The Alpine Obituary (25 page)

I felt like saying that I could have bought at least a hoof or two for what
I’d
paid for dinner. But I kept my mouth shut.

“Where is she?” June leaned forward in the bed. “What’s she doing now in my house now? Who called?”

Vida reappeared like a genie let out of a bottle. “Max will be home shortly. He . . .”

“How’s his stomach?” I interrupted.

“His . . . ? Well,” Vida said, catching on, “Dr. Sung told him he should probably eat bland foods for a day or two.”

“Dr. Sung?” echoed June. “That Chinaman? What does he know!”

“He knows,” Vida said clearly, “that he’s not a Chinaman. He’s from Hawaii. I believe he’s mainly Korean.”

June threw up her hands. “Korean! What difference does it make?”

I heard the knock on the door first and beat Vida to see who was outside. It was Sam Heppner, who’d returned the Taurus and was holding Max’s car keys.

“He needs an oil change,” Sam said, dropping the keys in my hand. The deputy, in typical taciturn fashion, tipped his regulation hat and left.

When I returned to the bedroom, Vida and June were arguing about what constituted a bland diet.

“Jell-o!” June exclaimed. “Max wouldn’t eat Jell-o when he was a kid. Why would he eat it now? Jack was supposed to be on a bland diet for a while a couple of months ago. I gave him chicken noodle soup one night and he poured it down the sink. Stopped up the drain, and we had to call the plumber.”

“You certainly don’t have much in your refrigerator,” Vida shot back. “It’s empty. I hope you have cans of soup for Max.”

“What do you mean, the fridge’s empty?” June demanded. “That’s crazy. It wasn’t the last time I looked.”

Vida gave June her gimlet eye. “Which was when?”

June seemed taken aback. “Well. Let me think. I’ve been off my feet the last few days. A week ago, maybe? The night Jack died?”

“That’s over a week,” Vida noted with an expression of disapproval. “Isn’t it time you were up and doing?”

“I’m not well,” June asserted with a pout. “It’s my nerves. They’re shot. I don’t see how Max can leave me so soon.”

“He may not,” Vida responded. “But if he’s unwell, you may have to take care of him instead of the other way ’round.”

June looked alarmed. “I can’t do that. I’m too weak. All those months I had to take care of Jack . . .” She stopped and perked up a bit. “Max has a girl coming in to do for us. She can take over. I hope she’s not some flibbertigibbet. You know what young people are like these days. Lazy, with no sense of responsibility.”

While Vida might agree, she didn’t give June the satisfaction. “Emma and I must go. Max should be back very soon.”

“He’d better be,” June grumbled. “I’m hungry now.” Vida looked exasperated. “You weren’t hungry two hours ago when I offered to fix you a meal.”

“That’s right,” June said. “I wasn’t. Anyways, everybody knows you can’t cook. You don’t fool me with all those fancy recipes you run in the newspaper, Vida Runkel.”

“
I beg your pardon!
” As Vida took umbrage, her bust puffed up like a grouse’s breast.

“You’re right, Vida,” I said, making agitated gestures with my hands and feet. “We really must go.”

“What?” Vida stared at me, then recognized the ruse. “Oh. Yes, you’re right. We really must.”

June didn’t protest, so we left with only the briefest of farewells. After we got into the Buick, Vida let out an enormous sigh. “That woman’s a trial. I marvel that Jack didn’t poison her years ago. Of course, he was such a windbag. And no brains between them. However did those two have a son like Max? Or do they allow nitwits to teach at the university these days?”

“I believe they do,” I replied. “That is, if Max can qualify as a nitwit for passing out in his green beans.”

Vida was looking in the rearview mirror. “Here comes a car. Maybe it’s Max. Someone must be dropping him off. Let’s get out of here. I can’t stand another minute inside the Froland house. Besides, it’d be embarrassing for you.”

“I’m not the one who made a fool of myself,” I remarked as Vida pulled out from the curb. “But you’re right, I don’t need any more Frolands tonight.” I was silent as Vida headed down Spruce Street. The Froland house was only a few blocks from my little log home. We turned on Fifth, which dead-ends in the forest. But when we reached Fir, instead of slowing down for my place, Vida picked up speed.

“Hey, where are we going?” I asked as we went right past my house.

“To call on Judge Marsha, of course,” Vida replied. “Aren’t you anxious to relieve yourself of responsibility for her letter?”

