Death Climbs a Tree (20 page)

They kept the conversation general over lunch, about the food and her lack of progress in finding another violinist in case the sub delivered before the concert. Fred was eating the last of his pie and Joan was finishing her second cup of coffee when she suddenly found herself trembling.

“You think he's all right?” She knew he wouldn't think she meant Bert Barnhart.

“Scared?” He reached across the table for her hand.

She nodded. “For a while I'm fine, and then someone says something that sets me off. This morning Alvin Hannauer tried to pump me about what the police thought about the accident he read about in the paper, but of course I didn't answer. From there it went to the construction people, EFF, and Sylvia, and someone said a young man had taken her place. The people who knew about Andrew shushed him. Bert's tantrum broke in then, which was just as well, and I didn't have time to think until just now.”

“I can't promise you anything, except that we're working on it as hard as we can. I'd better get back to it.”

“And I'd better go rescue that thing you want.” It didn't feel natural to talk like this. She'd probably already said too much, but at least she'd kept her voice down.

“I'll walk you back.”

“No. You go back to digging.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He took advantage of their back booth to kiss her hard before going up to pay the bill.

She followed slowly, and they parted at the door. She shivered. Was it her imagination, from watching Fred eat ice cream with his pie, or was it from worrying about Andrew? Or had the temperature actually dropped? Walking briskly back to the center, she warmed up quickly.

When she reached her office, three phone calls demanded her attention, and she made four more to find a substitute for the next day's speaker, who had come down with the flu after the flu season was supposed to be over. Two hours later, she remembered to look for the paint can Bert had used. He'd left without replacing it in the basement. Probably empty. She had no idea which brush he'd used, but they all looked clean. He probably wiped it off when he cleaned it. But when she took the lid off the big trash can behind the building, it, too, was empty. Why did the trash pickup have to be early the one day she needed it to be late?

She'd pick up a new can of the green in the morning. If she bought a gallon, there was no way he'd use it all on those railings. Fred would just have to wait. She went back in to call the paint store.

The rest of the afternoon ran smoothly until less than an hour before closing time. Joan was already looking forward to her walk across the park when the phone shattered her peace.

“Joan, it's Alex. I need you to run out to Fulford for me.”

“You what?” Several members of the orchestra worked at Fulford Electronics, true, but running errands was not part of her job description as orchestra manager. “Why me?”

“I know it's an imposition, but this would really help the concert. You know how deadly the narration to the
Young Person's Guide
is.”

She certainly did. And if adults thought so, what would children think? It had worried her all along.

“That kid who plays the piccolo part to ‘Stars and Stripes' on the tuba—”

“Tory Isom,” Joan supplied.

“Right, Tory. Well, he volunteered to pep up the words a little. I didn't expect him to pull it off, but what he just brought me is better, I have to admit. I want you to take it to Jim Chandler, to give him time to read it before Wednesday night.”

“Won't you see him before then?”

“Joan!” Alex was all wounded dignity. “I couldn't throw myself at him like that!”

No, you'd rather steal my time from me.

“So you want me to come get it and then take it out to Fulford? Alex, I'm on foot.”

“Oh, I don't mind dropping it off to you. I'll even give you a ride out there.” Alex, conciliatory?

“Well…” She could walk home from Fulford.

“Thank you! I'll be right over.” As usual, she hung up before Joan could object further.

She scarcely had time to ask Mabel Dunn to lock the building before she heard an imperious honk. Out in the parking lot, Alex was leaning on the horn of her Thunderbird.

“Keep your shirt on,” Joan muttered, but she threw her bag over her shoulder and went out. When she slid into the passenger seat, Alex pulled out into traffic before Joan had finished fastening her belt.

Annoyed at herself for agreeing to go, she looked at the manila envelope Alex tossed into her lap. “This is Tory's narration?”

“Yes. Take a look at it; see what you think.”

She did and was impressed. Rough spots notwithstanding, the boy's words were a considerable improvement on the original text. “I like it.”

“Me, too. That's why I wanted Jim to see it before he had to read it in public, even to the orchestra. He's actually kind of shy, though you might not think so.”

“No.” The man who'd made the speech to the orchestra on his first night had seemed anything but shy.

At the edge of the parking lot, Alex pulled up. “I'm going to drop you here, all right?”

