Death Climbs a Tree (21 page)

But when she got home, Fred had other plans.

“I couldn't get Bert to handle the paint can today,” she told him. “It was too cold to paint, and anyhow, he had gloves on.”

“I figured as much. He'll keep. But would you drop in at your buddy Skirv's for me?”

“Matt Skirvin's store? Why?”

“He won't touch anything when I'm in the place, and I don't know which cops he recognizes. I want you to buy something he's handled.”

“That's all?” She was relieved not to have to tell him what she'd been suspecting, after all.

“Well, it should be something smooth enough to hold fingerprints. He has plenty of glass and china things. Something round would be good, something he can't pick up by the edges.”

“I'll get him to reach me something down from a high shelf.”

“Good.” He sighed. “This business of ruling out possibles is a nuisance, when there are so many of them. We can't ask half the men in town to come down and let us fingerprint them.”

“At least you know it's a man. Older than Andrew, too, if you're zeroing in on guys the age of Bert and Skirv.”

“Andrew was a little boy when this man was arrested in Michigan. But you didn't really wonder about Andrew.”

“Oh, Fred, of course not.”

“I'll meet you for supper at Wilma's when you're done. Don't worry, though. I'll have someone watching.”

“Skirv wouldn't hurt me!” But Sylvia? Herschel Vint? Andrew? How could she be so sure he'd stop there?

“No, he won't.” He smiled down at her. “Want a ride? I don't want him to see us together, but I can take you most of the way.”

“Thanks.” She dumped the hymnbook out of her shoulder bag and slung the leather bag over her shoulder. The poor thing looked the worse for all the abuse she heaped on it, but so far, it was holding up. “I'm ready.”

A block from the store, he let her out to walk the rest of the way.

Skirv's Stuff greeted her with fluttering bedspreads hung outside. Joan, partial to Grandma Zimmerman's quilts, didn't bother to look them over.

In the dimmer light indoors, she recognized Matt Skirvin standing behind the counter.

“Welcome, Joan.” His brown eyes smiled at her. “I'm kind of surprised to see you here, what with Andrew up in the tree and all. You have some problem with the concert, or what?”

“Hi, Matt. No, except for missing Sylvia in the first violins.”

His face fell. “Wasn't that awful? I can't believe anyone would do such a thing. She wasn't hurting anyone up there. And you must be worried about Andrew, too. I was glad I could help him make it up into the tree. He seems like a good kid.”

“He is.” She wasn't about to invite Matt Skirvin into her worries.

“If there's anything I can do, I will.” He sounded sincere, but who could tell? Wouldn't Sylvia's killer sound sympathetic when you met him? She tried to put the thought out of her mind.

“Thank you, Matt. As a matter of fact, there is something.”

“Anything.”

“This isn't for Andrew, and it's certainly not important. But I need to find a gift for one of the little old ladies who helps me at the center.” Annie Jordan would skin me alive if she heard me talk about her like that. “I know she likes old things, antiques and such, more than new stuff. So I came here. What do you have that's pretty enough to give as a gift? Nothing too expensive, you understand, but really nice. And I'd want it in a nice box. Gift wrapped, even, if you do that.”

He came out from behind the counter. “I ought to have something. What kinds of things does she like?”

“I don't really know. I'm hoping I'll know it when I see it. Nothing knitted or crocheted or embroidered—she does all that herself.” And fabrics wouldn't be a good choice for Fred.

“There are some pretty things on that table.” He gestured to a table full of china and glassware.

She looked as seriously as she could, picked up a few things, and then spotted something that might work and that he'd have to help her with. “Maybe those candlesticks up on the shelf? They look like crystal.”

“I doubt it. If they are, they're seriously underpriced.” He reached for one and held it out to her. Fingers and thumb right on it, good.

She took it delicately by the top and bottom and set it on the counter. “I like the simple lines and the little leaves carved into the base. How much are they?”

He flipped it over to show her the price tag on the bottom. “Ten dollars.”

“For the pair?”

He flashed her a smile. “For you, sure.”

