OUT ON A LIMB (3 page)
“Miss Parchester—” I gurgled.
“Or perhaps a stroke,” she added. “I haven’t decided which might be more effective. In either case, the film clip of an old woman being dragged to the ground will be the lead story on every channel. Finnigan has been in touch with the major cable news channels. CNN has promised to send a crew in the next few days, as have its competitors.”
I accepted a cup of tea from the Mad Hatter. “So you volunteered because of the potential publicity factor?”
“I’ve never underestimated you, dear.”
She began to stir her tea as if she and I were sitting in her parlor, surrounded by piles of ancient yearbooks and yellowed newspaper clippings trumpeting her papa’s accomplishments in the courtroom. Below us, voices were belligerent as opposing parties debated the issue. Luanne and Finnigan Baybergen were in each other’s faces; I couldn’t hear the exchange, but I could see it was not amicable. The rednecks were no longer present, although I was not at all confident they were gone for the night
“Miss Parchester,” I said without much hope, “it’s dangerous for you to sleep here. The temperature’s going to drop to forty, maybe lower. If you should happen to wake up and not realize where you are, you might—”
“I am linked to my tree,” she said as she held out her ankle so I could see the cuff attached to a chain that wrapped around the trunk of the tree. “I suppose I might take a misstep and dangle, but I cannot fall all the way to the ground. It may well be uncomfortable, but Finnigan has the key.”
The tea turned to acid in my mouth. “If you fall off the platform, only Finnigan can release you? You’ll swing by your ankle until he rescues you?”
“Like a pendulum,” she agreed with a giggle.
It took me a moment to respond. “And he will be here all night, right?”
“I shouldn’t think so. He and the other members of the Green Party will stay until the media and sightseers leave. After that, I shall crawl into my sleeping bag and watch the moonlight through the branches. The whip poorwills will keep me company until dawn breaks.”
“But what if…” I said weakly. The platform was ten feet above the ground. The image of her taking a tumble and then swinging helplessly made my stomach churn. I wasn’t sure exactly how old she was, but I had no doubt she was too old to take up this newly created gymnastic event. “If you should fall…”
“Then I shall be a martyr, and Anthony Armstrong will never find the nerve to destroy this tree and those around it. The public outcry will be too much for him. I would rather have this vibrant stand of oak trees than a cold marble slab in a cemetery. A tasteful plaque would be nice, perhaps at the base of the tree. Bronze, I think.”
She might be able to think, but I certainly wasn’t. I finished my tea, then said, “Is there any chance I can talk you out of this? What about your dogs? Who’ll look after them?”
“Nick and Nora are staying at my niece’s house in the country. She doesn’t appreciate their sensitive natures but has promised to see to them until I return. She’s a fine girl, very solid and reliable. I shall miss them, but Papa always said that civic responsibility was more important than individual needs. Mahatma Gandhi sacrificed his life for the good of humanity; surely I can survive minor deprivation and discomfort to do what I can to protect our legacy.”
“Just how long are you prepared to stay here?”
“Well, Mr. Constantine—he’s the unfortunately flatulent gentleman behind Finnigan—is a retired lawyer. He’s planning to file a suit tomorrow that claims this particular grove is an essential stopover for migratory hawks, which means there would be a violation of EPA regulations concerning protected species if the habitat was destroyed. We may not win the case, but we’re hoping for an emergency restraining order. He hopes to get a hearing within a day or two.”
“A day or two, Miss Parchester?” I said, trying not to sound exasperated. “Couldn’t the Farberville Greens have chosen someone else?”
She gave me a look that must have quelled whispering in the back of her classroom. “What is it you’re trying to say, Claire? Am I too old to protest injustice? Should I sit in a rocking chair on the porch and quietly wait for my eyesight to fade and my memory to diminish?”
I caught her hand. “Of course not, Miss Parchester. It’s just that, well, it’s going to be a hardship for you. You’re in danger from the elements, as well as those unsavory men. I’d feel better if your supporters planned to stay the night.”
