Death Climbs a Tree (13 page)

“I can't!” Her eyes looked wild.

“I know how you feel, but we really need you.”

“You don't know how I feel! Nobody knows how I feel!”

“I'm sorry,” Joan said. “Of course you're right. I can only tell you that I care. And I hope you can see your way clear to playing through your grief. Is there anything I can do to make it possible for you?”

Birdie looked at her. “Anything? You mean that?”

“Yes, if I can.”

“Put me in the back.”

“The back?” Joan would have understood if she had demanded to sit first chair, but last? Only shy viola players vied to hide in the back, even if it meant being deafened by trumpets close behind them.

“I don't want to sit up there.”

“I know Nicholas can be a pill to sit by, and I'd hate to be under Alex's nose, too, but you're too good. We don't want to bury you in the back. We need your strong playing up there to help lead the section.”

Birdie's lips and round jaw tightened, and the tears threatened again. “Put me in the back.”

Joan ached for her. “Of course, if that's what you really want. When you come to rehearsal Wednesday night, take whatever seat you choose. I'll fix it with the others.” And have a special word with Alex and with Nicholas, she thought, to be extra sure they don't give her a hard time about it.

Walking home, Joan turned to Fred. “You think she knows something?”

“She's keeping something to herself, no question about it. Whether it has anything to do with Sylvia's death I don't know.”

13

Back home, Fred checked his watch. “I promised Altschuler I'd watch the news tonight. Seems the mayor's going to sound off.”

“The mayor? Why?”

“It's an election year. He doesn't need a reason.”

“But how could he get on the news, and what does it have to do with you and Captain Altschuler?”

“That's what I'm about to find out.”

She curled up on the sofa with him. Mayor Deckard's bald spot shone—he must have resisted the makeup person's ministrations, or maybe the college station hadn't offered him so much as a powder puff. The perfectly groomed young woman sitting opposite him described the EFF attack in Oliver. As she was speaking, they saw video footage of the vehicles EFF claimed to have stopped, at least for the day.

“Mayor Deckard, do you have any evidence linking this group with the murder of the protester who was sitting in an oak tree in Oliver?”

Joan caught her breath when the screen showed the platform on which Andrew was living.

The mayor didn't stumble as he so often did. His interviewer must have primed him for the question. “Not yet. At this point, the death of Sylvia Purcell must be considered totally unrelated. But we're leaving no stone unturned in our search for the person or persons who cut down this helpless young woman trapped in a tree.”

Fred groaned.

“There's no doubt that she was murdered?”

“That's the premise on which we're basing our investigation. Personally, I have no doubt at all, and I am resolved to see her killer brought to justice.” The mayor's eyes stared sternly into the camera, leaving no doubt about his resolve. “We hope to hear from any member of the public who can throw some light on this outrageous act.”

“Thank you.” The young woman looked intently into the camera. “If you have any information, please call the number shown on your screen.” Joan recognized the number as the one she called to reach Fred at work.

When the newscast moved on to a story about the new college athletic director, Fred clicked off the television.

“That tears it.”

“You didn't know he was going to do that?”

“No, and Warren Altschuler must not have, either. He would've warned me. You have any idea how many people will ignore that phone number and call 911 instead? It'll swamp the switchboard. Heaven help anyone with a real emergency.”

“Will you have to go?”

“Maybe. They know to tell me if there's anything that sounds like a real lead. But even if there isn't…”

“I'll see you when I see you.”

He nodded. “Could be a long night.”

“Want some more coffee?”

“Not yet. I'd better grab a little sleep while I can.” Pulling off his shoes, he stretched out on the sofa. He was snoring lightly before she'd begun to undress. She brought a quilt out from the bedroom to spread over him. Without opening his eyes, he smiled, burrowed into it, and in only seconds produced another gentle snore.

She climbed into bed with a book, but she wasn't even close to ready to turn out the light a few minutes later, when the phone rang. Even so, Fred beat her to it.

