her original place. “You’re right. It’s not fair to the Parkers, either. We can’t let Milo slough this off. They deserve better. They
are
Alpiners, after all.”
We returned to the office, determined to make sure that Tim Rafferty didn’t become an unsolved mystery.
B Y THREE O’CLOCK , I was growing anxious to finish my lead story. Scott’s fire photos were outstanding. Thanks to Kip’s high-tech expertise, we could use color with good resolution. I decided to run the most dramatic picture four columns and six inches deep on the front page. Scott had captured the brilliant orange flames and flying sparks against the dark backdrop of the trees that climbed up Tonga Ridge. We’d put two other pictures, including the close-up of the firefighters, inside on page four. Vida had cropped Tim and Tiffany’s wedding photo to show only the groom. The head shot would go on the vital statistics page. It was the only obituary in this week’s edition.
“That’s really sad,” Ginny said, looking at Tim’s photo. “He’s just about my age, and now he’s dead. It’s kind of scary, isn’t it?”
Kip nodded solemnly. “He’s just a few years older than I am. He’ll never get to see his kid. What did I hear on TV a while ago? Nobody’s guaranteed tomorrow.”
Ginny shivered. “It makes you think.”
“Ah,” Leo sighed, stubbing out his cigarette in a ceramic ashtray he’d swiped from the Flamingo in Las Vegas, “mortality. Even the Young must face it. Consider the rest of us, every day a step closer to the grave.”
“Stop that!” Ginny glared at him. “You’re creepy!”
My ad manager cocked his head to one side. “Truthful. Realistic. Down-to-earth. Or under it, if you will.”
In agitation, Ginny ran her fingers through her curly red hair. “I’m just thinking of Tiffany. I don’t know how she’s going to raise a baby by herself. She’s so . . . helpless.”
“She’ll have support,” Vida put in. “She has parents and grandparents.”
“Women can manage as a single parent,” I asserted. “I did.”
“That’s different,” Ginny said, her plain face very serious. “You had a college degree; you were smart. You weren’t like Tiffany.”
My own expression was ironic. “I think that’s a compliment.”
My office manager flushed. “It is—I guess. But Tiffany is—” She stopped and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Gosh, I’d better pull Tim’s classified ad. Or should I?”
In addition to her other duties, Ginny handled our classified section. “What ad?” I asked, feeling stupid.
“The one he’s been running for months,” she replied. “The baseball stuff.”
Leo handed me a copy of the previous week’s
Advocate.
“Here. It’s under ‘Hobbies and Toys.’ ”
Admittedly, I rarely read our classifieds. They were the purview of Ginny, and by extension, Leo. Only a half-dozen ads were listed under HOBBIES & TOYS . It was easy to pick out Tim’s:
MLB All-Star baseball
memorabilia; autographed,
authentic, mint condition.
An e-mail address and Tim’s phone number were included. “Tim’s been running that?” I asked.
Ginny nodded. “For a long time. Maybe since last winter.”
“He’s got some cool stuff,” Kip said. “One time at the Venison Inn I saw an autographed Ken Griffey Jr. baseball from his days as a Mariner. It was in a case. Tim said he could get five hundred dollars for it.”
“Where’d he get this memorabilia?” I asked.
Scott, who had just hung up the phone, came around from behind his desk. “He’s been collecting for years. Tim told me once he had an autographed baseball card showing Griffey when he played in the minors in Bellingham. Tim got it when he was going to Western Washington up there. I don’t know how much he bragged, but he swore he had items signed by Alex Rodriguez and Randy Johnson when they were Mariners. Other guys, too, and not just the M’s. I think he bought some of it on
are
Alpiners, after all.”
We returned to the office, determined to make sure that Tim Rafferty didn’t become an unsolved mystery.
B Y THREE O’CLOCK , I was growing anxious to finish my lead story. Scott’s fire photos were outstanding. Thanks to Kip’s high-tech expertise, we could use color with good resolution. I decided to run the most dramatic picture four columns and six inches deep on the front page. Scott had captured the brilliant orange flames and flying sparks against the dark backdrop of the trees that climbed up Tonga Ridge. We’d put two other pictures, including the close-up of the firefighters, inside on page four. Vida had cropped Tim and Tiffany’s wedding photo to show only the groom. The head shot would go on the vital statistics page. It was the only obituary in this week’s edition.
“That’s really sad,” Ginny said, looking at Tim’s photo. “He’s just about my age, and now he’s dead. It’s kind of scary, isn’t it?”
Kip nodded solemnly. “He’s just a few years older than I am. He’ll never get to see his kid. What did I hear on TV a while ago? Nobody’s guaranteed tomorrow.”
Ginny shivered. “It makes you think.”
“Ah,” Leo sighed, stubbing out his cigarette in a ceramic ashtray he’d swiped from the Flamingo in Las Vegas, “mortality. Even the Young must face it. Consider the rest of us, every day a step closer to the grave.”
“Stop that!” Ginny glared at him. “You’re creepy!”
My ad manager cocked his head to one side. “Truthful. Realistic. Down-to-earth. Or under it, if you will.”
In agitation, Ginny ran her fingers through her curly red hair. “I’m just thinking of Tiffany. I don’t know how she’s going to raise a baby by herself. She’s so . . . helpless.”
“She’ll have support,” Vida put in. “She has parents and grandparents.”
“Women can manage as a single parent,” I asserted. “I did.”
“That’s different,” Ginny said, her plain face very serious. “You had a college degree; you were smart. You weren’t like Tiffany.”
My own expression was ironic. “I think that’s a compliment.”
My office manager flushed. “It is—I guess. But Tiffany is—” She stopped and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Gosh, I’d better pull Tim’s classified ad. Or should I?”
In addition to her other duties, Ginny handled our classified section. “What ad?” I asked, feeling stupid.
“The one he’s been running for months,” she replied. “The baseball stuff.”
Leo handed me a copy of the previous week’s
Advocate.
“Here. It’s under ‘Hobbies and Toys.’ ”
Admittedly, I rarely read our classifieds. They were the purview of Ginny, and by extension, Leo. Only a half-dozen ads were listed under HOBBIES & TOYS . It was easy to pick out Tim’s:
MLB All-Star baseball
memorabilia; autographed,
authentic, mint condition.
An e-mail address and Tim’s phone number were included. “Tim’s been running that?” I asked.
Ginny nodded. “For a long time. Maybe since last winter.”
“He’s got some cool stuff,” Kip said. “One time at the Venison Inn I saw an autographed Ken Griffey Jr. baseball from his days as a Mariner. It was in a case. Tim said he could get five hundred dollars for it.”
“Where’d he get this memorabilia?” I asked.
Scott, who had just hung up the phone, came around from behind his desk. “He’s been collecting for years. Tim told me once he had an autographed baseball card showing Griffey when he played in the minors in Bellingham. Tim got it when he was going to Western Washington up there. I don’t know how much he bragged, but he swore he had items signed by Alex Rodriguez and Randy Johnson when they were Mariners. Other guys, too, and not just the M’s. I think he bought some of it on
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