Death Climbs a Tree (12 page)

Alvin called the meeting to order then, and the subject was dropped as they dealt with the center's business.

Joan caught her mind wandering to the things that concerned her far more than the persistent discoloration of the center's roof, even after they'd installed zinc strips to prevent that staining. But she tuned back in again when the subject changed to kids who chose their smooth parking lot and ramps for skateboarding.

“They look like freaks,” Annie said. “And have you heard what comes out of their mouths?”

“We all know those words,” Alvin told her. “They won't hurt you, Annie.”

“Maybe the words won't, but the boards can,” Mabel said. “The boys jump off when they're about to fall, and the skateboards go right on. I couldn't dodge if one of those things flew at me.”

“But we have to have ramps,” Joan said.

“Suppose Oliver built those kids a skateboard park of their own,” Alvin said.

“How much would it cost?” Annie always got to the nub of things.

Alvin pushed his wire rims back up his nose. “More than most people want to spend on what Vernon calls ‘a bunch of fool kids,' but if we put it to the mayor as a safety issue for the rest of us, we might get somewhere.”

“It's not just about old folks, either,” Mabel put in. “Little children and babies in strollers are at risk, too.”

“We need an advertising campaign,” Annie said.

“We could sponsor one,” Joan said. “Maybe together with the hospital. Do they keep statistics about that kind of injury?”

Alvin promised to do some checking and report back to them. “I kind of doubt it,” he said. “But even a few horrid examples would say more than bare statistics.”

“Nobody's going to tell you anything these days,” Mabel said. “It's all I could do to fix it so my doctor can talk to my family.”

Alvin twinkled at her. “You're forgetting my powers of persuasion. I know some of those nurses pretty well.”

“And I could ask Fred,” Joan said. “The police might have better luck with the privacy regulations.”

When the meeting broke up, she called him, but skateboards were the least of her worries.

Fred picked up on the second ring.

“You all right?”

“Hassled, but yes,” he said.

“I heard what happened out there this morning.”

“Andrew's okay.”

Bless him for answering what she hadn't asked.

“I enlisted him to stand guard tonight,” Fred said.

“You what?”

“He slept through it this morning—that's another story. But if he'll be a pair of eyes for us from now on, maybe I can keep Walcher off his back.”

“I don't know, Fred.…”

“I don't want to run him in. You have to know that. And EFF sounds like outsiders. I suppose it's possible they don't even know he's up there.”

Was he whistling in the dark? He didn't sound convinced. “You don't think they'd hurt him.…”

“Nobody wants him hurt, least of all me. You can't even see the ropes that support him unless you leave the clearing and go into the woods. Besides, so far EFF hasn't shown any tendency toward violence. Not to people.”

He
was
worried, she thought when she hung up. And she'd forgotten to mention the skateboarders. How could she think about skateboarders with visions of Andrew staring into the darkness like a cop? She hoped Fred was right. Andrew's an adult, she told herself. Other mothers' sons are cops at his age. Why was it so hard to let go?

On her walk home the sun was warmer than when she'd left. Here and there daffodils still bloomed in people's flower beds and in the middle of the grass, many tulips were out, and Virginia bluebells were showing color. Her spirits lifted.

When she walked into the kitchen, she flipped on the college radio station for
Prairie Home Companion
but heard the end of a local call-in talk show. Community reaction to the EFF sabotage was both lively and mixed. Then the show's young moderator announced excitedly that Herschel Vint of the Indiana Department of Natural Resources was going to make a statement.

Joan turned the radio up. Was the DNR going to get involved?

Vint spoke passionately about the need to preserve the forests, even while using their resources wisely. “We are often criticized for cutting any trees at all, but good forest management requires harvesting mature trees to allow the young trees beneath their canopies to grow. It's essential, though, to choose wisely what to harvest. There's a critical difference between such wise selective timbering and clear-cutting wild areas that should be protected for the common good. The construction in Yocum's Woods has no business in this fragile area. Its streams, sinkholes, and underground caverns make it totally unsuited to development, even if its wildlife were not at risk. Although the DNR doesn't own the land, and the landowner has the legal right to develop it, we must strenuously object to such an inappropriate use of our state's precious natural resources.

