Death Climbs a Tree (14 page)

“No. Our dad did, and he taught Sylvia on his old fiddle. She fell in love with the classical stuff in high school and kind of taught herself after she got out. She was the only musical one of us girls, but I have hopes for one of my children. Sit down, please.”

Linda perched on the sagging sofa, and Joan chose the old oak rocker that reminded her of her grandmother. “Alex tells me you're planning a service.”

“I thought I ought to.” She didn't sound as if it were a matter of course.

“Was Sylvia religious?” It had never come up in the contexts in which Joan had known her.

“I don't think so. But I thought the people who knew her here ought to have a chance to say good-bye. Sylvia would appreciate having music be part of it, the kind of music she liked to play. And I'd like some old hymn tunes.”

“Alex mentioned a quartet.”

“Is that possible? Maybe her friend Birdie and some others?”

“I hope so. Birdie's really grieving, though. I'm not sure she could do it.”

“I understand. It's probably too much to ask of anyone.” Linda's shoulders slumped.

Joan melted. “I'll try hard to find you a quartet. It seems the least we could do. I thought a lot of Sylvia. She was a mainstay of our first violin section, and we already miss her dreadfully.”

“I can't understand why anyone would do that to her. The police told me they think she was murdered. I'm probably not supposed to talk about it, though. I don't think they're discussing it yet.”

“They tend not to,” Joan said, but how could it matter, when the whole town knew? Had they told her more than that?

“I'm so far from my family. You're a good listener. I'm afraid I let it slip.”

“Will your family come for the service?” Joan was glad to change the subject.

“I don't think so. The girls are too young, and my husband didn't know Sylvia all that well.”

“When do you want to have it?”

“Whenever I can. They haven't told me yet when they'll release her body. And I suppose I ought to talk to a minister.” Her voice rose, as if she hadn't ever talked to one before. In Oliver, of course, she wouldn't know anyone.

“It's not required, you know, unless you want it in a church. It's not like getting married, where you need someone authorized by the state.”

“Really? Could we do it anywhere?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking of that tree. Where she sat?”

A vision of Tom Walcher yelling at a crowd of mourners was almost too much for Joan.

“That would be hard, if many people came. And it wouldn't be good for stringed instruments.” Though the weather was beginning to warm up these days. It might not be a problem. “Or the tree, of course.”

“Oh, that's right.” Crestfallen, Linda shrank into herself.

“But you could have a memorial service somewhere else with or without a minister. With or without her body, for that matter. If you don't mind cremation, you could scatter her ashes around the tree. In fact, if you didn't want to wait in town until they were ready, I suspect my son would be glad to do that for you.”

Linda frowned, and Joan worried that she'd gone too far. “Your son?”

“He took Sylvia's place in the tree. He wouldn't come down, but we could ask him to scatter her ashes from up there.”

“I spoke to him when Lieutenant Lundquist took me out there. I'd like that very much.”

Joan wrote down Andrew's cell phone number and her own phone number. “Let me know when your plans are definite. Everyone in town knows what happened to Sylvia. I'm sure you won't have any trouble finding someone willing to do her service. Meanwhile, I'll hunt up some people to play.” And hope they'll be available at the time you choose, she thought.

Her own house was empty when she returned to it. No note from Fred, but she didn't have to wonder where he'd be.

She pulled out the orchestra list and started calling to find four players. Might as well start at the top. Nicholas Zeller, concertmaster and Sylvia's stand partner, was the obvious choice to play first violin, but he was less than enthusiastic.

“You expect me to play for Sylvia? The woman drove me nuts. Always came in late, turned pages at the last possible minute, kept turning around to talk to Birdie while the conductor was talking. Alex only kept her because she played so well.”

“I know she had her faults, but she's dead.”

“I hear she was murdered. I can understand why.”

“Nicholas!”

“Sorry.” But he didn't sound sorry.

“Will you play? We need you.”