“Okay.” She pulled out her wallet. “Would you wrap them both, please?”

She watched him lift down the second candlestick. Fred ought to be able to get what he needed. She hoped the police would be willing to pay ten bucks for them. But maybe she'd rather keep them when this whole thing was over. They really did appeal to her. Or actually give them to Annie, who knocked herself out at the center for nothing more than a smile and a thank-you. While he was wrapping them in tissue and tucking them into a neat box only a little too big for them, she had an inspiration.

“Do you have any candles that would fit in them? Then it would be a real present.”

He looked pleased at the prospect of another sale. “We have some scented ones.”

“Lovely.” She took her time selecting candles that would send the fragrance of vanilla floating through the air. Even now, she could smell it. They were attractive enough, white flecked with brown spots that might actually have been vanilla beans. Matt handled them freely, too, and wrapped them in tissue paper. Between the waxy candles and the plain glass, he had to have left plenty of prints.

Feeling more than a little smug, Joan paid him and tucked the two parcels into her capacious shoulder bag. “Thanks, Matt. You solved my problem for me.”

“Any time.” He escorted her to the door and watched her turn toward Wilma's. She was glad Fred hadn't asked her to meet him at the police station, though maybe it didn't matter what Matt thought, now that she'd succeeded in her mission.

A young woman in blue jeans and a denim jacket who had been looking at the dusty antiques in the window of Skirv's Stuff when she arrived fell into step with her. “Hello, Joan.”

Suddenly she recognized Officer Jill Root. “Well, hi there. I thought you were a student.”

“That was the general idea. Good job.”

“You were watching?”

Jill nodded. “Orders. But you obviously didn't need me. You even got him to wrap them.”

“I didn't want to worry about rubbing off his prints when I stuck them in my bag.”

“I brought along an evidence bag, but I don't think we need it.”

“Are you going to escort me all the way to Wilma's?” Joan was amused by the idea.

“Only to report to the lieutenant.”

Funny, Joan thought. He'll trust me to bring him the paint can on my own, but for this, he needed a witness. Maybe he's taking Skirv more seriously than Bert.

“Come have supper with us, why don't you?”

Jill smiled. “Thanks, but I have a date.” That was good news. The man she'd been in love with had been killed in a hit-and-run the previous year, and Jill had taken it hard.

“I'm glad to hear it,” Joan said. “Have a good time.” She wondered whether Jill would risk dating another cop but refrained from grilling her.

At the restaurant, Fred came forward to meet them.

“I snagged a booth,” he said. “Come on back, both of you. You can tell me all about it.”

“Nothing to tell,” Joan said when they were settled in the privacy of the back booth. “He sold me a pair of glass candlesticks and a couple of candles. Wrapped them and everything. I watched him hold them, so I'm sure you'll have his prints.” She patted the bag lying next to her. “But Fred, are you sure?”

“Of course not. We're eliminating a lot of men, you know. It just takes time.” He looked tired. “This guy may not even be anyone local. But Johnny Ketcham said Skirv sells Wrist-Rockets.”

“Oh, no!” How could she have missed seeing them in there?

Fred put his hand over hers. “Don't jump to conclusions. After all, Andrew has one.”

“Are you sure he sells them? I didn't see them.” What bothered her more, the fact that Fred had reason to suspect Skirv or her own inattentiveness?

“If Ketcham says so, it's true. And if it makes you feel any better, I didn't spot them, either. Or the pot. The difference is, a slingshot doesn't smell.”

“He sells pot, too?” She felt incredibly unobservant. All she'd smelled was vanilla.

“Not openly. But it explains why he'd be nervous around cops.”

“You think he had anything to do with that meth lab out there?”

“We'll keep that in mind.”

Was he humoring her? She couldn't tell.

“Suppose you hand over your prizes to Officer Root. She'll see to it that they're properly taken care of.”

“Suppose I hand them over to you, instead. Jill has better things to do tonight.”

Jill blushed. “I'll take them, Lieutenant.”

Oops, Joan thought. I forget who's in charge. She dug out the neatly wrapped packages and handed them over. Jill was going to need that evidence bag, after all.

