The Alpine Obituary (14 page)

Chapter Eight

I FORCED MY voice to sound casual as I pointed to the snapshot of the rope hanging from the trestle. “What’s the significance of this shot?”

Max leaned over to look while I heard Vida’s sharp intake of breath. She coughed rather loudly to mask her surprise.

“Goodness,” she exclaimed, “I hope I’m not catching cold.” For emphasis, she took a handkerchief from her purse and blew her nose in a loud, buglelike manner.

“I don’t know what this picture represents,” Max finally said after studying the photo. “I can’t see anybody in the background beyond the trestle and the rope, can you?”

I couldn’t either, though upon closer inspection, I realized that this photo wasn’t taken from the exact same angle as the one that had been enclosed in the threatening letter to Marsha Foster-Klein. The lettering under the snapshot didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know: It read GN TRESTLE OVER SKYKOMISH RIVER.

I flipped the page. Another wedding portrait, this time of Per and Susan Iversen. The setting was a church, probably in Ballard, according to the write-up Vida and I had read in
The
Blabber
. The couple looked much less solemn and considerably better looking than Trygve and Olga. There followed more kids, more babies, more Christmas trees, and an eight-by-ten photo of a group gathering, probably in the social hall. THANKSGIVING DAY DINNER, 1917 read the caption. The diners appeared well fed and reasonably well dressed.

“May we keep these?” I asked, fingering the two older albums.

“Of course,” Max replied with a smile. Now that I noticed, he was better looking than his great-grandparents, too. The only resemblance I saw—besides the beard—was in his eyes. Like Trygve’s, they were very keen.

Vida had her hands on the other, newer albums. “May we keep these as well?”

“Go ahead,” Max said.

Vida pulled one of the albums in front of her and turned to me. “I have to show you a picture of Max’s late wife, Jackie. She was such a beautiful girl.” She glanced at Max. “Do you mind?”

Max shook his head, then reached out to slip a finger between two of the last pages. “Our wedding photo is somewhere around here.”

Vida found it immediately. It was in black-and-white, taken at First Lutheran in front of the altar. Max wore a beard even then. Of course it was the Seventies when so many men sported facial hair. He was thinner and looked very handsome—and happy—in his tuxedo.

“Jackie,” Vida interposed, “was Neeny Doukas’s niece. You remember him, of course.”

I did. Neeny had been involved in the very first homicide I’d encountered in Alpine. He’d been in the real estate business, and the firm he founded still bore his name.

If Neeny had been a homely old coot, Jackie was his polar opposite. She was a dark-haired beauty whose vibrancy showed through in the photograph. Indeed, she was movie-star gorgeous, and looked like someone I’d like to know— when I got over resenting her good looks.

Despite not having known her, Jackie’s image brought tears to my eyes. “Lovely,” I murmured, then steeled myself to look straight at Max. “I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing to say,” Max said with a shrug. His own lips trembled, but he held my gaze. “You’ve had your own terrible loss, I understand.”

“Yes.”

Vida closed the album. “Your sister, Lynn, was quite lovely, too,” she remarked, referring to Max’s sister. “Life is so hard.”

Max got to his feet. “I really should go. I don’t like leaving Ma for too long since I have to go back to Seattle Monday morning. I have a departmental meeting that I shouldn’t miss.”

Vida and I both stood up, too. “What do you teach?” I asked, again under control.

“American history,” Max replied. “My specialty is the era between the world wars.”

“Fascinating,” I said, probably sounding phony. But I meant it. “I’m kind of a history buff myself. I took three quarters of American history at the U before transferring to Oregon in my senior year. I had an absolutely wonderful professor for all three classes.”

Max grinned. “You must mean Tom Pressly. He’s still an inspiration for the rest of us.”

I nodded. “He certainly inspired me. I loved his description of ‘history sense’ being like ‘tennis sense.’ Some people have it, some don’t. He had both.”

“That’s the truth,” Max said. “Say, why don’t we have dinner tomorrow night and talk about Tom and history and whatever else you need to know for your article?”

All of a sudden I felt giddy. Two out of three nights having dinner with a man who wasn’t Milo? “I’d like that,” I said simply.