“Oh, all right. You asking Birdie?”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “But I don't know what she'll say. She's still pretty broken up about her. First she didn't want to play our concert, and when she gave in, she insisted on sitting at the back of the section. I told her I'd arrange it.” Kill two birds with one phone call, she thought.

“At least she's going to play. We need her. Did you find anyone to sub for Sylvia?”

“I hope so, if the woman doesn't have her baby before the concert. I don't know whether she'll play next season, but at this point, I'll be grateful to get through this concert.”

She girded herself before dialing Birdie's number, but to her relief, Birdie sounded touched when she heard that Sylvia's sister had specially asked her to play at Sylvia's service. “Tell her of course I'll play. Just let me know when.”

Joan felt a twinge of guilt for not mentioning that Nicholas would be playing next to her, but maybe for this purpose Birdie could face it. And not sharing a stand should help. They'd both be turning pages for themselves.

Now for a cello. Joan had taken flowers from the orchestra to the little first cellist, Charlotte Hodden, after her baby was born and had ended up taking Charlotte's cello to the violin shop for her. Since that time, Charlotte had always been particularly friendly, and she, too, agreed readily to play. That left only a violist.

For the first time, she struck out. All three violists who sat in front of her in the section begged off. The first chair was setting off on a trip and would miss the next orchestra rehearsal anyway. The second had some kind of family emergency of her own. And John Hocking, Joan's stand partner, pleaded a heavy work schedule. “It's all I can do to come to rehearsal. You can do it. Pick music you can play, and you'll be fine with a run-through beforehand.”

He was right, of course. Sorting through the music, she chose the “Pastoral Symphony” interlude from Handel's
Messiah.
Everyone would know it, and the notes weren't difficult, if they could agree how to approach them. A few simple hymns would do for the rest. Lots of Bach chorales in hymnbooks. If the service was in a church, they could use their hymnals. If not, she could borrow books from the Community Church she sometimes attended and where she and Fred had been married.

So the music was easy. But had Nicholas meant what he'd said about Sylvia? Did Birdie have a reason for wanting to keep her distance from him?

Joan couldn't believe she was even thinking such a thing. Being impatient and obnoxious didn't mean he'd kill. But someone had killed Sylvia. Could it have been for simple dislike? Did people kill for no more reason than that?

Was it true that anyone could kill? She remembered the chant her southern Indiana Grandma Zimmerman had taught her when she was a little girl. First, she'd quickly cup her hand over a spot on the wall. Then she'd say, “Poor li'l fly, sittin' on the wall. You ain't got no clothes on at all. No shimmy shirt, no pettiskirt—ooh, you must be cold! Poor li'l fly, are you sick? Poor li'l fly, are you tired? Poor li'l fly, are you goin' to see God when you die?”

Then Grandma would grin fiercely and squash the imaginary fly into the wall. “Well, see him then!”

Joan had thought it was funny. But Grandma also would wring a chicken's neck in seconds, leaving its body to flop around the backyard in a way that still turned Joan's stomach to remember. Her brother, though, had gloried in the blood and feathers. And now Joan could disjoint a chicken without wincing.

How hard would it be to let a rock fly at someone you resented? Would you have to mean to kill her? Had it been an accident? She suspected they'd never know. Meanwhile, of course, the mayor was pressuring the police to find out, and she wasn't likely to see much of Fred until they did, or until they gave up.

She'd kept her distance from Andrew long enough not to be a hover mother. Surely Sunday afternoon would be a natural time to go out to see him. Should she call first? No, she'd just stop by. And fresh-baked cookies probably wouldn't insult him. She pulled out the chocolate chips.

14

Fred, too, had decided to pay the woods a visit. Rather than take the quickest way, he intentionally passed the road that was within the city limits in favor of the one beyond the creek, where the woman lived who'd seen flashlights headed for a cave. The sheriff's territory, for sure, and the sheriff hadn't returned his call yet. But getting the lay of the land could hardly be called interfering on the sheriff's turf.

The woods were, if anything, denser on this side of the creek. He knew Andrew could see this far from his perch, but down here on the ground, hills and curves and tree trunks restricted his view of the occasional houses and the road itself, often to less than a hundred feet. Rounding a curve, he slowed when he saw flashing lights immediately ahead.

