by Mary Daheim
“He may not,” Vida responded. “But if he’s unwell, you may have to take care of him instead of the other way ’round.”
June looked alarmed. “I can’t do that. I’m too weak. All those months I had to take care of Jack . . .” She stopped and perked up a bit. “Max has a girl coming in to do for us. She can take over. I hope she’s not some flibbertigibbet. You know what young people are like these days. Lazy, with no sense of responsibility.”
While Vida might agree, she didn’t give June the satisfaction. “Emma and I must go. Max should be back very soon.”
“He’d better be,” June grumbled. “I’m hungry now.” Vida looked exasperated. “You weren’t hungry two hours ago when I offered to fix you a meal.”
“That’s right,” June said. “I wasn’t. Anyways, everybody knows you can’t cook. You don’t fool me with all those fancy recipes you run in the newspaper, Vida Runkel.”
“I beg your pardon!” As Vida took umbrage, her bust puffed up like a grouse’s breast.
“You’re right, Vida,” I said, making agitated gestures with my hands and feet. “We really must go.”
“What?” Vida stared at me, then recognized the ruse. “Oh. Yes, you’re right. We really must.”
June didn’t protest, so we left with only the briefest of farewells. After we got into the Buick, Vida let out an enormous sigh. “That woman’s a trial. I marvel that Jack didn’t poison her years ago. Of course, he was such a windbag. And no brains between them. However did those two have a son like Max? Or do they allow nitwits to teach at the university these days?”
“I believe they do,” I replied. “That is, if Max can qualify as a nitwit for passing out in his green beans.”
Vida was looking in the rearview mirror. “Here comes a car. Maybe it’s Max. Someone must be dropping him off. Let’s get out of here. I can’t stand another minute inside the Froland house. Besides, it’d be embarrassing for you.”
“I’m not the one who made a fool of myself,” I remarked as Vida pulled out from the curb. “But you’re right, I don’t need any more Frolands tonight.” I was silent as Vida headed down Spruce Street. The Froland house was only a few blocks from my little log home. We turned on Fifth, which dead-ends in the forest. But when we reached Fir, instead of slowing down for my place, Vida picked up speed.
“Hey, where are we going?” I asked as we went right past my house.
“To call on Judge Marsha, of course,” Vida replied. “Aren’t you anxious to relieve yourself of responsibility for her letter?”
“Yes,” I said, sounding uncertain. “I suppose I am. You’re absolutely positive it was written by Jack Froland?”
“Of course.” Vida turned on Alpine Way, heading straight for the parking garage under Marsha’s building. “There were samples all over the house. Someone—probably Max—had put Jack’s personal effects into one of the bedroom drawers. Driver’s license, AARP card, Medicare, Medicaid, credit cards. His signature was everywhere. Not to mention little notes he’d written to himself. Jack wasn’t a very tidy person.”
“But why?” I asked in my most earnest voice.
“Why write the letter to Marsha? We may never know,” Vida replied, pulling into Ella Hinshaw’s guest parking space. “Not that I don’t want to. But as far as Marsha is concerned, she wanted to learn the letter writer’s identity. Period.”
Vida was right. Furthermore, I should have been relieved.
Marsha sounded truculent when Vida announced our arrival over the intercom. But she buzzed us in and was waiting at the door when we reached the so-called penthouse.
“We have news,” Vida declared, bustling past Marsha and going straight to the sofa. “Jack Froland wrote that letter.”
“What?” Marsha stared at Vida. “Jack Froland? Are you kidding? I want proof.”
Vida rummaged in her purse. I remained standing. I hoped we weren’t in for a lengthy visit.
“Here,” Vida said, handing a worn slip of paper to the judge. “This is a note Jack wrote to himself. It’s some sort of reminder about taking his medication.”
Marsha switched her gaze to me. “Where’s the letter?”
“At the office,” I replied. “We came directly from the Frolands’.”
“I’ll have to compare the handwriting myself,” Marsha said with a scowl. “Can you get it now?”
I should have thought to pick up the damned letter before we called on Marsha. “I can, but I’d rather wait until tomorrow morning. I can run it over to the court house first thing.”
