Out on a Limb

by Joan Hess

  I paused to sniffle at the notion, then reminded myself that I had a responsibility to my guest in the office, whom I dearly hoped was sound asleep, or at least entranced by sunlight glinting on the cobwebs. Vowing to be more truthful as soon as I had disposed of the dilemma, I said, “I think I’d better be there for Caron tonight.” I folded his arms around me. He was a few inches taller, requiring me to gaze up at his generous lips and disarmingly boyish dimples. “Rain check?”

  Peter was not quite as overcome with sentiment as I was, and, in fact, had the audacity to sound somewhat suspicious as he said, “You’re not planning to camp out under an oak tree, are you? Armstrong called in some favors, and the area is now off-limits. The uniformed guys are going to be patrolling nearby, prepared to haul in trespassers.”

  “Camp out?” I said. “Do I appear to be in need of a merit badge?”

  “If you get arrested, you’ll end up in a cell for the night.”

  I toyed with his earlobes, which usually distracts him in ways best left undescribed. “And you won’t post bail?”

  “No, but I’ll leave instructions that you’re to have our finest accommodations.”

  I did my best to pretend I wasn’t listening for a plaintive noise from the office as we drank cappuccinos and nibbled on cookies. To my relief, my science fiction hippie wandered in, which prompted Peter to leave with a promise to call me in a day or two. Filing a complaint for shoplifting was time-consuming and hardly worth his energy.

  “Keep your hands in view at all times,” I called as I crumpled cups and dropped them in the wastebasket.

  “Like, wow, is he that cop?” came a voice from behind the fiction rack.

  “Like, wow, he is,” I said, “and he left his X-ray vision goggles behind.*'

  “Cool.”

  “If you bolt for the door, I’ll tackle you.”

  His furry face appeared. “Promise?”

  We bantered for a while, then I frisked him and let him depart, as our daily ritual demanded. I was quite sure he had successful days, but he was no worse than the faculty wives who tucked lurid romances into their purses—and their spouses, who did the same into their briefcases. English lit professors of both genders were the worst, but I could not risk offending them since they were kind enough to supply me with their upcoming semester’s reading lists. Chaucer and Dante were not best-selling authors, but a sale equated cents on the dollar and I didn’t have to shelve them in the travel section.

  The bell jangled so violently that I worried about its well-being as Inez stumbled into the bookstore shortly after two o’clock. “Is everything all right, Ms. Malloy?” she asked between gasps. “You still have Skyler, don’t you? You can’t let his mother just take him away. He might end up with drug dealers or alcoholics who live in a trailer park.”

  “Sit down and catch your breath, Inez. Skyler’s asleep in the office.” I realized that telling her whom I’d seen near the courthouse would only fuel her paranoia—and to some extent, she had a point.

  “What’s more,” Inez continued, “the word at school is that it’s Caron’s baby. Rhonda Maguire’s mother was in the next checkout lane at the grocery store this morning. Rhonda heard about it when she called her mother after first period about a notebook or something. The principal might as well have announced it over the intercom.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Did no one take into consideration that Caron was never pregnant?”

  “Rhonda told everybody that Caron must have had the baby last summer and left it with relatives in another state. Then something terrible happened, like an earthquake or a hurricane, so the baby had to be sent back here. Mrs. Maguire didn’t see the baby, you know; she just saw you buying diapers and stuff.”

  I hesitated, but finally forced myself to ask, “And how is Caron taking this?”

  Inez blinked at me from behind her thick lenses. “Not very well. She asked to be excused in the middle of the algebra test. I couldn’t find her at lunch. Kerry and Aly said she was so listless in English that Mrs. McLair sent her to the nurse’s office. I don’t think anybody saw her after that.”

  Now it seemed I had two basket cases. At this rate, I might be ordering wicker in bulk.

