by Mary Daheim
In a gallant gesture, Spence opened the car door for me. “I’m surprised,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d come. In fact, I figured you’d probably prefer to run over me in the middle of Front Street.”
I wasn’t amused. However, I felt I should meet my competitor halfway. There were, as he had pointed out, occasions when we could join forces to benefit the newspaper and the radio station.
On a Friday evening, the ski lodge’s Norse-accented bar was crowded. Heather Bardeen, the daughter of the lodge’s manager, was acting as hostess. She was also ostentatiously flashing a diamond ring on her left hand.
As she seated us in an upholstered booth for two by the woodcarving of Odin, I pointed to the ring. “Is that new—or news?”
Heather blushed, a rather charming reaction for a thirty-year-old. “Both. The formal announcement is being made Sunday at a dinner in one of the lodge’s private dining rooms. Just family and close friends. Trevor and I plan to be married next June.”
“Trevor?”
Heather nodded. “Trevor Bavich. He’s in the restaurant supply business in Everett. Would you believe his great-grandfather worked in Alpine years ago?”
“No,” I responded. “I mean, yes, I could believe it. So many of the descendants of the old Alpine timber workers are still scattered around the region.” What I couldn’t believe was that Vida had given no hint of the engagement party. Her longtime companion was Buck Bardeen. Henry Bardeen’s older brother. Surely Vida would be included among “friends and family.” Now that I thought about it, she hadn’t mentioned Buck for the last few weeks. And I’d been so wrapped up in my own gloom that I hadn’t noticed.
“Congratulations,” Spence said, moving smoothly to take Heather’s hand. “Does your impending marriage mean you’ll be leaving us?”
“No,” Heather replied. “We’re going to live in Monroe. A compromise, you see. Trevor travels fairly often in his job, so we’ll both have to commute a bit from work to home.”
“Good news,” Spence declared, releasing Heather’s hand. “Come Monday, we’ll air your engagement on Rings ’N’ Things.”
Scooped again, I thought. Rings ’N’ Things was a canned feature—one of many broadcast over KSKY—devoted to weddings, anniversaries, and engagements. How to give a shower, nuptial color schemes, planning the menu for a fiftieth anniversary celebration (“Go easy on items that are hard to chew—you don’t want the happy couple losing their dentures on that special day,” chirruped the show’s hostess, Myra Sweet), and as a tag-on, Spence or whoever was filling in for him would announce impending local events. I rarely listened to the program but had caught it a month ago when one of the community college communications majors had read the names of an engaged couple who planned to wed the following Saturday “. . . unless their baby arrives sooner, in which case the ceremony will be cancelled.”
Permanently, I’d wondered?
Heather personally delivered our drink orders to the bar. Maybe she was overcome by Spence’s charm.
“You beat me again today,” I remarked, trying not to sound annoyed.
“That’s radio,” Spence said, removing a pack of Balkan Sobranie cigarettes from somewhere inside his oatmeal-colored cashmere sweater. He proffered the gold-tipped cigarettes. “I forget, do you . . . ?”
“Yes,” I shot back and took one out of the pack, which was actually a box, black, with gold lettering. A very tasteful way to kill oneself. I hoped they cost at least a buck apiece. I planned to smoke several of them.
“What do you think?” he inquired, leaning over to light the cigarette for me. “A hermit? A hiker? A poor lost soul?”
“There’s no way of knowing until an ID is made,” I said.
“You can speculate,” Spence said. “Not in print, of course.”
I shook my head. “It’s pointless. It could be anyone. A berry picker, a mushroom gatherer, a treasure seeker with a metal detector. That’s not uncommon around here. But you know that.”
Spence, who had finally removed his sunglasses, managed to make his brown eyes twinkle. Maybe he had batteries in his head. “Oh, I’ve picked up a lot of local lore in the past two years. I’m good at that. I absorb things, like osmosis.”
Grudgingly, I admitted that I understood. “In journalism, you have to be a quick learner. When I came to Alpine, I was overwhelmed by all the names I needed to know. By the time I got out my first edition, I could breathe a little easier. Having Vida helped immensely. But eleven years later, I still can’t keep track of who’s related to whom, not to mention the exes and stepchildren and the family feuds.”
