The Alpine Obituary (32 page)

“What happened with Zeke?” I asked. “I mean, I assume he committed suicide.” I hoped so. I didn’t much like the idea of Spence hanging his own brother.

“I tried to stop him,” Spence said, looking down at his bruised knuckles. “He thought I was going to turn him in, but I wasn’t. Marsha and I were hoping to work something out with him. A plea bargain, maybe. Zeke wouldn’t hear of it. His brain was all messed up with drugs.” Spence paused, shaking his head. “Anyway, he was paranoid, he believed we were against him. As a judge, Marsha had become part of the establishment he hated so much. Oh, yes, he had strong political convictions in the beginning while he was in college. Antiwar during Vietnam, antigovernment, antieverything. Zeke had been all over the country, to Europe and Australia and Thailand. But he always came back to this area. The first I knew of him being around Alpine was six months ago. I ran into him and Terry Woodson at a restaurant in Sultan. They were both high, and even though they didn’t say so outright, they dropped a bunch of hints about what they were up to.”

“You didn’t investigate?”

“No. That was one news story I didn’t want.” Spence gave me a halfhearted grin. “Not even to scoop you.”

I smiled weakly. “Could we open a window? It’s stuffy in here.”

“Sure.” Spence pressed a button; the window slid down smoothly. “Better?”

“Yes. Thanks,” I said. “Did you see Zeke after that encounter?”

“Once, a month or so ago when I was doing a remote broadcast from Skykomish.” Spence looked at his knuckles again, saw that they weren’t bleeding any more, and pocketed the handkerchief. “I didn’t see him again until tonight. He called me at the station and made all kinds of wild threats, including blowing us up. I figured it was just drug talk, but I agreed to meet him. He chose the spot, which was here.” He stopped speaking again, this time to stare out into the darkness. “I was waiting in the car when I heard the explosion. I knew right away what he’d done. I couldn’t believe it. I thought of going back to the station, but before I could make up my mind, he came roaring along in his pickup.” Spence pointed off to our left. “He ploughed the damned thing right through the woods. It’s still there.”

“Did Zeke admit bombing KSKY?” I asked as Spence again fingered his chin.

“Of course. He bragged about it, said he wished he’d killed me. Then he began to rant and say that Marsha and I would never bring him in alive. I tried to tell him we didn’t intend to bring him in at all, that we’d try to help him. But Zeke said he’d already killed one man—Terry—and maybe more at the station. He wasn’t going down for murder one. We really got into it then and started fighting. Zeke had plenty of adrenaline going for him. From the drugs, I suppose. Anyway, he knocked me out just as the Amtrak passenger train went through. I don’t think I was unconscious for more than a couple of minutes, but when I came to, Zeke was up on the trestle with a rope. I knew what he was going to do. I begged him to stop, but he went ahead and . . . he did it.” Spence shuddered and his head drooped. “Good God, I couldn’t believe it. I came back to the car and was going to call for help when you came along. I didn’t want you seeing that . . . gruesome sight, but I couldn’t stop you fast enough. I was a mess. I’m sorry if I scared you.”

“You did,” I asserted. “I was absolutely terrified.”

“I may have been in shock,” Spence said. “Maybe I still am. Tell me about Rick and Craig. Are they okay?”

I related what I knew of Spence’s employees. He sighed with relief. “Thank God. But the station’s . . . gone?”

“Pretty much,” I said. “The tower’s still there, though.”

“Good.” He was suddenly lost in thought. “Shall we call Dodge or just go back to town?” Spence seemed oddly helpless.

“Let’s call now,” I said. “You have my cell phone.”

“What? Oh.” His expression was rueful. “Sorry.” He reached down to the floor and found the cell. “Here. You call.”

I did, reaching Bill Blatt. I tried to be succinct, saying that there was a suicide at the Burl Creek trestle. Bill asked me to wait. I told him that Spence was with me. I didn’t say it was his brother who had died.

“Thanks, Emma,” Spence said after I rang off.

“Sure.” Puffing on the cigarette, I tried to relax. “Did you choose your radio name in honor of Fleetwood Mac?”

Spence shook his head. “I was never a fan. I chose it because of the car, the old Cadillac. I always wanted one as a kid. I had it legalized not long after I moved from Everett.”

“You must have gone into radio right away,” I remarked. “Gabriel Foster-Klein would have been a mouthful.”

