by Mary Daheim
“Did he promise not to talk your ear off next time about his wife?” Milo asked with a wry expression.
I shook my head. “No. He probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Or maybe he’ll switch the subject to his sister, Lynn. You made her sound like a teenaged queen.”
“That’s because I had a crush on her,” Milo said. “Hell, she was a queen, the homecoming queen. But I’d graduated by then. Anyway, I never had a chance with . . .” He stopped and frowned. “You’re right,” he said, sitting up straight. “I remember now. The name of the guy who went with Lynn after she dumped the Foster kid was Terry Woodson.”
“Of course!” I locked gazes with Milo. “That’s why I know the name. He was mentioned in the article about the accident that killed Lynn.”
Putting out his cigarette, Milo’s long face looked incredulous. “Jeez, life’s weird, huh? I mean, Terry Woodson was the most wholesome, all-American good-looking guy you could imagine. And he ends up getting burned to death in a meth lab. I’ll be damned.”
“That was over thirty years ago,” I pointed out. “You said yourself the other day you’d changed so much that I wouldn’t know you.”
Milo didn’t argue. “I wonder if his folks are still around in Monroe.” Suddenly looking impatient, the sheriff’s eyes shot over to the service counter. “Are those our orders waiting under the damned warming lights?”
I had to laugh. At least six orders sat on the counter. Despite the new menu, it appeared that the old customers still wanted their burgers and fries. “Could be,” I said.
“Beverly better hustle her butt over here,” Milo grumbled as she popped up an aisle away. “Hey!” The sheriff waved a long arm to catch her attention.
The indecision that had been nagging me since joining Milo for lunch now came to the forefront of my mind. Maybe if I hadn’t been angry with Marsha Foster-Klein for her lack of manners and roughshod attitude, I would have kept my mouth shut. I suppose I wanted to retaliate in some way. As soon as our meals arrived, I told Milo about the letter and the photo.
“Jesus,” he said when I’d finished. “You and Vida think Jack Froland mailed that stuff just before he died?”
“We do,” I replied. “Vida compared the handwriting. It certainly looks like Jack’s.”
Milo shrugged. “Jack Froland was pretty despondent awhile back. Maybe he wrote a bunch of letters like that to public officials. You know—to make other people feel bad, too.”
I gave Milo a sideways look. “He may have written at least one other. Spencer Fleetwood told me he’d gotten one like it. He volunteered the information. I didn’t tell him about Marsha.”
Milo shrugged again, then reached for the catsup. “See? It’s a wonder you and I didn’t get one. Poor old Jack was on the peck.”
All the time that Vida and I had invested in Marsha’s letter seemed to have been wasted. “If that’s the case,” I grumbled, “he wasn’t much of a letter writer.”
“Oh?” Milo was amused. “You’re just pissed because you didn’t get a letter. Maybe Jack wrote his own obituary notice. At least that showed some imagination. I thought ‘Come see Jack-in-the-box’ was pretty damned funny.”
“Not to mention in poor taste,” I retorted. But Milo’s comment made me think. “I wonder—who did write that notice?”
“June, I suppose,” Milo said, dipping a couple of fat French fries into the catsup.
“No.” I shook my head. “Not June. She has neither the wit nor the imagination. Max—despite his propensity for passing out in public places—wouldn’t have turned in anything so crass. Not to mention that the phrasing wasn’t exactly impeccable.”
“You said the handwriting on the judge’s letter was Jack’s,” Milo pointed out.
“That’s true. But someone else may have told him what to write.”
Milo pushed his empty plate aside and nodded to Beverly who was across the aisle waiting on a couple who looked like tourists. “That could be. What difference does it make? Do you still think Jack may have been poisoned on purpose?”
I sighed. “Not really. Unless it was June, performing a mercy killing. It just seems strange that after so many years of foraging, Jack and June would make such a terrible mistake and pick the wrong kind of mushrooms.”
Beverly handed us separate checks. “Did I hear you say mushrooms?” she asked in her chirpy little voice. “You should try our new mushroom burger next time. It’s unbelievable.”
“Magic mushrooms, huh?” Milo gave Beverly his lopsided grin.
