The Alpine Obituary (8 page)

Finally, turning to Al, Milo spoke. “I hate to tell you this, but you’ve got to take Jack out of the box.”

Chapter Five

AL DRIGGERS LOST his customary composure. His jaw dropped and he seemed as speechless as Milo had been a moment earlier. It was Max Froland who broke the silence, moving slowly toward the sheriff.

“I don’t understand,” he said simply.

Holding his hat to his chest, Milo grimaced. “We got wind of foul play regarding your dad’s death, Max. We have to do an autopsy.”

“No!” Max bridled at the sheriff’s words.

June let out a little shriek. Her head slumped forward and the white rose she’d held her lap tumbled onto the ground.

Vida had stomped up to Milo. I felt obliged to follow. “How did you hear about the possibility of foul play?” Vida demanded.

Milo put his hat back on and scowled at Vida. “It’s all over town after last night. The phone’s been ringing off the hook.”

“Rumors!” Vida breathed. “It’s nonsense, Milo.”

“Could be,” the sheriff admitted. “But we still have to look into it.” He signaled for Al to start putting the coffin back in the hearse. “Let’s go, let’s move.”

Fred Iverson marched up to Milo. “This is stupid. Since when did you start listening to the rantings of a crazy woman?”

“How do I know if your Aunt June’s crazy?” Milo retorted. “I’m just doing my job.”

Fred’s brother, Rodney, came to stand by his kinsman. Both men were totally bald, though barely into middle age. “Do you mean we have to go through this whole damned thing again?”

I could tell by the tightening of his jawline that Milo was growing impatient. “That’s up to you. When the autopsy’s finished, you can have Jack cremated and save yourself a trip to the cemetery.”

“But,” put in Opal, who had joined her husband, Fred, “June’s paid for the plot. We’ll have to come for the burial.”

“Easy for you to say,” growled Rodney. “You live here. I have to come all the way from Tacoma.”

“What’s the argument?” Jack Iverson demanded, pushing his younger kinsmen aside. “Let Dodge do what he has to do. Even if June’s cracked like an egg, the sheriff has to follow the rules.”

Fred, Rodney, and Opal all deferred to the older man. Maybe it was because he still had some hair; maybe it was because he was Jack Froland’s namesake. In any event, the threesome backed down but muttered among themselves.

“Drat!” Vida exclaimed. “I should have brought my camera. Do you have one in your car, Emma?”

As the worst photographer in Skykomish County, I shook my head. Rarely did I bring a camera with me. It was pointless. The photos either didn’t turn out or I ended up with pictures of my feet.

Vida gave a fierce shake of her head, which was covered in funeral mourning, anchored by a satin turban featuring a matching black rose. “That’s what I get for having good taste and being thoughtful. Not being in the habit of taking graveside photos, I don’t have my camera when the burial turns into a news event.”

“Maybe Scott can take a picture of the empty grave site,” I suggested as the coffin was rolled away to the hearse.

Vida didn’t respond. Instead, she started toward her car. “I’ll see you at the office,” she shouted before getting into the driver’s seat.

My next stop was lunch. Dutifully waiting for the hearse, the family funeral car, the rest of the mourners, and Milo’s Grand Cherokee to pull out, I ended up last in the slow-moving line. It took ten minutes to reach my usual parking spot in front of the
Advocate
, and another thirty seconds to dash across the street to the Burger Barn.

I ordered a burger, fries, and vanilla malt to go, then stood by the takeout counter surveying the other diners. They were a familiar sight, from Mayor Baugh to Deputy Sam Heppner. Not wanting to get waylaid, I avoided eye contact with all of them. The mayor, however, was not to be ignored. He rose from his booth in the middle of the restaurant and headed in my direction.

“I’ve had a brainstorm, Emma,” he announced, not forgetting to smile and nod at everyone within his line of sight. “I’ve had a look at those new portraits Buddy took of me, and a mighty fine job he did. It struck me as a good idea to run the official one—I haven’t made up my mind yet, the little woman hasn’t seen them—on the front page of the
Advocate
.”

Fuzzy occasionally managed to catch me off-guard, but not this time. “Gosh,” I said, hoping to sound genuinely regretful, “we can’t do it in the next edition. We’ve got those dramatic forest fire pictures.”

“Oh.” The mayor looked disappointed but not defeated. Obviously, he was wrestling in his mind between Fuzzy vs. fire. “What about the week after next?”

“It’s impossible to predict what could be front page news by then,” I temporized.