“I must confess,” Max said with a deferential air, “I have a motive. I’ve been working on a book for a couple of years. I’d like to pick your brain a bit. Not only are you a writer, but you seem to have an interest in history.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d been asked to help with a manuscript. My former ad manager, Ed Bronsky, had prevailed upon me to work with his autobiography. If I could endure hours with Ed and reams of bad writing, I could probably put up with Max’s historical treatise.

“I’m no expert,” I pointed out.

“But you’re a professional writer. I stand in awe of people who write for a living. Then it’s settled?” He waited for me to nod my agreement. “Wonderful. I’ll call you tomorrow,” Max said, then bade us farewell.

“My, my,” Vida murmured as Max closed the news room door behind him, “I believe you have a date.”

“Shut up, Vida,” I snapped, no longer giddy.

“I think it’s very nice,” she declared.

I didn’t respond. I was too embarrassed.

And guilty.

Vida went off to finish her errands, which included buying Roger some additions for his Nintendo Game Boy. She, too, may have been feeling some guilt in case she changed her mind about Buck moving in with her and displacing her precious grandson.

I remained in the newsroom, flipping through the albums. I noted that there were few pictures of Jonas Iversen, and none taken after 1917. It was almost as if he’d ceased to exist.

“Now what?” demanded Milo Dodge as he lumbered through the door. “Have you moved into your office?”

He’d startled me. “Gosh, Milo, are you stalking me?”

“Nope,” he replied, sitting down in the chair that Vida had vacated. “I saw your car. You don’t usually work weekends.”

“We have a special edition coming out Wednesday,” I said. “I’m doing some research.”

Milo paused to light a cigarette. “No kidding. How come?”

“We need the money,” I replied. “Give me one of those things.”

He flipped me a Marlboro Light, then offered a match. “As long as you’re researching, figure out why that stiff had batteries in his hand.”

I stared at Milo. “What stiff? The fire victim?”

The sheriff nodded. “Batteries often explode in a fire, but these didn’t. They leaked alkaline instead.”

“You didn’t mention anything about batteries before,” I said in mild rebuke.

“I didn’t know about them until we pried open one of the hands,” Milo responded, tapping his cigarette into Leo’s ashtray. “I’ve got an idea, though.”

“Really?” I tried not to sound sarcastic. “I mean, you don’t usually speculate.”

“I don’t.” Milo pushed the chair back and placed both long legs on the table, just missing one of the Frolands’ older albums. The sheriff, who was otherwise dressed in his usual civilian garb of flannel shirt and suntan pants, was wearing cowboy boots. He wore his off-duty gun, a Smith & Wesson Chief’s Special, tucked in the waistband of his pants.

“But this time,” he continued, “I had to wonder why. Who gets burned to death while hanging onto a couple of AA batteries? Why not let go? Wouldn’t you want both hands free if you were in the middle of a raging fire?”

I agreed. “So what’s your point?”

Milo looked a bit smug. “The victim may already have been dead before the fire started.”

“Ah.” It was so obvious that I felt stupid. Even then, it took a couple of seconds for the implication to sink in. “You mean this person may have been murdered?”

“Could be.” Milo leaned back in the chair and recrossed his legs on the table. It occurred to me that I was supposed to comment on his boots. They were definitely new; the soles were scarcely marred.

“Intriguing,” I said, then duly admired the new footgear. “I’ve never seen you wear cowboy boots before. Is this a fashion statement?”

“What?” Milo feigned surprise as he waggled his feet and gazed at the brown-tooled leather. “Oh, no. Barton’s Bootery had these in their window at the mall. I kind of took a liking to them. Clancy Barton talked me into buying a pair. What do you think?”

“I think they’re very handsome,” I said truthfully. “With those heels, you must stand about six-eight.”

“Close to it,” Milo replied. “That’s not a bad thing for a law enforcement officer.”

I’d done my duty. I wanted to get back to business. Rescuing the old album from Milo’s boots, I turned to the page that held the snapshot of the railroad trestle. “Look at this. Coincidence, or what?”

Milo looked closely at the photo. “You mean this isn’t the same picture you showed me the other day?”

I shook my head. “No. Let me show you the other one.” I got up and went into my office to get the snapshot Marsha Foster-Klein had received in the mail. “See? You said you knew the site where this was taken. I drove out there, I could see the rock that looked like somebody’s hind end. It’s in shadow in the album snapshot, but judging from the photo’s format, it looks as if it had been taken by the same camera.”