“In some ways,” Spence said, “it’s easier in a big city. There, you only have to know the VIPs. The rest of the news makers come and go.”
“That’s true,” I agreed. Then, because the story we’d done on Spence when he arrived in town had been deliberately cursory, I asked which big cities he’d worked in over the years.
“I started out in Salinas, the lettuce capital of the world,” Spence replied, his gaze fixed not on me, but the glass mural of the northern lights behind the bar. “Over a period of five years, I made the circuit of small-town California radio. Finally, I caught on with an FM station in Sacramento.”
He paused as Heather presented our drinks, a bourbon and water for me, a dry martini for Spence.
“How long were you in Sacramento?” I asked after Heather had gone back to her post by the bar’s entrance.
“Three years,” Spence replied. “Frankly, I didn’t like doing FM. It was a classical station, and in those days, you had to sound very highbrow, almost effete. Like this—‘Now we have Dmitri Shostakovich’s Symphony Number 5, Opus 47, performed by the London Symphony Orchestra, Pierre Monteux conducting’.”
Spence recited the announcement in a mid-Atlantic voice I barely recognized. I couldn’t help but laugh. “So you returned to AM radio?”
He nodded. “In Milwaukee. I had the morning drive-to spot. It was the post-Woodstock era. Everything was crazy. I got a little crazy, too.” He stopped, glanced at me, then stared at his glass. “This tastes more like vodka than gin. Can you see who’s tending bar?”
I twisted around in the booth. Behind the artificial trees that flanked the bar, all I could see was a white-shirted arm. Heather, however, was eagle-eyed: She rushed over to ask if something was wrong.
After Spence stated his complaint, Heather apologized. “The regular bartender took the week off. You know, to extend the holiday weekend. Fred Iverson’s taking his place, since the Venison Inn is closed right now. Frankly, I don’t think Fred’s much good at mixing drinks, even if he does say he subs for Oren Rhodes at the inn.”
I vaguely recalled seeing Fred behind the bar when Oren was sick or on vacation. As co-owner of the Venison Inn, Fred usually ran the kitchen at night.
Heather was back in a flash with the proper martini. She apologized again, but Spence gallantly soothed her and sent her on her way.
“Milwaukee,” I said, resuming our conversation where it had left off. “Where did you go after that?”
“Chicago,” Spence answered, carefully studying his drink. “How about you? I understand you worked for a long time in Portland at The Oregonian.”
“Almost twenty years,” I told him, a little surprised that he’d gotten off the subject of himself. “I was in a rut, and when the chance to buy my own weekly came along, I jumped at it. How did you get from Chicago to Alpine?”
“It wasn’t a direct route,” Spence said, again staring at the mural, which depicted fjords and trolls and other Norse symbols. “Mainly, I got tired of working for other people. Like you, I suppose, I was in a rut.”
“It couldn’t have been easy,” I pointed out. “That is, there was no radio station here until you started KSKY. You had to apply to the FCC for the license, buy the property, build the plant—that takes entrepreneurship.”
Spence shot me a sly look. “And money? That’s what you’re really thinking, isn’t it?”
I tried to look innocent. “I inherited the money to buy the Advocate. Raising a child on my own didn’t give me the luxury of socking away serious savings.”
“I had a windfall, too,” Spence replied, then held up his drink. “Now this is a real martini. Beefeaters, I think.” He looked straight at me again. “What’s going on with this story about Jack Froland getting murdered?”
“June Froland temporarily lost it,” I said. “That’s my guess.” I glanced at the bar where I could see Fred Iverson serving Cal and Charlene Vickers. After Labor Day, Cal always closed his Texaco station at six o’clock. If your needle was hovering on empty during the evening, your only hope was Gas ’N’ Go by the Icicle Creek Tavern. “I suppose we could ask Fred what he thinks.”
“He’s pretty busy right now,” Spence said, “especially for a guy who can’t tell vodka from gin.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Let’s discuss our mutual media situations.”
