Death Climbs a Tree

by Sara Hoskinson Frommer

  Besides, Joan thought, I get mad at people, too. That doesn’t mean I kill them. I just wish I could.

  She fielded a couple of personnel and librarian questions on her way to her own seat, and she still hadn’t unpacked her viola when Nicholas stood up and pointed his bow at the first oboe to start sounding the A for each section to tune. Woodwinds first, then brasses, then lower strings, and finally the violins. The brass section needed a second A before Nicholas was satisfied, and in the end, Joan had her bow tightened and her instrument up by the violas’ turn. Even though their strings were an octave higher, they tuned with the cellos, who also had a C string. Nicholas, satisfied, raised his violin to signal for the last A, and the rest of the fiddles joined him.

  Alex climbed onto the podium then, but before raising her stick to begin, she tapped for silence.

  “Tonight we’re trying something different. I’ve had a number of complaints about the lame narration, and one person here tonight has taken it upon himself to do something about it. So ignore any cues printed in your music.”

  Jim Chandler, having had plenty of time with the new words, surely wouldn’t stumble over any of them, Joan thought. Not that they were difficult. She wondered whether there was any truth in what Birdie had said about his stuttering. Or had that been her hurt feelings speaking?

  Alex nodded at Jim, and he read from the new script. “‘Benjamin Britten wrote this piece to show off the orchestra. First, they’ll play the same thing together. Then they’ll take turns messing around with it. It’s kind of a march.’” Joan agreed with Alex that Tory Isom’s new beginning sounded more like a kid and had a better chance of appealing to the children at the concert than the old, boring one.

  Alex raised her baton, and they started. The first violinist subbing for Sylvia seemed to be holding up her end well enough. At this distance Joan couldn’t hear how well the woman was hitting the notes she was bowing so strongly, but Nicholas wasn’t making faces, and the bulge of her pregnancy didn’t seem to be getting in her way.

  But something sounded different about Tory’s words. What had he written for the flutes and piccolos, whose last trills flew by her now? Joan couldn’t remember, but what Jim was reading wasn’t the same as what she had read.

  “‘Oboes cut right through you,’” he said now, before their individual passage, and she couldn’t agree more. That’s what Tory had written. She must have been mistaken about the flute words.

  “‘Give them a chance, and the violins cut loose,’” Jim read. Watching the pregnant sub’s bow flashing in unison with Nicholas’s, Joan relaxed.

  But what was Jim reading now? “‘A lot of musicians make bad jokes about violas. Listen to these violas play, and you’ll know why.’” No time to react, much less wonder where that had come from. She needed to think calm thoughts about the viola passage she’d hardly practiced. So far, Alex hadn’t chewed anyone out, but it couldn’t last forever.

  The violas escaped her wrath, though, as did the rest of the strings and even the horns.

  “‘Nobody can shout down a trumpet,’” Jim read for the trumpet fanfare. Too true, thought Joan, from bitter experience of trying to hear her own instrument with the trumpets’ raised bells blaring only a few feet behind her.

  After the rest of the brass and then the percussion had their say, it was time for the fugue. Why had she worried about the slow viola solo? It was nothing in comparison with what came next.

  “‘Now the whole orchestra goes after the tune in a fugue. It’s a cross between a round, like “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” and a wild chase,’” Jim read. “‘Hang on!’”

  Too late now, Joan thought, and they were off.

  They stumbled through it in ragged fashion. Alex didn’t stop them in spite of many missed notes, and instead of chewing them out at the end, she stood beaming. “Much better,” she pronounced.

  Who is this woman? Joan wondered. And what has she done with our conductor? Behind her, Tory Isom, the tuba player whose narrative she had carried to Jim Chandler at Fulford’s, was muttering something to the trombone player beside him.

  “Give a hand to Tory Isom,” Alex said. “He came up with the new words, or most of them. Jim did a little tweaking of his own here and there.” Smiling, she tilted her head up toward him, even while pointing at Tory, while the orchestra clapped, shuffled their feet, and tapped bows on stands. The viola section responded with less enthusiasm.

