The Alpine Obituary by Mary Daheim Read Free Book Online

should get a big crowd, so we’ll have live interviews, live music, and plenty of delicious, dead fish.”
    I forced another smile. “It sounds very festive.”
    Spence turned away just enough to show off his profile. The strong chin, sharp, almost hooked, nose, and high forehead reminded me of a vulture. I suspected that he thought his side view was eaglelike. Either way, Alpine’s Mr. Radio struck me as a bird of prey.
    “Let’s hope it’s the party of the year,” he said. “Face it, Alpine’s usual idea of a big evening involves bowling shirts and half racks.”
    “May I quote you?”
    Spence looked straight at me and chuckled. “No. But you and I are city people. We’re a bit more sophisticated than your average Alpiner.”
    “I wonder,” I remarked. Spence was inclined to brag about having lived in Los Angeles, Chicago, Boston, Dallas, and various other major cities. “I’ve been here eleven years. Maybe I’ve turned into a real rube.”
    “Not possible,” Spence assured me. “It’s how you were raised, not where you end up.”
    I considered telling Spence that when I was growing up in Seattle, it was still a virtual backwater in the eyes of the rest of the country. But there was no point in arguing. KSKY’s owner always had an answer.
    “How come you waited until after the paper came out to tell me about the party?” I inquired.
    Spence tried to look ingenuous. “It’s not official. I won’t announce it on the air until Tuesday. The formal invitations to public officials and Chamber of Commerce members won’t be mailed until then.”
    “So why not wait a day? Then I can have the story at the same time you do.”
    “Hey,” Spence responded, looking genuinely surprised. “Why not? Okay, I’ll broadcast it late morning, Wednesday. How’s that?”
    I, too, was surprised. “That’s great. Thanks. I appreciate that.”
    “Then let’s celebrate with a drink after work,” Spence suggested. “I’d like to talk over some joint promotion plans. What do you say?”
    I tried not to recoil. The one and only time that the
Advocate
and KSKY had combined forces for a multimedia promotion was during last year’s summer solstice parade when Tom had been killed. The memory jarred me once again.
    I guessed it showed. Spence leaned forward and reached out a hand. “Emma, I’m sorry. I know what you’re thinking. That’s why I haven’t mentioned joint promotions until now. Please don’t be angry with me.”
    “I’m not angry,” I said stiffly. “I’m just . . . upset.”
    Spence’s brown eyes actually looked sympathetic. “Look—I don’t mean to sound harsh, but by the time people get to our age, we’ve all suffered some kind of terrible tragedy.” He saw me open my mouth to protest but waved the hand he’d held out to me. “I know, I know. You’re right up there with Jackie Kennedy in Dallas, holding tight to your martyred loved one.”
    Like the weather, Spence seemed to be mocking me. “What a horrid thing to say.” My voice was dry and cracked, like a dead leaf.
    “Forget it,” Spence snapped, getting to his feet. “I thought you were a businesswoman. When you climb out of that emotional ditch you’ve dug for yourself, give me a buzz.”
    With his usual irritating aplomb, Spencer Fleetwood walked away.
    I don’t cry easily, but my lower lip trembled and my fists shook. Granted, Spence had been very kind to me immediately after Tom’s death. I’d begun to think he wasn’t an entirely self-centered monster. But if he was one part compassion, he was nine parts phony. It’s a wonder he hadn’t claimed to have covered the Kennedy assassination.
    Vida, of course, had been listening at her desk. When Spence had safely departed, she all but vaulted into my office.
    “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed. “You’re distraught! Whatever happened?”
    For once, I couldn’t speak. I merely shook my head, caught my quivering lower lip in my teeth, and forced my hands to