The Alpine Obituary

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by Mary Daheim


  “That isn’t why I changed my name.” Spence’s sharp profile looked severe.

  “Oh? Why then?”

  He looked me in the eye. “I didn’t just move away, I ran away.” He lowered his gaze, focusing on his bruised knuckles. “Zeke isn’t the only one who took human life. I was the one who got Lynn Froland killed in the accident up at the summit.”

  Dumbfounded, I wondered how many more shocks I could take in one day.

  “You mean,” I said, “you were driving the car.”

  “Driving like an idiot,” Spence retorted. He put a hand up to shield his eyes. No doubt he could still see the tragedy unfold. “I was showing off, being the macho man who could still get my ex-squeeze to let me drive her car. I wanted to show Terry Woodson—of all people—that I was still numero uno. But Lynn got mad when I started doing a zigzag thing on the highway. She tried to grab the wheel. I pushed her away and lost control of the car. I might as well have stabbed her to the heart.”

  “That’s incredibly sad,” I responded for lack of anything better to offer.

  “I’ve spent my life regretting it,” Spence asserted. “Maybe that’s why I’ve never married. I’m not Catholic, but I’ve done my share of penance.”

  “Why did you come to Alpine?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I had some money saved up from a Chicago station that changed its format and offered me a nice package. Like Zeke, this area was always home for me. That stretch of Highway 2 from Everett to the other side of the mountains gets a hold of you. It’s so beautiful, still so primeval. Radio’s a tough business. I’d had my share of the big city rat race, not to mention the desolate small towns of Texas and Oklahoma and Nebraska. I wanted to put my roots down in the good, sweet earth of the central Cascades.”

  “Weren’t you afraid you’d be recognized?”

  Spence laughed sharply. “In a way, I didn’t care. But the last anybody had seen me around Everett—let alone Alpine—I had long hair and a beard. Not to mention that I was thirty years younger. And,” he went on with a shake of his head, “the only one who spotted me was that old coot, Jack Froland. I suppose you don’t ever forget the face of the person who was responsible for getting your daughter killed.”

  “I can see that,” I allowed. “Plus, when Marsha came to town a year or so ago, he may have made the connection between you.”

  “Probably. We’re supposed to be related to the Frolands in some shirttail manner. In any event, I’m sure that’s why he wrote those letters to Marsha and me. Not that I blame him.”

  “The one you got was just like Marsha’s?”

  “Yes. When I got mine. I tossed it, thinking it was one more crank,” Spence said. “But just the other day, Marsha finally told me about hers. When she asked for your help, she didn’t know I’d gotten a letter, too.”

  “So that explains why she suddenly seemed to lose interest,” I murmured. “The terrible secret wasn’t hers, it was yours. Come to think of it, her letter didn’t accuse her of anything, only of something in her past that could jeopardize her chances with the Court of Appeals appointment.”

  “It wouldn’t have,” Spence said firmly. “But since Marsha didn’t know what Jack was talking about, she got scared.”

  Headlights illuminated our parking area. I turned to look out the rear window. A sheriff’s car was coming to a stop. The moon had nipped out from behind the clouds. I could see Bill Blatt and Dustin Fong get out of the car.

  We got out of the Beamer. I stepped back. This was Spence’s story to tell. If he could get back on the air in the next few hours. I’d let him scoop me.

  Besides, I didn’t have a camera.

  Vida, agog with my account of all that had happened, kept me up until after midnight. She was waiting on my doorstep when I finally got home a little after ten. Naturally, Vida had enormous regrets that she hadn’t been on hand for at least some of the traumatic experiences. But, as she finally revealed, she’d had a big surprise, too.

  “It may sound silly,” she said over her sixth cup of tea, “but I hadn’t made a truly thorough search of the Froland house. I don’t know why I thought it was necessary at this point. Duty, I suppose.”

  That wasn’t the word I would have chosen, but it sounded better than “snoopy.” “What did you find?”

  “An unfinished manuscript written by Max Froland,” Vida replied. “It was in a shoe box in the spare bedroom’s closet.”