“Ah.” Spence paused to eat one of the two olives Fred had put in his drink. “Why not do that over dinner? They serve in the bar.”
I accepted another expensive cigarette from Spence, which gave me time to consider the offer. It was Friday night, I was already here, and so far Spence hadn’t annoyed me very much.
“Fine. We split the tab.”
“Of course.” Spence looked amused. “This is an alliance, not a partnership.”
“What’s the difference?” I tried not to cough. The Sobranies were stronger than the ultra lights I smoked. When I smoked. When I wasn’t quitting.
“The difference?” Spence again gazed at the mural. “A partnership would mean we’re in this together, all the way. An alliance hedges our advertising bets. We’ll still be trying to cut each other’s throat some of the time.”
“What do you have in mind?” I asked, raising my hand as a waitress I didn’t recognize came away from the table next to us. More and more of the local restaurants seemed to be drawing on the labor pool provided by the community college students. “Menus,” I said to the dark-haired girl. “We need menus.”
She nodded and scurried off.
During the meal we discussed ideas and strategies. Combination ads for radio time and newspaper space. Discounts for the upcoming holiday season. Attempts to get more national advertising to promote mail order catalogs. And—something Kip kept nagging me about but I put off— a joint Web site on the Internet.
“I can’t believe you haven’t done that yet,” Spence said as the bill arrived in a tasteful green folder with a pen that featured a troll on top. “I had a student at the college put ours together a month ago.”
“So why isn’t it online?” I inquired.
“There are still a few bugs,” Spence replied, scanning the bill. “Besides, I’ve been meaning to discuss a combination site for some time. I didn’t want to rush you. That is, I knew you had other things on your mind.” He paused and looked up from the bill. “You owe thirty-two dollars including tip.”
“I’ll have to write you a check,” I said. “I don’t have that much cash on me.”
“That’s fine, I’ll card it.” He reached into his wallet and withdrew a platinum Visa card.
I wrote the check and handed it to Spence. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness,” I said stiffly. “I mean, about not . . .” I couldn’t quite get the words out. Maybe the second drink had made me emotional.
Spence shrugged and stood up. “I’m not a completely insensitive boob. Besides . . .” Now he stopped, then shrugged again and put on his sunglasses. “We’ll touch base Monday, bring Leo into the loop. Okay?”
“Sure,” I said as we nodded farewell to Heather. “Leo’s very good at what he does.”
“I’ve noticed,” Spence said as we exited the ski lodge. It was almost dark. “If Leo weren’t so good, I wouldn’t have to worry about the competition.”
Spence walked me to my car. “It’s a funny thing,” he said as I clicked the remote door opener. “When I first got into radio thirty-odd years ago, I wondered why. It seemed as if television was taking over the airwaves. But radio’s survived and come on even stronger.”
“It’s the print media that’s a dinosaur,” I said, slipping into the driver’s seat. “I meant to ask you—why Alpine?”
Spence looked up at the clear night sky with a trillion stars so close they seemed within reach. “Oh—just lucky, I guess. Good night, Emma.”
He closed my door and strolled off to his Beamer. I had been pleasantly surprised by our dinner together. Maybe Spencer Fleetwood wasn’t as big a jackass as I’d thought he was. There were qualities in the man that I hadn’t yet seen until tonight.
But there were also many things I didn’t know about him. That bothered me, because I realized that Spence had eluded several questions during the course of our get-together. I wondered why.
I arrived home at a quarter after eight.
I’d forgotten to stop at Parker’s Pharmacy and get my prescription for Paxil.
September 1916
Bert Stites was running as fast as his short, stout legs could carry him. By the time he reached the office of the Alpine Lumber Company, he was so winded that he couldn’t speak.
“What’s wrong, Bert?” Carl Clemans asked, looking up from the paperwork on his desk.
Leaning against the door frame, Bert took several deep breaths before he responded. “It’s those damned Wobblies. They’re headed this way. Word’s come down the line from Sultan.”
Carl stood up, his manner calm, but a spark of alarm in his eyes. “Are you sure?”
