by Mary Daheim
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I said and hung up. In the newsroom, I approached Vida, who was putting on a bright orange cardigan sweater. “Where are you going?” I inquired.
“To call on the sheriff,” she said. “He needs to be informed.”
“That’s just what I was thinking.” I grinned at Vida. “You appear to be ahead of him on this one.”
“Men are so poor at eliciting the facts,” she declared with a sad shake of her head. “Even when it’s their job.”
Scott and Leo looked up. “Why are we getting bashed now, Duchess?” Leo asked.
“Never mind,” Vida huffed. “It’s not entirely your fault as a sex. It’s just that you’re so lacking in certain skills.” Adjusting her duck-billed velour cap, she departed the newsroom.
Leo looked at me. “Is something afoot?”
“Yes,” I replied, slinging my handbag over my shoulder.
“I’ll tell you both later. I’m going to the courthouse now.”
Judge Marsha was pacing her chambers when I arrived. “What’s going on? Dodge called me about fifteen minutes ago and said he’d be over with a warrant for somebody’s arrest. I asked who, and he wouldn’t say. Do you know anything about it?”
“Gosh,” I said, looking innocent, “I thought you’d called me here to thank me for everything I did about your letter. Or aren’t you interested in your new appointment any more?”
“Screw the letter,” Marsha shot back. “It’s a bunch of crap. The old fart who wrote it is dead. Who cares? It was just a joke, and a stupid one at that. Come on, out with it. You and that goofball Vida seem to know so damned much.”
“Don’t you dare call Vida a goofball!” I shouted. Marsha had gone too far. “Apologize, or I’m going right back through that door.”
“Okay, okay.” Marsha ran a hand through her usually neat blonde coiffure. Indeed, she looked unusually frazzled. “I’m sorry, but I’m upset. The last couple of weeks haven’t been easy for me.” She sat down behind her big oak desk. “Take a seat. And thanks for what you and that . . . Vida did. It just turned out be such a dumb stunt on Jack Froland’s part. I hope he’s turning in his grave.”
I ignored the remark. “What do you want to know? I can’t read Milo’s mind.”
“I heard you had lunch with him.”
I tried to keep calm. “So what?”
She leaned forward, fists on the clean beige blotter. Maybe Marsha never made mistakes. But she did now. “You’re screwing him, aren’t you? Isn’t he your backup for Cavanaugh?”
I froze in the oak chair. It took me a moment to gather my composure. I threw discretion to the wind. “Where’s Zeke?” I asked in a dead calm voice.
Marsha gave a start, then took in my arctic expression. Briefly, she averted her gaze. “Zeke? My brother? Who knows? He follows the wind and the next protest against government outrage.”
“No, he doesn’t,” I said, still calm. “He leads, not follows. Does the name Terry Woodson ring a bell?”
The puzzlement on the judge’s face deepened. “Terry Woodson? I don’t think so.” She lowered her gaze. “Maybe, faintly. Who is he?”
“Who was he,” I said. “He’s the guy who was dating Lynn Froland when she got killed in the wreck at the summit. He was in the car with your other brother, Gabe, when the accident took place.” I leaned forward in the chair. “He’s also the guy who got burned up in the meth lab. The drug outfit that your brother Zeke got him into.”
Marsha had turned pale. “This is crazy,” she said through gritted teeth. “My brother is nowhere around here, he hasn’t been for years.”
“That’s not what Terry Woodson’s stepmother says.” For the first time, I noticed that Marsha had lost some of her usual arrogance. I couldn’t resist needling her. “After you hand out a couple of divorces and put some deadbeat dads into work-release programs, why don’t we visit Lorena Woodson in Monroe? Vida would be glad to join us.”
“I don’t have time for nonsense,” Marsha snapped, but she sounded shaken. “The last I heard of Zeke, he was in Texas. Or maybe Oklahoma. He planned to protest Timothy McVeigh’s execution.”
I was rubbing my hands together, as if in glee. It was an inappropriate gesture. I put both hands in my lap and tried to stare down Judge Marsha. “Is this the secret you kept? That your brother was a druggie?”
“Of course he’s a druggie!” Marsha exclaimed. “He’s always done pot. Big deal. It should be legalized anyway.”
