Free The Alpine Obituary by Mary Daheim Page B

“Did something awful happen?”
    Leo waved a dismissive hand. “No. We’re thinking. It’s done best when not talking. You got any ideas for a new kind of special edition?”
    Ginny handed Vida her mail. Our House & Home editor was always first on the delivery list.
    “Autumn,” Ginny said, moving to Leo’s desk. “What about things people do in the fall?”
    “How many pictures of leaf raking can Scott take?” Leo asked dryly.
    Ginny, whose scarcity of imagination is rivaled only by her lack of a sense of humor, frowned at Leo. “People do other things. Like prune. Oh—and dig up bulbs and tubers that won’t winter in this climate.”
    No one said anything for almost a minute. It was Vida who finally spoke up: “That’s not really a bad idea, Ginny. Leo could get large ads from Harvey’s Hardware and Mountain View Gardens and some of the other stores that provide plants and tools and such.”
    Scott was fingering his chin. “How about a tie-in with the environment? Energy conservation, too. Preparing your house for winter and all that.”
    “Well . . .” Leo paused to light a cigarette while Vida, as usual, stared him down. “That does have some possibilities. Let me think about it. Thanks, Ginny.”
    “I like it,” I said. “Fall officially starts September twentieth.” I looked at Leo. “Do we have enough time to pull it together for the edition on the thirteenth?”
    “I’ll see,” Leo replied, his weathered face showing no expression.
    “Do that,” I said as a spur. I had the feeling that despite his polite words to Ginny, he wasn’t entirely sold on the project.
    Half an hour later, Vida was off to attend the Froland funeral. I worked on a list of possible features for the proposed autumn edition. The more I thought about Ginny’s idea, the better I liked it. The broadness of scope meant that there were plenty of advertisers to tap. Home improvement. Yard work. Energy. Fashion. Food. “An Alpine Autumn.” That sounded good to me.
    By noon, I was so pleased with the concept that instead of eating in, I decided to call Milo and see if he wanted to meet me for lunch at the Venison Inn. I was told, however, that the sheriff wasn’t in. Feeling slightly deflated, I walked down Front Street to the restaurant. There I encountered a CLOSED sign on the door and a handwritten message taped to the glass.
    THE VENISON INN WILL BE CLOSED BEGINNING FRIDAY, SEPT. EIGHTH, UNTIL MONDAY, SEPT. EIGHTEENTH, IN MEMORY OF JOHN AUGUSTUS (JACK) FROLAND.
    I’d forgotten about the closure. Annoyed, I started to cross the street to the Burger Barn but stopped just short of the curb. It was twelve-ten, about the time that Jack Froland’s funeral would be over. Vida would probably go to the cemetery. I could meet her there and see if she wanted to go to lunch. Ordinarily, Vida wouldn’t miss a post-funeral get-together, but I figured that after the fracas the previous night, any socializing at the Froland home would be cancelled.
    I drove down Front Street, all the way to Highway 187, or the Icicle Creek Road as it was unofficially known. Smoke still hung in the air, and the sky was overcast. The temperature was close to seventy degrees, which wasn’t all that warm, yet the hazy skies spread an oppressive air over the town. Perhaps it was my imagination. I hadn’t attended a burial since Tom’s, which had been held not in Alpine but in San Francisco, where he had lived for years with his family.
    “Damn!” I said aloud as the steep road curved ahead of me. Can I do this?
    “You damned well better,” said a crackling voice inside me. It sounded like Ben. I kept driving and finally entered through the cemetery’s open iron gates.
    It wasn’t hard to find the Froland mourners. The cemetery is built on hilly ground. The road at the entrance dips down, so I slowed enough to spot the line of cars pulled up on the verge and the cluster of people under a green canopy.
    I parked behind the last car. To my left