  I’d planned to leave Inez in charge of both Skyler and the bookstore while I picked up more baby supplies, but I could foresee problems if Caron, any of her classmates, Peter, or even the elusive mother appeared in my absence. Inez had told a few whoppers in her time; however, at the moment she was too agitated to think clearly.

  “Here’s what I need you to do,” I said as I took some money from the cash register. “Put Skyler in my car and go to the discount store in Waverly. Buy two six-packs of formula, diapers, baby wipes, plastic bottles, a package of T-shirts, and a couple of cotton blankets.”

  “What if somebody sees me?”

  “Quite a few people will see you, Inez, but they’ll be strangers. That’s why I suggested Waverly. When you’re finished shopping, go to the park and let Skyler enjoy some fresh air. Come back here at five.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  I made sure she knew how to operate the buckles of the car seat, then watched them drive away. As I went back inside, I wondered what I would do if the mother showed up and demanded the return of her child. Before I complied, I would have to hear a satisfactory explanation for her recent erratic behavior, as well as assurances that Skyler would be in a safe environment. But could I legally stop her? Did I have a moral obligation to do so anyway? How fine were the jail’s finest accommodations?

  Several customers wandered in over the remainder of the afternoon. Sally Fromberger walked by the store several times, covertly checking for signs of a bassinet or a playpen. A trio of high school girls, all unfamiliar, came into the store, giggled as they pretended to browse, and then fled after I stalked them down and offered to help with their selections.

  During a lull I called the campus switchboard and requested to be transferred to Finnigan Baybergen’s office. He answered with a terse, “Baybergen. Who’s this?”

  “Claire Malloy, Miss Parchester’s friend. You and I exchanged some remarks last night.”

  “Oh, yes. I saw you today at the press conference. Someone mentioned you have a little bookstore here in Farberville.”

  I let the disparaging remark slide by. “Afterwards, Luanne Bradshaw and I went out to Phase Two to take Miss Parchester a sandwich. Are you aware that Armstrong has instructed the security guard to allow no one to go closer to the tree than the edge of the parking lot?”

  “Of course I am. Louis Ferncliff was arrested several hours ago. He spent a very uncomfortable hour at the police station before he was allowed to post a fifty-dollar bond and leave. The Margolises have suggested we solicit contributions to assist those who commit acts of civil disobedience for the greater good. May we count on a check from you?”

  “I’m afraid my‘little bookstore’ doesn’t generate much in the way of profits. So the police are cooperating with Armstrong?”

  He exhaled noisily. “According to Louis, an officer arrived five minutes after the security cop called the station on his cell phone. I haven’t heard of anyone else being arrested thus far.”

  “What are you going to do about Miss Parchester?”

  “She has plenty of food and water for another few days, and she’s adamant that she will not be driven out of the tree because of Armstrong’s petty ploy. She’s convinced he’ll back down after the media exposes him. I wish I were as certain.”

  “So do I,” I said. “Any news about the injunction?”

  “Constantine’s still at the federal courthouse, waiting for a ruling. If you’ll excuse me, I need to keep the line free.”

  “One more thing. Is it true that you have the only key to the padlock that prevents Miss Parchester from leaving the platform?”

  Baybergen did not answer immediately. I was on the verge of repeating the question when he said, “Good point. I�
��ll go out there this evening and have her lower the basket so I can send up a newspaper. Taped to it will be a copy of the key. If I am arrested, so be it. Maybe I can teach in a community college in Costa Rica. The rain forests are extraordinary, I’ve been told. Goodbye, Ms. Malloy.”

  “Adios, Assistant Professor Baybergen,” I said to the dial tone. I replaced the receiver, then fuddled about, selling a few books, dusting the stock, and glumly flipping through invoices. Caron did not appear. I was not yet alarmed, although I was a bit worried. We were going to have to sit down and sort all this out, despite the convolutions and complexities. I doubted she knew why she was reacting so emotionally, and I wasn’t sure I did, either. Dr. Spock wasn’t available, and Mr. Spock would not beam me up.

