Death Climbs a Tree (27 page)

“Did you have to do much to it?”

He laughed. “Just about gutted the place. Didn't touch the outside, though, except to patch the chinking between the logs. There were holes you could see through. The floor is original, too, but I sanded it.”

“You did it all yourself?”

“Some things, and some I hired done. I couldn't do wiring, for instance, or plumbing. And I couldn't afford to have everything done at once.”

“How long did it take?”

“It feels like half my life. A couple of years, I guess. And there are still a few things I want to do. But I have all the modern conveniences except a furnace.”

“Is this your only heat?”

“Yup. Unless you count splitting the wood. You know how they say it warms you twice, once when you split it and once when you burn it.”

“Do you cut all your own wood, too?”

“No. I don't have enough land to keep up with the amount I burn. Or time enough to do it.”

“I can imagine.”

He walked over to the fireplace and laid another couple of logs on the fire. With a stone hearth as deep as his, she realized, he didn't need to bother with a screen. Any stray sparks would land safely on the stone.

“My next project will be a stove.”

“How do you cook now?”

“Not for the kitchen—for here.”

“Oh … but the fireplace is so beautiful.”

“Sure, in April. But come January, I'd be glad not to lose so much heat up the chimney. It gets cold upstairs.”

“Of course.”

“I have to admit, though, that I'd miss it. It's probably why I've taken so long to get around to it.”

“You couldn't put a stove upstairs, instead?”

“I've been thinking about that. Maybe a little coal stove.”

Her own rockers sang. She could love a place like this, she thought, though she wouldn't want to face that road in winter. And when it came right down to it, all that wood burning would be hard work. Hard on her viola, too. It had to dry out the air. The poor thing would crack wide open.

“So, let's see what you have for me.”

Startled, she reached into the shoulder bag she'd parked on the floor and passed him the envelope. “Alex and I have both been getting calls from players objecting to things they thought made them sound bad.”

“Uh-huh.”

She looked around the room while he read. A collection of hand-carved walking sticks leaned against the wall in one corner, and a Scoutmaster hat that looked like Smokey the Bear's sat on a shelf next to a row of mugs with dates on them—“1994 summer camp” beside “1995 Camporee.” The baskets on his shelves held collections of attractive things that he or his Scouts must have picked up here and there, as Andrew had done—a cocoon on a stick, an abandoned wasp's nest, and a small bird's nest in one. In others were arrowheads, rocks, and shells. She couldn't see them clearly from her chair.

A generous basket was heaped with what looked like lost-and-found items—mittens, neckerchiefs, a compass with a cracked lens, a blue Cub Scout flashlight that looked like the one Andrew had cherished when he was seven. Plastic cord stood ready for lanyard making, and bits of red and green rope had to be for tying knots. Closer to her, a tattered Scouting manual and a pile of Boy Scout badges with name tags on them waited for boys to claim them. She wondered whether there was a badge that had to do with music. He'd said he was going to tell his Scouts they should come to the concert.

He looked up when he finished reading. “Touchy bunch, aren't they?”

That got her back up. “They know they're not perfect, but they do the best they can. They don't need to be insulted—not in their own concert.”

“I see you violas couldn't take it. It figures.” She recognized the tone he'd used on Birdie. One minute charming, the next nasty.

“It was our first chair who called Alex, and she's an excellent player.”

“For a viola. You know what they say about violas—”

She cut him off. “I've heard all those jokes.”

“What do you call it when two violas play the same note? A half step.”

She glared at him.

“It's a joke.”

“I think it's time for me to leave.” She struggled to her feet, wishing there were a more graceful way to climb out of the rocker.

He jumped up. “I should have known. You women are all alike. First you're all flattery and then you take offense at the least little thing. It's all a tease—tease a man and then think you can just walk out on him.”

Reaching behind her, she backed toward the door. “But I didn't—”

“Oh, yes, you did, and nobody makes a fool out of me.” Something in his eyes scared her even more than his words.

