Free The Alpine Obituary by Mary Daheim Page A

conscience before making a decision. “The truth is, Vida, I’ve got a paper to put out. Yesterday we wasted half the afternoon going through those old issues of the
Blabber
. I think I’d better stay close to the office and figure out an interesting feature for Scott and an electrifying editorial for me.”
    “You have the fire story for your lead if nothing more current comes along,” Vida said. “Scott must have taken some excellent photos.”
    Scott had come to work late, which had worried me. But instead of being turned into toast at Embro Lake, he’d merely been tired. The fire was still burning, but under control. Scott had waited for the formal announcement, which had come shortly before five in the morning. Four hours sleep hadn’t affected his looks, however.
    “So how did the fire start?” I asked after Vida had returned to her desk and begun two-fingered typing on her old upright.
    Scott was pouring himself a second cup of coffee. “They don’t know. Careless campers are always good suspects, but there’s no good place to pitch a tent in that area. Hikers, maybe, stopping for a smoke or a toke.”
    Leo Walsh, who had been on the phone, slammed down the receiver. “Dammit, Fred and Jack Iverson are pulling their standing ad for next week. Fred says he’s doing it out of respect for Jack Froland.”
    “Hey,” Scott put in, “aren’t there too many Jacks in this town? Whatever happened to originality?”
    Vida looked up from her typewriter. “Both Jack Froland and Jack Iverson are actually named John. Indeed, Jack Iverson was named for his uncle. Both Jacks were grandsons of Trygve Iverson, though born fourteen years apart.”
    Scott shook his head. “I don’t know how you keep everybody in this town straight, Vida. Why don’t they just call all the guys Swede?”
    “Because the Iversons are Norwegians,” Vida said.
    I perched on the edge of Leo’s desk. “Couldn’t you talk Fred and Jack into running an In Memoriam ad?”
    Leo made a face. “I tried. No go. By coincidence, Fred and Opal are going on vacation next week. They’re closing the Venison Inn for repairs.”
    “Then hit them with a big reopening ad,” I said.
    “I will,” Leo replied, looking determined. “The upside is that they’re also pulling the Venison Inn ad from KSKY.”
    “That restaurant could use some work,” Scott remarked. “It looks like it hasn’t been renovated since the Sixties.”
    “That’s correct,” Vida said. “They closed down after President Kennedy was killed in 1963. That’s the last time they remodeled.”
    “They could use a new menu, too,” Scott said. “There’s only one decent place in town for a really nice meal, and that’s the ski lodge.”
    “Don’t forget Le Gourmand out on the highway,” I said. “They often make the top twenty lists of best restaurants in the state.”
    “But it’s way out of my price range,” Scott responded, no doubt blaming me for his less than opulent salary. “A meal for two costs close to a hundred bucks if you want a couple of glasses of wine.”
    Scott was dating a professor from Skykomish Community College, a somewhat older beauty named Tamara Rostova. Even college instructors made more than Scott, an economic fact that no doubt embarrassed him.
    “We need more ad revenue,” I declared, with a glance at Leo.
    “We need more advertisers,” Leo shot back. “Since when don’t I work my butt off scrounging up ads?”
    “Of course you do,” I said, “but maybe we should come up with a special promotion to tide us over between now and Halloween.”
    “The college,” Scott suggested. It was hardly a surprise, since I figured his mind was there much of the time. “Unlike the other schools, they don’t start fall quarter until the end of the month.”
    “We included them in the Back to School edition,” Leo pointed out.
    The newsroom went silent until Ginny came in with the mail. “What’s wrong?” she asked, looking alarmed.