“That isn’t why I changed my name.” Spence’s sharp profile looked severe.

“Oh? Why then?”

He looked me in the eye. “I didn’t just move away, I ran away.” He lowered his gaze, focusing on his bruised knuckles. “Zeke isn’t the only one who took human life. I was the one who got Lynn Froland killed in the accident up at the summit.”

Dumbfounded, I wondered how many more shocks I could take in one day.

“You mean,” I said, “you were driving the car.”

“Driving like an idiot,” Spence retorted. He put a hand up to shield his eyes. No doubt he could still see the tragedy unfold. “I was showing off, being the macho man who could still get my ex-squeeze to let me drive her car. I wanted to show Terry Woodson—of all people—that I was still numero uno. But Lynn got mad when I started doing a zigzag thing on the highway. She tried to grab the wheel. I pushed her away and lost control of the car. I might as well have stabbed her to the heart.”

“That’s incredibly sad,” I responded for lack of anything better to offer.

“I’ve spent my life regretting it,” Spence asserted. “Maybe that’s why I’ve never married. I’m not Catholic, but I’ve done my share of penance.”

“Why did you come to Alpine?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I had some money saved up from a Chicago station that changed its format and offered me a nice package. Like Zeke, this area was always home for me. That stretch of Highway 2 from Everett to the other side of the mountains gets a hold of you. It’s so beautiful, still so primeval. Radio’s a tough business. I’d had my share of the big city rat race, not to mention the desolate small towns of Texas and Oklahoma and Nebraska. I wanted to put my roots down in the good, sweet earth of the central Cascades.”

“Weren’t you afraid you’d be recognized?”

Spence laughed sharply. “In a way, I didn’t care. But the last anybody had seen me around Everett—let alone Alpine—I had long hair and a beard. Not to mention that I was thirty years younger. And,” he went on with a shake of his head, “the only one who spotted me was that old coot, Jack Froland. I suppose you don’t ever forget the face of the person who was responsible for getting your daughter killed.”

“I can see that,” I allowed. “Plus, when Marsha came to town a year or so ago, he may have made the connection between you.”

“Probably. We’re supposed to be related to the Frolands in some shirttail manner. In any event, I’m sure that’s why he wrote those letters to Marsha and me. Not that I blame him.”

“The one you got was just like Marsha’s?”

“Yes. When I got mine. I tossed it, thinking it was one more crank,” Spence said. “But just the other day, Marsha finally told me about hers. When she asked for your help, she didn’t know I’d gotten a letter, too.”

“So that explains why she suddenly seemed to lose interest,” I murmured. “The terrible secret wasn’t hers, it was yours. Come to think of it, her letter didn’t accuse her of anything, only of something in her past that could jeopardize her chances with the Court of Appeals appointment.”

“It wouldn’t have,” Spence said firmly. “But since Marsha didn’t know what Jack was talking about, she got scared.”

Headlights illuminated our parking area. I turned to look out the rear window. A sheriff’s car was coming to a stop. The moon had nipped out from behind the clouds. I could see Bill Blatt and Dustin Fong get out of the car.

We got out of the Beamer. I stepped back. This was Spence’s story to tell. If he could get back on the air in the next few hours. I’d let him scoop me.

Besides, I didn’t have a camera.

Vida, agog with my account of all that had happened, kept me up until after midnight. She was waiting on my doorstep when I finally got home a little after ten. Naturally, Vida had enormous regrets that she hadn’t been on hand for at least some of the traumatic experiences. But, as she finally revealed, she’d had a big surprise, too.

“It may sound silly,” she said over her sixth cup of tea, “but I hadn’t made a truly thorough search of the Froland house. I don’t know why I thought it was necessary at this point. Duty, I suppose.”

That wasn’t the word I would have chosen, but it sounded better than “snoopy.” “What did you find?”

“An unfinished manuscript written by Max Froland,” Vida replied. “It was in a shoe box in the spare bedroom’s closet.”

I remembered that Max had told me he was writing a book. “Is it a history text?”

Vida’s eyes sparkled. “Not exactly. That is, there’s history, but it’s written as a novel. And it’s all about Alpine’s early days. There are,” she added, suddenly breathless, “even things I didn’t know!”

“Good grief!” I exclaimed, half-serious. “That’s hard to believe.”

