The Alpine Obituary (5 page)

Chapter Three

IT WAS ALMOST lunchtime when I drove out to Burl Creek to study the railroad trestle firsthand. I’d driven past it innumerable times during my years in Alpine. As I got out of my car and looked up, the tracks took on a new meaning. They had a story to tell. I wished I knew what it was.

There was no dangling rope, of course. But across the creek some thirty feet away, I could see the boulders in the original photograph. The cleft was visible, though partially covered with moss. I realized why Milo had recognized it: The creek took a sharp turn on the other side of the trestle and the boulders flanked a decent riffle where trout might lurk. But fish in the local streams were as elusive as any clue to the snapshot’s importance. It had to be the rope, which was long gone. If only a noose had been included in the picture. . . . Was it possible that it had been around someone’s neck?

Feeling frustrated, I went back to the office where the first calls of outrage over the current issue of the
Advocate
were coming in. Dot Parker was irate because two years ago she’d won twenty-nine dollars with four lottery numbers and we hadn’t put it in the paper. Tweeter Hedberg berated us for not publishing the name of the Snohomish store where Ethel Pike bought her lucky ticket. The Rev. Otis Poole from the Baptist church chastised me for promoting gambling.

Vida didn’t have time to go through the old issues of
The
Alpine Blabber
until mid-afternoon. I was about to volunteer my assistance when Spencer Fleetwood breezed into the newsroom.

“I’m here to issue an invitation,” Spence said, leaning against the door frame of my office cubbyhole. For once, he’d shed his Gucci sunglasses, but the rest of his uniform of tailored slacks, cashmere sweater, and gold chain was in place. “Radio Station KSKY celebrates its second anniversary at the end of September. We’re throwing a party and you’re invited, along with the rest of your staff.”

I tried to express enthusiasm. It wasn’t easy. The radio station was the newspaper’s rival, not only for news—where the
Advocate
was automatically the loser because of our publishing schedule—but for advertising. Despite Leo Walsh’s considerable efforts to maintain our ad revenue, we had suffered some setbacks since Spencer Fleetwood’s arrival in Alpine.

“When and where’s the party?” I inquired with a stiff little smile.

Spence, as he prefers to be called, sat down in one of the visitor chairs, one long leg thrown over the armrest. “Saturday, the thirtieth. It’ll be at the ski lodge in the Rufus Runkel Room.”

Rufus Runkel was Vida’s late father-in-law, and one of the men credited with saving Alpine when Carl Clemans closed the original mill. Rufus and a couple of other old-timers had decided to get in on the growing craze for skiing. The first lifts had been opened in 1931, and the lodge followed a year later.

“We’ll do a remote broadcast that evening starting at six o’clock,” Spence continued. “We should get a big crowd, so we’ll have live interviews, live music, and plenty of delicious, dead fish.”

I forced another smile. “It sounds very festive.”

Spence turned away just enough to show off his profile. The strong chin, sharp, almost hooked, nose, and high forehead reminded me of a vulture. I suspected that he thought his side view was eaglelike. Either way, Alpine’s Mr. Radio struck me as a bird of prey.

“Let’s hope it’s the party of the year,” he said. “Face it, Alpine’s usual idea of a big evening involves bowling shirts and half racks.”

“May I quote you?”

Spence looked straight at me and chuckled. “No. But you and I are city people. We’re a bit more sophisticated than your average Alpiner.”

“I wonder,” I remarked. Spence was inclined to brag about having lived in Los Angeles, Chicago, Boston, Dallas, and various other major cities. “I’ve been here eleven years. Maybe I’ve turned into a real rube.”

“Not possible,” Spence assured me. “It’s how you were raised, not where you end up.”

I considered telling Spence that when I was growing up in Seattle, it was still a virtual backwater in the eyes of the rest of the country. But there was no point in arguing. KSKY’s owner always had an answer.

“How come you waited until after the paper came out to tell me about the party?” I inquired.

Spence tried to look ingenuous. “It’s not official. I won’t announce it on the air until Tuesday. The formal invitations to public officials and Chamber of Commerce members won’t be mailed until then.”

“So why not wait a day? Then I can have the story at the same time you do.”

“Hey,” Spence responded, looking genuinely surprised. “Why not? Okay, I’ll broadcast it late morning, Wednesday. How’s that?”

