Death Climbs a Tree (25 page)

“Of course I'd pay. How much do you charge?” She was being very stiff-upper-lip and businesslike.

Joan thought of what Charlotte had told them about Gail's financial straits. “We don't charge a fee, but of course the orchestra would welcome a donation when you're on your feet again. There's no hurry. If you never can give us a penny, that's all right.”

Now Gail's eyes filled, and her words came tumbling out. “That's so kind of you. I don't even know when it will be yet. The funeral, I mean. We're still waiting for the coroner to release his body. It's so awful—Herschel doesn't usually work Sunday afternoon, but he went out to check on some reports of animals being killed in the woods. Mostly raccoons and squirrels and such, but wild turkeys and other birds, too, and one small doe—it's not even deer season. No shot or slugs or bullets, and for some reason they were just being left to rot. That wasn't his job, but he was so conscientious. He didn't take the children, the way he usually would of a Sunday, because he was afraid whoever was going after animals might not stop at little boys.”

Instead, Joan thought, he hadn't stopped at Herschel.

25

“I'll bet she saw him,” Andrew said. “From where I sit, I can see way into the woods. Clear across that creek, even. I'll bet she saw him hit a bird.”

Walking to work after lunch with Fred, Joan hadn't been able to resist calling him to report that someone was using animals out in the woods for target practice. She hated walking with a phone to her ear, but she didn't want to call from work.

“I suppose it's possible,” she said.

“It's more than possible. Don't you remember? She hollered out something like that right before she fell.”

“Andrew, I couldn't hear her; you could.”

“Oh. Yeah. Well, trust me, she did.”

“I believe you. You think this guy shot her because he heard her?”

“He wouldn't have heard her. It's hard enough to hear down to the bottom of the tree—you know that. But she was standing up. He could have seen her.”

“And killed her so she wouldn't tell anyone she saw him hit a turkey?”

“I don't see how he could expect to kill her. It was a freak accident.”

“Don't count on it, Andrew. He's killed a lot of animals out there. Even a deer. You keep down.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

He said it, but she didn't trust him to do it. By now he had to be stir-crazy on that tiny platform, and there were branches within reach. How could he resist climbing, for the exercise, if nothing else? She couldn't remember ever seeing Andrew that still for any length of time when he wasn't sick.

She'd told Fred what Gail Vint had said about the reason Herschel had gone to the woods, but he'd already known.

“The sheriff interviewed her on Sunday,” he'd said outside the church. “He's been good about keeping us informed.”

“And you don't think it's important?”

“It proves the man can aim. Gives us that much more reason to treat these deaths as homicides.”

“Oh.” She stood there, the sun in her eyes, a chilly wind blowing her hair, and the weight of her viola case pulling on her shoulder.

“You want me to run that by the house for you?”

“Yes, please.” She slid the strap off her shoulder and handed the viola to him.

He slung it over his own shoulder as if it weighed nothing at all.

“Why not come with me,” he said. “It's past noon.”

Why not, indeed. And so they'd gone home together for a quick bowl of soup. Joan had changed out of the suit she'd chosen for the funeral into comfortable slacks and shirt. On the way back, she'd asked him to drop her at the police station, to give her a few minutes in the fresh air.

At the door of the center, after talking with Andrew, she resolved to put him and the dangers he faced out of her mind, at least until the end of the workday she'd already cut short. But the people who greeted her when she came in made that impossible.

“You went to that funeral?” Berta Hobbs asked. As dummy now, while her partner played out their hand of bridge, she was free to talk.

“Yes,” Joan said.

“She played the music,” Annie Jordan said. “They had a string quartet instead of an organ. I never heard of such a thing, but it was downright pretty. None of that deedle deedle deedle those groups play, but regular hymn tunes.”

Joan suppressed a smile. “Thank you, Annie.”

“I kinda wanted to sing along, but nobody else was doing it, so I figured it wasn't the thing to do. But I sang inside my head, you know?”