“I wouldn't—”

“‘It's so lovely.'” He mimicked her voice. “‘You did it all yourself?'” He grabbed her. “I'll show you what I can do!”

“No, Jim.” She tried to say it firmly, but she could hear her voice shake. And she couldn't pull away from his grip on her arm. “Jim, stop! You're hurting me!”

He laughed. “You want it. You know you do. I've been watching you. I could see it in your eyes ever since the first time you saw me. And now you've come to me.”

Shaking her head, she fought the fingers that dug into her arm, but her strength was no match for his. “No, Jim. I—”

“‘No, Jim,'” he mocked her. Pressing her body against the log wall, he jammed his wet mouth onto hers. He fumbled with her shirt buttons while his teeth dug into her lips.

Her fingers, groping behind her for something to use as a weapon, felt only old mittens.

Then, as suddenly as he'd begun, he pushed her away. “Get out of here. Who'd want such a scrawny thing, anyway? God, you're nothing but a stick, like my mother.”

Dazed, she grabbed the bag she had dropped and ran the last few steps to the door.

He followed her and stood in the doorway watching her stumble down the stairs and into the car. She kept expecting him to make some last crack, but he stood silent. When she backed out of the driveway, he was still standing there, but the look that had frightened her had disappeared from his eyes. Or was it only that she was no longer close enough to see it? The man in the doorway of the cabin seemed as charming as ever. As she drove off, she couldn't help looking back. He was waving.

Joan shuddered and wiped her mouth with her hand. She tried to tell herself she was blowing the whole thing out of proportion. After all, Alex was dating this man. All he'd done was grab her and kiss her.

No, she thought, remembering his eyes. And that crack about her wanting it. She could still feel the spots where his fingers had dug into her arms. They were going to bruise, she thought. He knew he was hurting me. He wanted to hurt me.

What would Fred say? Would he laugh at her, or would he tear Jim Chandler apart? She didn't want him to do either one. She wanted time to think.

28

When she came to the turnoff to Andrew's tree, she was tempted to stop again, but she held back. It wasn't fair to unload on him, especially not with him way up where he couldn't do a thing.

Then her cell phone rang. Nobody had that number but Andrew and Fred, though Fred never used it. She pulled over to a convenient wide spot in the road and stopped to pull the phone out of her pocket.

“Andrew?”

“You okay, Mom?”

“Sure.” She tried to sound casual. “Why?”

“I was watching you with my binoculars.”

“You what?”

“I can see a long way from up here. Not where you are now, but across a creek to that road you were on before. I saw you go into that cabin, and when you came out, you took off like someone was after you. You sure you're okay?”

She was flabbergasted. “Nobody's chasing me, Andrew.” But she couldn't help looking back to confirm it.

“Then what happened?”

The shudder returned, and she gripped the steering wheel hard with her free hand. “I—I don't quite know.” Her voice trembled in spite of her best effort to control it. “He came on to me.”

“He scared you?” Andrew wasn't laughing at her, and he certainly couldn't tear anybody apart from up there. “The man who was standing there when you left?”

She nodded, knowing full well that he couldn't see her. “He grabbed me by the arm. Hard. I couldn't get away from him.”

“But you did.”

“No, he pushed me off. Told me I was too skinny. I wasn't good enough for him. If he hadn't, I don't know what would have happened.”

“You're not going back there. Ever.” This authoritative man was her child? But he was right.

“No, I'm not.” Was that why Alex wouldn't go? Even though she dated him, was she afraid to be alone with him? So she sent me! Joan was suddenly angry.

“And Mom, don't take this wrong, but you're not skinny.”

She was past taking it wrong. “Compared to Alex. Jim's the man I told you about who's dating her.”

Andrew had met Alex. “Well, sure, compared to her.”

Or compared to Birdie, she thought. If she was right, Jim Chandler and Birdie had been a couple first, and Birdie was still angry about the breakup.

But suppose she'd read Birdie's tension all wrong.

Andrew broke into her silence. “Mom? You all right?”