Two sheriff's patrol cars blocked the road, and two uniformed deputies stood talking. Beyond them a green sport-utility vehicle had missed the sharp left curve and plowed into a tree. Amazing that it hadn't tipped over, as those things were prone to do. Now Fred could see the glass strewn on the road. One of the deputies held his palm out in the universal stop sign. Fred pulled over.

The young man started toward him. Fred had seen him around the courthouse but couldn't name him.

“Oh, hi, Lieutenant. Sorry about the delay. You'll probably want to turn around.”

“I'm in no hurry. Abandoned wreck?”

“The driver's still in there, but he didn't make it. We're waiting for the coroner.”

Fred nodded. The sun was out, and the road was dry. On Saturday night, he would have figured the driver for drunk. But Sunday afternoon? The license plate was an Alcorn County number, so the driver probably knew the road. Speeding? But why hadn't he braked? No skid marks on the dry pavement.

“You know him?” Fred asked.

“He looks familiar, but I can't tell you why.”

“Mind if I look?”

“Be my guest.” The deputy stood by while Fred walked up to the SUV and peered through the broken driver's side window. The air bag had deployed, but it hadn't protected the man inside from the tree that had clobbered the left side of the car and of his head. He had stopped bleeding some time ago—the blood on his face was already congealing. Dr. Henshaw would be able to approximate the time of death from that before doing the full exam.

Fred didn't recognize him. Ordinarily, he wouldn't have hung around, but he was intrigued. Could this be one of the meth gang? Why think that, at this hour of the day? Those guys had to be long out of here. More likely someone who lived down the road.

Hearing a motor stop, he looked behind him. Dr. Henshaw, bag in hand, was climbing out of his pickup. Not a fashionable mode of conveyance for a physician, but practical for a coroner.

“What've we got here?” he asked. “Man versus tree?”

“Hi, Doc,” Fred said. “The tree won.”

“Looks like it.” Dapper even in a flannel shirt, the doctor strolled over to the SUV. “This your case?”

“No, the county's.”

The deputies advanced on him. “Citizen down the road heard the crash, and we were closest,” said the one who'd stopped Fred. “He was dead when we got here.”

Dr. Henshaw looked into the car. “Herschel Vint!”

“You know him?” Fred and the deputies chorused.

“Sure. He's with the Department of Natural Resources. Gave a speech the other day about the EFF business in Yocum's Woods.”

“I heard that!” one deputy said. “He made it sound like the tree sitters were in the DNR's pocket.”

“But he sure gave it to EFF,” the other one said. “If we'd found him with a hole in his head, now, I wouldn't be looking any further than them. But this is obviously an accident.”

Fred and Henshaw exchanged glances. “That's what I thought when Sylvia Purcell fell out of the tree,” Fred said. “Humor me, and treat this as a crime scene.”

“You touch anything yet?” Henshaw asked.

They shook their heads. “Just walked around. We could see he was dead. We waited for you.”

“Good. Get the cameras out of my truck, would you?”

“How many cameras do you use?” Fred asked him while one of the deputies went after them.

“I want a Polaroid, so I'll know right away what I have.”

“Sure.” Henshaw wasn't a young man. Fred wondered how long it would take him to try a digital camera.

“But it's too grainy for the kind of detail you sometimes need, so I use a couple of 35 millimeters, too. I like both black-and-white and color. We're not going to get another chance at it.”

All too true. Once the body was moved, they could never reconstruct exactly how it had looked. Even if Fred had been on the spot in time to see how Sylvia had fallen, he couldn't have asked the EMTs to wait for him to photograph her. The rock Joan had spotted wouldn't have been in the picture anyway. It was a minor miracle that she'd seen the thing at all.

“I suppose you've been tramping all around here,” Henshaw said almost casually.

The deputies looked stricken. “We went over to the car,” said one.

“Had to make sure he was dead,” said the other.