“I don’t mean just a user. I mean that he dealt. Not only dealt but made the drugs, along with Terry Woodson.”
“I don’t have to listen to this,” Marsha declared, her face gone stiff. “Please leave, or I’ll have the bailiff throw you out of my chambers.”
Frankly, I would have enjoyed haranguing Marsha just a little longer, but I didn’t relish having the glum—and strong—Gus Tolberg throw me out onto Front Street. “Okay.” I got up. “Mrs. Woodson’s probably too busy to see us anyway. I imagine she’s having a nice long talk with the sheriff.”
Marsha didn’t say a word as I made my exit.
“When I came through the Advocate’s front door Vida was barring my passage. “Well? What did Marsha say? How did she react? Did she know about her brother’s criminal habits?”
I managed to edge past Vida to reach the reception counter where Ginny sat, exhibiting her usual placid calm.
“The judge is in denial,” I replied. “I’ll reveal all in my office.”
Vida, however, had other ideas. She grabbed my arm and steered me back to the front door. “You can tell me on the way to the sheriff’s. According to Billy, Milo’s expecting Mrs. Woodson any minute.”
“We can’t sit in on the interview,” I protested, disengaging myself and taking a backward step.
“We won’t,” Vida replied. “We’ll get to her first.”
“We can’t do that, either.” I gave Vida an exasperated look. “Besides, you’ve already spoken with her on the phone.”
“That’s hardly enough,” Vida huffed. “Much better, in person. Come along, we don’t want to miss her. It’s a long drive from Monroe, and Lorena would probably enjoy a nice cup of tea.”
I was still protesting even as Vida virtually dragged me down Front Street. Maybe we could use the incident for “Scene.” VIRTUOUS NEWSPAPER PUBLISHER HAULED AWAY AGAINST HER WILL BY UNSCRUPULOUS HOUSE & HOME EDITOR. I had a mind to sneak it into Vida’s column just before press time.
“How will we know her when we see her?” I demanded as Vida forced me to lurk in the doorway of the Sears catalog outlet across Third Street from the sheriff’s office.
“We’ll know,” Vida assured me in her stage whisper.
We waited. At least three people came and went from Sears, having to edge around Vida’s imposing figure. She knew them all, and they knew Vida. Nobody complained about the inconvenience she was causing.
“Ah!” Vida cried as a brown compact car crept along Front Street. “A woman’s driving, and she’s obviously looking for something. There’s room two parking places down from Milo’s car. Oh! She didn’t see it!”
The compact’s driver kept going, right by us. The woman behind the wheel had short platinum blonde hair, swept into waves that looked like an exotic bird’s plumage. She wore glasses and a dark jacket or sweater. I noticed a Masonic emblem on the rear bumper as she drove by Parker’s Pharmacy.
“There are two spaces in front of the drugstore,” Vida murmured. “Why didn’t she take one of them? Oh, my— she’s pulling in next to your car. Let’s go.”
Holding onto her velour cap, Vida virtually ran the rest of the block, crossed Fourth without looking, and reached the compact just as the driver got out. I trailed behind, but heard Vida’s piercing voice inquire if the woman was lost.
She was. I reached Vida’s side just in time to hear the woman say she couldn’t find the Skykomish county sheriff’s headquarters.
“The young man—he sounded young—who g
ave me the directions said to go by city hall with the dome on the right and that the sheriff’s office was in the next block,” the woman explained in a fretful voice. “But it’s not.” She gestured across the street to the Clemans Building, which faced Milo’s digs. “I saw the newspaper sign, so I’m going to ask someone there where the sheriff is. I hope they have more sense than that Blatt person who gave me the wrong directions.”
Vida puffed out her cheeks. “You must have misunderstood. The Blatt person is my nephew, and,” she went on with a munificent gesture that included me, “we are the newspaper.”
“Oh!” The woman looked startled. “My goodness. Well, I’m Lorena Woodson. You must be the person I talked to on the phone.” She held out an uncertain hand. “Mrs . . . Blatt?”
Vida took Lorena’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “I was Miss Blatt forty-odd years ago. I’m Mrs. Runkel now.” She gave the other woman a toothy grin. “But call me Vida. Why don’t you come into the office and have a cup of tea first? It’s rather a long drive from Monroe.”