Marsha was studying the note. “It looks similar. But I still need to see the letter to make sure. All right, get to me right after eight.”
I said I would, then started edging toward the door. But Vida had made herself comfortable and appeared to be in for the long haul.
“It would be interesting, Marsha,” Vida began, “if you could think of some reason why Jack Froland would have sent you such a letter in the first place. Frankly, I find this whole thing a box of bees.”
Marsha, who was standing halfway between the sofa and the door, pounded a fist against the wall. I suspect she wished she had her gavel.
“How do I know? He was nuts, maybe,” Marsha retorted. “What difference does it make now? He’s dead, I have no idea what he was talking about, and for all I know, he often sent letters like that to public officials. Maybe it made him feel important.”
That was a good an explanation as any I could come up with. Maybe it was time to let go. We’d done our job. If Marsha wanted to pry further, she could do it on her own time.
Vida, however, wasn’t satisfied. “Why send that old photo with the letter?”
“Because he was crazy,” Marsha said impatiently. She was reaching for the doorknob. I almost hoped she’d try to put the bum’s rush on Vida. The spectacle would definitely fit in with the rest of my bizarre evening.
“Furthermore,” Vida continued calmly, “if Jack had been sending such letters, why haven’t we heard about them? Most people would go to the police. The complaint would show up in the log. I’m assuming, of course, that the threats would be as groundless in other cases as they are in yours.”
“I can’t explain that,” Marsha responded. “Look, it’s late, I’m tired. We’ll finish this thing off in the morning when I compare that note with the letter. Okay?”
Vida glanced at her watch. “It’s not quite nine. Goodness, I didn’t realize you were such an early bird.” She rose deliberately, smoothing her skirts, straightening her coat, adjusting her blue bowler hat. “I guess we’d better be on our way.”
“Yes.” Marsha opened the door. Vida practically strolled out of the condo, humming to herself.
“Were you just trying to annoy Her Honor?” I inquired after we were in the elevator.
“Not exactly,” Vida replied, “but I find this all very queer. Marsha learns who wrote the letter, evinces some disbelief—for which I don’t blame her—and never even says ‘thank you.’ I kept waiting to hear some form of appreciation, didn’t you?”
“Marsha lacks social skills,” I said as we exited into the garage.
“Marsha is not a happy woman,” Vida noted. “I wonder why not?”
“Lots of people aren’t happy,” I said. “I’m not very happy, either.”
“You still have manners,” Vida pointed out as we got into the Buick. “Besides, you have a good reason to feel sad. What is Marsha’s?”
“Her husband died,” I said, “though that was years ago.” Vida began backing out of the parking space. “Y-e-s, that’s so. My, so many dead people, especially people who died young, seem to have crossed our path lately.”
“Tom was too young,” I said, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice.
“Tom was middle-aged,” Vida said. “I’m referring to Marsha’s husband, Max’s wife, Max’s sister, and . . . have I left anyone out?”
“What?” I was still brooding about Tom. “No, I don’t think so. Jack Froland was
old.”
“Some people have more than their share of grief,” Vida said, turning onto Fir Street from Alpine Way. “You know,” she continued, slowing down as we neared my house, “Ernest was eight years younger than Tom when he died.”
I turned to stare at Vida. Somehow, in all my grief, even in Vida’s references to her husband’s death, I’d never considered that her loss was as great—maybe greater—than mine.
“I’d never calculated Ernest’s age,” I admitted.
“He was forty-nine,” Vida said, bringing the car to an easy stop by my driveway. “We’d planned to go to Europe that fall. We’d never been there. I still haven’t gone.” She paused, gazing through the windshield. “I couldn’t bear to see Europe without him.”
“Oh, Vida!” I put my arm around her. “I’ve been too damned self-absorbed!”
“That’s perfectly understandable,” she said, dry-eyed but with a slight tremor in her voice. “And mind your language.”
All the years that I’d waited for Tom, all the frustrations I’d suffered, all the faults I found with him for not spending his life with me had never altered Vida’s convictions about what a fine man he really was. She’d called him “Tommy” and whenever she spoke of the two of us, those big glasses of hers took on a rosy tint. I’d often found her attitude annoying, but now I realized that she’d been vicariously living her romantic dreams with Ernest.