21

It was still daylight Tuesday when Fred dropped her at home and went back to work. She hadn't seen Andrew since Sunday, when he'd talked to her normally, even if he hadn't called since.

Before she could change her mind, she grabbed a sackful of oranges out of the refrigerator. Not that he'd be in danger of scurvy after less than a week, but they couldn't hurt. He'd welcomed the apples last time.

The road out to the woods seemed shorter every time. Familiarity, she supposed. She was taking the curves like a native when she remembered poor Mr. Vint and slowed down. One of those curves had sent him to his death. No, not a curve. Another Petoskey stone. Did the next one have Andrew's name on it? Was anybody safe? She hadn't thought to tell Fred where she was going. At least she had a cell phone.

Fat lot of good that would do me if I were out cold, wrapped around a tree.

But she wasn't worried about herself as much as she was about Andrew. It was a relief to pull into the clearing. The temperature's already dropped out here, she thought when she left the car and walked toward the oak tree with her oranges.

Immediately the cell phone rang in her pocket. Fumbling for it, she could see Andrew's dark head above the platform. Now he was waving at her. She waved back, set down the bag of oranges, and answered the phone.

“Hi, Mom. What's up?”

“Besides you, you mean?”

“Funny.”

“I brought you some oranges.”

The basket began its descent, swinging in the breeze that was chilling the back of her neck, and she waited. When she could reach it, she loaded in the oranges, and he hauled it back up.

“Thanks, Mom,” he said into her ear then. “You're the only one who brings fruit.”

“Sure. What are mothers for?” Already she was reassured, just seeing him.

“Skirv called.”

“He did?” Her antennae went up.

“He said you went shopping at his place today for some old lady.”

“That's right; I did.” Should she tell him why? Not without Fred's okay. Even if Fred would trust Andrew, and at this point she wasn't sure he would, she knew he wouldn't want her to broadcast the fact that the police had those fingerprints.

Andrew was waiting for more. Had Skirv been spooked by her purchase? What had he said?

“You know Annie, at the center?”

“The one who knits all the time?”

“Uh-huh. And does all kinds of things to help me, for no pay. I decided it was high time to thank her. So I went gift shopping.”

“At Skirv's?” He sounded dubious, as well he might.

“Sure. I found some old candlesticks, not the kind of thing he has for students. They look like crystal, but if they are, I got more of a bargain than he meant to give me. He wrapped them and everything.”

“You're not going to tell me, are you?”

“Nope.” She put a smile in her voice. “And Andrew, let it drop. I'll tell you when I can, okay?”

“Okay.”

“How are you holding up?”

“I'm fine, Mom.”

“And you don't tell me everything, either.”

He laughed, a genuine laugh that did her heart good. “Just keep Fred off my back, okay?”

“I can't control Fred. But he's not what I'm worried about. I play for Sylvia's funeral Thursday, and you took her place.”

“I'm sorry, Mom. I'll keep a good eye out, and if I see anyone who looks the least bit dangerous, I promise to lie flat on my belly and call Fred.”

“Good.” There wasn't much more he could do, short of coming down, and she wasn't going to argue about that. But they hadn't seen anyone dangerous before Sylvia was hit.

“Thanks for the oranges.”

“Anything else you need?”

“No, I'm good.”

“I won't be here tomorrow. Orchestra night.”

“See you, Mom.”

She knew he was all right for the moment. Reassured, she turned and made her way out of the woods, only to see a pickup roar into the clearing and Tom Walcher's flaming shock emerge from it.

He had to be the right age, she thought. She wondered how much more description Fred had of the mysterious man whose fingerprints they'd identified. He couldn't have been a redhead, not if Fred thought Skirv might be a match, and she was sure Walcher was a natural redhead. The freckles and fair skin, his nose burned bright red where the bill of his cap didn't protect it, were a dead giveaway. But suppose he'd dyed his hair some other color before they arrested him in Michigan and then let it go back to its natural state in Indiana? It seemed unlikely, but it was possible.