“Well . . .” Lorena seemed unsure of what to do. She glanced at the Advocate’s entrance, back to Vida, and then down the street. “I should go straight to the sheriff. I told him I’d be there by two-thirty.”
It took me two nudges to remind Vida of my existence. After the introduction, Lorena seemed puzzled over who worked for whom. It was a common source of confusion, even among Alpine old-timers.
If Lorena was pleased to meet me, she didn’t show it. “I’ll be going now. Just point the way.”
“We’ll walk you to the sheriff’s office,” Vida declared, linking her arm through Lorena’s, “but not until you’ve had a chance to catch your breath. After all,” she continued as our visitor dug in her heels, “it’s my nephew’s fault that you got mixed up. It won’t take a minute to make tea. The water’s already hot.”
“Well . . . really, I shouldn’t . . .”
After a tug or two from Vida, Lorena somehow got through the door. Ginny looked up from her desk. She has a knack for sensing awkwardness in other people. “Hi, Emma, Vida,” she said, standing up. “You’re back already. No calls.” She gazed at Lorena, who still looked dubious. “I’m Ginny Erlandson. Would you like some coffee?”
Vida spoke for our guest. “Mrs. Woodson would like a nice cup of hot tea, Ginny dear. Thank you so much.”
The newsroom was empty, but Vida headed for my cubbyhole. I half-expected her to commandeer my chair, but she didn’t. Instead, she guided Lorena into one of the visitor’s chairs.’
“First,” I said, sitting down in my rightful place, “let me express my sympathy for the loss of your stepson, Terry.”
Lorena looked at her hands, which were fidgeting on her desk. “I shouldn’t be here.” She started to get up.
“Now, now,” Vida said from the chair next to Lorena, “you mustn’t rush off. You wouldn’t want Ginny to make tea for no reason.”
Lorena scowled, though not at Vida, but into the space between us. “Well . . . If I’m going to sit for a minute, do you mind if I smoke?”
“Heavens no!” I broke in before Vida could object. “We’ll both smoke.” I got out the ashtray that I kept in a desk drawer and managed to find a pack of Basic Ultra Lights that had two cigarettes left in it.
Lorena looked relieved as we both lit up. In a majority of nonsmokers, she had found an ally, a friend, a boon companion. Vida glared at me as Ginny arrived with the tea.
“Terry was no real loss,” Lorena said after the first puff. “Ever since I met his father, Terry was nothing but trouble. Elmer used to get so upset—he insisted that Terry should have had a bright future. I guess he squandered it on drugs. So many people do. It’s a crying shame.”
Without staring. I looked closely at Lorena Woodson, who I estimated to be in her mid-sixties. The blond hair was dyed and sprayed into brittle peaks on the top of her head. Her lean face was lined, with broken capillaries on the cheeks and nose. Like Elmer’s first wife, Irma, his second choice probably enjoyed her liquor, too. I suspected that all of the Woodsons had their own ways of coping with life.
“You mentioned to Vida,” I began, “that Terry had a friend, Zeke Foster-Klein. Do you know where he is?”
Lorena tipped her head to one side. “What did you say his name was?”
I repeated it. “Maybe,” I added, “he went only by Zeke Foster. I think his brother, Gabe, dropped the second name at some point.”
Lorena’s mouth turned down. “Zeke! Of course I know him. I mean, I only met him once or twice, but he was a bad influence on Terry. Zeke should have been locked up a long time ago. A bad hat, if there ever was one. His brother wasn’t much better. What was his name? Greg? No, Gary. That’s not right.” Lorena frowned.
“Gabe,” I put in.
The other woman’s face brightened. “That’s it—Gabe. Anyway, Elmer told me Gabe almost got Terry killed in a car accident.”
“Really?” Vida feigned surprise. “How did that happen?”
“Showing off,” Lorena said, after blowing on her tea, “according to Elmer. The car went off the road up at the pass and killed the poor girl Terry was dating. That smart aleck Gabe never went to jail, either. Bribes, probably. Elmer said the sheriff up here back then was crooked. I hope you got a better one now.”
“We do,” I said staunchly.
“Let’s hope so.” Lorena glanced at her watch. “Good Lord—it’s after two-thirty. I’d better run.”
“But you haven’t finished your tea,” Vida protested. “Or your”—she winced—“cigarette.”