  Inez appeared at five o’clock. Skyler was fast asleep, no doubt worn out from his encounters with butterflies at the park.

  “He is such a good baby,” Inez whispered.

  “But not ours,” I reminded both of us as I locked the front door and prepared to leave.

  “Did Caron come by?”

  I shook my head. “She’s probably at home. Do you want to come along?”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Neither do I,” I acknowledged while we transferred Skyler once again to the car seat. “I suppose I could call Rhonda’s mother and offer some sort of glib excuse for being caught in the act of buying diapers. What do you think?”

  Inez handed me some change. “Rhonda’s mouth runs in only one direction, and that’s downstream.”

  “Well, then,” I said inanely. We drove to the duplex. Caron was in her room, with music resonating so loudly that I hoped we would not hear complaints from the androgynous downstairs tenant. Inez pounded on the bedroom door while I settled Skyler on a blanket on the sofa, then poured myself a drink. It had been a stressful twenty-four hours. Skyler seemed to be the only one who was oblivious.

  Inez came into the living room. “She won’t let me in.”

  “She’ll come out sooner or later. Go on home.”

  “But I feel as though I should—”

  I gave her a kiss on the forehead. “We both do, but we’ll have to wait for Caron.”

  Inez left. Skyler slurped down a fair amount of formula, observed me while I changed his diaper, and then seemed reasonably agreeable to watching the local news. Jessica’s segment was a replay of the noon press conference interview. Mr. Ferncliff would have to wait until ten o’clock for his fleeting moment of fame.

  Caron emerged an hour later to stick a frozen entree in the microwave. “You heard?” she said from the kitchen as she punched buttons.

  “Inez told me.”

  She came into the living room. “What am I supposed to do? I can’t tell the truth. If I do, the police and social services will get involved, and Skyler will be whisked away. On the other hand, if I keep my mouth shut, every last person at the high school will think he’s my child. Any Ideas, Mother?”

  “Can you hang in another day?” I asked her as she sat down across from me.

  “And sacrifice my chances of being a cheerleader? Whatever will happen to me?”

  “I never envisioned you with pom-poms. The moment I laid eyes on you, I assumed you’d be a rocket scientist or a brain surgeon. Well… or at least a cancer researcher or a marine biologist out to save the dolphins. Watching you do cartwheels on a football field never entered my mind.”

  “You could call me in sick.”

  I resisted the urge to mention the dreaded algebra test, which she would have to make up in the next day or two. “Is that what you want?”

  “As opposed to listening to whispers and snickers when I walk down the halls? Gee, tough decision.”

  “If you’ll look after Skyler.”

  “I suppose so,” she said. “Did you talk to Peter?”

  I gave her a report of all that had happened, tactfully omitting the three girls who’d come into the Book Depot. Caron listened, but she was too distracted by her own problems to do more than nod occasionally. I let her go to her room, then settled down next to Skyler and tried to immerse myself in a novel. I had marginal success, since I couldn’t prevent myself from listening for someone coming through the front door and tiptoeing up the stairs to my landing. Or gypsies sneaking up the back steps. Or trolls scaling the back side of the house to wait in the attic until we’d fallen asleep.

  I finally put down the book and went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. As I put fresh water in the teakettle, I realized it was beginning to rain. Poor Miss Parchester, I thought as I took out a mug and a spoon. Not only was she sitting alone in the tree, she was in for a decidedly uncomfortable night. I hoped Papa was proud of her, wherever he was.

  I knocked on Caron’s door the following morning. “You need to get up, dear. I’ve called the school. Skyler has been bathed, dressed, and fed.”

  She opened the door, her expression wary. “What if somebody shows up while you’re gone? What am I supposed to do?”

  I couldn’t advise her to spend the day at the park, since rain was still coming down. I doubted babies were welcome in the college library. The mall was not an option, since it was likely that more than one of her classmates would be playing hooky.

