The Alpine Obituary (16 page)

Chapter Nine

“Now what do we do?” I asked Vida after she had parked the Buick and walked out of the underground garage to join me in the driveway. “What’s Spencer Fleetwood doing at Judge Marsha’s?”

Vida looked puzzled. “Maybe he’s not at her apartment. He has such cheek, he may be visiting someone else and simply barged into her guest space.”

It was possible, but I had my doubts. “Let’s wait,” I suggested, having pulled the Lexus onto the verge of Maple Lane. “We’ll give Spence ten minutes.”

“Five,” Vida said, holding up the fingers on one hand. “Marsha’s expecting us. If Mr. Fleetwood called on her without warning, she can get rid of him.”

I agreed. Vida began to prowl the landscaped area between The Pines Village and the condos, curiously named The Baldy Arms. She was thwarted from peeking into the ground level windows, however. The laurel hedges that had been planted along the sides of both buildings were as tall as she was.

“Ridiculous,” Vida muttered. “Why don’t they clip these branches? They’re up over the windowsills in the condos. Surely the residents want to see out.”

“There’s not much to see,” I remarked, waving a hand at the fifteen-foot patch of grass. “Besides, the tenants on both sides may enjoy their privacy.”

“Ridiculous,” Vida repeated. “What’s wrong with people?”

I didn’t reply. Vida looked at her watch. “One minute to go.”

“You know,” I said in a reasonable voice, “I think Marsha would have told us if she had company. If Spence dropped in after I called, then he hasn’t been there for more than fifteen minutes.”

“Time enough,” Vida retorted, though she didn’t add for what. Instead, she started counting down the seconds. “Fifty-one, fifty, forty-nine . . .”

She was down to ten when I heard a car start up somewhere in the garage. As we ducked out of sight, Vida stopped counting.

“Aha!” she exclaimed under her breath. “It’s Himself.”

The black Beamer glided up the driveway, then turned toward Alpine Way. We went into the garage and buzzed Marsha’s apartment. At least a half-minute passed before she told us to come up.

“Destroying the evidence?” Vida remarked as we waited for the elevator.

“Of what?” I asked, stepping into the small car. “Rumpled sheets?”

“Don’t be coarse,” Vida chided. “Cigarette ash, the extra glass or coffee cup, the jacket Spencer Fleetwood might have left behind in his haste to leave.”

“He hardly had time to take off his jacket,” I said. “Besides, he wasn’t wearing one when he stopped by the office.”

Marsha didn’t appear to be suffering from anxiety when she met us at the door. She was dressed in dark slacks and a baby blue cotton sweater, and looked much improved in health since I’d seen her last.

As soon as we were sitting down, Marsha asked if we’d like coffee. Vida declined, so I did, too. To my surprise, Marsha inquired if we’d prefer sandwiches. It was, she pointed out, lunchtime.

“Why, yes,” Vida enthused. “How kind!”

Marsha looked as if she hadn’t expected to be taken up on her offer. “Is tuna fish okay?”

“Lovely,” Vida said.

I agreed. Marsha disappeared into the kitchen. Vida sprung up from the sofa and began snooping around the living room. She seemed particularly interested in some items on a round mahogany table that held a large bouquet of yellow spider chrysanthemum, bells of Ireland, purple statis, and baby’s breath. All the while, she rattled on about the wonderful view of Mount Baldy through the living room’s big picture window—except for the charred tree trunks resulting from the fire, which was such a shame, and no doubt so careless of someone.

“You also have an excellent view of Alpine,” Vida went on, speaking loudly so that Marsha could hear. “I can see very little from my house. I’m up high enough on the hill, but the neighbors in back of me have some very tall ornamentals. Oh—I’ll have a glass of water with the sandwich, please.”

“Emma?” called Marsha. “What about you?”

“Water’s fine, thanks.”

Vida had moved on from the mahogany table to a magazine rack to a stack of books and finally to the cartons that Marsha hadn’t bothered to unpack. The judge reappeared with a tray containing our sandwiches and water. If Marsha had a cupboard stocked with condiments, she didn’t offer them.

Vida was unruffled. “So difficult to not be certain of your permanent address,” she commented, making her way back to the sofa. Marsha, who had made herself a sandwich, sat down in the armchair.

“Okay,” Marsha asked, “what’s the new lead?”

Vida had already taken a big chunk out of her tuna fish, so I was forced to answer. “By chance, we found an almost identical snapshot of the railroad trestle in Jack and June Froland’s family album.”

