The Alpine Obituary (28 page)

Chapter Fifteen

“I can’t quite believe this,” I said to Vida, who was still looking smug. “Are you positive?”

“Certainly,” Vida retorted, “though it was like pulling teeth to get the information out of Lorena Woodson. You wouldn’t believe the coaxing and the soft soap I had to use.”

Actually, I would, having had many years of experience with Vida’s methods of extracting the deepest secrets from other people.

“I keep trying to tell you,” Vida said as Scott entered the newsroom, “that this is a very small town. There is no such thing as coincidence.”

“But Terry Woodson’s from Monroe, and the Foster-Kleins were Everett people,” I pointed out.

“I’m speaking of the entire Highway 2 corridor, from the summit to the sound,” Vida asserted. “I’m also talking about connections that have their roots many years ago. The population was much smaller then. Thirty, twenty, even ten years ago Monroe and Everett were just a fraction the size of what they are now.”

Vida’s statement was correct. Seattle had sprawled so much in the past few decades that Monroe and Everett were considered suburbs. Even Alpine had grown since the advent of the community college.

Scott stood beside me. “Are we doing a census story in this issue, too?” he inquired. “I thought we had too much copy.”

I told my reporter that the census wasn’t a story, just passing conversation.

“Good,” Scott said. “I’m working on all my stuff this afternoon, especially the mulching piece. There’s a lot more to it than you realize.”

For some perverse reason, I refused to mulch. Maybe it sounded more complicated than it really was, but I wasn’t interested in devoting my life to carrot peelings and dried leaves. “Did you get some good pictures of the cedars?”

“I think so,” Scott replied, going to his desk. “I dropped the roll off at Buddy Bayard’s. Man, those trees were awe-some.”

“A terrible crime,” Vida murmured. “It’s so sad that the forests can’t be patrolled more easily.”

“For sure,” Scott said, facing his computer monitor. “But it’s just about impossible to . . .”

I left Vida and Scott to their ruminations about protecting old growth. In my absence, Ginny had taken three phone messages for me. One was from Jeannie Clay, Dr. Starr’s dental assistant, reminding me of a cleaning Thursday morning. The second was from Judge Marsha, marked ASAP. She would have been my priority, except that last, but certainly not least, was a message from Adam. My son still came first. Ginny had made a notation that Adam would be in the rectory until two o’clock, our time. It was now five to one, three hours later than St. Mary’s, Alaska.

The radio relay made its usual strange, disconcerting sounds. Then I heard Adam’s voice, an echo that I assumed bounced off some satellite before reaching my ear.

“It’s me,” I said, “Mom.” My own voice sounded hollow.

A pause. I tried to picture my son in the Quonset hut that served as St. Mary’s rectory.

“Are you okay, Mom?”

“I’m fine. How are you?”

Pause.

“Good. It’s cold, rainy, and the wind’s blowing in from the sea. I’m getting used to it, though. It’s nothing, I’m told, compared to the whiteouts when the snow never stops.”

“How are your parishioners?”

Pause.

“Hearty. They’re mostly Inuit, good people. I admire their fortitude.”

Pause. But Adam wasn’t done speaking; he was collecting his thoughts. “Are you sure you’re okay? I mean, better than before?”

I winced as I remembered the Paxil prescription, still waiting on the shelf at Parker’s Pharmacy. “I honestly think I am,” I said after a pause of my own. “The last week or two have been really busy. It takes my mind off of me.”

Pause. If Adam had felt compelled to serve in a remote location from Alpine, why not Maine? I was sure they had real telephones in Maine.

“Same here. Death can come suddenly, violently. The whiteouts, the bears, the sea. These people deal with it better than we do, I think. They accept death as part of life. They don’t bitch about the unfairness. They don’t blame God. Death happens. I’m learning from them, Mom.”

“I’m so proud of you. You’ve exceeded all my expectations.” They had been very low for years, as Adam switched majors and changed colleges. I’d considered him flighty, immature, self-serving. I couldn’t have been more wrong. “Do you need anything?”

Pause.

“Books,” Adam replied. “Fiction, real page turners. You know me, I like spies.”

“I’ll get some. What about warm clothes?”

A loud humming filled my ear. I hoped Adam hadn’t been swept away by a tsunami or swallowed by a whale.

“No, I’m good with gear. Just the books. Can you hear me?” he shouted over the interference.

“Barely. Should we hang up?”

More noise, another pause. “I guess so. Love you, Mom. ’Bye.”

