Death Climbs a Tree (10 page)

“I care about him. He's a sweet boy.”

“I know you do.” And I know he's a sweet boy. Why do I keep remembering him as a baby?

The day dragged on. Joan deliberately did not turn on the radio they kept in her office mostly for weather warnings. She hoped Andrew had enough sense to come down if a tornado was on the way, or even a thunderstorm—she planned to phone him if she heard a warning. So far he'd only had to deal with rain. With the sun shining outside her office window, she felt free to ignore the radio.

Ignoring the comments around her was harder. Most of them were the same things people had said earlier, but now they were looking for villains among their friends. No one took seriously the idea that Cindy Thickstun would murder anyone to get her daughter and grandchildren out of her house, but more than once Joan heard muttering about the hot temper of Bert Barnhart, unemployed husband of the woman who cleaned for Annie. Alone in her office at last and paging through her phone book, she found him listed at a rural address. Not surprising, she thought. Living a little way out in the county often cost less than living in town. She supposed he might practice taking potshots at squirrels with rocks, too. Cheaper than shooting with bullets. He'd have plenty of time on his hand, with no job. And good reason to resent Sylvia—and now Andrew. Had they spent time in Michigan? She asked Mabel Dunn.

“Where are the Barnharts from, do you know?”

“She grew up here, but he didn't. I think he's from somewhere in Michigan. Don't take my word for it, though.”

She'd have to tell Fred. When she tried, using his private number, the man who answered said he was out but offered to take a message.

“No, thanks. I'll see him later.” Surely later would be soon enough. Except for her son. She dialed Andrew's cell phone.

He sounded so cheerful that she wasn't sure what he knew. But then he said slowly, “I suppose you've heard the news.”

“Yes. Turns out somebody may have killed her, after all.”

“How? I mean, we were right there. Did you see anybody?”

Rats. She hadn't meant to lay that on Andrew if he hadn't already heard it. Never mind. He'd hear it soon enough. Better from her.

“You know I didn't. But this morning I found a stone near your tree.”

“You were out here this morning?”

“Early, looking for morels.”

“It's too soon for mushrooms, even in southern Indiana. You were checking up on me, weren't you?”

She was glad he couldn't see her blush. “I suppose so. But I found a Petoskey stone, instead.”

“And?”

“There aren't any Petoskey stones down here. Andrew, I think someone with a slingshot like yours shot it at her.”

He didn't laugh, for which she was grateful. “You tell Fred?”

“Of course, and he came out and got it. You keep your head down!”

“You're really worried.”

“Worried doesn't come close. I'm scared to death that you're up there, now more than ever. I just heard a guy I wouldn't want to have mad at you is upset at the construction delay.”

“Old Walcher doesn't scare me.”

“He scares me, but I didn't mean him. Somebody killed her, Andrew!”

“I'll be careful. And I let down the tarp to the walls more than Sylvia did.”

She hoped he meant it.

“But not all the way, or all the time. I'd get claustrophobia on this dinky platform if I couldn't see around me some. And not at night, unless it rains or I'm freezing. They're not going to shoot at me in the dark. And you wouldn't believe the stars I can see from here. This far away from the lights in town, they're really awesome, even through the trees.”

Her urge to warn him had been so strong that it hadn't occurred to her to wonder whether she'd told him too much, but now she worried that she had, even if it didn't seem to be sinking in that he was in real danger. “Andrew, you'd better not mention the Petoskey stone to anyone else.”

“Why not?”

“It's the kind of detail the police sometimes don't release.”

“So nobody but the cops and the murderer would know it, you mean?”

“Exactly. Fred and I didn't talk about that, but if I hadn't been so scared, I would have known better than to mention it to you.”

“You know I didn't do it. You were there.”

“I would have known that anyway. But yes, it's good you and I can witness for each other.”

“You think anyone would believe us if we did?”

“I think it's never going to come up. Just be careful, okay?”

“I promise.”

“And let other people tell you what they think happened. They won't expect you to know anything.”