“Hmm.” Fuzzy shot me a quizzical glance. “You haven’t had much in the way of big stories lately. No offense, but the paper seems kind of . . . mundane.”

“That’s true,” I admitted, then challenged the mayor on the very ground he’d been trodding. “What would be the news peg with your picture?”

Fuzzy took umbrage. “Isn’t the mayor always news? That is, I’ve a twenty-four-hour-a-day job keeping this fine city running.”

Since Mayor Baugh’s most recent contribution to Alpine’s welfare had been conserving water by turning off the sprinklers in both of the town’s parks and thus creating a fire hazard of its own, I wasn’t about to reel from his accomplishments.

“Have you some big plans?” I inquired innocently.

“I’ve always got big plans,” Fuzzy replied with a smug smile. “But you know how it is, Emma—between trying to convince the city council and coordinate with the county commissioners, it’s like pulling teeth. The wheels of progress turn slowly in a town like Alpine.”

I had visions of running Fuzzy’s mayor’s new portrait with the cutline, WHEELS OF PROGRESS AND MAYOR’S BRAIN MOVE AT SNAIL’S PACE: ALPINE STALLED SINCE 1988.

Back at Fuzzy’s booth, his companions, Henry Bardeen, manager of the ski lodge, and Deputy Mayor Richie Magruder, were on their feet.

I pointed out that fact to Fuzzy. “They’re leaving without you. Let me know when Irene decides which photo she likes best,” I added, wondering how Mrs. Baugh put up with Fuzzy on a daily basis. But then again, she hadn’t for many years. The Baughs had married young in Louisiana, divorced not long after their arrival in Alpine, and remarried just before Fuzzy’s first electoral campaign. I figured Irene could only stand Fuzzy for fifteen-year stretches at a time.

The mayor gave me his bogus politician’s smile and hurried off to join his buddies. I was breathing a sigh of relief when Marsha Foster-Klein came through the door a moment later and spotted me at the takeout counter. The judge zeroed in like a mosquito going for a bare leg.

“Well?” Marsha said without preamble. “What have you found out so far?”

I tried not to look defensive. “We’re still working on it.”

“Hey—it’s Friday,” Marsha said, her voice, if not her disposition, improved since I’d last spoken with her. “We’re running out of time.”

“Marsha,” I began as my order was called, “time is what this takes. It’d help if you had some inkling of what the letter writer was talking about.”

Fretfully, Marsha rubbed at her forehead. “I don’t, dammit.” She saw me turn to pick up the white bag with the red barn logo. “You’re not eating here?”

“No,” I replied. “Unless you want to join me and have a think tank session.”

The judge glanced at her watch. “Court’s recessed until two. I have a short meeting before that. It’s just after twelve-thirty. Let’s sit.”

With some reluctance on my part, we headed for a booth that had just been vacated by Harvey Adcock of Harvey’s Hardware and the Bank of Alpine’s Stilts Cederberg. Not only was Vida expecting me at the office, but she would also be miffed at being left out.

I asked Marsha if my House & Home editor could join us.

“Why not?” Marsha retorted. “She’s Mrs. Know-It-All, isn’t she?”

“You might say that.” I dialed the
Advocate
’s number on my cell phone. Apparently, Ginny had gone out to eat; the call went straight through to Vida’s extension. Naturally, she would come right over. The hardboiled egg and cottage cheese, along with the celery and carrot sticks, could wait.

Marsha had ordered without consulting the menu. “A secret’s not a secret if it’s been published in the newspapers, right?”

“Of course it’s not,” I agreed. “Why do you ask?”

“I’ve been thinking,” she replied, allowing her coffee mug to be filled by the latest in a long series of young blonde waitresses. “What if the letter doesn’t refer directly to me, but somebody else in my family?”

“You have a candidate in mind?” I inquired as Vida flew in through the door.

“Maybe,” Marsha said as Vida marched up to our booth.

“Ladies,” she said with a nod of the black turban. “Would you mind, Emma?” Before I could budge, she sat down next to me. I edged over a few inches to accommodate her.

I recounted what Marsha had just told me. Behind her big glasses with their bright orange frames, Vida’s eyes widened. “A family member? Who?”

Marsha sighed. “My grandfather on my mother’s side. His name was Yitzhak Klein. He was a Jewish immigrant who settled in New York where he married my grandmother, Esther. They moved west around 1915.”

Vida’s face was blank. “I’ve never heard the name.”

