The Alpine Obituary

by Mary Daheim

  As Vida spoke, I’d started going through the shoe box. There were only a few photos inside, and most of them recent. The rest were postcards, including at least a dozen Max had sent while on his honeymoon in the Far East.

  “A dutiful son,” Vida remarked. “You’ll enjoy your dinner with him. He’s always been very bright. If only the community college had been built earlier, he wouldn’t have had to leave Alpine.”

  I didn’t comment, either on Max’s defection or what might have been Vida’s attempt to play Cupid. At the bottom of the box, I found Jack and June’s certificate of marriage, the birth certificates for both Lynn and Max, the program from Max and Jackie’s wedding, and the inevitable clippings about both young women’s untimely deaths. There was also a University of Washington commencement program from 1972. I assumed it was the year that Max had gotten his undergraduate degree.

  “Yes,” Vida said, “he went on to graduate school at Stanford on a Woodrow Wilson fellowship.”

  “Had Max and Jackie been high school sweethearts?” I asked.

  Vida shook her head. “Jackie was four years younger. They’d known each other, of course, but didn’t date until he came home on vacation from Palo Alto. They made such a handsome couple. Tsk, tsk.”

  I replaced the lid on the shoe box. “I’m going to call on Judge Marsha to give her a progress report. I have a feeling she’s probably already phoned me once or twice at home.”

  Vida frowned. “Are you going to accuse the Frolands of sending that letter?”

  “Not in so many words,” I said. “But I’ll point out the coincidence—if that’s what it is—of the stationery. Do you mind if I take the note from June with me?”

  Vida considered. “You may as well take me with you, too. I’ve no further plans today, though I thought I’d work in the garden since it’s so nice out.”

  “Okay,” I agreed, then reached for the phone. “Maybe I’d better call to see if she’s home.”

  The judge was in. I didn’t try to tantalize her, but merely said that Vida and I wanted to give her a progress report.

  “Let’s hope there’s some progress to report,” Marsha retorted. “I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

  Vida and I took separate cars, planning to rendezvous at The Pines Village. As I drove along Front Street, I passed Parker’s Pharmacy and suddenly remembered the prescription for Paxil. I shrugged. I’d pick it up later. Vida was right behind me in her Buick. If I stopped now, she’d ask all kinds of questions I didn’t want to answer.

  I expected to pull up in front of the apartment house, but to my surprise, there were no empty parking spaces. I paused at the corner to check out Maple Lane, the short street that ran between The Pines Village and the condos that also faced Alpine Way.

  Vida honked. In the rearview mirror, I saw her lean out the window and make a windmill gesture with her arm.

  “The Colbys are having a football brunch at their condo,” she called out. “I ran an item about it on my page, remember? Go around to the garage entrance. Marsha must have a guest parking place. I’ll use the one for that idiot, Ella Hinshaw.”

  Ella the Idiot was yet another of Vida’s shirttail relations. But the suggestion was sound. I followed instructions and found the space marked PENTHOUSE GUEST.

  The only problem was that it was already occupied. I recognized the black BMW at once. It belonged to Spencer Fleetwood.

  November 1916

  The wind blowing in from Puget Sound grew colder as it swirled eastward into the Cascade Mountains. There had been a heavy frost that morning in Alpine. The dark gray clouds covering Mount Baldy and Tonga Ridge promised snow. Winter was coming early this year.

  Mary Dawson and her sister, Kate Murphy, watched their footing as they carried buckets to fill from Icicle Creek for the weekly wash. Several other women were already at the creek, but their usual cheerful gossip subsided when the Siegel sisters approached.

  Kate nudged Mary. “Are they talking about us?”

  Mary shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Reaching the creek, Kate set her buckets down and called to her sister-in-law Ruby Siegel, who stood with three of the other women. “Well? Cat got your tongue?”

  “What do you mean?” Ruby retorted, scowling at Kate.

  Kate pointed to one of her eyes. “You don’t see any green here, do you? Why did you all stop talking when Mary and I showed up?”

  “No reason,” Ruby retorted, but she lowered her eyes.

  Mary Bassen, the wife of Tom, the woods foreman, laughed. “Oh, good heavens, Kate, we were talking about that horrible mess in Everett. I don’t see any reason to keep it a secret.” She shot a quick glance at Ruby.