“Right.” He was tolerating her.

She gave up, for now, anyway. “You have enough food?”

“Yes, Mom. I'm doing fine. And I suspect the whole protest will get a lot more attention from now on. Sylvia would have liked that.”

She would, Joan thought. “How well did you know her, Andrew?”

“Not as well as you did—I wasn't in love with her, if that's what you're thinking—but I agree with what she was doing.”

“You think it's worth it?”

“Worth dying for? I don't want to die. But I'd rather die for this beautiful land and wildlife than a lot of things they give out medals for. And no one had the right to do that to Sylvia! I'm standing up for her, and for her commitment.”

She wished his father could hear him. He would have been so proud. But she hoped Andrew wasn't literally standing up on his dinky platform. How did the mothers of people on active duty in the military bear it, knowing that at any time their children might be killed? She couldn't answer him.

“They've already got big equipment in that clearing where we buried her basket. It'll serve 'em right if they dig it up.” The grin on his face came through in his voice.

“It's no joke!”

“I know, Mom, but I've gotta do it.”

*   *   *

She wondered during the afternoon whether he was right about the attention the protest would get. On the way home after work, though, she knew he was. A straggly crowd, mostly young, was already marching though Oliver, beginning at the Oliver College campus and apparently headed for city hall, or maybe the police station.

“Who killed Sylvia?” they were shouting, and, “Don't kill the trees!” Fists pounded the air to the beat of the shouts.

Joan paused at a corner to watch, as did a couple of men who'd been playing pool at the senior center. Several uniformed police officers also were watching, but not attempting to interfere with the march. Probably wise, she thought. A little shouting wouldn't hurt anybody. But she hoped they weren't dismissing the march as campus nonsense. She thought it was in dead earnest. And if those fists started pounding anything besides air, Fred might be in for a late night. For that matter, he probably was anyway, if the police were investigating Sylvia's death. As the detective first on the scene, he'd be sure to end up with the case.

The intensity of the demonstration was picking up. She was glad Yocum's Woods wasn't within easy marching distance. A confrontation out there could turn ugly fast, if Mr. Walcher enlisted any of his construction crew.

“Those kids are spoiling for a fight.”

Joan jumped. Intent on the marchers, she hadn't noticed Annie Jordan behind her.

“You want a ride home? I'm parked right over there.” Annie pointed at her elderly Escort.

“No, thanks, Annie. You know me. I like to walk.”

“Better not hang around here much longer, then, unless you've got a flashlight.”

In the depths of her shoulder bag, Joan kept a slender flashlight for just such situations, but she nodded. Annie was right. There was no point hanging around.

“See you tomorrow,” Joan said. Turning her back on the marchers, she started toward the park that made her daily pedestrian commute a pleasure.

As she'd expected, Fred didn't make it home for supper. She scrambled eggs, zapped fresh broccoli spears in the microwave until they were just past raw, and toasted a couple of slices of Fred's sourdough oatmeal bread. A real Andrew supper—she couldn't help wondering what he was eating tonight.

After supper, alone and with no excuse not to, she pulled out her viola and attacked the Britten. The viola section's lush solo wasn't actually too hard, if she could just keep a smooth legato tone, but the fugue took real work. An hour later, she thought she could pull it off, if not as fast as Alex probably would take it. Even so, making her fingers comfortable with fingerings that worked for her would help when she tried to bring it up to speed.

It felt strange to go to bed alone, but with no sign of Fred, she picked out a book and crawled in. To her surprise, considering all that was on her mind, she fell asleep before Beethoven's Violin Concerto, playing on the college radio station, came to the last movement.

Sometime in what seemed the middle of the night she felt Fred's arms around her. “When did you get in?” she murmured.

“Hours ago. Phone probably woke you.”

She rolled over and forced her eyes open. In the faint light coming through the window she could just see the outlines of his face. She didn't remember the phone ringing. “At this hour? What's wrong? Is it Andrew?”

“Far as I know, he's fine.”