“Well . . .” Beverly’s fair skin turned pink. “Not those kind. But they’re really incredible mushrooms. We get them all the way from Tacoma.”
Innocently, I smiled at Beverly. “You don’t pick the local ones?”
Beverly shook her head. “They’re too seasonal. And tricky. Some of them are poisonous. In fact,” she leaned closer and spoke in a whisper. “I heard that Uncle Jack— Uncle Jack Froland, I mean—ate some just before he died and they killed him. Isn’t that awful?”
“Who told you that?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“My dad,” Beverly replied, still whispering. “He heard it from Uncle Fred who found out just today after he and Aunt Opal got back from vacation. I think Uncle Max told him.”
Apparently, Beverly hadn’t made the connection between Max’s information and its source, who was sitting right in front of her with a toothpick in his mouth.
“But,” Beverly went on, “my mom says it’s a good thing. This way, Uncle Jack—Uncle Jack Froland—didn’t have to suffer any more.”
“True,” I said. “Uncle Jack”—I omitted the clarification between the two Jacks—“is at peace.”
“Yes,” Beverly said, then turned as the tourists summoned her back over to their booth.
When she was out of hearing range, I spoke softly to Milo. “The grapevine runneth. But I had a thought.”
“Which is?” Milo inquired, putting a dollar bill and two quarters down for Beverly’s tip.
“Magic mushrooms,” I said, digging into my wallet to pay my share. “If Terry Woodson was a doper, wouldn’t he enjoy a magic mushroom now and then?”
“Maybe.” Milo stood up, obviously anxious to be on his way. “So what?”
“Well . . .” I paused as I got out of the booth. “I don’t know,” I admitted as Milo put a paw in the middle of my back to hustle me down the aisle. “I guess I was having a little fantasy.”
“Save it for one of your editorials,” Milo retorted.
We paid our bills, then exited into bright sunlight. I made the sheriff promise to let me know what he found out about Terry Woodson. “Survivors, especially,” I said, hurrying to catch up with his long stride. “I might interview them.”
Milo didn’t respond. He was already loping past the Advocate entrance while I trailed behind.
Vida was at her desk, nibbling on those infernal carrot and celery sticks. “I hear they’ve identified the fire victim,” she said before I could get all the way inside the newsroom. “Billy told me a few minutes ago.”
I gave Vida a dubious look. “How long did you have to hold your poor nephew’s head underwater?”
Vida looked askance. “He volunteered, of course. I just happened to stop in at the sheriff’s office on my way back from the bank.”
I stood in front of Vida’s desk. “I suppose,” I said with a touch of sarcasm, “you’ve already spoken with Terry Woodson’s surviving kin.”
“Of course.” She peered at me from behind her big glasses. “Terry Woodson’s mother, Irma, is in a nursing home in Monroe. Her brain is completely gone, from drink, I gather. Her liver’s not far behind. Terry’s father—his name was Elmer—died last spring, but after he and Irma divorced twenty-five years or so ago, he remarried. The second wife’s name is Lorena. She’s somewhat younger and seemingly sober. I got all this information from her. A pleasant woman, if somewhat dim.”
I absorbed all this data with what was no doubt
a slightly stunned expression. “Did Mrs. Woodson tell you how her stepson went wrong?”
“Yes.” Vida didn’t bother to hide a smug expression. “He was led astray by another youth. It was what caused the breakup of Elmer Woodson’s first marriage. Terry got mixed up with drugs. So typical, so foolish. He led what Lorena Woodson called an ‘alternate lifestyle.’ Indeed.” Vida made a face. “He left home, wandered about, returned—a pattern oft repeated. Finally, he ended up living in the woods. Lorena didn’t know where. It was too late to care, as she put it. And Terry still let this other fellow hold a heavy influence over him.”
I could tell from the sly look in Vida’s eyes that she was holding something back.
I had to ask. “Okay—who’s the evil genius?”
The smug look turned downright catlike. “Zeke Foster-Klein. Now isn’t that interesting?”
September 1917
OLGA IVERSEN JUMPED when a woman’s voice called her name. Hurriedly, she struck a wooden match and touched off the crumpled paper in the cast-iron cookstove.