  Kate hesitated, then shrugged. “If you say so.”

  “It makes you feel sorry for those poor Wobblies,” Mary Dawson put in. “No matter how crazy they are, shooting them in cold blood isn’t right.”

  “Of course it’s not right!” Ruby exclaimed, fire in her eyes. She’d heard at least one eyewitness account; she’d devoured every word in the newspapers. Shortly before Halloween, as the shingle weavers’ strike dragged on, some forty I.W.W. members had sailed from Seattle to Everett to break the blockade set up by the mill owners. Sheri f Donald McRae and his deputies had been waiting at the dock. They’d rounded up the Wobblies and hauled them out to a wooded area called Beverly Park. The agitators were forced to run a gauntlet between men wielding gun butts, pickaxes, and blackjacks. Ten days later, two-hundred-and-ninety Wobblies sailed into Everett harbor aboard the passenger ships Verona and Calista. Several thousand onlookers had gathered on a nearby hill to watch the excitement.

  “Gruesome,” Ruby muttered, as the other women looked at her. “It was those deputies who fired first. They killed that young boy who climbed up the Verona’s flagpole to wave to the crowd. There was no call for that. It was like shooting a seagull on a piling. No wonder the Wobblies fired back.”

  Five radicals had been shot, six more had drowned, thirty-one were wounded. A toll had also been taken on the deputies, with two dead and several others wounded, including Sherif McRae. When the Verona returned to Seattle, over two hundred Wobblies had been arrested. Seventy-four of them were charged with first-degree murder.

  “I don’t understand you, Ruby,” Kate said to her sister-in-law. “One minute you’re all head-up-and-tail-a-flying to crown a Wobbly with your cast-iron skillet, and the next, you’re crying crocodile tears because they got their comeuppance.”

  “A knock on the head isn’t the same as a bullet through the heart,” Ruby shot back. “Besides, I’ve said all along those Wobblies have some good arguments. Alpine’s an exception. The conditions in other logging camps and mill towns are deplorable. You’ve heard about them, you know how badly the workers can be treated. We’re just lucky, that’s all.”

  Kate tipped her head to one side. “You read too much, Ruby. I think I’ll ask my brother if you keep a copy of the Communist Manifesto under your pillow.”

  Like lightning, Ruby’s mood shifted. “No fair peeking, Kate,” she laughed.

  “I wouldn’t dream of peeking into your bedroom,” Kate said with a droll expression.

  “I love to read,” Ruby declared as some of the other women began to leave with their heavy buckets in each hand. “Politics and history, they’re my favorites. In fact, I read a very interesting article by one of the Wobblies just a few weeks ago.”

  Kate had bent down to fill one of her buckets. “Oh? About what? How to start a strike?”

  “On the economics of the timber industry,” Ruby replied. “It was written by Yitzhak Klein, a German immigrant. He made a good case for a conspiracy in the logging business.”

  “Ha!” Kate exclaimed. “You know what Carl Clemans would say about that!”

  The three sisters-in-law were now alone at the creek. Mary Dawson hadn’t been listening to the exchange between Kate and Ruby. She’d gotten her water and was standing with the buckets at her feet.

  “Ruby,” she
said, her blue eyes fixed on the other woman’s face, “what were you really talking about when we came along?”

  Ruby gave a toss of her head. “Oh, Mary . . .”

  “Ruby!” Mary spoke softly but sharply. “Out with it.”

  Once again, Ruby lowered her gaze. “Ohhh . . . You know darned well. . . .”

  “That’s why I’m asking,” Mary asserted. “Don’t be a clam. It doesn’t suit you.”

  Ruby looked bleak. “Vincent.”

  Mary sucked in her breath. “I thought so. What did they say?”

  Ruby swallowed hard. “That he’s a wrong ’un.”

  “What else?” Mary persisted.

  “That he and the Iversen boy—Jonas—are trouble.” Ruby o fered Mary a kindly smile. “They blame Jonas more than Vincent. Jonas is the leader, Vincent is the follower.”

  “High spirits, that’s all,” Kate put in, then poked Mary in the arm. “Like Billy and Louie last year, before we moved to Alpine. When they set the barn on fire down at the farm in Sultan.”