  Beside Joan, John Hocking, her usually cheerful stand partner, said, “Who stuck in that viola crack?”

  “Not Tory,” she told him. “I saw his version. Can’t remember what he said about us, but it wasn’t that.”

  “It’s not funny. Just insulting.”

  “You’re right, but I’m not sure I can talk Alex out of anything Jim did.”

  John shook his head. “I almost liked the old Alex better than this lovesick … cow.”

  “You don’t think much of Jim?”

  He, too, seemed to hesitate. They did, after all, both work at Fulford. “He’s competent enough, and his good looks probably help him in sales, as well as with women. But I wouldn’t want my daughter to choose a man like him.”

  23

  When Alex announced the break, Joan managed to corral the members of the quartet for Sylvia’s service. “Are you up to a brief run-through when the orchestra’s done?”

  “You’re the one who wore out the other day,” Nicholas told her.

  “You’re right. I feel reasonably peppy tonight, though. And I’m the one who most needs the practice.” She didn’t feel the need to tell Nicholas that she wanted to check the way she’d rewritten the hymnbook’s bass clef tenor part into viola clef.

  The others were willing. For simplicity’s sake, they agreed to join Nicholas in the inner circle of the orchestra seats, rather than move chairs and stands to a nearby room and then have to haul them back again. Joan would be able to keep an eye on the music folders being tossed into her bin this way, too, and she’d be available to any orchestra member with a legitimate request for her attention. Or illegitimate, she thought. But I’m not offering rides home tonight.

  At the end of the break, she told Alex she wanted to make an announcement.

  “Keep it short,” Alex said. “We’re running tight on time.” Almost her old self just then. Not that you’d want her old self, but it would seem more natural.

  Joan stood before they tuned, and Alex tapped on her stand for attention.

  “I wanted to tell you all that Sylvia Purcell’s funeral is tomorrow morning at eleven, at Community Church. A quartet from the orchestra will play.” Short enough, Alex? She sat down.

  Someone raised a bow from the back of the seconds. “Can anyone go?”

  Joan stood again. “Yes, it’s public. And if you feel like making a memorial donation, the orchestra would be glad to set up a Sylvia Purcell memorial fund.” She hadn’t discussed it with Linda Smith, but Linda surely wouldn’t object. After all, she’d asked for the quartet.

  After rehearsal, Joan was glad to see the stage clear rapidly. The few players who were still packing up and chatting when the quartet opened the hymnals gave them a wide berth and kept conversation down to a respectful level they could ignore. Probably because of her announcement. Ordinarily, any attempt to work through something after a rehearsal was drowned out by chatter.

  When they began “Abide with Me,” she heard a clear, high tenor singing the words. Hugging his tuba, Tory Isom had paused at stage right to join in the old hymn. The boy was full of surprises.

  Nicholas raised an eyebrow at Joan’s handwritten pages but said nothing. She didn’t care. She was relieved to find no errors in them, and they made playing the hymns vastly easier than fighting her way through bass clef.

  Now that Birdie and Nicholas had agreed on the double-dotted notes in the Handel, it, too, went smoothly. Good, Joan thought. They’d be out of there by half past nine.

  But when they finished, Charlotte Hodden was in tears. J
oan held out a hand to her. “I didn’t know you were close to Sylvia.”

  “It’s not Sylvia. My sister’s husband died this week. Herschel Vint.”

  “Ohhh.” She couldn’t say what she knew from Fred.

  “And now they’re saying he might have been murdered, too.” Charlotte blew her nose loudly. “My sister has three children and a job that won’t begin to support them. I don’t know what she’ll do.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Joan said, remembering her own struggles after Ken’s sudden death.

  “He was a good man. Who would want to kill a man like that? He never hurt anybody.”

  “I thought he totaled his car,” Nicholas said. “That’s what the paper said.”