Milo studied both photos. “I wouldn’t jump to conclusions about the same camera taking these. Way back, most people only had the one kind of Kodak.”

“But it looks like almost exactly the same shot,” I countered. “How long would that rope have hung from the trestle?”

Milo shrugged. “How would I know? It would depend on why it was there in the first place. Hey, how come you’re so interested in these pictures anyway?”

“I told you,” I said, on the defensive, “I’m doing some historical research. We have a special edition coming out.”

Milo gave me a curious look. “You’re bullshitting me, Emma. You’re about the worst liar I ever met. If you ever commit a crime, confess right off the bat.”

I felt a faint flush cover my face. “I am doing research,” I said doggedly.

The sheriff shrugged again, then removed his legs from the table and stood up. He certainly was tall. His head almost hit the newsroom’s low ceiling.

“If you say so,” he remarked. “Now I’ve got to give the M.E. in Everett a big shove. I want to know if our burn victim was killed by something other than the fire.”

“I’d like to know that, too,” I said, following Milo to the door. “Still no missing persons report?”

“Nope.” Milo had to duck to get through the door. I figured he’d be about seven feet tall when he put on his Smoky the Bear hat.

“Let me know about Jack Froland, too,” I called after him.

Milo stopped with his hand on the knob of the outside door. “I’m betting there won’t be much to tell.”

I didn’t argue.

I was turning back toward the newsroom when I heard the door reopen. Milo, I thought, forgetting to tell me something. But it was Spencer Fleetwood who leaned in the doorway.

“Working overtime?” he inquired in his smooth, casual voice. “That’s very un-Alpinish, isn’t it?”

“I’m not a native,” I replied. “I don’t necessarily follow the local rule of thumb, ‘If you can’t make it in five, you’ll never make it in six,’ Anyway, I’m doing research for the special autumn edition.”

“Don’t forget,” Spence remarked, “when you start working on the Halloween edition ads, we’re in it together.”

“I won’t.” I waited for Spence to continue on his way, but he lingered.

“I saw Milo Dodge go off in the other direction,” Spence said. “Did he bring you a hot news tip?”

I tensed a bit. “We didn’t agree to share news. Just ad revenue. But no, Milo stopped in to show off his new cowboy boots.”

Spence chuckled. “Which will appear in Vida’s ‘Scene Around Town’ column, right?”

“Right.” I told myself to make a note for Vida. Her weekly snippets of gossip were the best-read part of the newspaper.

“I’ve thought of doing something along those lines,” Spence said, now edging into the front office. “In fact, I’m already putting together a kind of ‘This Day in Alpine History’ thing. Not just Alpine, or we wouldn’t have much to say, but what went on everywhere. I may have to bother you for your morgue. Would you mind?”

“No,” I replied, wondering why I’d never come up with the idea myself. “Everything’s in bound volumes. Kip MacDuff is planning to put at least some of the back issues on disk.”

Spence was now all the way past the front desk. “That’s a big job. Any chance I could take a peek at those bound volumes now?”

The request was a bit surprising. “Why, no, go ahead. You can work off the table in the newsroom. I’ll be in my office.”

Gathering up the Froland family albums, I headed for my cubbyhole. Maybe I’d been too abrupt. As a courtesy, I left the door open.

Going through a virtual stranger’s pictorial memories is always a bittersweet experience. Usually, family photographs record only happy moments, but a sense of sadness permeates the pages of someone who has died. Except for the rabid genealogist, fifty years from now anyone who looks at the Froland collection won’t have known the people in the pictures. The names in the captions may identify them, but they will be little more than that, except for the rare anecdote passed down the years. I’ve always thought that was an unfortunate commentary on Americans, whose history is so short, and whose memories are often even shorter.

I never found a smiling likeness of Olga Iverson. Maybe she was a melancholy personality; maybe she had bad teeth.

At the beginning of the most recent album, I found photos of Lynn Froland. She had been a pretty blonde girl, tall and athletic-looking. Indeed, one color picture showed her with skis, perhaps at the Stevens Pass summit where she had died in that tragic car accident. Another shot showed her without skis, but in winter togs, sitting with a group of young people outside of what might have the lodge at the summit. I looked closely to see if Max was one of the three young men with his sister and two other girls, but I didn’t recognize him. The date was January 1967, the year that Lynn had died.