“Goodness!” Ruby Siegel exclaimed as she bounded through the open front door. “Isn’t it a bit warm for a fire? Or are you getting an early start on supper?”
“Ja, ja.” Olga nodded nervously. “Supper. Fresh trout. Per caught many trout.”
Ruby thought Olga looked as if she were guarding the stove. Indeed, Ruby mused that if the other woman got any closer, she’s set her rear end on fire.
“I came by to see if you’d come to the Red Cross meeting tonight,” Ruby said. “Did you know that we netted almost seven hundred dollars at the bazaar?”
Olga moved a few inches from the stove. The kindling was crackling; the disgusting drawings had no doubt already burned into ash. Horrible visions ravaged Olga’s brain. Ash, like what covered hell. There must be ash everywhere, with all that fire. It would serve Jonas right if he went to hell. That’s where he belonged.
“Ah . . .” Olga put her plump fingers to her chin. “No, I stay home tonight.”
Ruby tried to hide her exasperation. “But don’t you want to help America win the war? Don’t you want to knit warm stockings and balaclava helmets for our doughboys? You do wonderful needlework. Doesn’t your heart bleed for them when the troop trains pass through Alpine? They all look so young.”
“I stay home.” Olga’s face was set. “Norvay not in var.”
Ruby’s patience snapped. “You aren’t living in Norway.” You stupid cow. “You’re living in America.” She paused to rein in her temper. “I have my own reservations about this foreign war, but I’m going to do everything in my power to help us win. They say this will be the war to end all wars.”
“You knit,” Olga replied, her expression unchanged. “I stay home.”
“What if your boys were over there, crawling around in those terrible trenches?”
“My boys are here.” Olga wished otherwise. She wished that Jonas would go into the army and be sent far, far away. That awful Vincent had left town months ago—for good, it seemed. Maybe he was a soldier by now. Olga didn’t like Vincent, but she knew that Jonas missed his friend, even if the boy wouldn’t admit it.
“Fine. Stay home.” With a swish of her long skirts, Ruby stomped out of the house. Olga Iversen was impossible. What was wrong with the woman? Maybe, Ruby thought darkly, she drank.
Maybe, Ruby thought with a touch of compassion, Olga had good reason to drink. If one of her own boys turned out like that wretched Jonas, Ruby might resort to the bottle, too. Jonas was incorrigible, Ruby was sure of it. But what he did—what Ruby thought he did—was too unspeakable to say out loud.
Chapter Fifteen
“I can’t quite believe this,” I said to Vida, who was still looking smug. “Are you positive?”
“Certainly,” Vida retorted, “though it was like pulling teeth to get the information out of Lorena Woodson. You wouldn’t believe the coaxing and the soft soap I had to use.”
Actually, I would, having had many years of experience with Vida’s methods of extracting the deepest secrets from other people.
“I keep trying to tell you,” Vida said as Scott entered the newsroom, “that this is a very small town. There is no such thing as coincidence.”
“But Terry Woodson’s from Monroe, and the Foster-Kleins were Everett people,” I pointed out.
“I’m speaking of the entire Highway 2 corridor, from the summit to the sound,” Vida asserted. “I’m also talking about connections that have their roots many years ago. The population was much smaller then. Thirty, twenty, even ten years ago Monroe and Everett were just a fraction the size of what they are now.”
Vida’s statement was correct. Seattle had sprawled so much in the past few decades that Monroe and Everett were considered suburbs. Even Alpine had grown since the advent of the community college.
Scott stood beside me. “Are we doing a census story in this issue, too?” he inquired. “I thought we had too much copy.”
I told my reporter that the census wasn’t a story, just passing conversation.
“Good,” Scott said. “I’m working on all my stuff this afternoon, especially the mulching piece. There’s a lot more to it than you realize.”
For some perverse reason, I refused to mulch. Maybe it sounded more complicated than it really was, but I wasn’t interested in devoting my life to carrot peelings and dried leaves. “Did you get some good pictures of the cedars?”