  Mary looked askance. “They were scarcely eight years old.”

  “They were smoking,” Kate responded. “They can be full of mischief, too.”

  “This isn’t mischief,” Mary said quietly. “Vincent and Jonas are teenagers. They have too much time on their hands. Frank says they started that trouble when the Wobblies came here. Oh, Vincent denied it, he insisted he and Jonas didn’t throw any rocks, but Frank knows better.”

  Ruby wore a pained expression. “One thing leads to another,” she said cryptically.

  Mary turned on Ruby. “What is that supposed to mean?” Ruby assumed an air of innocence. “I only know what I hear.”

  “Well?” Mary demanded, digging in her heels.

  “They’re up to no good,” Ruby replied.

  “Such as what?” Mary asked in a trenchant voice.

  Ruby flushed. “I don’t know. Really, I’m not sure. Those other women . . . They like to talk.”

  Mary wasn’t giving up. “And?”

  “Ohhh . . .” Ruby waved an arm. “Honestly, I don’t know. One of them said something about . . . unspeakable goings-on.”

  Kate had also zeroed in on her sister-in-law. The Siegel sisters were both taller than Ruby, who backpedaled and put one foot in the creek.

  “Go on,” Kate urged in a chilling voice.

  “I swear to God,” Ruby said, now lifting a hand toward the heavens, “I don’t know. Do you think they’d say anything . . . indecent out loud?”

  Mary stepped away. “That,” she declared, “makes it all the worse.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Now what do we do?” I asked Vida after she had parked the Buick and walked out of the underground garage to join me in the driveway. “What’s Spencer Fleetwood doing at Judge Marsha’s?”

  Vida looked puzzled. “Maybe he’s not at her apartment. He has such cheek, he may be visiting someone else and simply barged into her guest space.”

  It was possible, but I had my doubts. “Let’s wait,” I suggested, having pulled the Lexus onto the verge of Maple Lane. “We’ll give Spence ten minutes.”

  “Five,” Vida said, holding up the fingers on one hand. “Marsha’s expecting us. If Mr. Fleetwood called on her without warning, she can get rid of him.”

  I agreed. Vida began to prowl the landscaped area between The Pines Village and the condos, curiously named The Baldy Arms. She was thwarted from peeking into the ground level windows, however. The laurel hedges that had been planted along the sides of both buildings were as tall as she was.

  “Ridiculous,” Vida muttered. “Why don’t they clip these branches? They’re up over the windowsills in the condos. Surely the residents want to see out.”

  “There’s not much to see,” I remarked, waving a hand at the fifteen-foot patch of grass. “Besides, the tenants on both sides may enjoy their privacy.”

  “Ridiculous,” Vida repeated. “What’s wrong with people?”

  I didn’t reply. Vida looked at her watch. “One minute to go.”

  “You know,” I said in a reasonable voice, “I think Marsha would have told us if she had company. If Spence dropped in after I called, then he hasn’t been there for more than fifteen minutes.”

  “Time enough,” Vida retorted, though she didn’t add for what. Instead, she started counting down the seconds. “Fifty-one, fifty, forty-nine . . .”

  She was down to ten when I heard a car start up somewhere in the garage. As we ducked out of sight, Vida stopped counting.

  “Aha!” she exclaimed under her breath. “It’s Himself.”

  The black Beamer glided up the driveway, then turned toward Alpine Way. We went into the garage and buzzed Marsha’s apartment. At least a half-minute passed before she told us to come up.

  “Destroying the evidence?” Vida remarked as we waited for the elevator.

  “Of what?” I asked, stepping into the small car. “Rumpled sheets?”

  “Don’t be coarse,” Vida chided. “Cigarette ash, the extra glass or coffee cup, the jacket Spencer Fleetwood might have left behind in his haste to leave.”

  “He hardly had time to take off his jacket,” I said. “Besides, he wasn’t wearing one when he stopped by the office.”

  Marsha didn’t appear to be suffering from anxiety when she met us at the door. She was dressed in dark slacks and a baby blue cotton sweater, and looked much improved in health since I’d seen her last.

