The Alpine Obituary by Mary Daheim Read Free Book Online Page B

“That part of Seattle was almost exclusively Scandinavian until rather recently, wasn’t it?”
    “Yes,” I said, “but the ethnic groups have diversified in the past few years.”
    “Trygve Iversen was born in Norway, as was his wife, Olga,” Vida recalled. “My mother once told me that Olga never really learned to speak English. Indeed, she rarely spoke at all. Tsk, tsk.”
    We remained silent for several minutes, perusing the fragile newsletters. “Are we looking only for Iversen/Iverson references?” I finally asked. One more euphoric comment about Mrs. De Bie’s Belgian waffles or Head Cook Patterson’s flapjacks and I was either going to sleep or going to eat.
    “At this point, yes,” Vida replied. “I’m still trying to make the connection with Marsha.”
    “Why don’t we ask her?”
    “I thought she didn’t know,” Vida replied, looking puzzled. “I suppose we could ask again.”
    I dialed Marsha’s home number but got her machine. Next, I tried the courthouse and was put through to her chambers.
    “I dragged my butt in for the morning session,” Marsha said, sounding somewhat better. “Now I’m about to go home and take to my bed again. What’s up?”
    I related that Vida believed Marsha was somehow connected to the Iverson dynasty. “Does that ring any bells?” I asked.
    “The Iversons,” Marsha repeated. “Don’t they own the Venison Inn?”
    I said that was so. “Jack and Helene owned it for years, but when his nephew, Fred, got hurt in the woods, Jack brought him and his wife, Opal, in as partners. Jack’s been threatening to retire.”
    “My Aunt Josephine was married to an Iverson,” Marsha said after a long pause, “but they lived in Mount Vernon. Uncle Burt was killed during World War II, and Aunt Jo remarried a few years later. Frankly, I lost track of her. The last I heard, she was in a nursing home in Port Angeles or some place. She must be ancient.”
    I gave Vida a high sign. “Was your Uncle Burt from Alpine?”
    “I’m not sure,” Marsha responded. “He’d been dead years and years before I was born. We were never close with that side of the family. Aunt Jo was my dad’s sister. My mother and Uncle Burt fought over politics, I think. Anyway, I hardly remember seeing Aunt Jo except at the wedding of one of my brothers. She didn’t come to mine.”
    Vida was making wild gestures with her hands. I became so distracted that I had to terminate the conversation with Marsha. “Sorry, I’ve got to go. There’s a whirling dervish in my office. Get well.”
    I hung up and gave Vida an exasperated look. “What?”
    “Burt Iverson,” Vida said, her gray eyes glinting. “He was one of Per’s children. Burt had married before the war and moved away, then he went in the army and was killed in North Africa. Kasserine Pass, as I recall. Since he’d grown up here, a big fuss was made when we got the sad news. You’ll see his name inscribed on the war memorial at the courthouse.”
    “So that’s the Iverson connection to our judge,” I remarked.
    “Tenuous, at best,” Vida said, adding onto her family tree, which she had transferred to a large sheet from the tablet Leo kept for manually laying out ads. “Josephine—his widow—married a Bergstrom after the war. They lived in Sultan for years, then he died, and Josephine came to live with her daughter. Now what was her name?” Vida thought for several seconds. “Marjorie. Marjorie’s husband—dear me, I forget his name—took a job in Port Angeles. Josephine went into the nursing home here, but left on her own and went to join Marjorie over on the Peninsula. Don’t you remember that Josephine was reported as a missing person about four years ago?”
    “Vaguely,” I replied. “She wasn’t missing for long.”
    “Of course not,” Vida replied. “Marjorie came to the nursing home to collect her mother’s belongings. Then we heard where the crazy old fool had gone. Port Angeles! All those ferries you