Ah.” I gazed at Buddy’s trio of photographs, then looked again at the snapshot from Marsha. The background had changed over the years, but the railroad tracks were constant. The biggest difference was the rope in the picture I held in my hand. I couldn’t see the lower end.
I wondered if it was a noose.
June 1916
It was raining, a typical June day in Alpine. Most of the snow around the town had melted, and the nearby creeks—Icicle, Burl, Carroll, Deception—were discolored and overflowing their banks.
The Alpine Lumber Company’s owner stood on the mill’s loading dock and surveyed the river flowing two hundred yards below him. “The Skykomish could flood before the week’s out,” Carl said to his superintendent, Floyd Duell. “The runo f from the higher elevations is coming down much too fast.”
“If it does,” Floyd replied, “it won’t be a problem. The high-water mark has never risen beyond Old Mammoth.” He pointed to a huge cedar stump, the flat top of which could have been used as a table for twelve.
Carl, a handsome man of middle age whose bearing was less of a woodsman’s and more like the Stanford University alumnus that he was, nodded slowly. “You’re right. We have other things to worry about. I don’t like the way the strike is dragging on at the Everett shingle mills.”
“Carl,” Floyd declared with a smile and a shake of his head, “that won’t hurt us. Your workers love you. You’re a fair employer. They think of you as a father, not a boss.”
“I know,” Carl said, brushing at the raindrops, which had dripped from the brim of his slouch hat. “It’s those blasted Wobblies. They like to stir up trouble. Look at all the mills where they’ve agitated
and created terrible problems. I don’t want them coming anywhere near Alpine. They bring hatred and violence.”
Floyd frowned at the mention of the infamous Industrial Workers of the World, whose radical philosophy and intolerable demands went far beyond mere Marxism. “They’re the devil, all right,” John agreed.
“And they’re not far away,” Carl said. “They’re in Everett, I hear, stirring up trouble since the shingle weavers went on strike.”
“That’s eighty miles from here, Carl,” Floyd pointed out. “That’s pretty danged far away.”
Carl didn’t respond immediately. When he did, his face looked as gloomy as the heavy gray skies. “It’s not far enough.”
Chapter Three
IT WAS ALMOST lunchtime when I drove out to Burl Creek to study the railroad trestle firsthand. I’d driven past it innumerable times during my years in Alpine. As I got out of my car and looked up, the tracks took on a new meaning. They had a story to tell. I wished I knew what it was.
There was no dangling rope, of course. But across the creek some thirty feet away, I could see the boulders in the original photograph. The cleft was visible, though partially covered with moss. I realized why Milo had recognized it: The creek took a sharp turn on the other side of the trestle and the boulders flanked a decent riffle where trout might lurk. But fish in the local streams were as elusive as any clue to the snapshot’s importance. It had to be the rope, which was long gone. If only a noose had been included in the picture. . . . Was it possible that it had been around someone’s neck?
Feeling frustrated, I went back to the office where the first calls of outrage over the current issue of the Advocate were coming in. Dot Parker was irate because two years ago she’d won twenty-nine dollars with four lottery numbers and we hadn’t put it in the paper. Tweeter Hedberg berated us for not publishing the name of the Snohomish store where Ethel Pike bought her lucky ticket. The Rev. Otis Poole from the Baptist church chastised me for promoting gambling.
Vida didn’t have time to go through the old issues of The Alpine Blabber until mid-afternoon. I was about to volunteer my assistance when Spencer Fleetwood breezed into the newsroom.
“I’m here to issue an invitation,” Spence said, leaning against the door frame of my office cubbyhole. For once, he’d shed his Gucci sunglasses, but the rest of his uniform of tailored slacks, cashmere sweater, and gold chain was in place. “Radio Station KSKY celebrates its second anniversary at the end of September. We’re throwing a party and you’re invited, along with the rest of your staff.”
I tried to express enthusiasm. It wasn’t easy. The radio station was the newspaper’s rival, not only for news—where the Advocate was automatically the loser because of our publishing schedule—but for advertising. Despite Leo Walsh’s considerable efforts to maintain our ad revenue, we had suffered some setbacks since Spencer Fleetwood’s arrival in Alpine.
“When and where’s the party?” I inquired with a stiff little smile.
Spence, as he prefers to be called, sat down in one of the visitor chairs, one long leg thrown over the armrest. “Saturday, the thirtieth. It’ll be at the ski lodge in the Rufus Runkel Room.”
Rufus Runkel was Vida’s late father-in-law, and one of the men credited with saving Alpine when Carl Clemans closed the original mill. Rufus and a couple of other old-timers had decided to get in on the growing craze for skiing. The first lifts had been opened in 1931, and the lodge followed a year later.
“We’ll do a remote broadcast that evening starting at six o’clock,” Spence continued. “We should get a big crowd, so we’ll have live interviews, live music, and plenty of delicious, dead fish.”
I forced another smile. “It sounds very festive.”
Spence turned away just enough to show off his profile. The strong chin, sharp, almost hooked, nose, and high forehead reminded me of a vulture. I suspected that he thought his side view was eaglelike. Either way, Alpine’s Mr. Radio struck me as a bird of prey.
“Let’s hope it’s the party of the year,” he said. “Face it, Alpine’s usual idea of a big evening involves bowling shirts and half racks.”
“May I quote you?”
Spence looked straight at me and chuckled. “No. But you and I are city people. We’re a bit more sophisticated than your average Alpiner.”