Marsha’s jaw dropped. “What?”

I repeated the statement.

Not to be outdone, Vida swallowed and offered her own information. “This morning, I received a thank-you note from June Froland, written on the same kind of stationery as the letter that was sent to you. Not the same handwriting, I might add.”

The judge was clearly taken aback. “Good Lord,” she murmured. “That’s not what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?” I asked.

Marsha looked startled. “Nothing—I mean, nothing specific. I’m surprised about the Frolands. Are you saying one of them sent the letter and the picture to me?”

“No,” I replied. “Anyone could have that brand of stationery. It’s the coincidence between that and finding a similar photo in their album.” To clarify, I explained how we planned to do an article on the Froland family in the upcoming special edition.

“I don’t even know the Frolands,” Marsha said, rubbing at her forehead.

“But,” Vida put in, “you knew there was a family connection going back to the Iversons.”

“A tenuous connection,” Marsha pointed out.

“True,” Vida allowed, then leaned forward on the sofa. “Marsha, do you have your Aunt Jo’s current address or phone number?”

“No,” Marsha replied. “Really, I’ve lost track of her.”

“Never mind,” Vida said. “I may be able to reach her in Port Angeles. Would you know if she still has her wits about her?”

Marsha shook her head. “I haven’t seen her in years, not since my brother’s wedding twenty-five years ago.” She paused to take a sip of water. “If there is a connection to the Frolands, why would one of them send me a threatening letter? What are they talking about? And what the hell has that railroad trestle got to do with it?”

Vida had winced at the mild profanity but didn’t reprimand the judge. “That’s what we’ll have to find out next,” said Vida.

I thought she was whistling in the dark.

“Well?” I asked after we were in the apartment house’s elevator. “What did you see of interest among Marsha’s possessions?”

“You could see for yourself,” she replied, then waited for my enlightenment.

I admitted I didn’t know.

“The flowers,” Vida said as we exited the elevator on the garage level. “They were fresh as could be, and from Delphine’s shop. It’s the same arrangement I sent to June Froland. But there was no plastic cardholder, which means they were hand carried to Judge Marsha. There were a few drops of water on the table. I’m not a betting woman, but if I were, I’d say that Spencer Fleetwood brought Marsha those flowers, and she watered them just before we arrived. Hence, the delay in answering the buzzer.”

We had reached Vida’s Buick in Ella Hinshaw’s guest parking slot. “Are you hinting at a romance?”

“Perhaps.” Vida’s gaze traveled around the bleak concrete walls and ceiling. “You don’t bribe a judge with a bouquet.”

Before I could head for my car, Vida insisted we return to the office where she intended to telephone Marsha’s aunt, Josephine Foster Iverson Bergstrom. Since I didn’t have any better ideas, I agreed to go along so that I could listen in on an extension.

Vida sat at her own desk while I used Leo’s phone. It took almost half an hour to track down Aunt Jo. There were several retirement and nursing homes in Port Angeles, not to mention another half-dozen in nearby Sequim.

At last, Vida got hold of the old girl who answered in a surprisingly strong voice. I was put off, however, by the fact that Aunt Jo didn’t seem to recognize Vida’s maiden or married names.

“I’m not from Alpine,” Aunt Jo said in an impatient voice. “Now what’s this about a newspaper piece? I don’t read any more, I’ve got that macular condition. My eyesight’s degenerating. It happens when you get to be eighty-one like I am. How old are you? You don’t sound like any spring chicken to me, Mrs. Bunkel.”

Maybe Aunt Jo’s hearing was degenerating, too. Not to mention her memory, if she didn’t know Vida.

Vida ignored the mistake. “Have you heard about Jack Froland’s death?”

“Jack Froland?” There was a lengthy silence. “Isn’t he a cousin or some such of Burt’s?”

“Yes,” Vida replied, looking at me and shaking her head. “Burt’s father, Per Iverson, and Jack’s mother, Karen Iverson, were brother and sister.”

“Per,” Aunt Jo repeated. “He was my father-in-law. He never got over Burt’s getting killed in North Africa. Grandpa Per died about the time the war ended. Poor old coot. Did you know Burt?”

“Slightly,” Vida said. “I was very young in those days, though I do recall how everyone praised his heroism.”

“You do?” Aunt Jo sounded surprised. “Funny, I don’t. Burt was kind of a scaredy-cat. I could never get him to take out the garbage after dark.”