Still panting, Bert nodded. “I heard it from a couple of the section men working the tracks. Mike Flood and Johnny Steppich. You can count on them. They’re two of my best men.”
Carl studied his railway construction foreman. Bert was a good man, reliable and not given to panic. “Are the Wobblies armed?”
“I don’t know,” Bert replied, moving a few steps from the door. “Some have been arrested during the shingle weavers’ strike in Everett.”
“I know,” Carl sighed, pacing the cramped quarters of his office. “But the Wobblies were only giving speeches, trying to rile up the strikers. Some of those so-called deputies from Everett’s Commercial Club are pretty hotheaded, too. They’re working strictly for the mill owners.”
“What should we do?” Bert asked, his red face wearing a plaintive expression.
Carl picked up his hat from a peg by the door. “Let’s talk to Floyd Duell and Tom Bassen. The fire danger’s high. We might as well shut down, at least for the rest of the day.”
The conference, which was held under the warm late summer sun on the loading dock, lasted less than five minutes. Floyd hurried off to sound the mill whistle, signaling a work stoppage. Several more mill workers had gathered around Carl and the others.
“We don’t want them goddamned Wobblies here!” Rufus Kager shouted. “We got no complaints!”
“You’re damned right!” agreed Ben Napier. “If other camps got lousy grub and crummy bunkhouses, that’s too bad. Let those Commie agitators go somewhere else to stir up trouble.”
More men began pouring out of the main mill and the shingle mill. In the distance, the sound of trucks and logging rigs could be heard, headed back into town. Across the river, on the slopes of Mount Baldy, Carl could see the occasional gleam of metal as the vehicles drove down the switchbacks from the logging sites. He glanced at his watch. It was almost three o’clock.
He turned to his woods foreman, Tom Bassen. “If the Wobblies were in Sultan a few minutes ago, they should get here in less than an hour. That’s when the next eastbound freight is due.”
Tom ran a hand through his thick dark hair. He was a sharp-faced man with keen eyes and a deceptively relaxed manner. “How many, I wonder?”
“We can’t be sure,” Floyd Duell replied. The mill superintendent looked worried, his eyes fixed on the railroad tracks. “Even if we check in by telephone, more could hop on along the rout
e.”
Several of the wives and children had joined their menfolk on the loading dock.
“So we’re going to have some excitement around here,” Ruby Siegel said to her brother, Rufus. “Where’s Louie?” She stood on tiptoes, searching the crowd for her husband.
“He’s not down from the woods yet,” Rufus replied. “Listen, you and the other women and the kids should stay put. This may get ugly.”
“I should hope so!” Ruby exclaimed, her eyes dancing. “I’m going to get my big cast-iron skillet and show those Wobblies a thing or two!”
“Ruby,” Rufus said in a mild tone of reproach, “I thought you liked some of those Bolshie ideas.”
“I do,” Ruby retorted, “but not here. Besides, those Wobblies aren’t true Marxists. They go way beyond that. I know, I’ve read up on them.”
Rufus gave his sister a dubious smile. “I suppose you have. I’ll be darned if I know why.”
“The world’s changing, Rufe,” Ruby declared. “Look at the war in Europe. Look at what’s going on in Russia. Look at what’s happening in Mexico.” She paused, pointing down the railroad tracks. “Look at what’s happening right here. You can’t ignore change, not even in Alpine.”
Carl Clemans came up behind Ruby. “Go home,” he said softly. “Get the other women and the children together and go home.”
Ruby swung around to face Carl. She was a full head shorter than the mill owner, but her entire being vibrated with an energy that would have befitted men twice her size. “Why should I? Why should we?” she demanded. “We aren’t cowards.”
“That’s not the point,” Carl said quietly. “You don’t want the children to get hurt, do you?”
Ruby glanced around the loading dock. At least two dozen youngsters milled around, talking mostly to each other. There were three babes in arms. There were teenagers, including Jonas Iversen and the new boy, Vincent Burke. Those two had their heads together. They looked as if they were spoiling for a fight. But some of the younger children, among them Ruby’s sons, looked frightened. Several of the mill workers had sought weapons at hand: Axes, knives, baseball bats.