“I think so,” Scott replied, going to his desk. “I dropped the roll off at Buddy Bayard’s. Man, those trees were awe-some.”
“A terrible crime,” Vida murmured. “It’s so sad that the forests can’t be patrolled more easily.”
“For sure,” Scott said, facing his computer monitor. “But it’s just about impossible to . . .”
I left Vida and Scott to their ruminations about protecting old growth. In my absence, Ginny had taken three phone messages for me. One was from Jeannie Clay, Dr. Starr’s dental assistant, reminding me of a cleaning Thursday morning. The second was from Judge Marsha, marked ASAP. She would have been my priority, except that last, but certainly not least, was a message from Adam. My son still came first. Ginny had made a notation that Adam would be in the rectory until two o’clock, our time. It was now five to one, three hours later than St. Mary’s, Alaska.
The radio relay made its usual strange, disconcerting sounds. Then I heard Adam’s voice, an echo that I assumed bounced off some satellite before reaching my ear.
“It’s me,” I said, “Mom.” My own voice sounded hollow.
A pause. I tried to picture my son in the Quonset hut that served as St. Mary’s rectory.
“Are you okay, Mom?”
“I’m fine. How are you?”
Pause.
“Good. It’s cold, rainy, and the wind’s blowing in from the sea. I’m getting used to it, though. It’s nothing, I’m told, compared to the whiteouts when the snow never stops.”
“How are your parishioners?”
Pause.
“Hearty. They’re mostly Inuit, good people. I admire their fortitude.”
Pause. But Adam wasn’t done speaking; he was collecting his thoughts. “Are you sure you’re okay? I mean, better than before?”
I winced as I remembered the Paxil prescription, still waiting on the shelf at Parker’s Pharmacy. “I honestly think I am,” I said after a pause of my own. “The last week or two have been really busy. It takes my mind off of me.”
Pause. If Adam had felt compelled to serve in a remote location from Alpine, why not Maine? I was sure they had real telephones in Maine.
“Same here. Death can come suddenly, violently. The whiteouts, the bears, the sea. These people deal with it better than we do, I think. They accept death as part of life. They don’t bitch about the unfairness. They don’t blame God. Death happens. I’m learning from them, Mom.”
“I’m so proud of you. You’ve exceeded all my expectations.” They had been very low for years, as Adam switc
hed majors and changed colleges. I’d considered him flighty, immature, self-serving. I couldn’t have been more wrong. “Do you need anything?”
Pause.
“Books,” Adam replied. “Fiction, real page turners. You know me, I like spies.”
“I’ll get some. What about warm clothes?”
A loud humming filled my ear. I hoped Adam hadn’t been swept away by a tsunami or swallowed by a whale.
“No, I’m good with gear. Just the books. Can you hear me?” he shouted over the interference.
“Barely. Should we hang up?”
More noise, another pause. “I guess so. Love you, Mom. ’Bye.”
“Be careful. Please.” Reluctantly, I disconnected the phone. For several moments, I sat at my desk, staring at the state department of fish and wildlife calendar on the opposite wall. For September, the color photograph was a huge king salmon, leaping out of the water. It seemed symbolic. Without Tom, I felt like a fish out of water. But the salmon could dive back in. Maybe, some day, I could, too. Maybe my son could teach his mother how to move on.
I didn’t remember Marsha’s message until Ginny stood in my office door. “The judge is on hold. Do you want to talk to her or call her back? She sounds kind of wigged out.”
I told Ginny I’d take the call. The connection was perfect, but the person on the other end wasn’t someone I wanted to hear.
“I need to see you right away, before I go back on the bench at two o’clock,” Marsha said in a strident voice. “Can you get over to the courthouse in about thirty seconds?”
Under ordinary circumstances, I would have been extremely curious. But I was still wrapped up in thinking about Adam. And Tom.
“I could if I had jet shoes,” I retorted. “What’s the rush? It’s only ten after one.”
“I can’t talk over the phone. Get your butt over here, Emma. This could be important to you, too.”
Ah. Marsha was appealing to my self-interest. Had she heard about Terry Woodson and the connection with her brother, Zeke? It was possible, though I doubted that even Milo knew about it yet.