The Alpine Obituary (21 page)

“No, I was taking classes at Everett Junior College and living off campus. I didn’t want to commute from here during the winter. . . .” Milo’s head swiveled around. “Goddammit, that guy in the red Mazda just ran the arterial at Fourth. He damned near clipped the O’Tooles in their new Chrysler. Nice car, that.” He waved to Jake and Betsy as they drove by, shaking their heads but waving back.

“I didn’t recognize the Mazda,” I said. “I think they’re cute. Sporty, too.”

“That’s why jerks like him think they can do the Indy 400 in the middle of town,” Milo grumbled. “I should have gone after him, but he had too much of a head start. If he’s local, I’ll nail him next time.” The sheriff paused, removing his baseball cap, running his hand through his graying sandy hair and replacing the cap. “That’s funny—talking about Lynn, the O’Tooles driving by after seeing that red Mazda. It reminded me of her car, the one she got killed in. She’d just bought it with money she’d saved working at the Grocery Basket. Of course Jake and Betsy didn’t own the store then, but I can still see Lynn behind the checkout counter wearing her hair in a ponytail. Anyway, it was a secondhand red Valiant, one of the original 1960 models. Grace Grundle bought that car new, but she didn’t like the color. She thought it was too flashy for a schoolteacher, so after awhile, she traded it in on a black Chevy Nova. God, it’s weird how certain things trigger your memory, stuff you haven’t thought of in over thirty years.”

“Like what else?”

“Oh—like seeing Lynn whipping around town with her boyfriend.” Milo smiled at the memory. “He was a good-looking guy, tall, blonde, athletic—sort of a mirror image of Lynn. They could have been brother and sister.” He stopped and frowned. “Wait a minute—I’m getting mixed up. There was another guy, tall, but dark, good-looking, too, but in a different way. She always let him drive the car. Hunh. She must have had two steadies. At different times, I mean.”

“That sounds right for a girl like Lynn at that age,” I remarked, starting to take a few steps in the direction of the sheriff’s office. “How about giving me a ride home so I can bring my car back down here and get a jump on the special edition?”

“What?” Milo still seemed lost in reverie. “Your car? Oh, sure, let’s go. I’ll grab lunch at the Burger Barn. I need to do some work.”

Twenty minutes later, I was in the newsroom, feeling stupid. I knew I had to do something for Marsha Foster-Klein, but I felt like I’d exhausted all possibilities. Maybe Vida would have some ideas, especially after she had her visit— and scouting expedition—at June Froland’s home that evening. On the off chance that Vida might be able to inspire me, I dialed her number. She didn’t pick up the phone, which meant she wasn’t there. It had taken a long time for her to get an answering machine, and when she did, the message on it was typically Vida: “So pleased you called me. Don’t leave your news as a message. I’ll need all the details.”

Still at a loss, I decided to give in to Milo’s case of nostalgia and read more about Lynn Froland’s fatal accident. If nothing else, it would prep me for dinner conversation with Max, should the sorry subject come up.

Earlier, I’d only skimmed the article that Marius Vandeventer had written over thirty years ago. Now I read the whole thing, along with a couple of sidebar stories on the front page, including a warning from the state patrol about highway driving in the mountain passes.

It wasn’t until I got to the jump of the lead story on page three that I felt I might have struck gold. It was there that Marius took up the account of the accident:

“The driver of the car owned by Lynn,” Marius wrote, “was eighteen-year-old Gabe Foster of Everett. He was taken to Alpine Community Hospital where he is being treated for a broken leg, facial lacerations, and multiple bruises.”

Could Gabe Foster be Gabe Foster-Klein, Marsha’s brother? I finished the rest of the piece in a rush:

“The other two passengers in the car, Clare Thorstensen, 18, of Alpine, and Terrence Woodson, 19, of Monroe, were treated for multiple cuts and bruises but released from the hospital Monday. Clare, like Lynn, is a 1966 graduate of Alpine High School, and the daughter of Don and Marcella Thorstensen who live on First Hill.”

I was finishing the last sentence even as I dialed Judge Marsha’s number. She answered on the third ring.

“Any chance you can drop by the
Advocate
office?” I inquired. “I want to show you something.”

“Is it important?” she asked in vexed voice. “I’m busy right now.”

“Yes, I think it is.”