I, too, was surprised. “That’s great. Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“Then let’s celebrate with a drink after work,” Spence suggested. “I’d like to talk over some joint promotion plans. What do you say?”

I tried not to recoil. The one and only time that the
Advocate
and KSKY had combined forces for a multimedia promotion was during last year’s summer solstice parade when Tom had been killed. The memory jarred me once again.

I guessed it showed. Spence leaned forward and reached out a hand. “Emma, I’m sorry. I know what you’re thinking. That’s why I haven’t mentioned joint promotions until now. Please don’t be angry with me.”

“I’m not angry,” I said stiffly. “I’m just . . . upset.”

Spence’s brown eyes actually looked sympathetic. “Look—I don’t mean to sound harsh, but by the time people get to our age, we’ve all suffered some kind of terrible tragedy.” He saw me open my mouth to protest but waved the hand he’d held out to me. “I know, I know. You’re right up there with Jackie Kennedy in Dallas, holding tight to your martyred loved one.”

Like the weather, Spence seemed to be mocking me. “What a horrid thing to say.” My voice was dry and cracked, like a dead leaf.

“Forget it,” Spence snapped, getting to his feet. “I thought you were a businesswoman. When you climb out of that emotional ditch you’ve dug for yourself, give me a buzz.”

With his usual irritating aplomb, Spencer Fleetwood walked away.

I don’t cry easily, but my lower lip trembled and my fists shook. Granted, Spence had been very kind to me immediately after Tom’s death. I’d begun to think he wasn’t an entirely self-centered monster. But if he was one part compassion, he was nine parts phony. It’s a wonder he hadn’t claimed to have covered the Kennedy assassination.

Vida, of course, had been listening at her desk. When Spence had safely departed, she all but vaulted into my office.

“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed. “You’re distraught! Whatever happened?”

For once, I couldn’t speak. I merely shook my head, caught my quivering lower lip in my teeth, and forced my hands to relax.

“Later, maybe,” I finally murmured.

Vida nodded. “Of course.” She paused. “I’ve finally gotten through the early issues of the
Blabber
. They’re very gossipy, you know.”

“You’ve read them before,” I noted, sounding more normal.

“Oh, yes, but years ago.” Vida straightened her red bowler. The color was so bright and shiny that it looked as if she were wearing a Chinese cachepot on her head. “Have you a moment? I’ll bring some of them in here.”

“Sure,” I said. I had a feeling that the rest of the day wasn’t going to be very productive. After Spence’s visit, I felt intellectually as well as emotionally depleted.

The Alpine Blabber
had been printed on cheap stock, though it wasn’t newsprint. Ginny had carefully slipped each copy into a plastic sleeve for the sake of preservation. Still, the issues—which usually were made up of four six-by-eight pages—had suffered neglect. Some had been patched, many had been taped, and all were yellow with age.

“The
Blabber
is not to be confused with the Alpine Lumber Company’s yearbook,” Vida cautioned. “Those are all in a bound volume. Of course the original name was the Nippon Lumber Company, which Carl Clemans kept until the end of World War One.”

“I know,” I replied. The town’s early name was Nippon. Carl had changed that, too, but much earlier. “I went through the books a few months ago when I was doing research for an article on early logging.”

“What I should have said,” Vida amended, “is that the yearbooks are strictly factual. Plenty of news in the sense that they relate all the births, deaths, marriages, moves, and so forth, along with the social and cultural life of the town.”

“I know,” I repeated, hoping that Vida hadn’t embarked on a lecture. “Features, too, like the article on the Dawson sisters who were born a year or so apart but graduated from high school at the same time. ‘Alpine’s fairest flowers,’ or something like that.”

“Yes,” Vida replied. “Frank and Mary’s girls. The Dawsons had six children, you know. The eldest, Monica—who was nicknamed Babe—returned to Alpine in the Twenties as a bride. I suppose she just couldn’t stay away.”

I couldn’t resist the question: “I take it she remained here for the rest of her life?”

“Well . . . no,” Vida admitted. “Her husband was a seagoing man. He got a job on a ship and they moved back to Seattle. Babe was born there, so I suppose she was used to the city.” Vida all but shuddered at the notion. “Her father, Frank, was an Englishman, and he had some very queer ideas. When Babe and . . . Katharine, I believe, graduated, he thought they should return to Seattle and go to secretarial school. He was afraid that they might have too much time on their hands in Alpine and get into trouble. Imagine!”

