Death Climbs a Tree (26 page)

This time she gave the text a much more careful reading than when she'd seen it before passing it to Jim at Fulford Electronics. It was a far cry from Ogden Nash, but even with all the messing around Jim and Alex had done, she liked it better than the original, boring words. And Alex's edits helped, she had to admit. She'd come up with a line about their rich tone that should mollify the violas even while adding a little pizzazz to what had come with the Britten score. She hadn't done anything for the piccolo player, though. Joan thought about it and then tried her own version. “You have to ask yourself how such amazing sounds can possibly come from the piccolo, the smallest instrument in the orchestra.” Was that really true? Maybe not. A triangle probably would beat it. “The smallest flute” would be better. And “music” would be better than “sounds.” She penciled the change above the line that had reduced Heather Mott to tears and crossed it out. Then she crossed out her own “possibly.” All right.

Could the oboes object to being told they “cut right through you”? Maybe, but they hadn't bothered to call about it yet. She considered something like “pierce you to your very soul” but rejected it as overblown, not in keeping with Tory's casual tone. Tory was right about what would speak to kids. Let it be for now. She could deal with the oboes later.

Where was Fred? It was time to eat, if she was going to see Andrew while it was still light outside. Tucking the pages back into their envelope, she stuck them into her jacket pocket. She quickly tossed a salad. Even as she was thinking she might have to start without him, Fred called.

“You mind if I come home late?”

“Of course not. It'll keep. And I have to go out.”

“Oh?”

“I promised Alex I'd drop off a new version of the Britten text at Jim Chandler's.”

“That's the next turnoff past Andrew's tree, isn't it? The woman who showed us the cave told us he lived down the road from her.”

“Right. I thought I'd stop and say hi to Andrew on the way.”

“Why doesn't she take it herself?” he asked. “I thought they were an item.”

“Beats me. I've quit trying to understand Alex.”

“Be careful out there. Those roads are treacherous in the dark.”

She was touched by his concern. “I don't plan to stay late.”

“Neither do I.”

“Supper will wait for you.”

Maybe, she thought, after she hung up, I should let the chicken keep simmering till I'm back. But memories of too many blackened suppers told her to turn it off. She put some chicken and rice in a couple of plastic bowls with tight lids and salad in another couple of bowls, slid the bowls into a plastic bag, wrote Fred a note, and left.

Andrew was glad to see her and gladder still when she sent a hot supper up in his basket. “Wow, Mom, this is great! How come?”

“I had to come out this way anyhow, and Fred wasn't going to be home in time for supper, so I thought why not?” She settled herself on the bed of leaves under his tree, leaning against it, and opened her two bowls. Rats. She'd forgotten utensils. Well, it wouldn't be the first time she'd eaten with her fingers.

On the ground beside her, the cell phone said something. She picked it up. “What? I had to put you down to pull off the lids.”

“It's good, Mom.”

“Thanks. You'll forgive me if I don't chat while I eat. I need one of those hands-free phone gizmos.” Especially now, she thought, with chicken and rice on her fingers. But as long as she ate with her right hand and held the phone with her left, it wouldn't be too bad. If she used the slippery hand for the phone, she'd drop the thing. “I'm getting the hang of it now.”

Even so, they ate silently.

“So how come tonight?” Andrew asked finally.

She told him about the text to the Britten.

“You'd think old Alex could come this far herself. But she always was weird, wasn't she?”

“I don't know how she is about men. This is the first time I ever saw her involved with one.” She leaned back against the tree and licked her fingers.

“What's he like?”

“Alex thinks he's grand. He's good-looking, I'll give him that. A salesman. Knows how to turn on the charm.”

“But? There was a but in your voice.”

She looked up. He was lying on his belly, hanging over the edge of the platform to look down at her. “I suppose there was. I don't really know him. But I heard him giving Birdie Eads a hard time when he didn't know I was there.”

“What did she do wrong?”

“Nothing, far as I could tell. She works in the same place he does—where Sylvia did, too—and it sounded as if she was afraid he'd get her fired. Or make her job intolerable, so she'd quit.”