Marsha didn’t respond for a few moments. I thought I could hear a muffled voice in the background. A man. What could be more important than Marsha’s reputation? Sex? Dubious.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” she said, and hung up.

Chapter Twelve

MARSHA FOSTER-KLEIN LOOKED as if she’d thrown her clothes on in great haste. Which, I figured, was exactly what she’d done. The seams in her navy slacks were crooked and the sweatshirt with Mount McKinley on the front was bunched up in the back. Her hair was disheveled and she wore no makeup.

“Well?” she demanded, without so much as a howdy do, “what have you got? It better be good.”

“That depends,” I replied, determined not to let her rattle me. “Have a seat.”

Marsha sat. “What’s all this stuff?” she asked, waving a hand at the photo albums piled on the table.

“Never mind those for now,” I said. “It’s this issue of the
Advocate
I want to show you. The year is 1967.” I turned the bound volume around so it faced her. “Read the lead article about Lynn Froland. Skip the sidebars, and go to page three.”

Marsha was a quick reader. When she got to the jump, her head jerked up. “Gabe Foster? Jesus.”

“Is that your brother?” I asked.

Marsha’s face lost some of its usual color. “It could be.” She touched her fingers to her lips, as if to keep from blurting out. “Let me think—1967. I was eight, nine years old. Gabe would have been . . . Yes, he would’ve been the right age.” She paused again, apparently still assembling her thoughts in an orderly fashion.

“Did he drop the hyphenate?” I asked after a suitable pause.

“That’s what I’m trying to remember.” Marsha no longer looked hostile or upset. “Gabe played basketball in high school. The coach thought hyphenated names were pretentious. Gabe had to drop the Klein part, which made my mother so mad she threatened to sue the school system. But Gabe got an athletic scholarship offer from Washington State, and he decided to stick with just the Foster half of his name because he didn’t want to cause problems over in the Palouse. They’ve always been more conservative, as you know. Besides,” she added with a faint smile, “he thought a shorter name would help the announcers when they broadcast the games. Basketball’s so fast.”

I held up a hand, needing a moment to collect my own thoughts. “So you’re saying that the Gabe Foster driving Lynn Froland’s car could be your brother?” I was incredulous. “When I asked you about the Frolands, you didn’t think of this connection?”

Marsha gazed at me with a blank expression. “No. Good God, Emma, that was when? Over thirty years ago? I was nine. My brothers considered me a nuisance; they’d always shoo me away when I tried to tag along. I learned to keep in my place. Do you think I had much interest in what they were up to?”

“You’d know if one of them got into a wreck and landed in the hospital,” I noted.

Marsha waved a dismissive hand. “They were always getting into wrecks and banging themselves up. Especially Zeke. He had his license suspended for a year. Besides, Gabe would’ve been in college in 1967, up at Western Washington in Bellingham. He tore his Achilles tendon when he was a high school senior. He never made it to WSU. The only thing I remember clearly was my parents, shrieking about their car insurance rates.”

I thought back to my own youth. I vividly recalled Ben’s first three accidents, all of which occurred within a month after he got his license on his sixteenth birthday. Ben wasn’t allowed to drive for six months. In retrospect, I wondered if that wasn’t what had driven him—metaphorically, of course—into the seminary. But I’d only been two years younger at the time. That would make a big difference. I was already anticipating my own driver’s license. Marsha would still have been playing Barbies—maybe her own version— Judge Barbie, Prosecutor Ken, Bailiff Skipper.

“So you never heard of Lynn or these other two who were in the car?” I asked.

Marsha glanced back at the article. “Clare Thorstensen and Terrence Woodson?” She shook her head. “There’s some Thorstensens in town, though. I suppose they’re related.”

“Probably. Look, Marsha,” I said turning the bound volume back around to face me, “even if you don’t recall the accident or Lynn Froland, isn’t it possible that somebody else does and is threatening you with the fact that your brother drove the car in which Lynn was killed?”

“It’s irrelevant,” Marsha said in her most judicial tone.

“To you,” I said. “Not to the letter writer.”

“Then it’s also stupid.”

“Where’s Gabe now?” I asked.

Marsha waved a dismissive hand. “California—Santa Barbara, raising two kids and working for some air-conditioning company.”

“And Zeke?”

Marsha scowled at me. “What’s Zeke got to do with it?” “I’m curious, that’s all. Isn’t that what you want me to be on your behalf?”