“I’ll save it,” Lorena said, putting the long Virginia Slim out in the ashtray. “Elmer figured both those Foster boys were headed for big trouble. He told me Zeke and Gabe became hippies, with long hair, beards, the whole thing. Disgusting, dirty creatures if you ask me.” Lorena had gotten out of the chair. “If the sheriff’s close by, I can walk from where I parked.”
Vida escorted Lorena out of my office. I had an editorial to write, and our visitor had given me an idea. While Front Street wasn’t exactly congested, except in our mild rush hour, parking could be a problem. The idea to make Front and Railroad Avenue one-way streets wasn’t new, but maybe it was time to resurrect it.
“It’s time to resurrect the one-way street proposal,” I typed. And stopped. Lorena Woodson had given me some other ideas, too. I swung away from the computer screen and put pen to tablet. I was jotting down some thoughts when Vida returned.
“What did you make of all that?” she asked, flopping down in the chair she’d just vacated. “Do you get the feeling that too many things are tied together and that Judge Marsha—or at least her family—may be at the core?”
I tapped the tablet on my desk. “Just what I was thinking. Everything seems to have a link to Lynn Froland’s fatal accident. I made some notes. Here, take a look.” I turned the tablet so Vida could see it.
“Lynn dates Gabe Foster-Klein, Lynn dumps Gabe, Lynn takes up with Terry Woodson, Lynn dies in car wreck though both boys and Clare Thorstensen survive,” she read aloud, then stared at me. “Why haven’t we talked to the Thorstensens? Don’t they live by you?”
“They do,” I said, “but they’re elderly and keep to themselves. I hardly ever see any visitors over there.”
Vida chewed on her lower lip. “That would be Tilly and Erwin. They must be ninety if they’re a day. Let me think— their son was Don, Clare’s father. Yes, they’re the Thorstensens who used to live on First Hill but moved out to Ptarmigan Tract.”
“We should call them,” I said, “though I’m not sure why.”
Vida didn’t say anything. She was clearly lost in her own thoughts. Abruptly, she got out of the chair and left the office. I was looking up the Thorstensens’ number in the phone book when Vida came back a minute later carrying a bound volume of the Advocate.
“This,” she said, putting the big book on the desk, “is from my first year on the paper. Do you remember, I mentioned that the
Zeke Foster wedding was the first one I covered?”
Vaguely, I recalled the phone conversation between Vida and Marjorie Iverson Lathrop in Port Angeles. “Something about a bird on the bride’s head,” I remarked.
Vida was flipping through the pages. “I started in May of that year. I believe the wedding occurred a couple of weeks later. Ah!” Vida shot me a triumphant look and passed the volume to me. “Here she is, the bride with a bird on her head and her arm in a cast. May I present Clare Thorstensen, who became Mrs. Ezekiel Foster-Klein.”
November 1917
HARRIET CLEMANS SURVEYED the festive social hall with approval. Evergreen boughs accented the red, white, and blue streamers hanging from the rafters. Fruit baskets sat on long trestle tables, piled high with oranges, apples, grapes, bananas, and pears. The bare lightbulbs that illuminated the big room had literally been dressed up with colorful strips of paper that Harriet thought looked like hula skirts.
“Everything looks lovely,” she declared. “We should have a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner. I’ve written a song for the occasion.”
Ruby Siegel was impressed. She knew that the mill owner’s wife was an accomplished woman, about to become a college graduate, in fact. But Ruby hadn’t realized that musical composition was one of Mrs. Clemans’s talents.
“What’s the song called?” Ruby inquired.
Harriet shrugged, a playful smile on her lips. “It’s very simple. The Alpine Song, in C Major. I wouldn’t know what to do with all those sharps and flats.”
“Would you sing it now?” Ruby asked, nodding at the upright piano across the hall.
Harriet’s smile had become strained. “You play, don’t you, Ruby?”
“A little.” Ruby made a face. “I’m sure you’re better than I am.”
“I’m speaking of the piano,” Harriet said softly.
“Of course.” Ruby tried not to look startled at the remark. “I’ve done the accompaniment for several of the community plays.”
“I know. So following the after-dinner toasts and speeches, you play the music and I’ll sing the song,” Harriet decreed. “Maybe we should practice now. Do you have a few minutes?”