“Is that the real reason you don’t want Buck moving in with you?” I asked softly. “You feel you’d be betraying Ernest?”
“Perhaps.” She sighed and straightened her shoulders. “It simply feels wrong. I can’t explain it to Buck. Then he gets angry. I really don’t blame him.”
“I gather Buck doesn’t feel the same way,” I remarked. “I mean, he’s been able to get beyond his wife’s death.”
“You know what men are like,” Vida said with a touch of asperity. “Wife out, wife in. So to speak. They look at things differently. Maybe they’re more . . . practical.”
“Not Max Froland,” I pointed out.
“No.” Vida shook her head. “Not Max. Jackie became an obsession with him.”
“Did you know her?” I asked. “Was she really so wonderful?”
Vida sighed. “Jackie was very pretty and she was smart enough. I suppose she had a certain sparkle to her. But I never knew her well. The Doukases were a bit standoffish in those days. First Hill was the place to live before The Pines development was built. Of course First Hill is a bit rundown now. But then, if you lived there thirty years ago as the Doukases did—two families of them in big houses—you looked down on the rest of Alpine, both literally and figuratively.”
I glanced quickly at Vida. She seemed like her old self, which was a relief. “One last thing,” I said, releasing my seat belt. “Do you think June deliberately poisoned Jack?”
“Certainly not,” Vida replied. “It must have been accidental.”
“Probably,” I said, opening the car door. “But I’m puzzled.”
“By what?”
“Who cleaned out the Frolands’ refrigerator?”
Vida wore a quirky expression. “You mean, in case there were more mushrooms?”
“Exactly,” I said.
A large camper had turned off of Alpine Way and was plodding down Fir Street. I told Vida not to wait for me to get into the house. I didn’t want her to get sideswiped by the wide vehicle. Thus, she drove off, and I went up to my porch where I searched for my keys.
Digging deep into the big leather satchel, I couldn’t find them. The RV rumbled by, perhaps a family coming home from a trip. Maybe they actually had keys to their house. If not, they could sleep in the camper.
Suddenly, I remembered that a couple of years ago I’d hidden a spare key in the woodpile. It should still be there.
Fortunately, I’d turned on the light outside the kitchen door. I went around the Lexus to where the wood was stacked. If I’d driven, I would have made sure I had my keys with me. But in what must have been a more excited state than I realized, I’d searched my purse for a mascara wand. Like everything else in the satchel, it had fallen to the bottom. I’d removed my keys and left them on the arm of the sofa.
I stared at the woodpile. Where had I put the damned key? Down low, as I remembered. Squatting on the carport floor, I ran my hand under the wood. Finally, almost at the end of the row, I felt flat metal.
I had the key in my grasp when I sensed that I wasn’t alone. Slowly, I secured the key, stood up, and turned around.
A man was standing in the shadows of the carport.
I screamed.
August 1917
OLGA IVERSEN LOOKED out through the window at the front of her house. Mary Dawson was coming up the path, carrying a basket. Olga ducked out of sight, holding her breath. Despite the heat of the midday sun, the door was closed. Maybe Mary hadn’t seen her. Olga decided not to answer her visitor’s knock.
“Mrs. Iversen!” Mary called in her pleasant voice. “Olga! I’ve brought you a present.”
Olga didn’t want any presents, not from Mary, not from anybody. She stood flat against the door, between the two windows at the front of the house. Most of the other wives in the camp were Americans. They spoke so fast that Olga seldom understood them. They seemed to laugh a great deal, too, though what they found amusing about their hard life in Alpine was beyond Olga’s comprehension.
Mary knocked again and called Olga’s name. And then, because nobody locked up their houses in the town, Mary gave the door a nudge. Although Olga was a sturdy woman, she was caught off-balance. She staggered to one side as Mary poked her head in.
“There you are,” Mary said with a big smile. “Are you hiding from me?”
“Hidink? Oh—no. I vas . . .” Olga fumbled for the right words. “. . . busy.”