Joan let the smile out. “I hope you weren't the only one.”

“I don't expect I was. Till you got to that slow piece, right before the preacher started talking. What was that, anyway?”

“It was from Handel's
Messiah
.” When Annie looked blank, Joan added, “The one with the ‘Hallelujah Chorus.'”

“I don't suppose you could play
that
for a funeral,” Annie said.

“Or without the chorus,” Joan said.

“I like when everyone stands up for it,” Annie said. “I don't know why, but they do.”

“The story is, the first time he heard it, the king of England was so impressed, he stood. So of course everyone else had to get up. And a lot of people still do.”

“Well, I never.”

“Was Sylvia's family there?” Berta asked.

“Oh, yes,” Annie said. “Her sister and the sister's husband and little girls. The preacher talked to them especially. And he said Sylvia gave her life for little animals and such and we all should live like that.”

Close enough, Joan thought.

“I don't know about that,” Berta said. “My days for climbing trees are long past.”

Ora Galloway, her bridge partner, laughed.

“You don't think I ever did?” She bristled. “You should have seen me. I was a regular tomboy. I could beat my brother at basketball, too.”

“Did the preacher talk about the man who killed her?” Ora asked. “I figure he's still on the loose out there. It's only a matter of time before he kills again. Ow!” He looked at Berta. “Keep your feet to yourself!”

She's looking out for my feelings, Joan thought.

“Just play the cards,” Berta said.

“Well, good grief, all I said was—” But he stopped when she glared at him.

Joan went to her office, stashed her shoulder bag in a drawer, and sat down. Annie followed her in.

“You all right?”

“Thanks, Annie, I'm fine.”

“That Ora shoots off his mouth too much.”

“Don't worry about me. I'm tougher than I look.”

“The music was beautiful. And so was the service.”

“Her sister liked it.”

“Well, that's what matters, isn't it? Everybody's always trying to figure out what the dead person would like, when it's the ones in the pews they ought to worry about.”

Good for Annie. “Yes. But you know, I think maybe Sylvia would have liked it, too, even if she didn't go to church.”

“You get any lunch?”

“Thanks, Annie. We went home. Anything happen around here?”

“I wouldn't know. I went to the service.”

“Oh, that's right. Well, it's quiet now. I'd better return a few of these calls.” There were no message slips waiting on her desk, but the blinker on her phone showed several voice messages.

Annie left her to it. The first couple of calls were requests for more information about programs announced in the newsletter, which must just be reaching people now. That was quick, Joan thought, as she noted the numbers to call.

Last was a call from Alex. Her words, asking for a return call, were straightforward, but Joan thought her voice sounded agitated. She hated to think what was coming.

Taking the work calls first, she signed up two new people for the exercise group. The first, a man, said he was only doing it because his wife wanted him to. “She thinks if I don't do something about this paunch, I'm gonna keel over. I held out until she quit cooking anything decent. So I'm giving in.”

“I hope you enjoy it,” Joan said, and made a mental note to ask the pretty young leader to pay him a little special attention.

The second was a woman with enough arthritis that she worried about being able to participate. “I don't want to get stiff, but I'm not supposed to do anything that hurts, and I've heard it has to hurt to do you any good.”

Joan assured her that she could take it at her own pace, whatever the class was doing. “That no pain, no gain business doesn't mean joints.”

The third and fourth calls were from orchestra members complaining about the new text to the Britten. Joan already knew what John Hocking thought, but the first chair violist gave her an earful when she returned the call. “Bad enough to listen to those jokes, but to have insults about us spouted at our own concert goes beyond bad. I don't know if it was the kid or the narrator who wrote them, and I don't care. You stand up for us, you hear?”

Then the first flutist exploded in her ear. “I know some people don't like a piccolo, but Heather was almost in tears. That's no way to treat her. I expected something better of you.”

“I didn't—”

“It doesn't matter. What matters is that you fix it.”