Marsha affected indifference. “I suppose.”

Her attitude forced me to pry further. “So where’s Zeke now?”

She gazed off in the direction of Leo’s desk. “I’m not sure. Zeke’s always been the family free spirit. The last I heard of him, he was involved in some environmental protest in Texas. My mother would be damned proud of him.”

“Has he been arrested?”

“You mean for protesting?” Marsha shrugged again. “Occasionally. He got busted for the first time over at Bangor during an antinuclear submarine protest. I defended him.”

I wasn’t giving up easily on the Lynn Froland–Gabe Foster–Judge Marsha connection. “I’m sorry, I find it hard to believe that there weren’t more problems stemming from the accident at the summit. Are you sure no criminal charges were filed against Gabe?”

“If there were, I never heard about them,” Marsha declared.

I felt frustrated, but thought I understood. “If there had been, your parents probably wouldn’t have discussed them in front of a nine-year-old.”

“Ha!” Marsha looked at me as if I were very dim. “Not in our house. Both my parents, especially my mother, didn’t hide anything from the children. In fact, my mother was very vocal about everything, from the mail arriving late to equal pay for women.”

I drummed my nails on the tabletop. “I guess I disturbed you for nothing.”

Marsha stood up. “I’m afraid you did. Does this mean you’ve run out of ideas?”

Not wanting to feel like a witness on the stand, I got to my feet, too. “No. There are still some avenues to explore. But I must caution you,” I went on, hoping to sound at least semi-legal, “that after today, I won’t be able to devote much time to your . . . project until after the Wednesday edition is put to bed Tuesday afternoon.”

“Great,” Marsha said sarcastically. “Then again, I don’t see that you’ve made much progress with time to spare.”

“I seldom have time to spare,” I snapped. “You might remember that I’m doing this as a favor.”

Marsha uttered a laugh that was more of a bark. “And I thought journalists were guardians of truth.”

“And I thought judges didn’t rush to judgment.” Marsha glared at me, then banged the door as she exited the office.

We had not parted on cordial terms. If we’d been the leaders of two foreign nations, political analysts might have described the meeting as “productive.” Which, I had long ago learned to interpret, meant the two parties hadn’t killed each other.

I bailed out of the office at precisely four o’clock. When I got home, there were two messages awaiting me. The first was from Ben.

“Out cavorting on the Sabbath,” he said, adding a “tsk, tsk.” “Call me if you get back by four your time. Which, come to think of it, is ours, too, since we don’t go on Daylight Saving Time in Arizona. The sun is always shining here. Dammit.”

I took a chance that Ben might not have left right on the hour. To my pleasure, he answered on the fourth ring.

“Going out the door,” he said, slightly out of breath. “There’s a big barbecue tonight in Tuba City. I’m in charge of the white chilis. Have you made up your mind about Italy?”

I’d forgotten all about Ben’s offer. “No,” I confessed. “Gosh, that’s just a month from now, right? I don’t have a passport or anything else I might need to go abroad.”

“You’ve got time,” Ben said, then added, “though I suspect you won’t go and that you’ve never intended to.”

Despite the lightness of his tone, I caught the reprimand. “Let’s face it, I’m not ready to make big decisions, Ben. Are you really going?”

“Yes. The conference sounds worthwhile.” He paused. “What if I told you that you had to come under pain of mortal sin?”

“That’s coercion. And it’s a lie.”

“Good God,” Ben exclaimed, “since when does a woman have to be coerced into joining her only brother on a wonderful trip? Emma, are you sure you’re okay?”

I let out a big sigh. “No, I’m not. Doc Dewey ordered a Paxil prescription for me.”

Ben didn’t sound surprised. “How’s it working?”

“I haven’t started taking it yet,” I retorted, and knew that I sounded defensive.

“In other words, it’s still sitting at the local drugstore. Poor little Paxil.”

“It was only Friday that Doc . . .”

“You know, I’m not a medical expert, but if you don’t take your medication, it usually doesn’t do much good.
You
moron
.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll pick it up tomorrow.” There. I’d promised Ben. I’d have to do it.

“While you’re at it, go to the courthouse and apply for a hurry-up passport. Call me tomorrow night after six. Got to run, my chilis await me.” Ben hung up.