“That does not mean, however, that we endorse the destructive tactics of the organization that calls itself Earth Freedom Fighters.” He went on for some time about EFF.

Presumably he'd also be against shooting tree sitters, Joan thought. Actually, the DNR hadn't forced down the ones in Yellowwood State Forest a few years ago. But as Vint said, this woods was private land, where they had no authority. Even so, he'd come out on the side of the angels as far as Andrew was concerned. She wondered whether Andrew listened to the radio. Maybe someone from the group supporting the tree sit would tell him. Did those people even know one another? She felt totally isolated from the others who had backed Sylvia, except Birdie, of course, and she had no idea whether Birdie would do anything to help Andrew. She couldn't see herself asking the orchestra for help, as Sylvia had.

She fixed supper automatically, throwing her leftover broccoli into leftover chicken vegetable soup with no idea whether Fred would come home to eat it or be stuck at work. People who sneered at leftovers mystified her. Fortunately, Fred wasn't one of them. He always said homemade soup improved with age, like fine wine and beautiful women.

He rolled in while she was finishing her coffee.

“Smells good. Any left for me?” His kiss landed on her ear as he pulled a chair up to the place she'd set at the old oak kitchen table that had been her Grandma Zimmerman's.

“If you sweet-talk me like that, how can I resist?”

She drank a second cup of coffee and waited while he ate. Eventually, he began to talk.

“We've been sifting through the evidence we brought back from the EFF tampering, but it hasn't helped us at all. The work crew walked all over any footprints before we got there, and either they smudged or EFF wiped off pretty much all the fingerprints around the damage. We didn't find much else, either. Talk about a contaminated crime scene.” He sighed.

“You said ‘pretty much all'—does that mean they found some fingerprints?”

“Couple of partials. They'll probably turn out to belong to the work crew, though not to anyone who stayed around Oliver today. I sent someone out there tonight to check the guys who drove up to Indianapolis after parts. They're working overtime on repairs.”

“They don't match the partials from the rock, do they?”

“No. I checked that, but it was a long shot. These guys won't stop, and we'll catch them on something. It's just a matter of time.”

They were settled on the big couch together when the phone rang. “Damn,” Fred said. “Probably for me.”

Joan slid out of his arms and reached for it. But she shook her head at him and mouthed, “Alex
.”

He rolled his eyes.

“We've lost another one!” Alex roared in Joan's ear.

“Another what?”

“First violin. Birdie Eads just called me in tears. Says she can't bear to play the concert. We're in big enough trouble without Sylvia. We can't do it without her, too!”

“Alex, she and Sylvia were very close. It's understandable.”

“Doesn't she know we need her now more than ever?”

And don't you know people have feelings? No, of course not. Joan kept silent, prepared to let her roar. But she wasn't ready for what came next.

“Joan, you have to go talk to her. She wants someone to hold her hand, and I can't do it. When I told her why not, she cried even more.” Alex's voice turned from angry to coy. “She was probably jealous. I'm going out with Jim.”

“Jim?”

“You met him. Jim Chandler, the narrator for the concert.”

“You're dating Jim Chandler?” Amazing. She'd never known Alex to be interested in any man. But what did she know?

“Oh, yes,” as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. “He'll be gone all day tomorrow, visiting his mother in Tell City, but tonight we're going dancing at Mike's.”

“Mike's?” Joan felt like a broken record.

“Mike's Music and Dance Barn, over in Brown County. I'm going to learn to line dance.” The coy voice returned. “Jim says I'll be good at it.”

Your natural sense of rhythm, Joan thought. “Okay, Alex, I'll do it. You and Jim have a good time.” She hung up before her laughter erupted.

“What on earth?” Fred asked.

Joan managed to stop laughing, but she felt it bubble just below the surface. “It's Alex. I think she's in love.”