“I wonder,” I remarked. Spence was inclined to brag about having lived in Los Angeles, Chicago, Boston, Dallas, and various other major cities. “I’ve been here eleven years. Maybe I’ve turned into a real rube.”
“Not possible,” Spence assured me. “It’s how you were raised, not where you end up.”
I considered telling Spence that when I was growing up in Seattle, it was still a virtual backwater in the eyes of the rest of the country. But there was no point in arguing. KSKY’s owner always had an answer.
“How come you waited until after the paper came out to tell me about the party?” I inquired.
Spence tried to look ingenuous. “It’s not official. I won’t announce it on the air until Tuesday. The formal invitations to public officials and Chamber of Commerce members won’t be mailed until then.”
“So why not wait a day? Then I can have the story at the same time you do.”
“Hey,” Spence responded, looking genuinely surprised. “Why not? Okay, I’ll broadcast it late morning, Wednesday. How’s that?”
I, too, was surprised. “That’s great. Thanks. I appreciate that.”
“Then let’s celebrate with a drink after work,” Spence suggested. “I’d like to talk over some joint promotion plans. What do you say?”
I tried not to recoil. The one and only time that the Advocate and KSKY had combined forces for a multimedia promotion was during last year’s summer solstice parade when Tom had been killed. The memory jarred me once again.
I guessed it showed. Spence leaned forward and reached out a hand. “Emma, I’m sorry. I know what you’re thinking. That’s why I haven’t mentioned joint promotions until now. Please don’t be angry with me.”
“I’m not angry,” I said stiffly. “I’m just . . . upset.”
Spence’s brown eyes actually looked sympathetic. “Look—I don’t mean to sound harsh, but by the time people get to our age, we’ve all suffered some kind of terrible tragedy.” He saw me open my mouth to protest but waved the hand he’d held out to me. “I know, I know. You’re right up there with Jackie Kennedy in Dallas, holding tight to your martyred loved one.”
Like the weather, Spence seemed to be mocking me. “What a horrid thing to say.” My voice was dry and cracked, like a dead leaf.
“Forget it,” Spence snapped, getting to his feet. “I thought you were a businesswoman. When you climb out of that emotional ditch you’ve dug for yourself, give me a buzz.”
With his usual irritating aplomb, Spencer Fleetwood walked away.
I don’t cry easily, but my lower lip trembled and my fists shook. Granted, Spence had been very kind to me immediately after Tom’s death. I’d begun to think he wasn’t an entirely self-centered monster. But if he was one part compassion, he was nine parts phony. It’s a wonder he hadn’t claimed to have covered the Kennedy assassination.
Vida, of course, had been listening at her desk. When Spence had safely departed, she all but vaulted into my office.
“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed. “You’re distraught! Whatever happened?”
For once, I couldn’t speak. I merely shook my head, caught my quivering lower lip in my teeth, and forced my hands to relax.
“Later, maybe,” I finally murmured.
Vida nodded. “Of course.” She paused. “I’ve finally gotten through the early issues of the Blabber. They’re very gossipy, you know.”
“You’ve read them before,” I noted, sounding more normal.
“Oh, yes, but years ago.” Vida straightened her red bowler. The color was so bright and shiny that it looked as if she were wearing a Chinese cachepot on her head. “Have you a moment? I’ll bring some of them i
n here.”
“Sure,” I said. I had a feeling that the rest of the day wasn’t going to be very productive. After Spence’s visit, I felt intellectually as well as emotionally depleted.
The Alpine Blabber had been printed on cheap stock, though it wasn’t newsprint. Ginny had carefully slipped each copy into a plastic sleeve for the sake of preservation. Still, the issues—which usually were made up of four six-by-eight pages—had suffered neglect. Some had been patched, many had been taped, and all were yellow with age.
“The Blabber is not to be confused with the Alpine Lumber Company’s yearbook,” Vida cautioned. “Those are all in a bound volume. Of course the original name was the Nippon Lumber Company, which Carl Clemans kept until the end of World War One.”
“I know,” I replied. The town’s early name was Nippon. Carl had changed that, too, but much earlier. “I went through the books a few months ago when I was doing research for an article on early logging.”
“What I should have said,” Vida amended, “is that the yearbooks are strictly factual. Plenty of news in the sense that they relate all the births, deaths, marriages, moves, and so forth, along with the social and cultural life of the town.”
“I know,” I repeated, hoping that Vida hadn’t embarked on a lecture. “Features, too, like the article on the Dawson sisters who were born a year or so apart but graduated from high school at the same time. ‘Alpine’s fairest flowers,’ or something like that.”
“Yes,” Vida replied. “Frank and Mary’s girls. The Dawsons had six children, you know. The eldest, Monica—who was nicknamed Babe—returned to Alpine in the Twenties as a bride. I suppose she just couldn’t stay away.”
I couldn’t resist the question: “I take it she remained here for the rest of her life?”
“Well . . . no,” Vida admitted. “Her husband was a seagoing man. He got a job on a ship and they moved back to Seattle. Babe was born there, so I suppose she was used to the city.” Vida all but shuddered at the notion. “Her father, Frank, was an Englishman, and he had some very queer ideas. When Babe and . . . Katharine, I believe, graduated, he thought they should return to Seattle and go to secretarial school. He was afraid that they might have too much time on their hands in Alpine and get into trouble. Imagine!”