“I'm on my way,” he said. He brought the quilt back to her. “Thanks. Gotta go.”

She reached up for his kiss and soon heard the door slam behind him. She didn't mind not knowing the details he couldn't tell her. That part of the job she could accept easily. And she knew that anytime he left the house, he could be facing danger. So why did it worry her more at night?

*   *   *

“I'm sorry, Lieutenant,” the 911 dispatcher said when he arrived. “I hated to call you. But you did say you wanted to know anything that came in about Yocum's Woods.” She held out a sheaf of messages.

“Thanks, Virginia.”

“No prob—” She stopped abruptly and spoke into her headset. “911 Emergency.”

Fred waved at her, carried the messages up the steps to his office, and began returning non-emergency calls she had received. The first several citizens had dialed 911 not to provide new information, but to express an opinion or complain about the dirt the construction vehicles were depositing on their roads.

“They never cover their truck beds,” the first man said. “Their gravel cracked my windshield. I say it serves 'em right what happened to those machines. They don't care about nobody else. Just the almighty dollar.”

“I'm sorry that happened, sir,” Fred told him. “Did you get his license number?”

“How'm I supposed to get his number when I can't see out the windshield?”

He had a point. “We'll try to get that stopped, sir,” Fred said, already looking at the next message. “Thank you for calling.”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” an outraged woman squawked several calls later. The message said her name was Patricia Nikirk.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Nikirk. This is Lieutenant Lundquist, Oliver Police. What's the nature of your emergency?” Knowing that there wasn't one, he wouldn't have thrown her 911 call in her face if she hadn't given him a hard time. He also knew her name, Patricia Nikirk, and her address, on the far side of Yocum's Woods from the clearing where EFF had done its damage.

“It's not my emergency, for heaven's sake. It could have waited until morning. I told the woman that. But the mayor said you wanted to hear about what's going on in Yocum's Woods right away.”

“Yes, ma'am, we do. What can you tell us?” Tilting his chair carefully, he leaned back against the wall.

“I live across the crick from those woods, and I see lights out there most every night.”

Fred's feet hit the floor. Hers must be the house Andrew saw from the tree. “Tell me about them.”

“Not much to tell.” She yawned in his ear. “Just lights, you know?”

“Where are they?”

“They move around in the woods, like someone's carrying 'em.”

“How big are they?”

“How would I know?” She was getting her dander up again.

He tried specifics. “Do they look like spotlights? Car headlights? Christmas tree lights?”

“Oh, no, more like flashlights. They're white, like headlights, except there couldn't be headlights in those woods. And not so big.”

“Uh-huh. And they're moving, you say. Anywhere in particular?” He pulled Andrew's map out of his desk, but it was too much to hope that this woman would be able to say anything he could connect with the map.

“I'm not for sure. But it looks like they're going to the cave.”

“Cave?” Yes!

“I could show you tomorrow where it is. We used to play in it when we were kids. But I'm not going into those woods at this hour. No telling what they're doing out there.”

“Can you see the lights now?” It was too much to hope.

“Not right this minute. I could when I called. They come and go. They kind of turn off when they get to the cave, but then that's what it'd look like, wouldn't it, if the people went in?”

“If we send somebody out there, you could point to where they went?”

“They can see for themselves. I'm not going out there at this hour.”

“I'll report this to the sheriff, ma'am.”

“I don't know why you'd drag the sheriff into it. I live in the county, but that cave's in the city.”

The sheriff was going to love this one. And so was Altschuler.

“I think this may be connected to a case he's been working on,” Fred said. “We try to cooperate with the county.” And the state police, whose meth task force was less active than in the past.

“All right, you call him. But you tell him I'm about to go to bed. If he waits more'n a couple of minutes, I'm not coming to the door.”

“We'll probably wait until morning, when you can lead us to the cave.” Fred didn't give her time to object to that, too. With luck, between her information and Andrew's, they could stake out the cave Sunday night. Better get a warrant first. But they didn't need to bother a judge at this hour on a Saturday night. He left a message for the sheriff.