  I remembered that Max had told me he was writing a book. “Is it a history text?”

  Vida’s eyes sparkled. “Not exactly. That is, there’s history, but it’s written as a novel. And it’s all about Alpine’s early days. There are,” she added, suddenly breathless, “even things I didn’t know!”

  “Good grief!” I exclaimed, half-serious. “That’s hard to believe.”

  Across the kitchen table, she leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Some of these things are rather shocking. It’s no wonder they didn’t get handed down, especially in those days when people didn’t talk about child molesting.”

  “Child molesting?” I grimaced. “Does Max name names?”

  “He does indeed.” Vida sat up straight again. “You would never guess who the major molester was.”

  “Is that a military title?”

  Vida gave me her gimlet eye. “It’s not funny. It’s terrible. The perpetrator was a teenager named Jonas Iversen.”

  “You’re right,” I said, “I’d never guess it was him since I haven’t the foggiest idea who he is. Was.”

  “Jonas was one of Trygve and Olga Iversen’s sons. Trygve, as you’ll recall if you’ve read my story on the Frolands, was the assistant mill superintendent in Alpine’s early days. All I knew was that Jonas had disappeared toward the end of 1917, just like another boy—Vincent Burke—had done a bit earlier. But according to Max’s account, Jonas may have been murdered by his own mother!” Vida slapped her hand on the table. “What do you think of that?”

  I stared at Vida. “You’re right, it’s shocking. What became of the mother?”

  “Nothing. I got the impression it was like a mercy killing. Trygve couldn’t stop the boy, it seems, and Olga couldn’t go on with the horror. Not to mention the legal consequences if Jonas was arrested and the shame that would follow. Olga lived to be an old lady, dying during World War II, I believe. But Trygve couldn’t stand it. He hanged himself from the railroad trestle a year later.”

  I could scarcely believe it. “You didn’t know about the suicide? That might have been talked about and handed down.”

  But Vida shook her head. “Not in those days. Suicide was a disgrace, too. I’d always heard that Trygve had been killed in a railroad accident. Anyway, that’s why the Iversens changed the spelling of their name. It was Per, the eldest son’s idea, though what good it did when part of the family stayed in Alpine, I couldn’t say. It sounds more like a gesture to me.”

  “Where did Max get all this information?” I asked, still amazed at the contents of Vida’s discovery.

  “Max has written a dedication to his father,” Vida replied, finishing off her tea. “Jack Froland was Trygve and Olga’s grandson and the son of Karen Iverson Froland. By the way, Jack Iverson wrote the obituary for his uncle. I found a draft of it and a note from him to June. I should have known. Jack’s a dunderhead.”

  “Hunh.” I sat with my elbows on the table, propping up my face with my hands. I was exhausted, but I was still able to think. “So why would Jack send that old picture of the trestle along with his letter to Marsha?”

  Vida shrugged. “Who knows? Jack may have had some crazy notion because that was the place where Jonas did . . . whatever he did with those youngsters, and because his grandfather committed suicide there. I found several old photos with the manuscript. I’ll show it all to you tomorrow. Frankly, I’ve only skimmed the book.”

  “You kept it?” I asked in some surprise.

  Vida wore an air of innocence. “Of course. June won’t be home from th
e hospital for a day or two.”

  “What are you going to do about June?” I asked as Vida finally got to her feet.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” she said, very solemn. “What good would it do to let on? June’s not in her right mind, she probably hasn’t been for some time.” Vida had moved into the living room, where she picked up her coat and purse. “Maybe it really was an accident.” Vida put on her coat, then went to the door. “Let’s call it a mercy killing.”

  When Evergreen Cemetery in Everett opened a century ago, no one could have foreseen that Interstate 5 would pass by so close that you could almost read the headstones from your car.

  Autumn had officially arrived on the Friday that Zeke Foster-Klein was buried next to his parents. I’d worn my winter coat for the first time since March, and although the sun was shining, I felt the hint of decay in the air as I stood near the open grave.