“Just thinking. Andrew, before Sylvia fell, you could hear her saying something. Where was she looking?”

“Into the woods, why?”

“That's what I remember, too. But couldn't she have been doing what you were doing today—looking past the woods?”

“I guess.”

“Exactly what did she say?”

“I told you—something about birds. Or a bird.”

She didn't want to put words into his mouth, but they weren't in court and she wasn't a cop. “Did she call it Birdie, as if she were talking to it?”

“That's right. How did you know? She yelled right into my ear, ‘Birdie, no!' Then she fell.”

“I've got to talk to her.”

“Mom, she's dead.”

“Not Sylvia. Her friend Birdie. Birdie Eads. See you later, Andrew.” She flipped the phone closed.

Now, if only Birdie would be at home. Joan pulled up to the little house. Lights were on in the living room—a good sign.

Birdie answered her ring. “Joan! Are you okay?”

Joan automatically put a hand up to the hair straggling down the back of her neck. How bad must she look? “Can I come in?”

“Of course.” But Birdie ushered her in as if she were at least ninety years old, and an old ninety, at that.

Bad, then, she thought. Sitting beside Birdie on her love seat, she didn't know how to begin. “Alex sent me out to Jim Chandler's tonight.”

Birdie's hand rose to her mouth. “Oh, no!”

“You went out there the day Sylvia fell, didn't you?”

She hung her head. “Yes.”

“After Sylvia tried to talk you out of it.”

“Yes.” Almost a whisper.

“Why? Why didn't she think you should go?”

“Because I'd told her.”

“What had you told her, Birdie? What did he do to you?”

“You know, don't you?”

Not speaking, Joan took her hand.

Finally Birdie looked at her. “Did he rape you, too?” And the tears came.

Joan held her close until her sobs subsided. “You never told anyone but Sylvia?”

“I was too ashamed. And Sylvia made it sound so easy. She wanted me to report him to the police. Or our boss. But Jim said they'd fire me, not him.”

“So you didn't.”

“I couldn't, don't you see? Nobody would believe me. It would be my word against his—he never left a mark on me.”

A rape kit at the hospital might prove it, Joan thought, feeling her own bruised arm. “Is he still—”

“No. He started seeing Alex, but I never thought he'd hurt her—or you.”

“Just my arm. I'm not his type.”

“Not fat, you mean, like me.” The words were matter-of-fact, but her mouth trembled, and her eyes flashed. “He likes women with a little meat on them, he said. At first I was flattered. But then he wouldn't take no for an answer—and, oh, Joan, I'd never even been with a man.”

You poor baby, Joan thought. “I'm so sorry. But Birdie, why did you go out there? Was that when he was still being charming?”

“No. He made me do all kinds of things and kept on—he just kept on hurting me. He was so strong. He threatened to tell them lies about me at work to get me fired. He knew that job was all I had.”

And he browbeat you into thinking there were no other jobs for a woman like you. “So you went. In the middle of the day.”

“Yes. On days when he supposedly worked at home, he'd make some excuse for me to take him something or other from work, like his personal errand girl. But that day, I was early, and he wasn't home. I was so relieved, I just left whatever it was and went back to work. When your husband came to tell us about Sylvia, I was in the office and could give him my key to her apartment.”

“That helped, I know,” Joan said.

“It helped her sister. But nothing helped Sylvia.”

The only person you trusted, Joan thought. I've got to help you find another job, away from him.

“Did he know you told Sylvia?”

“He laughed.”

“Laughed?”

“He said she was a kook, and nobody would believe anything she said.”

She'd have to tell Fred, Joan thought.

*   *   *

Ketcham caught Fred on the way back from Captain Altschuler's office. “Andrew for you on line one. Sounds upset.”

Fred took it at his own desk. “What's up?”

“It's Mom.”

He had to press the receiver against his ear to hear the faint voice. “Is she hurt?”

“I don't know.”

“What do you mean, you don't know?” He caught himself bellowing but didn't care.