“Yes,” I said, sounding uncertain. “I suppose I am. You’re absolutely positive it was written by Jack Froland?”

“Of course.” Vida turned on Alpine Way, heading straight for the parking garage under Marsha’s building. “There were samples all over the house. Someone—probably Max—had put Jack’s personal effects into one of the bedroom drawers. Driver’s license, AARP card, Medicare, Medicaid, credit cards. His signature was everywhere. Not to mention little notes he’d written to himself. Jack wasn’t a very tidy person.”

“But why?” I asked in my most earnest voice.

“Why write the letter to Marsha? We may never know,” Vida replied, pulling into Ella Hinshaw’s guest parking space. “Not that I don’t want to. But as far as Marsha is concerned, she wanted to learn the letter writer’s identity. Period.”

Vida was right. Furthermore, I should have been relieved.

Marsha sounded truculent when Vida announced our arrival over the intercom. But she buzzed us in and was waiting at the door when we reached the so-called penthouse.

“We have news,” Vida declared, bustling past Marsha and going straight to the sofa. “Jack Froland wrote that letter.”

“What?” Marsha stared at Vida. “Jack Froland? Are you kidding? I want proof.”

Vida rummaged in her purse. I remained standing. I hoped we weren’t in for a lengthy visit.

“Here,” Vida said, handing a worn slip of paper to the judge. “This is a note Jack wrote to himself. It’s some sort of reminder about taking his medication.”

Marsha switched her gaze to me. “Where’s the letter?”

“At the office,” I replied. “We came directly from the Frolands’.”

“I’ll have to compare the handwriting myself,” Marsha said with a scowl. “Can you get it now?”

I should have thought to pick up the damned letter before we called on Marsha. “I can, but I’d rather wait until tomorrow morning. I can run it over to the court house first thing.”

Marsha was studying the note. “It looks similar. But I still need to see the letter to make sure. All right, get to me right after eight.”

I said I would, then started edging toward the door. But Vida had made herself comfortable and appeared to be in for the long haul.

“It would be interesting, Marsha,” Vida began, “if you could think of some reason why Jack Froland would have sent you such a letter in the first place. Frankly, I find this whole thing a box of bees.”

Marsha, who was standing halfway between the sofa and the door, pounded a fist against the wall. I suspect she wished she had her gavel.

“How do I know? He was nuts, maybe,” Marsha retorted. “What difference does it make now? He’s dead, I have no idea what he was talking about, and for all I know, he often sent letters like that to public officials. Maybe it made him feel important.”

That was a good an explanation as any I could come up with. Maybe it was time to let go. We’d done our job. If Marsha wanted to pry further, she could do it on her own time.

Vida, however, wasn’t satisfied. “Why send that old photo with the letter?”

“Because he was crazy,” Marsha said impatiently. She was reaching for the doorknob. I almost hoped she’d try to put the bum’s rush on Vida. The spectacle would definitely fit in with the rest of my bizarre evening.

“Furthermore,” Vida continued calmly, “if Jack had been sending such letters, why haven’t we heard about them? Most people would go to the police. The complaint would show up in the log. I’m assuming, of course, that the threats would be as groundless in other cases as they are in yours.”

“I can’t explain that,” Marsha responded. “Look, it’s late, I’m tired. We’ll finish this thing off in the morning when I compare that note with the letter. Okay?”

Vida glanced at her watch. “It’s not quite nine. Goodness, I didn’t realize you were such an early bird.” She rose deliberately, smoothing her skirts, straightening her coat, adjusting her blue bowler hat. “I guess we’d better be on our way.”

“Yes.” Marsha opened the door. Vida practically strolled out of the condo, humming to herself.

“Were you just trying to annoy Her Honor?” I inquired after we were in the elevator.

“Not exactly,” Vida replied, “but I find this all very queer. Marsha learns who wrote the letter, evinces some disbelief—for which I don’t blame her—and never even says ‘thank you.’ I kept waiting to hear some form of appreciation, didn’t you?”

“Marsha lacks social skills,” I said as we exited into the garage.

“Marsha is not a happy woman,” Vida noted. “I wonder why not?”

“Lots of people aren’t happy,” I said. “I’m not very happy, either.”

“You still have manners,” Vida pointed out as we got into the Buick. “Besides, you have a good reason to feel sad. What is Marsha’s?”