With that kind of emotion among the players, she dreaded calling Alex back. Maybe the new, softer Alex would be easier to take, or was that only in Jim's presence? They hadn't come up after the funeral, but of course the quartet had been talking to Linda Smith and Gail Vint. No reason for Alex to butt in.

“Alex? Joan.”

“I need another favor.” Calling it a favor was a step in the right direction, but otherwise it was the same old Alex. She just whacked you with what she wanted from you. “I've been getting complaints about the new narration.”

Joan wasn't surprised. But what was Alex going to ask her to do about it? Shut up the complainers?

“And you want me to…?”

“I want you to look over what I've done to it. See whether you think this version will offend anyone.” Amazing. Maybe Alex really had changed. Maybe she really cared about the feelings of the players. “I couldn't wait at the church to talk to you, and besides, there were too many people up there, and I was with Jim.”

“Yes.”

“So I'm going to bring it over to you now.”

“Alex, I'm at work. I was gone all morning. I can't spend the afternoon on orchestra business.”

“Just a quick look—it won't take you a minute.”

Uh-huh. “Why the big rush? You could bring it to me after work. I'll be home by six.”

“But I want you to take it to Jim before he goes home.”

Time to put her foot down. “Alex, I can't. If you bring it to me at home, I can look at it there.”

“By that time he'll be home, too.”

“So?”

“He lives way out in the boonies. Past where Sylvia was protesting. I don't want to drive you out there.”

“I suppose I could drive myself.” And see Andrew while I'm at it. Does Alex not know he's there now? Or is she blocking it? Why can't she drive out there? It could hardly be called throwing herself at him.

“That's settled, then. And Joan, there's no reason to tell him I'm the one who made the changes.”

Oh, it's like that, is it? “I won't volunteer it.”

“Not even if he asks.”

“Not if I can help it.” But I won't lie for you, Alex.

The rest of the afternoon went so quietly that she might as well have given in and read the thing at work. As it was, Alex got what she wanted without having to drive past the middle of town.

And I promised to drive all the way out there this evening.

It would make more sense, she knew, to call Alex back and ask her to take it to him in the morning, but she didn't want to go through another argument.

Look on the bright side, she told herself. At least I'll see Andrew. I'll go there first, before it's too dark to see him.

She thought she'd come to terms with her own wimpiness, but when she pulled out the center's checkbook and settled down to pay bills, she dug the ballpoint pen into the first check hard enough to tear a hole in ordinary paper.

26

Standing on Joan's front doorstep, Alex thrust the familiar envelope at her. “I didn't have time to type them all clean, but I'm sure you'll be able to make them out.”

Joan pulled out the pages and saw the changes inked above the lines in a cramped scrawl. “You're not asking me to give him clean copy?”

“Well…” Alex didn't meet her eyes.

“I couldn't if I wanted to. I don't even have a printer here.” Hers had given up the ghost, and she hadn't yet replaced it. If she had to print something, she took a diskette to work. But that was more than she had any intention of telling Alex.

“If you remember, I wanted to take it to you at work.”

“Honestly, Alex, I'm the orchestra's manager, not your private secretary. You can't expect me to do nonsense like this for you, much less at work.”

“It's not for me. It's for the good of the orchestra. People were threatening to quit at the last minute.”

Joan believed her. “I'll look at it, and I'll show it to Jim. But you or Jim will have to deal with the clean typing.” Whoever did this version could just make the changes on it.

She took it back to the kitchen with her, where her teriyaki chicken was simmering in a wok. No self-respecting Japanese cook would acknowledge it, she thought, but after browning the chicken, she'd poured store-bought teriyaki sauce over the pieces, sliced some onions onto them, and covered them to finish cooking without her help. The rice, on the other hand, would boil over any minute if she didn't watch it. One of these days she was going to treat herself to an automatic rice cooker that would let her dump in the rice and water and forget about it. There—the rice was boiling. She turned the flame down, picked up the pages Alex had given her, and sat down at the kitchen table.