“That's what you did.”

She looked up again, surprised. They'd moved to Oliver after her boss had tried to assault her in the office. She'd known she couldn't stay after stopping him. How much had Andrew understood? She was sure she hadn't talked about it to him, but he must have seen how upset she was.

“You're right. But I was lucky. I had my parents' house in Oliver, and as it turns out, I had friends here who found me a job.”

“So help her.”

He made it sound so simple, but maybe there was something she could do to help Birdie, if it came to that. A new thought. Not that she had any ideas, but if she could find work for Bert, she ought to be able to think of something for Birdie, even if she couldn't hire her, too.

“I'd better go.”

“Thanks for supper, Mom.” He lowered the basket with the empty bowls in it.

“You're welcome.” The damp breeze rustled the treetops and felt good on her face. “I hate to leave.”

“There's not enough room up here for both of us.”

“You're welcome to it. I like it fine down here.” She took a few moments to walk around and look at her surroundings. Fiddlehead ferns were poking up from the forest floor beside her, and under the next tree mayapples were about to unfurl their umbrellas. Just a little farther into the woods, she could see a red trillium, a few white bloodroot blossoms, and lots of speckled dogtooth violet leaves. That spot of bright yellow couldn't be a dandelion, though, not way in here. No, she saw, when she went closer, it was a Celadine poppy, already. And nearby, there would soon be more—she could see the fuzzy buds. She walked back to the oak. The light had begun to fade, and Andrew's face was less clear than when she'd arrived. “I'd better drop this off while I still can see my way.”

“See you, Mom.”

“Bye.” Dropping the phone in her pocket, she took a last look before turning her back on the woods.

And ran smack into Tom Walcher, the setting sun bright on his blazing hair. How had he sneaked up on her like that? Easy, she thought. I wasn't paying attention.

“You don't get it, do you?” He stood in her way, unmoving.

“Get what?” She was playing for time. Would he hurt her? She hadn't asked Fred whether he'd ruled Walcher out. He was such an obvious person, all except for that hair. Vint had laid into him, too.

“You're sneaking food to that guy up in the tree, aren't you?”

There was no way to hide the plastic bag she was carrying. Could she make him grab for it? Then she could give his prints to Fred.

“What's in the bag?”

“You wouldn't want it.” She tried to bat her eyes at him flirtatiously, but it didn't come naturally. She hated to think how it looked to him.

However it looked, it didn't work. He kept his hands to himself; whether purposefully or not she couldn't tell. Now she was sorry she hadn't held the bag out to him. But he didn't give her time to think of anything else to try.

“Get out!” He leaned into her face. Short as he was compared to Andrew, she was shorter, and he loomed over her, the tendons in his neck taut and his nostrils flaring. “Get out now, and don't come back!”

“I was just leaving.” Not proud of herself, she turned and all but ran.

When she started the car, a raucous twentieth-century symphony blared forth from the radio, a Russian, she was sure. Sounded like Shostakovich. Threaten me, will you? she thought, and turned the volume up higher than she herself could stand. Take that! But he hadn't threatened her, really. Not in so many words. It was his stance and the fierce look on his face that had scared her. And Andrew was far too high off the ground to come to her aid.

He would have been a witness, though, she thought. And Walcher knew someone was up there, even if he didn't know it was her son. He wouldn't have risked anything with another man watching, would he? Or would he have whipped out his handy-dandy Wrist-Rocket and taken care of him, too?

27

Once out of Walcher's hearing, Joan turned the radio down and felt more than a little silly. How childish had that been? Never mind, she told herself. If that was the only way I had the guts to yell back at him, at least the music did it for me.

Too bad you couldn't call up exactly the response you want when you want it. Birdie needed something like that when Jim treated her like dirt. They made little pocket sirens for people to use against burglars—there ought to be a big market for a pocket gizmo that would let you push a button and have it come up with the right music to fight back with. You done me wrong would have to be a country song. For you don't scare me, good old Shostakovich, or maybe Charles Ives in one of his most raucous moments. And love songs for shy persons. All right, so it was silly. But she felt better.