“Finnigan has classes in the morning, and Mr. Constantine will be at the courthouse. I don’t see how the others would fare much better than I. My sleeping bag is filled with down. Miss Whitbred gave me a lovely set of thermal underwear and woolen socks, and the Margolises contributed a thermos so that I can keep my tea hot all night. Eliza Peterson brought along several paperback books, although, I must admit, I question her taste. Some of the covers are quite racy. Louis Ferncliff baked his special almond coconut brownies. Would you like one?”
“You had a tree-sitting shower?”
Miss Parchester smiled sadly. “I’d always dreamed of a bridal shower. This will have to suffice.”
I had run out of things to say that might persuade her to come down from the tree. The night would be chilly, but she seemed well equipped. Finnigan Baybergen had not struck me as someone capable of staring down a bulldozer. Miss Parchester, on the other hand, had survived forty years at Farberville High School. Thousands of teenagers, year after year, all with acne and shiftyeyed excuses, all presuming they could outwit her. Despite their youthful bravado, there had never been a level playing field.
“Do you have a cell phone?” I asked.
“Yes, Finnigan insisted I take his, although it’s a peculiar little thing and I doubt I can operate it. So many buttons, you know.” She brandished a rectangular object that very well might have been an almond coconut brownie, minus the crumbs. “He explained at very great length. I don’t suppose you remember when otie could merely pick up the receiver and wait for the operator to ask whom you wished to call. When I was a child, I could ask for Mama and the operator would track her down. These days there are so many numbers to be dialed or punched or even entered—whatever that means. Fve entered rooms and entered contests, but I’ve never entered numbers. It’s all quite alien, I’m afraid.”
I leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “If you’re the least bit worried about this …”
“Not at all, dear Claire. Anthony Armstrong will never risk the negative publicity that should arise if I, a gentlewoman of a certain age, were to be dragged from this platform. He knows well that the media will capture it all and he will find himself the object of outrage not only locally, but across the country. I shall protect the tree, and it shall protect me from harm’s way.” She dropped the ladder off the edge of the platform and gave me a twinkly smile. “Thank you for dropping by, Claire. Do come again when you’re in the neighborhood.”
I had been dismissed. I fumbled and swung until I reached the ground, then watched helplessly as she pulled the ladder back up and disappeared from view. I wondered if I should confront Finnigan Baybergen and try to convince him of the insanity of the scheme. It was, however, devious and well thought out. Construction workers might have been able to drag a squirmy, greasy-haired youth out of the tree, even breaking a few bones in the process, but the very idea of anyone causing harm to Miss Parchester, with her rosy cheeks, porcelain complexion, and faded blue eyes, would be reviled in the national spotlight.
“Let’s go,” I said to Luanne, who was glaring at the demonstrators as if she were a bull charging into an arena. The slightest flicker of red and bloodshed would ensue.
“These people are morons. Oh, yes, good cause and all, but the very idea of allowing—”
I caught her arm. “It’s as much Miss Parchester’s scheme as theirs.” I told her about the hoped-for injunction, then added, “This whole situation may be resolved by tomorrow. There’s nothing we can do short of pitching a tent and toasting marshmallows over a candle.”
Luanne shrugged. “I suppose not.”
Finnigan Baybergen was hovering nearby, looking as though he was torn between punching me in the nose or scratching a bad grade on a midterm paper. I’d spent too many years in academia to feel threatened by either. I let go of Luanne and went over to talk to him. His hps receded, but he held his ground.
“Who are you to interfere?” he demanded.
“A friend of Miss Parchester,” I said evenly. “I find it irresponsible that you and your merry band of mischief-makers are willing to go home and allow her to stay here alone tonight. What about those rednecks who were here earlier? They or others of the same subspecies could come back, you know. Your goals may be lofty, but you seem to be willing to put a woman of her age in danger while you watch yourselves on the latenight news.”
“After you take a hot shower,” Luanne said, looming over my shoulder, “and make yourself a toddy. You’re half her age, for pity’s sake. Have you been camping since you were a Boy Scout?”
Finnigan stiffened. “I happen to have spent three weeks in Alaska test summer. Conditions were quite primitive, and on two occasions we discovered evidence that a bear had been prowling outside the cabin. Nonetheless, that is irrelevant. The Farberville Green Party has its agenda. Miss Parchester was not coerced; she volunteered.”