  There had been no other service except for what was being held now by a young Unitarian minister who was one of Marsha’s clients. Just out from under the green canopy, I noticed a handsome tombstone for Phillip Andrew Barr. Marsha’s husband had been only twenty-five when he’d died of a brain tumor. He hadn’t lived half as long as Tom.

  I’d also seen the markers for George Foster and Anna Foster-Klein. George’s was simple, but Anna’s had an additional inscription: SOLIDARITY. Apparently, the matriarch of the Foster-Klein brood had never renounced her father’s belief in the good fight.

  I’d arrived late, having been caught in the usual traffic slowdown between Sultan and Monroe. Amazingly, Vida hadn’t joined me. Roger had broken his toe that morning when he kicked his boom box because it had run out of batteries.

  I wasn’t really sure why I had come. It was the first funeral I’d attended since Tom’s. Furthermore, Marsha hadn’t endeared herself to me over the past few weeks, and I retained a certain wariness about Spence, who had somehow managed to get back on the air after only forty-eight hours. Of course he’d done it too late for us to get the full story in Wednesday’s paper.

  But there I was, looking out over the farmland across the freeway where strip malls were slowly snuffing out the fields and barns. The Cascades rose in their early autumn splendor, with the trees in the foothills turning to gold.

  I’d gotten to the grave just as the minister had begun his eulogy. A free spirit, he said of Zeke, a traveler who had taken the path less traveled. That was one way of putting it.

  But there was no mistake about the grief of brother and sister. They were the only other mourners in attendance. Marsha sobbed and leaned on Spence as the casket was lowered into the ground. Spence looked pale, older, still haggard. He removed his Gucci sunglasses to wipe his eyes. There was probably guilt mingled with the sorrow. Like the Frolands, the Foster-Kleins were no strangers to tragedy.

  The brief service concluded. Marsha gathered her composure and went over to speak with the minister. Spence made a comment to the funeral director, then noticed me, apparently for the first time.

  “Emma!” he said in surprise as he held out a hand. “I didn’t expect you to come.”

  “Well, I did.” I forced a smile. “I thought you might need some moral support.”

  He put his sunglasses back on and hugged me. “Thank you. Thank you very much.” Stepping back, he looked down at me with a serious expression. “I know this couldn’t have been easy for you. But one of the reasons I offered to go the co-op route for advertising was because I admire you. You’ve managed to overcome a horrendous tragedy in your life and keep emotionally grounded. I don’t know how you do it.”

  Momentarily, I was speechless. “But . . . I really haven’t . . . I mean . . . I’ve had all sorts of . . .”

  Spence put a finger to my lips. “I know, you’ve had some ups and downs. But you’ve carried on, and you haven’t become bitter, at least not that anyone can tell. You’re very brave, Emma. How do you do it? Is it your faith?”

  “Yes, I suppose it is, and . . .” I paused, glancing at Marsha, who was still talking to the minister. “It’s family, my son and my brother. Ben, especially. He’s very direct.” Blunt was what I meant. Or maybe it was honest.

  “That’s good.” Spence managed a smile. “Marsha is very direct, too. Excuse me, I should say something to Pastor Nirvana, too.”

  He walked away, joining the minister. And Marsha.

  Right after lunch, I called Ben. Luckily, he was in.

  “Hi, Stench,” I said. “Still want me to join you in nude bathing at the Trevi Fountain?”

  Ben said yes.

  By Mary Daheim

  Published by Ballantine Books:

  THE ALPINE ADVOCATE

  THE ALPINE BETRAYAL

  THE ALPINE CHRISTMAS

  THE ALPINE DECOY

  THE ALPINE ESCAPE

  THE ALPINE FURY

  THE ALPINE GAMBLE

  THE ALPINE HERO

  THE ALPINE ICON

  THE ALPINE JOURNEY

  THE ALPINE KINDRED

  THE ALPINE LEGACY

  THE ALPINE MENACE

  THE ALPINE NEMESIS

  THE ALPINE OBITUARY

  THE ALPINE PURSUIT

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  A Fawcett Book

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group

  Copyright © 2002 by Mary Daheim

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