  “There’s more to it than that, but I’m not supposed to talk about it,” Charlotte said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth, but the music … and those poor little boys. I can’t stop thinking about them. I mean, Sylvia was bad enough, but at least no one depended on her, you know?”

  Birdie’s not going to see it that way, Joan thought, avoiding Birdie’s eyes. And I wouldn’t, if Andrew were shot down. Her own eyes stung, but she refused to give in to them. “Does she have any support?” she asked.

  “Oh, you know. People are bringing food now. And everyone says if there’s anything they can do … but they can’t bring him back, you know? And that’s what they need—him back.”

  No, they can’t, Joan thought. “Did he have any insurance? From his job, maybe?”

  “I don’t know. I hope so. She’s so upset, I don’t know if she’s even thought to ask. He took care of that kind of thing. Didn’t tell her much.”

  Some men, Joan thought. Why, if they think women are so helpless, would they leave them ignorant of the very help they’d need most if they were left alone like that?

  She suddenly realized that she and Fred had never discussed the subject of insurance. Like Charlotte’s sister, she had no idea what insurance her husband had through his job, much less whether he had a private policy of his own or, if he did, whether he’d ever named her as a beneficiary. Having been widowed once, she knew how much it mattered. How could she not have asked him?

  “I don’t even know if she can afford to bury him. The mortgage payment is due next week, and I can’t help much at all.” Charlotte’s tears threatened to overwhelm her again.

  Now it was Birdie who went to her and embraced her. “Being poor is the pits, I know.”

  You? Joan thought. From all she’d seen, Birdie lived comfortably. And she had a steady job, even if it meant coping with Jim Chandler.

  Nicholas spoke up. “Social Security has a death benefit that would help a little. Tell her she needs to apply for it right away. My grandmother didn’t, not soon enough to get anything when my granddad died, anyway. She missed out.”

  “His auto insurance ought to pay something,” Joan remembered.

  “Maybe not,” Charlotte said.

  Would murder void the insurance? Joan had no idea, but like Charlotte, she needed to keep silent about what she did know. She shook her head. This Ward Utterback, whoever he was, had a lot to answer for.

  “What will they do?” Birdie asked.

  “I guess give up the house and move in with my folks if they have to. But my sister never got along well with Mom when she was growing up. It’ll be worse now. The only good thing is, Dad is crazy about the boys. He’ll sit on Mom.”

  Poor Mom, Joan thought, even while feeling for Vint’s widow.

  “Are we done here?” Nicholas asked abruptly.

  “I think so,” Joan said. “Bring your stands tomorrow, would you? I forgot to ask what the church has. I’ll be sure there are seats. The service is at eleven—say half past ten to set up?”

  “Good enough.” Nicholas, already packed, slung his instrument over his shoulder and left. “Orchestra black tomorrow?”

  “We don’t need to wear black,” Joan said. “And not a tux. Just something subdued. A jacket and tie, and dress shoes, not sneakers.”

  Charlotte zipped the soft case over her cello. “Thanks, you guys.”

  “Sure,” Birdie said. Laying her violin in its battered case, she fastened the Velcro straps across its neck to hold it in place and loosened her bow. She was still slowly packing up when Charlotte left.

  Joan closed her own case. “Birdie, thanks for your understanding. You knew what she was really worried about.”

  “I felt for her sister and those children. I remember when I was growing up, money got so tight, and my mother wouldn’t take a handout from anyone. Once the only thing we had in the house was one can of green beans. We kids just cried.”

  “What did she do?”

  “I don’t know what she would have done, but that night someone brought us a big sack of groceries. Rang the bell and left it on the porch. When she went to the door, there it was. Then she cried.”

  “Poor Mrs. Vint. Bad enough to have to throw yourself on your parents after you’ve lived on your own,” Joan said.

  “Good that she has parents who could take her. Without my job, I’m on my own.” Charlotte’s voice went dead. “Before I got it, I was unemployed for a long time, and it was rough. The only thing I had of any value was my violin. More than once, I came close to selling it. But it belonged to my father, and music is the one thing that sustains me through terrible times. It wouldn’t have bought as much food as it gives my soul.”