“Be careful. Please.” Reluctantly, I disconnected the phone. For several moments, I sat at my desk, staring at the state department of fish and wildlife calendar on the opposite wall. For September, the color photograph was a huge king salmon, leaping out of the water. It seemed symbolic. Without Tom, I felt like a fish out of water. But the salmon could dive back in. Maybe, some day, I could, too. Maybe my son could teach his mother how to move on.

I didn’t remember Marsha’s message until Ginny stood in my office door. “The judge is on hold. Do you want to talk to her or call her back? She sounds kind of wigged out.”

I told Ginny I’d take the call. The connection was perfect, but the person on the other end wasn’t someone I wanted to hear.

“I need to see you right away, before I go back on the bench at two o’clock,” Marsha said in a strident voice. “Can you get over to the courthouse in about thirty seconds?”

Under ordinary circumstances, I would have been extremely curious. But I was still wrapped up in thinking about Adam. And Tom.

“I could if I had jet shoes,” I retorted. “What’s the rush? It’s only ten after one.”

“I can’t talk over the phone. Get your butt over here, Emma. This could be important to you, too.”

Ah. Marsha was appealing to my self-interest. Had she heard about Terry Woodson and the connection with her brother, Zeke? It was possible, though I doubted that even Milo knew about it yet.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I said and hung up. In the newsroom, I approached Vida, who was putting on a bright orange cardigan sweater. “Where are you going?” I inquired.

“To call on the sheriff,” she said. “He needs to be informed.”

“That’s just what I was thinking.” I grinned at Vida. “You appear to be ahead of him on this one.”

“Men are so poor at eliciting the facts,” she declared with a sad shake of her head. “Even when it’s their job.”

Scott and Leo looked up. “Why are we getting bashed now, Duchess?” Leo asked.

“Never mind,” Vida huffed. “It’s not entirely your fault as a sex. It’s just that you’re so lacking in certain skills.” Adjusting her duck-billed velour cap, she departed the newsroom.

Leo looked at me. “Is something afoot?”

“Yes,” I replied, slinging my handbag over my shoulder.

“I’ll tell you both later. I’m going to the courthouse now.”

Judge Marsha was pacing her chambers when I arrived. “What’s going on? Dodge called me about fifteen minutes ago and said he’d be over with a warrant for somebody’s arrest. I asked who, and he wouldn’t say. Do you know anything about it?”

“Gosh,” I said, looking innocent, “I thought you’d called me here to thank me for everything I did about your letter. Or aren’t you interested in your new appointment any more?”

“Screw the letter,” Marsha shot back. “It’s a bunch of crap. The old fart who wrote it is dead. Who cares? It was just a joke, and a stupid one at that. Come on, out with it. You and that goofball Vida seem to know so damned much.”

“Don’t you dare call Vida a goofball!” I shouted. Marsha had gone too far. “Apologize, or I’m going right back through that door.”

“Okay, okay.” Marsha ran a hand through her usually neat blonde coiffure. Indeed, she looked unusually frazzled. “I’m sorry, but I’m upset. The last couple of weeks haven’t been easy for me.” She sat down behind her big oak desk. “Take a seat. And thanks for what you and that . . . Vida did. It just turned out be such a dumb stunt on Jack Froland’s part. I hope he’s turning in his grave.”

I ignored the remark. “What do you want to know? I can’t read Milo’s mind.”

“I heard you had lunch with him.”

I tried to keep calm. “So what?”

She leaned forward, fists on the clean beige blotter. Maybe Marsha never made mistakes. But she did now. “You’re screwing him, aren’t you? Isn’t he your backup for Cavanaugh?”

I froze in the oak chair. It took me a moment to gather my composure. I threw discretion to the wind. “Where’s Zeke?” I asked in a dead calm voice.

Marsha gave a start, then took in my arctic expression. Briefly, she averted her gaze. “Zeke? My brother? Who knows? He follows the wind and the next protest against government outrage.”

“No, he doesn’t,” I said, still calm. “He leads, not follows. Does the name Terry Woodson ring a bell?”

The puzzlement on the judge’s face deepened. “Terry Woodson? I don’t think so.” She lowered her gaze. “Maybe, faintly. Who is he?”

“Who
was
he,” I said. “He’s the guy who was dating Lynn Froland when she got killed in the wreck at the summit. He was in the car with your other brother, Gabe, when the accident took place.” I leaned forward in the chair. “He’s also the guy who got burned up in the meth lab. The drug outfit that your brother Zeke got him into.”

Marsha had turned pale. “This is crazy,” she said through gritted teeth. “My brother is nowhere around here, he hasn’t been for years.”