“Probably not,” Marsha conceded. “Grandpa Klein was a Communist and a labor agitator. During the big Red Scare back in 1920, he was arrested in Seattle and went to prison for three years. Maybe that’s the secret I’m supposed to have.”

Vida considered. “Dubious,” she finally said, then turned to pinion me between the wall and the back of the booth. “What do you think, Emma?”

I agreed. “I assume he never lived in Alpine?”

“Not that I know of,” Marsha said. “My mother was also politically active, but she never got arrested. She was a born rebel. When she decided to marry my father, Grandma and Grandpa Klein had a fit. Dad wasn’t Jewish. It wasn’t that Mom gave up her religion—though I wouldn’t call her devout—but she hyphenated her name with Dad’s. It was pretty unusual to do that back in the late Forties. Anyway, that’s how I got to be Marsha Foster-Klein. I kept my maiden name for professional reasons. My husband’s surname was Barr. Marsha Barr sounded frivolous for an attorney.”

“A little,” I remarked. “Are your parents still alive?”

Marsha shook her head. “Dad’s been dead for fifteen years. Mom died two years ago this coming November.”

“It’s possible,” Vida said, seemingly out of the blue.

Marsha and I both stared at her. “What is?”

“The arrest. The prison term. Being a Communist,” Vida replied as Marsha’s order arrived. “That is . . .” Vida leaned out of the booth and called to the waitress. “Toby? It is Toby, isn’t it?” The young blonde nodded and smiled. “Toby dear, could you bring me a small salad? With ranch dressing?” Toby nodded again. “And perhaps a fishwich with those lovely chips. Now don’t be stingy on the tartar sauce.” Vida wagged a finger in a jocular manner. Once again, her calorie count had been abandoned.

“Nobody cares these days about someone being a Communist way back when,” I pointed out.

But Vida disagreed. “Some do, particularly the old-timers. See here, Marsha, you don’t know who wrote that letter. It could be some pigheaded person with a long memory, someone who holds a grudge against radicals. Or it could simply be some fool who might think you’d be embarrassed by your grandfather’s shenanigans.”

Marsha absorbed Vida’s ideas. “You could be right.” She grimaced. “Of course, there’s always anti-Semitism.”

“Dear me,” Vida said, “I suppose there is. Really, except for the Middle East, isn’t that out of vogue these days?”

Somewhat to my surprise, Marsha uttered a small laugh. “You’d like to think so,” she said. “But unfortunately, it’s one of those awful things that never goes away.”

“Have you received anti-Semitic hate mail before this?” I inquired.

“Oh, yes,” Marsha replied. “I’ve also been called a nigger-lover, anti-Catholic, a Jap-basher, a lesbian, too liberal, too conservative, and a lapdog of modern science. I could go on, but you get the picture.”

I nodded in sympathy. “I’ve been tabbed many of those things, too. My favorite was ‘Popish running-dog left-wing Finn-hating whore.’ I’m still trying to figure out what it meant.”

Marsha gave a shake of her head. “That’s pretty wild. Do you know who wrote that?”

“Oh, sure,” I said. “I usually do even when the letters are anonymous.”

“The post office,” Vida said suddenly. “Marsha, have you inquired at the post office to see if anyone there or on the mail routes knows who sent the letter?”

“No,” Marsha admitted. “Why would they?”

Before Vida could respond, Toby delivered the salad with a generous covering of ranch dressing. In fact, the lettuce was barely visible, with only an occasional hint of green poking through, like treetops after a heavy snowfall.

“Thank you, Toby,” Vida said with a toothy smile. “Just the way I like it.”

“What Vida’s saying,” I put in, “is that in a small town like Alpine, the postal workers pay more attention to the mail than in a city like Seattle or even Everett. They, too, are curious about their friends and neighbors.” I ignored Vida’s owlish stare. “How many people mail handwritten letters within the town every day? Frankly, we should have thought of this before now.”

“Yes, we’ve been remiss,” Vida acknowledged between munches and crunches of salad. “I shall go to the post office as soon as I finish lunch.”

I’d finished my meal and Marsha had put the remnants of her turkey sandwich aside. She was due at the courthouse to talk to the opposing attorneys in an insurance case.

“I’m going back to the office, too,” I announced, waiting for Vida to move so that I could get out of the booth.

“You can’t,” she asserted. “Here comes Toby with my fishwich. You know how I hate to eat alone.”

Marsha, who was on her feet, leaned down to Vida. “Then eat fast. I’m running out of time.” Heaving her handbag over her shoulder as if it were a rifle, the judge marched out of the Burger Barn just as Milo Dodge came in.