  “Are you afraid of losing your job?”

  “You don’t know what it’s like! Jim’s right. They’d let me go before him.”

  “I had to leave a job once.” Joan’s bitterness at the man she’d successfully fended off with a letter opener had long since faded, but she remembered well enough how desperate she had felt. “I had to leave town. Nobody in that town would have believed me over him. Anyway, I didn’t have the courage to find out.”

  “What did you do?”

  “That’s when I came to Oliver. And this orchestra. They needed a librarian, so there I was.”

  “You couldn’t survive on that!”

  “No, I found something else, too. Old friends helped.” And eventually I found Fred, but I can’t tell her that.

  “My only friend just got herself murdered.”

  Joan expected more tears, but Birdie kept the waterworks dammed up this time. Or maybe she’d cried herself out.

  “She wasn’t your only friend, Birdie. I care what happens to you, and I’ll do all I can if you need help.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it, but it’s not the same as Sylvia.”

  “I know. Are you sure you’ll be all right tomorrow?”

  “No, but I’ll try.”

  “Good.” Now Joan could see the school janitor at the edge of the stage. “We’d better leave. We’re about to get thrown out of here.”

  “It’s all right. I’m okay.” Birdie closed her case and tucked the music into the zippered pocket. “Let’s go.”

  24

  Fred shook his head wearily. “You ever get the feeling that all we’re ever going to come up with is negative?”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Captain Altschuler growled. He was sitting in Fred’s office with the door closed. “Maybe Mayor Deckard can produce results out of thin air…”

  “But the rest of us can’t. I know.”

  “Deckard can make it sound good with the public. Buy us some time.”

  “Wish I thought that would get us anywhere.” Fred sighed.

  “Look on the bright side. Last time it got us a meth lab.”

  “Those guys will stay in business. They’ll just move the business. We’re keeping our eyes on a man we think might be one of their customers and hoping he’ll lead us to them someday. Deckard got us a lead to that lab, but not to the killer. Who’s killed again since then.” He ran his hand through his thinning hair. “What really gets me is having an ID that’s totally useless.”

  “Not totally,” Altschuler said. “When you find him, you’ll k
now you have the right man.”

  “Who’ll kill who knows how many more before then. I can’t begin to fathom dealing with a serial killer in a place this size. We don’t have the manpower for it, for one thing.”

  “As close together as Purcell and Vint were, you’re jumping the gun to talk about serial killers. It’s more likely to have something to do with the woods.”

  “I hope so,” Fred said, wishing Andrew weren’t still sitting in a tree in those very woods. “Feels more like someone warning people off his particular patch, anyway. If old Mrs. Nikirk showed up with her dog and a slingshot, now, it would make sense. She grew up in those woods.”

  “But she’s not Ward Utterback, whoever he is these days.”

  “No. And she got a kick out of showing us the cave she knew as a child. Not that he might not enjoy showing off.”

  “You think?”

  Fred shrugged. “The EFF vandals did, though not in person. But nothing we found on that equipment matched the prints on Vint’s car and the rocks that hit him and Purcell.”

  “A long shot at best.”

  “We’re lucky to have that much. No witnesses. It’s pretty remote—only reason we connected them was that Joan found the Petoskey stone in the woods and then Dr. Henshaw noticed the stone in the car. No reason for Utterback to think we spotted either of them.”

  “He has to be thinking he’s home free.”

  “Maybe these are just his two latest. No way to tell how many he got away with.”

  “Now you’re back to a serial killer,” Altschuler said.

  “Not yet. Not around here, anyway. We don’t have any mysterious deaths that fit the pattern.”

  “You look at traffic accidents?”

  Fred nodded. “And we asked the sheriff and the state police. Nothing suspicious, and no accidental deaths in this area in the past year. As I said before, everything we’re coming up with is negative.”