  As soon as we were sitting down, Marsha asked if we’d like coffee. Vida declined, so I did, too. To my surprise, Marsha inquired if we’d prefer sandwiches. It was, she pointed out, lunchtime.

  “Why, yes,” Vida enthused. “How kind!”

  Marsha looked as if she hadn’t expected to be taken up on her offer. “Is tuna fish okay?”

  “Lovely,” Vida said.

  I agreed. Marsha disappeared into the kitchen. Vida sprung up from the sofa and began snooping around the living room. She seemed particularly interested in some items on a round mahogany table that held a large bouquet of yellow spider chrysanthemum, bells of Ireland, purple statis, and baby’s breath. All the while, she rattled on about the wonderful view of Mount Baldy through the living room’s big picture window—except for the charred tree trunks resulting from the fire, which was such a shame, and no doubt so careless of someone.

  “You also have an excellent view of Alpine,” Vida went on, speaking loudly so that Marsha could hear. “I can see very little from my house. I’m up high enough on the hill, but the neighbors in back of me have some very tall ornamentals. Oh—I’ll have a glass of water with the sandwich, please.”

  “Emma?” called Marsha. “What about you?”

  “Water’s fine, thanks.”

  Vida had moved on from the mahogany table to a magazine rack to a stack of books and finally to the cartons that Marsha hadn’t bothered to unpack. The judge reappeared with a tray containing our sandwiches and water. If Marsha had a cupboard stocked with condiments, she didn’t offer them.

  Vida was unruffled. “So difficult to not be certain of your permanent address,” she commented, making her way back to the sofa. Marsha, who had made herself a sandwich, sat down in the armchair.

  “Okay,” Marsha asked, “what’s the new lead?”

  Vida had already taken a big chunk out of her tuna fish, so I was forced to answer. “By chance, we found an almost identical snapshot of the railroad trestle in Jack and June Froland’s family album.”

  Marsha’s jaw dropped. “What?”

  I repeated the statement.

  Not to be outdone, Vida swallowed and offered her own information. “This morning, I received a thank-you note from June Froland, written on the same kind of stationery as the letter that was sent to you. Not the same handwriting, I might add.”

  The judge was clearly taken aback. “Good Lord,” she murmured. “That’s not what I was expecting.”

  “What were you expecting?” I asked.

  Marsha looked star
tled. “Nothing—I mean, nothing specific. I’m surprised about the Frolands. Are you saying one of them sent the letter and the picture to me?”

  “No,” I replied. “Anyone could have that brand of stationery. It’s the coincidence between that and finding a similar photo in their album.” To clarify, I explained how we planned to do an article on the Froland family in the upcoming special edition.

  “I don’t even know the Frolands,” Marsha said, rubbing at her forehead.

  “But,” Vida put in, “you knew there was a family connection going back to the Iversons.”

  “A tenuous connection,” Marsha pointed out.

  “True,” Vida allowed, then leaned forward on the sofa. “Marsha, do you have your Aunt Jo’s current address or phone number?”

  “No,” Marsha replied. “Really, I’ve lost track of her.”

  “Never mind,” Vida said. “I may be able to reach her in Port Angeles. Would you know if she still has her wits about her?”

  Marsha shook her head. “I haven’t seen her in years, not since my brother’s wedding twenty-five years ago.” She paused to take a sip of water. “If there is a connection to the Frolands, why would one of them send me a threatening letter? What are they talking about? And what the hell has that railroad trestle got to do with it?”

  Vida had winced at the mild profanity but didn’t reprimand the judge. “That’s what we’ll have to find out next,” said Vida.

  I thought she was whistling in the dark.

  “Well?” I asked after we were in the apartment house’s elevator. “What did you see of interest among Marsha’s possessions?”

  “You could see for yourself,” she replied, then waited for my enlightenment.

  I admitted I didn’t know.

  “The flowers,” Vida said as we exited the elevator on the garage level. “They were fresh as could be, and from Delphine’s shop. It’s the same arrangement I sent to June Froland. But there was no plastic cardholder, which means they were hand carried to Judge Marsha. There were a few drops of water on the table. I’m not a betting woman, but if I were, I’d say that Spencer Fleetwood brought Marsha those flowers, and she watered them just before we arrived. Hence, the delay in answering the buzzer.”