“That’s not what Terry Woodson’s stepmother says.” For the first time, I noticed that Marsha had lost some of her usual arrogance. I couldn’t resist needling her. “After you hand out a couple of divorces and put some deadbeat dads into work-release programs, why don’t we visit Lorena Woodson in Monroe? Vida would be glad to join us.”

“I don’t have time for nonsense,” Marsha snapped, but she sounded shaken. “The last I heard of Zeke, he was in Texas. Or maybe Oklahoma. He planned to protest Timothy McVeigh’s execution.”

I was rubbing my hands together, as if in glee. It was an inappropriate gesture. I put both hands in my lap and tried to stare down Judge Marsha. “Is this the secret you kept? That your brother was a druggie?”

“Of course he’s a druggie!” Marsha exclaimed. “He’s always done pot. Big deal. It should be legalized anyway.”

“I don’t mean just a user. I mean that he dealt. Not only dealt but made the drugs, along with Terry Woodson.”

“I don’t have to listen to this,” Marsha declared, her face gone stiff. “Please leave, or I’ll have the bailiff throw you out of my chambers.”

Frankly, I would have enjoyed haranguing Marsha just a little longer, but I didn’t relish having the glum—and strong—Gus Tolberg throw me out onto Front Street. “Okay.” I got up. “Mrs. Woodson’s probably too busy to see us anyway. I imagine she’s having a nice long talk with the sheriff.”

Marsha didn’t say a word as I made my exit.

“When I came through the
Advocate
’s front door Vida was barring my passage. “Well? What did Marsha say? How did she react? Did she know about her brother’s criminal habits?”

I managed to edge past Vida to reach the reception counter where Ginny sat, exhibiting her usual placid calm.

“The judge is in denial,” I replied. “I’ll reveal all in my office.”

Vida, however, had other ideas. She grabbed my arm and steered me back to the front door. “You can tell me on the way to the sheriff’s. According to Billy, Milo’s expecting Mrs. Woodson any minute.”

“We can’t sit in on the interview,” I protested, disengaging myself and taking a backward step.

“We won’t,” Vida replied. “We’ll get to her first.”

“We can’t do that, either.” I gave Vida an exasperated look. “Besides, you’ve already spoken with her on the phone.”

“That’s hardly enough,” Vida huffed. “Much better, in person. Come along, we don’t want to miss her. It’s a long drive from Monroe, and Lorena would probably enjoy a nice cup of tea.”

I was still protesting even as Vida virtually dragged me down Front Street. Maybe we could use the incident for “Scene.” VIRTUOUS NEWSPAPER PUBLISHER HAULED AWAY AGAINST HER WILL BY UNSCRUPULOUS HOUSE & HOME EDITOR. I had a mind to sneak it into Vida’s column just before press time.

“How will we know her when we see her?” I demanded as Vida forced me to lurk in the doorway of the Sears catalog outlet across Third Street from the sheriff’s office.

“We’ll know,” Vida assured me in her stage whisper.

We waited. At least three people came and went from Sears, having to edge around Vida’s imposing figure. She knew them all, and they knew Vida. Nobody complained about the inconvenience she was causing.

“Ah!” Vida cried as a brown compact car crept along Front Street. “A woman’s driving, and she’s obviously looking for something. There’s room two parking places down from Milo’s car. Oh! She didn’t see it!”

The compact’s driver kept going, right by us. The woman behind the wheel had short platinum blonde hair, swept into waves that looked like an exotic bird’s plumage. She wore glasses and a dark jacket or sweater. I noticed a Masonic emblem on the rear bumper as she drove by Parker’s Pharmacy.

“There are two spaces in front of the drugstore,” Vida murmured. “Why didn’t she take one of them? Oh, my— she’s pulling in next to your car. Let’s go.”

Holding onto her velour cap, Vida virtually ran the rest of the block, crossed Fourth without looking, and reached the compact just as the driver got out. I trailed behind, but heard Vida’s piercing voice inquire if the woman was lost.

She was. I reached Vida’s side just in time to hear the woman say she couldn’t find the Skykomish county sheriff’s headquarters.

“The young man—he sounded young—who gave me the directions said to go by city hall with the dome on the right and that the sheriff’s office was in the next block,” the woman explained in a fretful voice. “But it’s not.” She gestured across the street to the Clemans Building, which faced Milo’s digs. “I saw the newspaper sign, so I’m going to ask someone there where the sheriff is. I hope they have more sense than that Blatt person who gave me the wrong directions.”