“Then what?” But her muscles were relaxing again. Nighttime phone calls weren't all that unusual for Fred.

“Vandals. That was your friend Tom Walcher. Seems that when he got to work at six this morning, someone had damaged his construction vehicles.”

“It's six? I just went to bed.”

“Six fifteen. All right if I turn on a light? I can pull my pants on in the dark, but since you're already awake…”

“Oh, sure.” She watched his efficient movements. Like a firefighter, he always kept his clothes within reach when he went to bed. “Want some breakfast?”

“It'll wait. A cup of coffee?”

“Sure.” She pulled on a robe and put a couple of cups of water to boil while she ground Starry Night beans in the electric grinder Andrew had given Fred for Christmas. Tucking a filter into the funnel that fit over his big mug, she waited for the kettle to whistle. The coffee had dripped by the time he came out of the bathroom. Joan handed Fred his steaming mug and a couple of slices of his sourdough oatmeal bread, toasted and buttered.

“Thanks.” He sandwiched the toast together, washed down a couple of bites with his first slug of coffee, and took the rest with him. “I'll see you when I see you.” For a man who'd thrown on his clothes, he looked remarkably put together. The tie that stuck out of his jacket pocket could make him totally presentable for the station—or for cameras, if it came to that. Only the roughness of his cheek when he kissed her gave away the fact that he hadn't shaved since the night before. He'd told her when they were first married that he liked to shave at bedtime, just in case. It helped to be blond, she thought.

11

Even though he'd answered Joan's question casually, Fred felt anything but comfortable about Andrew's safety. He'd left word at the station that he wanted to be called immediately about any problems at Yocum's Woods. Johnny Ketcham, of course, knew why. Fred let anyone else think it was only because of Sylvia Purcell.

Two uniformed officers met him at the edge of the clearing, Jill Root and Kevin Wampler, a tall, skinny kid who was newer on the force than Jill. Hard to think of her as experienced enough to work with a new officer, but she'd do a good job of it, if Wampler didn't get on his high horse about a woman partner.

Until now, only the tracks of large construction equipment in the clearing had suggested what Sylvia had been protesting. This time nothing had budged from those tracks. Men in denim and hard hats stood in clumps, talking and smoking. No skin off their noses if they were paid for doing nothing. Tom Walcher wouldn't look at it that way, Fred was sure.

“So, what's up?” he asked.

“They sabotaged the equipment,” Jill said. “Walcher's ready to kill whoever did it.”

“He won't have to look far,” Kevin said.

“What do you mean?” Fred asked.

“They signed it.” Kevin stood back and pointed.

Emblazoned on the bulldozer behind him were crudely painted black letters a foot high.

“‘EFF,'” Fred read. “That anything like ELF?” The radical group Earth Liberation Front, he knew, had been linked to acts of vandalism in the name of environmental causes around the country and often left graffiti of its initials. But EFF was new to him.

“I don't know,” Kevin said. “Maybe it's like a typo.”

Jill raised her eyebrows. “Every time?” She pointed to the same initials on a hydraulic excavator—a huge backhoe on Caterpillar tracks—and a tub grinder that stood ready to grind up the very trees Sylvia and Andrew didn't want them to take down. “I don't think so. In a day or two, if they're anything like ELF, they'll probably take credit for it and tell us their full name.”

Which didn't mean that individuals would step forward to take the blame, Fred knew. Meanwhile, of course, people would get a kick out of talking about the “effing” vandalism. And he would have to deal with what had to be Tom Walcher, heading for him. In his forties, maybe five eight, Walcher was all muscle, obvious even through his denim jacket. But the flaming hair Joan had described couldn't compete with the fire in his eyes.

“Bad enough they have to camp out in my trees,” he said. “Now they're sabotaging my equipment.”

“Detective Lieutenant Fred Lundquist. I'm sorry this happened, Mr. Walcher. Our crime scene people are on their way.”

“They'd better be! It's a good half hour since I called you guys. You have any idea how much this is costing me by the hour?”