Nothing useful about Sylvia or EFF, for that matter. By midnight, even the crank calls had stopped dribbling in, and he went home to bed.

*   *   *

Leave it to Alex to dump a job on her Saturday night and then wake her on Sunday morning. Startled, Joan's first thought when the phone rang was Andrew. Her second was the urge to murder.

“Alex, it's only”—she looked at the clock—“eight o'clock in the morning.”

“I know, but I forgot to mention this last night. I'm sorry. When I'm with Jim, I forget all kinds of things.” That coy voice again, so totally unlike Alex. Or was it? How well did she know the woman, after all?

“And it's important enough to call me at this hour on a Sunday?”

“Well, it has to do with church.”

Alex had never struck Joan as a churchgoer. They'd certainly never discussed religion. She devoutly hoped they weren't about to begin.

“Sylvia Purcell's sister wants music at her funeral. You need to talk with her.”

Here we go again. “What kind of music?” And why me?

“I told her I was sure we could provide a quartet. I don't know what music she has in mind, but you have our music library. And whatever church it is ought to have something.”

You'll want me to scrounge up the quartet, too.

Alex didn't miss a beat. “And you're our manager. You know who will be available. I don't even have that list.”

Joan sighed. “When is the service, and where?”

“You'll have to ask her sister. Can't remember her name. Lois, Louise, Lori, something like that. It started with
L,
I'm pretty sure. But you have her phone number. She says she's staying in Sylvia's apartment.”

“I'll talk to her. But Alex, I'm not promising.”

“Thanks.” She sounded so happy Joan wasn't sure she'd even heard the part about not promising.

She looked over at Fred, dead to the world beside her, and wondered what time he'd come home. Sliding out of bed, she headed for the kitchen. Sylvia's sister would probably not be in a hurry to hear from her, or would she? Did she have a family to go home to? It had to be lonely for her, holed up in Oliver with nothing to do but think about her murdered sister. Did she even know Sylvia had been killed? Had Fred told her? He'd said she hadn't made it in time to see Sylvia before she died.

Joan didn't have the heart to wake him, but a few minutes after she sat down to breakfast, she heard the shower. Maybe the smell of coffee reached him, or maybe he hadn't worked all that late, after all.

“You learn anything?” she asked him when he emerged, barefoot and wrapped in his bathrobe, his wet hair clinging to his scalp.

“Not what the mayor wanted.” He settled down at the kitchen table with the Sunday paper and his first cup of coffee.

“I need to talk to Sylvia's sister,” she said. “Alex says she wants some of us to play for the funeral. But she can't so much as remember her name, only that she was staying at Sylvia's.”

“Linda Smith.” He buried his head in the paper again.

“Thanks.” Leaving him to it, she called Sylvia's number.

“Hello?” Linda sounded faintly like Sylvia, even after years of living apart. When Joan explained who she was and offered to visit in person, Linda took her up on it immediately.

This time, she drove. A few minutes later, she was ringing one of the bells on Sylvia's shabby front porch.

Linda opened the door immediately. Her face reminded Joan of Sylvia, but her hair was salt-and-pepper, and her jeans, sneakers, and plain rose turtleneck were more conventional. She held the door wide. “Come in. I'm glad to see a live human being. This place isn't very big, but it feels awfully empty without her.”

Joan's eyes were drawn to the violin case in one corner. Who would play it now?

Linda shook her head, and Joan smelled lavender. “I can't bring myself to touch it. Sylvia was so proud when she finally could afford a good violin. She saved up a long time for it. Not rare or anything, but so much better than the one she learned on.”

Joan knew how much difference even a good student instrument could make. Remembering its clear sound, she thought Sylvia's had cost her thousands. Maybe more than a few. From the simple furnishings of her apartment, it seemed that she hadn't spent much on anything else. “Do you play?”