Vida rolled her eyes before asking the next question. “Where were you living at the time Burt went into the service?”

“Everett,” Aunt Jo replied promptly. “Or was it Marysville? Maybe Mukilteo. What difference does it make? That was way back. I can hardly remember Burt.”

“What about your brother, George Foster?” Vida inquired, maintaining her patience. “Do you remember him?”

“ ’Course I remember George,” Aunt Jo snapped. “You think I’m senile?” Before Vida could respond, the old woman continued: “George was a year younger than me, and ten times dumber. He married a terrible woman. Never could stand her. Neither could Cap.”

Briefly, Vida looked puzzled. “Cap? Oh—your second husband, Cap Bergstrom.”

“You knew him?”

“Slightly.” Vida tapped a pencil on the edge of her desk. “Why couldn’t you stand your sister-in-law?”

“Mouthy,” Aunt Jo retorted. “Always on her high horse about something or other. She was one of those . . . what do call them? Radicals, I think. Plus,” the old lady went on, “she was a Jew.”

“Did her religion cause a problem?” Vida asked somewhat stiffly.

“Not for me,” Aunt Jo retorted. “I didn’t have much to do with her. Neither did Cap. I think she’s dead. So’s George. Now what was her name? Cap and I called her The Jew.”

I had to cough. I put my hand over the mouthpiece of Leo’s phone and turned away.

Vida had winced at Jo’s crudity. “I believe her name was Anna Klein.”

“Could be. Homely woman. Always going on about the working class. Like we didn’t know all about the working class? We
were
the working class.”

Vida had taken off her glasses and was rubbing at her eyes. For once, she didn’t make her accompanying moaning noise, though I could have sworn I heard her eyeballs squeak.

Apparently, the lull in the conversation confused Aunt Jo. “Hullo? Hullo?” she shouted into the phone. “You still there? Hullo?”

“Of course I’m still here,” Vida retorted. “Were Anna and George happy together?”

“How would I know?” Aunt Jo shot back. “I used to tell Cap, ‘How can my brother be happy married to a Jew?’ Cap would just shake his head.”

Vida cradled the receiver under her chin and held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Iver . . . I mean, Mrs. Bergstrom. You wouldn’t have your daughter’s phone number handy, would you?”

“Marjorie? ’Course I would. Just a minute . . . I should know it by heart, but I got one of them speedy dial things on this phone, and . . . Here it is. Her married name is Lathrop. They live close, over on Chambers Street.”

“How nice for you,” Vida said before politely ringing off. “Imbecile,” she muttered, already dialing what was presumably Marjorie Iverson Lathrop’s number. “Such a bigot. And absolutely dumb as a cedar stump.”

I clicked Leo’s phone back on as the call rang through to Port Angeles. On the fifth ring, a breathless voice answered.

“Marjorie?” Vida said at her most pleasant, then recited the same tale she’d told to Marjorie’s mother. “Dear Jo,” Vida went on, suggesting an intimacy that didn’t exist and never had, “is getting a bit forgetful. But aren’t we all?” Vida uttered the braying cackle that those of us who knew her recognized as both forced and false. I couldn’t help but wonder how gullible Marjorie Iverson Lathrop really was.

“Hold it,” Marjorie said. “Let me catch my breath. I was outside, picking plums. Why on earth would you be calling my mother about the Froland family? Who did you say had died?”

Vida scowled into the phone. “Your Uncle Jack. He passed on early this past week.”

“Uncle Jack?” Marjorie sounded puzzled. “Do you mean the guy who owns a restaurant in Alpine?”

“No,” Vida replied, “I do not. Jack Iverson is alive and well. I’m referring to Jack Froland. Didn’t you live in Alpine for a time, Marjorie?”

“Not as a kid,” Marjorie replied. “Mama and Papa moved to Marysville after they were married. I don’t really remember Papa. He was killed when I was still a baby. I’ve always thought of my stepdad as my real father.” She paused, perhaps mourning both men. “Then about twelve years ago, Bart—my husband—got transferred to Alpine to work in the Snoqualmie National Forest. My stepdad died a year later, and after awhile, we had to put Mama in a nursing home. Bad timing. Wouldn’t you know it, Bart got moved a year later to the Olympic National Forest in Port Angeles. He’s a Forest Service biologist. But Bart’s retiring the first of the year. Mama’s going to outlive us yet.”

Vida made a face at me. “She sounds very hearty, Marjorie. You should be grateful. But she certainly gives a poor impression of your family.”