Mary set her basket down on the table and removed a hand-embroidered tea towel to reveal three small glass jars. “I brought you some blackberry jelly, fresh made. My sister, Kate, and I made jelly this morning, before it got too warm to keep the cookstove going. The berries are lovely this season, especially up on First Hill. I suppose it was the long, cold winter.”
The only part that Olga understood was the jelly, the berries, and “the long, cold winter.” Bitterly cold, and scarcely a day of sun from November until March. Olga swore she could still feel the damp in her bones.
“T’ank you,” she said politely. “No lingonberries here. Best yelly, the lingonberries.”
“You can get them in Seattle,” Mary noted, “down in the Public Market.”
“Ya?” Olga looked wistful.
“When we lived in Seattle several years ago,” Mary said, placing the three glass jars on the table, “I’d take the trolley to the market two or three times a week. It was such fun to shop among the stalls, so much to choose from.” Mary was getting a bit wistful herself. “You should take the train to Seattle some time. It’s good to get out and see some new sights.” Noting Olga’s empty expression, Mary went on. “There’s a very large Norwegian community in Seattle. You’d enjoy that. I’m sure they’d sell lingonberries there, too.” Seeing Olga’s eyes showing a faint spark of interest, Mary kept talking. “Of course we have many Norwegians in Alpine, too. It’s nice that you can speak to some of them like Cap Toney in your own language.”
“Ya,” Olga said. “Cap Toney. Nice man. Norvegian man.” As she always did, Mary felt like she was fighting an uphill battle trying to befriend Olga Iversen. If only the woman would try to learn English, Mary thought to herself.
“I must get back home to see how little Helen is doing,” Mary said. “She’s such a busy little baby. How are your children doing? They seem to get taller every time I see them.”
Olga put both hands on her breast. “My children? Good, nice.”
“That’s what counts,” Mary said, stepping toward the open door. “Oh!” she exclaimed, batting at the air. “You’re right to keep the door closed. Those deer flies are a pesky nuisance th
is time of year. So are the no-see-ums. Good-bye, Olga.” Mary departed with a friendly smile.
Olga firmly closed the door. Mary’s six children were all well behaved, which annoyed Olga. What was worse, Mary seemed to enjoy them. How could you enjoy children, she asked herself, when there was nothing to keep them occupied? How could you enjoy a child like Jonas who caused so much trouble?
At least Vincent Burke was gone. Olga believed he’d been a bad influence on Jonas. She looked out the window. Mary was halfway down the path, laughing and waving to someone Olga couldn’t see.
Mary shouldn’t laugh so much, Olga thought. Even if Vincent had been Mary’s nephew and not her son, he was nothing to laugh about. Olga doubted that Mary had enjoyed him. The boy had been gone for over three months. Nobody seemed to know what had happened to him. He’d simply run away.
Sometimes Olga wished that Jonas would run away, too. Sometimes she wished he’d find a job in another town and not live with the family any more. Sometimes she wished that he’d join the army and use up his anger on the Germans. Sometimes, especially on those dreary gray days that played Alpine, she wished that Jonas was . . .
Olga caught herself. She mustn’t wish that on anyone, especially her own son.
But sometimes Olga couldn’t help but wish that Jonas was dead.
Chapter Fourteen
MY SCREAM WAS echoed by a laugh and a shout.
“Emma! It’s me, Spence.”
I caught my breath as he moved into the light. “You scared the wits out of me,” I gasped.
“Sorry,” he apologized, coming close enough to put a hand on my arm. “Didn’t you hear me pull up in the driveway?”
I looked beyond him. Sure enough, the Beamer was parked on my property, a good ten feet from the street. “No,” I admitted. “I was concentrating on finding my spare house key. I left all my other keys locked inside when I went out this evening.”
“Anticipating a big thrill?” Spence inquired with a small chuckle.
“No,” I barked, “I was not.” I stomped past Spence and headed for the front porch. “Nor was I expecting my companion to pass out during dinner.” My fright had been replaced by annoyance; I was having trouble making the key turn in the lock. “Why aren’t you at the radio station, getting the jump on me with the late-breaking news?”