An image of Babe and Katharine standing outside the pool hall with rolled stockings and beaded bags raced through my mind’s eye. But all I said was, “That was before your time, right?”

“Considerably,” Vida agreed. “Oh, here’s an early mention of the Iversens—that’s with an
e
—in the
Blabber
from May, 1914 ‘Trygve and Olga Iversen arrived at camp April 30. Trygve will be the new assistant superintendent of the mill. The Iversens bring with them their four children, Per, Karen, Jonas, and Lars. Per, who is a sturdy lad of twenty-two, will work in the mill as a loader.’ ” Vida picked up a pencil and made some notes on a white ruled tablet. “A family tree,” she said with satisfaction. “We’ll be able to see how Marsha might be related. Not to mention”—she winced—“Jack Froland.”

I found the next Iversen reference in the second edition of the
Blabber
. “Per, that sturdy young lad, takes a bride in the September issue. Susan Wicks of Seattle. They were married at a Lutheran church in Ballard, like any good Scandinavian of the era.”

“Ballard,” Vida murmured. “That part of Seattle was almost exclusively Scandinavian until rather recently, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said, “but the ethnic groups have diversified in the past few years.”

“Trygve Iversen was born in Norway, as was his wife, Olga,” Vida recalled. “My mother once told me that Olga never really learned to speak English. Indeed, she rarely spoke at all. Tsk, tsk.”

We remained silent for several minutes, perusing the fragile newsletters. “Are we looking only for Iversen/Iverson references?” I finally asked. One more euphoric comment about Mrs. De Bie’s Belgian waffles or Head Cook Patterson’s flapjacks and I was either going to sleep or going to eat.

“At this point, yes,” Vida replied. “I’m still trying to make the connection with Marsha.”

“Why don’t we ask her?”

“I thought she didn’t know,” Vida replied, looking puzzled. “I suppose we could ask again.”

I dialed Marsha’s home number but got her machine. Next, I tried the courthouse and was put through to her chambers.

“I dragged my butt in for the morning session,” Marsha said, sounding somewhat better. “Now I’m about to go home and take to my bed again. What’s up?”

I related that Vida believed Marsha was somehow connected to the Iverson dynasty. “Does that ring any bells?” I asked.

“The Iversons,” Marsha repeated. “Don’t they own the Venison Inn?”

I said that was so. “Jack and Helene owned it for years, but when his nephew, Fred, got hurt in the woods, Jack brought him and his wife, Opal, in as partners. Jack’s been threatening to retire.”

“My Aunt Josephine was married to an Iverson,” Marsha said after a long pause, “but they lived in Mount Vernon. Uncle Burt was killed during World War II, and Aunt Jo remarried a few years later. Frankly, I lost track of her. The last I heard, she was in a nursing home in Port Angeles or some place. She must be ancient.”

I gave Vida a high sign. “Was your Uncle Burt from Alpine?”

“I’m not sure,” Marsha responded. “He’d been dead years and years before I was born. We were never close with that side of the family. Aunt Jo was my dad’s sister. My mother and Uncle Burt fought over politics, I think. Anyway, I hardly remember seeing Aunt Jo except at the wedding of one of my brothers. She didn’t come to mine.”

Vida was making wild gestures with her hands. I became so distracted that I had to terminate the conversation with Marsha. “Sorry, I’ve got to go. There’s a whirling dervish in my office. Get well.”

I hung up and gave Vida an exasperated look. “What?”

“Burt Iverson,” Vida said, her gray eyes glinting. “He was one of Per’s children. Burt had married before the war and moved away, then he went in the army and was killed in North Africa. Kasserine Pass, as I recall. Since he’d grown up here, a big fuss was made when we got the sad news. You’ll see his name inscribed on the war memorial at the courthouse.”

“So that’s the Iverson connection to our judge,” I remarked.

“Tenuous, at best,” Vida said, adding onto her family tree, which she had transferred to a large sheet from the tablet Leo kept for manually laying out ads. “Josephine—his widow—married a Bergstrom after the war. They lived in Sultan for years, then he died, and Josephine came to live with her daughter. Now what was her name?” Vida thought for several seconds. “Marjorie. Marjorie’s husband—dear me, I forget his name—took a job in Port Angeles. Josephine went into the nursing home here, but left on her own and went to join Marjorie over on the Peninsula. Don’t you remember that Josephine was reported as a missing person about four years ago?”