Across the kitchen table, she leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Some of these things are rather shocking. It’s no wonder they didn’t get handed down, especially in those days when people didn’t talk about child molesting.”

“Child molesting?” I grimaced. “Does Max name names?”

“He does indeed.” Vida sat up straight again. “You would never guess who the major molester was.”

“Is that a military title?”

Vida gave me her gimlet eye. “It’s not funny. It’s terrible. The perpetrator was a teenager named Jonas Iversen.”

“You’re right,” I said, “I’d never guess it was him since I haven’t the foggiest idea who he is. Was.”

“Jonas was one of Trygve and Olga Iversen’s sons. Trygve, as you’ll recall if you’ve read my story on the Frolands, was the assistant mill superintendent in Alpine’s early days. All I knew was that Jonas had disappeared toward the end of 1917, just like another boy—Vincent Burke—had done a bit earlier. But according to Max’s account, Jonas may have been murdered by his own mother!” Vida slapped her hand on the table. “What do you think of
that
?”

I stared at Vida. “You’re right, it’s shocking. What became of the mother?”

“Nothing. I got the impression it was like a mercy killing. Trygve couldn’t stop the boy, it seems, and Olga couldn’t go on with the horror. Not to mention the legal consequences if Jonas was arrested and the shame that would follow. Olga lived to be an old lady, dying during World War II, I believe. But Trygve couldn’t stand it.
He hanged himself from the
railroad trestle a year later.
”

I could scarcely believe it. “You didn’t know about the suicide? That might have been talked about and handed down.”

But Vida shook her head. “Not in those days. Suicide was a disgrace, too. I’d always heard that Trygve had been killed in a railroad accident. Anyway, that’s why the Iversens changed the spelling of their name. It was Per, the eldest son’s idea, though what good it did when part of the family stayed in Alpine, I couldn’t say. It sounds more like a gesture to me.”

“Where did Max get all this information?” I asked, still amazed at the contents of Vida’s discovery.

“Max has written a dedication to his father,” Vida replied, finishing off her tea. “Jack Froland was Trygve and Olga’s grandson and the son of Karen Iverson Froland. By the way, Jack Iverson wrote the obituary for his uncle. I found a draft of it and a note from him to June. I should have known. Jack’s a dunderhead.”

“Hunh.” I sat with my elbows on the table, propping up my face with my hands. I was exhausted, but I was still able to think. “So why would Jack send that old picture of the trestle along with his letter to Marsha?”

Vida shrugged. “Who knows? Jack may have had some crazy notion because that was the place where Jonas did . . . whatever he did with those youngsters, and because his grandfather committed suicide there. I found several old photos with the manuscript. I’ll show it all to you tomorrow. Frankly, I’ve only skimmed the book.”

“You kept it?” I asked in some surprise.

Vida wore an air of innocence. “Of course. June won’t be home from the hospital for a day or two.”

“What are you going to do about June?” I asked as Vida finally got to her feet.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” she said, very solemn. “What good would it do to let on? June’s not in her right mind, she probably hasn’t been for some time.” Vida had moved into the living room, where she picked up her coat and purse. “Maybe it really was an accident.” Vida put on her coat, then went to the door. “Let’s call it a mercy killing.”

When Evergreen Cemetery in Everett opened a century ago, no one could have foreseen that Interstate 5 would pass by so close that you could almost read the headstones from your car.

Autumn had officially arrived on the Friday that Zeke Foster-Klein was buried next to his parents. I’d worn my winter coat for the first time since March, and although the sun was shining, I felt the hint of decay in the air as I stood near the open grave.

There had been no other service except for what was being held now by a young Unitarian minister who was one of Marsha’s clients. Just out from under the green canopy, I noticed a handsome tombstone for Phillip Andrew Barr. Marsha’s husband had been only twenty-five when he’d died of a brain tumor. He hadn’t lived half as long as Tom.

I’d also seen the markers for George Foster and Anna Foster-Klein. George’s was simple, but Anna’s had an additional inscription: SOLIDARITY. Apparently, the matriarch of the Foster-Klein brood had never renounced her father’s belief in the good fight.

I’d arrived late, having been caught in the usual traffic slowdown between Sultan and Monroe. Amazingly, Vida hadn’t joined me. Roger had broken his toe that morning when he kicked his boom box because it had run out of batteries.