“Her husband died,” I said, “though that was years ago.” Vida began backing out of the parking space. “Y-e-s, that’s so. My, so many dead people, especially people who died young, seem to have crossed our path lately.”

“Tom was too young,” I said, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

“Tom was middle-aged,” Vida said. “I’m referring to Marsha’s husband, Max’s wife, Max’s sister, and . . . have I left anyone out?”

“What?” I was still brooding about Tom. “No, I don’t think so. Jack Froland was old.”

“Some people have more than their share of grief,” Vida said, turning onto Fir Street from Alpine Way. “You know,” she continued, slowing down as we neared my house, “Ernest was eight years younger than Tom when he died.”

I turned to stare at Vida. Somehow, in all my grief, even in Vida’s references to her husband’s death, I’d never considered that her loss was as great—maybe greater—than mine.

“I’d never calculated Ernest’s age,” I admitted.

“He was forty-nine,” Vida said, bringing the car to an easy stop by my driveway. “We’d planned to go to Europe that fall. We’d never been there. I still haven’t gone.” She paused, gazing through the windshield. “I couldn’t bear to see Europe without him.”

“Oh, Vida!” I put my arm around her. “I’ve been too damned self-absorbed!”

“That’s perfectly understandable,” she said, dry-eyed but with a slight tremor in her voice. “And mind your language.”

All the years that I’d waited for Tom, all the frustrations I’d suffered, all the faults I found with him for not spending his life with me had never altered Vida’s convictions about what a fine man he really was. She’d called him “Tommy” and whenever she spoke of the two of us, those big glasses of hers took on a rosy tint. I’d often found her attitude annoying, but now I realized that she’d been vicariously living her romantic dreams with Ernest.

“Is that the real reason you don’t want Buck moving in with you?” I asked softly. “You feel you’d be betraying Ernest?”

“Perhaps.” She sighed and straightened her shoulders. “It simply feels wrong. I can’t explain it to Buck. Then he gets angry. I really don’t blame him.”

“I gather Buck doesn’t feel the same way,” I remarked. “I mean, he’s been able to get beyond his wife’s death.”

“You know what men are like,” Vida said with a touch of asperity. “Wife out, wife in. So to speak. They look at things differently. Maybe they’re more . . . practical.”

“Not Max Froland,” I pointed out.

“No.” Vida shook her head. “Not Max. Jackie became an obsession with him.”

“Did you know her?” I asked. “Was she really so wonderful?”

Vida sighed. “Jackie was very pretty and she was smart enough. I suppose she had a certain sparkle to her. But I never knew her well. The Doukases were a bit standoffish in those days. First Hill was the place to live before The Pines development was built. Of course First Hill is a bit rundown now. But then, if you lived there thirty years ago as the Doukases did—two families of them in big houses—you looked down on the rest of Alpine, both literally and figuratively.”

I glanced quickly at Vida. She seemed like her old self, which was a relief. “One last thing,” I said, releasing my seat belt. “Do you think June deliberately poisoned Jack?”

“Certainly not,” Vida replied. “It must have been accidental.”

“Probably,” I said, opening the car door. “But I’m puzzled.”

“By what?”

“Who cleaned out the Frolands’ refrigerator?”

Vida wore a quirky expression. “You mean, in case there were more mushrooms?”

“Exactly,” I said.

A large camper had turned off of Alpine Way and was plodding down Fir Street. I told Vida not to wait for me to get into the house. I didn’t want her to get sideswiped by the wide vehicle. Thus, she drove off, and I went up to my porch where I searched for my keys.

Digging deep into the big leather satchel, I couldn’t find them. The RV rumbled by, perhaps a family coming home from a trip. Maybe they actually had keys to their house. If not, they could sleep in the camper.

Suddenly, I remembered that a couple of years ago I’d hidden a spare key in the woodpile. It should still be there.

Fortunately, I’d turned on the light outside the kitchen door. I went around the Lexus to where the wood was stacked. If I’d driven, I would have made sure I had my keys with me. But in what must have been a more excited state than I realized, I’d searched my purse for a mascara wand. Like everything else in the satchel, it had fallen to the bottom. I’d removed my keys and left them on the arm of the sofa.

I stared at the woodpile. Where had I put the damned key? Down low, as I remembered. Squatting on the carport floor, I ran my hand under the wood. Finally, almost at the end of the row, I felt flat metal.