I nudged Luanne away and stared at Finnigan. “So you’re going to allow her to sleep on the platform with no one but that inept security guard to make sure she’s safe?”
He gave me a supercilious smile. “I don’t understand why this is any of your concern. You insult Miss Parchester by implying that she is incapable of deciding to take a stand to protect these trees. You said you were her friend. Do you think she’s feebleminded, a lamb to be sacrificed for our evil goals?”
“She’s not that,” I admitted, glancing at the platform.
“And she’s armed,” he said softly. “Despite her objections, Joseph Margolis insisted that she take his handgun. She argued vehemently, but we persuaded her to tuck it in the duffel bag. With the ladder pulled up, nobody should be able to disturb her. But if someone does…”
If ever I had felt the blood drain from my face, this was the moment. “She’s armed?”
I did not add that she was, therefore, dangerous.
I wasn’t sure how much Luanne had heard of my conversation with Finnigan, but I could see no reason to set her off while she was still fuming. As long as the rope ladder was furled, no one could menace Miss Parchester. And, I reminded myself, the cause was defensible but unlikely to stir up unrestrained fury from those who favored development over scruffy oak trees, no matter how old they—or the players—were. Only one person would profit from Phase Two, and he was conspicuously absent. Jessica Princeton had done her best, but squabbles at city hall and political corruption on the county level had now captured her viewers’ attention.
“Let’s go,” I said to Luanne before she could throw a punch at anyone in range, including the Green Party demonstrators, bewildered gawkers, or even a few curious chickadees. “Miss Parchester can take care of herself.”
The security cop was still undercover in the literal sense of the word, but I doubted he would be of much use. The platform was high; anyone who attempted to climb the tree might discover that Miss Parchester had not only a chamber pot but also a thermos of scalding tea at her disposal (and, well, a gun, but surely one of minimal caliber). And the issue might be resolved the next morning, either in court or by brunt of a bulldozer. Anthony Armstrong might well be the perpetrator behind the demise of fruitful orchards and babbling brooks, but I could not believe that he would welcome the adverse publicity should physical harm come to Miss Parchester.
The student was pacing near the road. “My seminar starts in less than ten minutes,” he announced as if we cared.
“Seventeenth-century French literature?” Luanne asked in a sugary voice. “Will Moliere sink into obscurity without your profundity?”
“Wow, like sorry,” he said as he followed us toward my car. “This is really nice of you. I didn’t mean to sound so rude. My name’s Randy Scarpo. My wife, Jillian, and I have lived here for almost two years. I’d planned to go to the library earlier this afternoon, but she was upset because the baby’s been running a fever. I had no idea what was going on until I came outside, at which point there was no way for me to get my car out. I have orals at the end of the semester, and the last thing I want to do is piss off a professor on the committee.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I live next to the campus, and dropping you off won’t be inconvenient.”
He folded himself into the backseat of my perpetually messy hatchback. “Are you two faculty?”
Luanne appraised him over her shoulder, then said, “I regret to say that we’re merely outside agitators who may have been protesting the cause celebre alongside your parents before they opted to beget you.”
“Not my parents. They were in their sanitized dorms, watching televangelists pray for your mortal souls.”
I waited until a van passed, then pulled onto the road. “Is the baby better?”
“It wasn’t anything. Jillian gets upset when Connor so much as sneezes. Last month she insisted we take him to the emergency room when he got the hiccups. You can imagine how that went down. Our pediatrician has tried to talk to her, but she won’t listen.”
“Doesn’t she have some sort of support?” asked Luanne. “A group of mothers her age with whom she can share concerns?”
“I wish she did, but she’s kind of reclusive. Her only friend at Oakland Heights moved out. No one else has a baby, or even a toddler. Her only sister is a lesbian who does stand-up comedy at college campuses. Jillian hasn’t spoken to her in years.” He paused, then added, “My parents adore Jillian. They bought us the condo for a wedding present.”
I glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Where shall I drop you off?”
“Koenig Hall, if that’s okay. And my seminar’s in differential vectors, not French literature.”