She heard the radio switch to a Mozart violin concerto. Perfect, she thought, and turned it back up to a reasonable level, feeling it lift her spirits.

Now she'd turned onto what had to be Jim Chandler's road. Like the road to Andrew's tree, it was bumpy, and she slowed as much for the car's benefit as to let her watch for the right house. Set back on a long driveway was a little cinder block house painted green that didn't look like the kind of thing he'd live in. No, a thin woman stood on the skimpy front porch with a shaggy dog. Some kind of small collie. Joan had never been good on breeds of dogs. The one dog Andrew had loved in his childhood had been a mutt from the pound.

She wondered whether Andrew could see this far. He'd know her car. Could he watch her drive along?

She knew he was off to her right somewhere, but the tall trees were now on both sides of the winding road. On the left, though, more of the trees were scrubbier, shorter, closer together, with thinner trunks. She could see why the protesters had chosen the spot they had, besides, of course, the fact that the place they'd chosen was threatened by the apartment construction.

A little house trailer on her left, again, didn't look likely for Jim, nor did the sunbonnet goose in its garden plot. Then, up ahead, she saw what looked like a very old log cabin, the logs rough and weathered to a silvery gray. The road ended just beyond the cabin, which left no doubt about it. Unless she was on the wrong road altogether, this had to be Jim Chandler's. Joan pulled into the driveway and parked. The cabin had a walkway paved with limestone slabs, and a limestone chimney climbed up its side. On foot, she could see that the cabin was bigger than it had appeared at first. It was at least as big as her own house, with almost a full second story. A bright red porch swing hung from chains at one end of its wide porch, and the door had been painted the same shiny red. As she came closer, light flooded the front yard. Had he seen her? Unless maybe the light was activated by motion. Good against burglars, but it must startle the occasional deer that meandered through the yard.

She climbed the broad wooden steps. No doorbell, but she used the heavy iron knocker on the door.

She heard no response, but when she lifted the knocker a second time, the door opened and pulled it out of her hand. Jim Chandler's face lit up. “Joan, what a surprise! What brings you out here?” He was wearing blue jeans, a faded red flannel shirt, and work boots.

“I came to see my son, and Alex asked me to drop off the new version of the Britten text.”

“I didn't know you had a son living out this way. Come in, won't you?” Standing back, he held the door open for her. It was low enough that she thought he probably had to stoop to go through it.

“It's a long story.” She was glad to get a chance to see the inside of the cabin. Who would have expected this man to live in such a house?

A fire crackled in the big fieldstone fireplace, and more split logs waited in a limestone alcove beside it. The work clothes might be genuine, Joan thought, not put on for effect. Maybe Jim got those muscles cutting, splitting, and stacking logs, not working out in some gym. She looked at him with grudging respect. But she doubted that he'd woven the bright rag rugs scattered around the room or made the rustic wooden rocking chairs in front of the fireplace. The rest of the furniture was old, saggy, and comfortable looking. He might have built the plain shelves that housed books and various oddments, though, including baskets that looked more likely to have been woven in Indiana than in China. The front wall showed the logs, but the other three inside walls were rough white plaster. A painting of woods that could have been the ones in which Andrew was sitting hung over the fireplace.

“Jim, this is lovely.”

“I'm glad you like it. Please, sit down.” Gesturing to one of the rockers, he took the other.

She sat, enjoying the warmth of the fire. Now that the sun was nearly down, it was more than a little welcome. She felt almost guilty being so comfortable, with Andrew up there in the chill.

“How long have you lived here?” she asked. “And how did you find this place? It really is old, isn't it? I mean, it looks genuine.” You're babbling, she thought. Stop it.

“It really is.” His rockers sang against the wide pine floorboards as he rocked. “I heard it was for sale, and I bought it. Just like any other house. I knew I didn't want to live in the middle of town.”