I’d deal with tomorrow when it came. For now, I had to answer my other message. It was from Max Froland, and it was brief, asking me to call him as soon as I could.

My initial reaction was that he was canceling dinner. As I dialed the Froland number, I felt a surprising sense of disappointment. Was I eager to see Max or did I just want to get out of the house and forget about my own problems?

Max, however, wasn’t going to call off dinner. “I couldn’t remember what time we’d agreed on,” he said. “Or if we’d set a time. It’s up to you. Vida has very kindly volunteered to spend the evening with Ma. I guess I’d forgotten what a selfless person she is, especially with Ma nodding off now and then. I hope Vida doesn’t get bored to death.”

“Oh,” I said, “Vida’s very resourceful. She’ll be just fine. Shall we say six?”

“I’ll pick you up then,” Max replied. “Meanwhile, I’ll make six-thirty reservations at Le Gourmand.”

“Oh!” I was surprised. Le Gourmand is pricey, but worth it. I assumed we’d go Dutch. “That’s sounds wonderful.”

“Good. See you in about ninety minutes.”

I hadn’t dressed up in months. In fact, not since Tom was alive and we had gone to Le Gourmand. I paused at the sliding door to my closet. Maybe I should have suggested another restaurant. But if Max Froland was in the mood for a real meal, the only other choice was the ski lodge. But Max had made the call. It was stupid to disdain a fine restaurant just because Tom and I had often dined at Le Gourmand. That was then, and this was now. I had to stop moping. I had to.

I’d never worn the moss green pants suit and the butter yellow satin blouse when I was with Tom. Standing in front of the mirror at five to six, I surveyed my image.

The yellow-green combination made my skin look sallow. My brown eyes seemed to have lost their luster—assuming they ever had any. I’d let my brown hair grow out since Tom died, and it was way overdue for a cut or maybe a perm. Admittedly, I looked too thin. At five-foot-four, I needed more weight than my current one hundred and sixteen pounds. Frankly, I looked like a mess.

But I couldn’t improve myself in ten minutes, so I left the bedroom and moved out into the living room to wait for Max.

He arrived precisely at six. I wondered if he was that eager to see me or—more likely—that anxious to leave his mother. After I got into his Ford Taurus, I demonstrated my concern by asking after June.

“She’s better, I think,” Max said. “I’m getting a college student to stay with her for the next couple of weeks. Classes here don’t start until the end of the month.”

“So you’re going back to Seattle tomorrow morning?”

“Yes. All those infernal meetings before fall quarter starts at the U.” Max negotiated the turn onto the main highway and headed west. He was wearing the same suit he’d worn for his father’s funeral.

We exchanged chitchat about the futility of meetings until we arrived at the restaurant ten minutes later. It had stopped raining, and the clouds seemed to be lifting.

Le Gourmand, which is owned by an expatriate couple from California, is a popular place for diners who come from as far away as Seattle. As usual, the tables were beginning to fill up on a weekend. Max and I were seated under a clutch of gourds, which were suspended from the ceiling to add to the French country atmosphere. Tom had always insisted on a corner table, where there was no danger of falling decor should we have an earthquake during dinner. He was kidding, of course. Or maybe half-kidding. West coast dwellers are accustomed to earthquakes, especially those who’ve lived in the bay area. Like Tom.

“The last time I was here,” Max said as he studied the wine list, “was with my parents for their fiftieth wedding anniversary a couple of years ago.” He laughed before continuing. “They couldn’t figure out the French words in the menu, thought the prices were outrageous, and both swore they were sick all night.”

I had my opening. “What do you think about the medical examiner’s opinion as to the cause of your father’s death?” I sounded overly formal, but at least the question was phrased more tactfully than asking, “Who popped Pop a poisonous mushroom?”

Max stared up at the gourds. “What can I say? Ma and Pa must have gathered them in the woods. Frankly, I haven’t had the heart to pass the news on to Ma. What good would it do? She’d only blame herself—or Pa.”

“Gosh,” I said, doing my best to sound baffled, “wouldn’t you think that after all these years they’d know which mushrooms were edible and which weren’t?”

Max looked faintly offended, but his response was polite. “They probably did, but neither of them could see as well as they used to. It must have been one of those horrible mistakes.”

“Then it’s probably best not to upset your mother,” I remarked. “She did the cooking, I suppose.”