“Really?” His eyebrows rose. “Alex, the tyrant?”

“Oh, Fred, I don't know. It's great, really, if she's found someone. Or even if she's just having a good time. Might make her act more human to the rest of us. But I can't imagine what Jim Chandler sees in a grouch like her. He's taking her line dancing tonight, and he's already telling her about his mother, for heaven's sake—he's going down to Tell City tomorrow to see Mom. If he's talking to her about Alex, too, that could be serious.”

“I assume she didn't call just to share girlish confidences with you.”

“No.” Remembering the problem sobered her. “She says Birdie Eads is so upset she wants to quit the orchestra—well, for this concert, anyway. We can't afford to lose her, too—she's one of our best violinists. I promised to go over and see her.”

“Want me to come along?”

“You'd do that?”

“I wouldn't mind seeing her, without my cop hat on.”

“But with your cop mind.”

“Kind of hard to leave that behind.” His eyes crinkled down at her.

“I'd love it. Let me call her. I don't think we should take her by surprise.”

Of course, Birdie said, she'd be glad to see Joan and her husband.

She lived about half a mile past Joan's house. They could walk over in the crisp evening air. Joan pulled a heavy sweatshirt over her jeans, and Fred changed into khakis and a ratty old sweater. If she could ever slow life down, Joan thought, she ought to take knitting lessons from Annie and make him a new one. Fat chance, at this rate.

Birdie, filling out her bright red sweats, looked startled when she opened the door. “Oh! It's you!” Pushing her tousled blond hair back with her fingers, she was staring up at Fred. “But I thought…”

“This is my husband, Fred Lundquist,” Joan said. “Fred, this is Birdie Eads, one of our best violinists.”

“We've met,” Fred said.

Must have been with his cop hat on, Joan thought.

Birdie held the door for them to enter. “Please, come in.”

While they muddled their way through why Joan and Fred had different last names, Joan looked around Birdie's house. Like hers, it was a small two-story frame building in this older part of town. Hooks hanging from the porch ceiling suggested that some of the plants now crowded together on a low table near the front window soon would move outdoors. She wondered whether any of them were Sylvia's. The rest of the living room had furniture with clean, simple lines. Teak and oiled walnut predominated. Nothing fancy, but nothing cheap or cutesy. Linen hung at the windows and covered the cushions. In a corner, Birdie's violin case rested beside a music stand.

“This is beautiful, Birdie,” Joan said. She sat down on a comfortable love seat next to Birdie while Fred took a matching chair opposite a fireplace with a wooden mantel and glass doors. Behind the doors, the ashes were cold, and no new fire had been laid.

“Thank you.” Her hands folded in her lap, Birdie looked from one to the other.

“I wanted to thank you,” Fred said. “You gave us all the information we needed, and with the key, we were able to find Sylvia Purcell's sister. She's staying in Sylvia's place now.”

“I know,” Birdie said. “She called me at work.” Her eyes filled with tears. “But she didn't make it in time. And I never saw Sylvia at all.”

“You were good friends, weren't you?” Joan said. She wasn't surprised to see the tears spill out.

“Yes. I wish she'd never gone up that stupid tree! It never would have happened if she'd just minded her own business!” Her whole face crumpled now.

Joan wanted to hug her but hesitated. “I'm so sorry.”

“Everybody's sorry, but sorry doesn't bring her back! She was a good person, and it never should have happened!”

Now Joan reached out her arms. Birdie leaned into them and wept on her shoulder.

“She didn't just fall out of that tree,” Fred said quietly. “You've probably heard we think someone killed her.”

Birdie raised her head. “You really do?”

“Yes.” He handed her a clean handkerchief and waited for her to swipe at her eyes before continuing. “If you can think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt her…”

Mascara streaking her round cheeks, Birdie said bitterly, “She should have stayed on the ground.”

Joan waited, but Fred didn't push it. Finally, she said, “Birdie, I came because Alex told me you didn't want to play the concert.”