  “Keep your music low, and the same with the volume on the television. I’ll be at the Book Depot as usual, so no one will come looking for me here. Don’t answer the phone. If you start getting stir-crazy, call Luanne. The car seat will be on the back porch. She can take you and Skyler out for a hamburger or something. Just don’t drive by the high school—I told them you’d be in a parenting class all day.”

  “How thoughtful of you, Mother. I must think of a way to return the favor one of these days.”

  “Skyler’s on a blanket on the living room rug. Call me if you have any problems.”

  I drove to the bookstore, made a pot of coffee, and sat down behind the counter to read the newspaper. I was still perusing the front page when the phone rang. Praying Caron was not already in crisis after a scant half hour, I picked up the receiver.

  “Have you listened to the news on the radio this morning?” demanded Luanne in her charmingly brusque fashion.

  “No. What happened?”

  “Anthony Armstrong’s dead. There wasn’t much of a story, just that his body had been found around midnight last night. Foul play is suspected.”

  “Murdered?” I said with a gulp.

  “It comes to mind. That’s all the announcer said, except that detectives were investigating. Peter will be in charge, won’t he?”

  “That doesn’t mean we can buy him a beer and hear all the details. He seems to have a misconception that I meddle in official investigations, which we both know is completely fallacious. We’d have better luck with Jessica.”

  “Or Finnigan Baybergen, although it’s hard to imagine his gang of senior citizens committing mayhem of this magnitude. Now, if somebody had let the air out of the tires on Anthony’s Mercedes or canceled Adrienne’s hair appointment…”

  “I wonder what this will mean in Miss Parchester’s case,” I said. “Surely Phase Two will be in limbo for a long time.”

  “I have no idea,” said Luanne. “I assume you have Skyler with you. Do you want to bring him here at noon so that we can watch the news? I’m sure Jessica will be standing under an umbrella, coming to us live with all the latest hearsay and speculations.”

  I explained the situation, adding, “I think I’d better stay here and visible. I don’t want someone going to the duplex to look for me. If Caron calls you, put her off until after you’ve watched the news and called me.”

  She agreed and hung up. I tried to read the newspaper, but my mind refused to focus on national politics and international civil wars. Anthony Armstrong’s death could be the result of an unwise decision to investigate a burglary in progress in his house. He could have slipped while going downstairs. He could have come home inebriated and inadvertently taken too many pills. It could have been a coincid
ence.

  And I could have failed to notice I was pregnant and given birth to Skyler while reading a mystery novel.

  The morning crawled by minute by minute. A few students purchased the slim yellow study guides that just might get them a passing grade in their lit classes. A sorority girl admitted she had no idea what was on her reading list, so I loaded her up with paperbacks that she would never read. Sally Fromberger went by twice, dressed in a utilitarian raincoat and a plastic bonnet.

  By half past twelve, I was staring at the telephone. Anthony Armstrong’s death was none of my concern. I was worried only about Miss Parchester, whose sturdy shoes might begin to squish as the rain continued, but all I wanted to hear was that she’d come down from the tree and gone to her house in a quaint neighborhood in the historic district. Finnigan Baybergen had sworn he would send her up the key.

  The telephone finally rang. “What?” I said as I snatched up the receiver.

  “Breathe deeply,” Luanne said, then refused to answer my disjointed questions until I subsided. “Jessica doesn’t know much. Adrienne found Anthony’s body when she arrived home last night at midnight. He’d been shot twice in the chest. She called 911. We may or may not hear the tape on the six o’clock news, depending on the whim of the prosecutor’s office. She has been questioned, as has another family member. Jessica’s hair, by the way, looked as though she’d draped a weasel over her head.”

  “Another family member?” I said.

  “That’s about it.”

  “And Miss Parchester?”

  “None of that came up. Adrienne choked out a few sentences, then dashed away when her mascara began to dribble.”

  “Why did she come home at midnight?” I asked.

  “She didn’t say,” Luanne said with an exasperated sigh. “Don’t you have enough to deal with as it is? You are not Nancy Drew.”