Talk about an unlikely shy person. “I'll be fine.”

“You want me to wait?” Alex was clearly uneasy even to be that close to the building.

“No, I can walk home from here.”

“Thanks, Joan.” No sooner had the passenger door closed than the Thunderbird peeled off, firing bits of gravel that stung Joan's legs and were probably going to leave holes in her hose.

She tucked the new script in her shoulder bag and walked down the driveway to the front door.

20

Joan had never seen the inside of Fulford Electronics before, as often as she had driven past it. Only a rose on the receptionist's desk rescued the inside from being as plain as the outside. But no one was sitting at the desk. Was she supposed to call out? Hit a bell somewhere? She didn't see one.

She'd give it a few minutes. Taking a seat in one of the plain black chairs that lined the wall, she looked again at the new narration. Compared to the stodgy stuff they'd been listening to, it was a breath of fresh air. No story line, like
Peter and the Wolf,
but you couldn't have everything.

“I'm so sorry. Did you have to wait long?” A trim gray-haired woman was smoothing her jacket as she hurried down the hall. Now Joan saw the word “Ladies” on the second door past the desk.

“No, I just got here.” She stood. “I'm Joan Spencer, manager of the Oliver Civic Symphony. I have something for Mr. Chandler.”

“We're closing for the day, but you can go back and check. I think Jim's still here. Sales is the third door on the right after you go through the double doors.” She pointed and then ducked behind her desk.

Joan thanked her and headed down the long hall. As soon as she opened the double doors, she heard him. But the voice that had caressed the words he read to the orchestra had a sneer to it now.

“They won't care if you quit. They know who brings in the money.”

Somebody sobbed.

“Right, turn on the waterworks.”

Joan stood transfixed. Before she could move, a door on the left slammed open, and Birdie Eads flew down the corridor toward her, gulping and blinded by tears.

“Birdie!” She spread her arms, and Birdie ran into them.

“He—he—” She couldn't stop sobbing.

“It's all right.” Joan patted her back, wondering what could possibly be all right about working with a man like Jim Chandler after he'd obviously thrown her over for Alex Campbell, of all people. No wonder Birdie hadn't wanted to share the first stand with Nicholas in the orchestra. It wasn't about Nicholas at all. She didn't want to sit up there so close to Jim, but she still had to work with him. Poor child. Not that Birdie Eads was a child. Like her friend Sylvia, she was a grown woman.

Now she straightened up to her full five feet something and blew her nose. “Thank you. I suppose you heard all that.”

“Not much. I'm glad I came along when I did.”

“Why are you here?”

It didn't seem like the time to mention Alex. Was Birdie the real reason Alex hadn't wanted to come in? “I have to deliver something to Jim. The tuba player—the one who played the ‘Stars and Stripes' solo—tried his hand at improving the narration for the Britten, and it's not too bad.”

“But Alex didn't want Jim to stutter the first time he read it.” So Birdie saw through Alex.

“Stutter? Does he, really?”

“No, but he has to practice to sound that good. It doesn't come naturally.” Bitterness permeated her words.

“I'm sorry, Birdie.”

“Thanks.” Birdie wiped her eyes. “I'd better go fix my face.”

“I'd offer you a ride home, but—”

“That's all right. I drove.”

And I didn't.

“And you have to take that script to Jim,” Birdie said. “Feed his vanity.” She managed a smile. “Go ahead. I'll be okay.”

Joan watched her head for the door. Then she squared her shoulders and turned to face Jim Chandler. She dreaded entering the room Birdie had escaped from.

She needn't have worried. He came out into the hall, and his handsome face broke into a charming smile.

“Joan!” he said. “What brings you here?”

Besides an urge to smack you? she thought, but she controlled it and held out the new script. “Alex asked me to bring this to you.” Even if Joan hadn't promised, there was no way she'd tell this man Alex had dropped her off.

“You didn't have to go to so much trouble, but thank you.” He flipped through the pages. “Does look a mite more interesting for the kiddies.” A man who would bring Birdie to tears with his sarcasm talking about kiddies? Or was this more of the same?

“See you Wednesday night, then,” she said.

“Don't hurry off. Is this your first time here at Fulford? Let me give you the grand tour.”

“Sorry. I have to go.” She forced a quick smile and left the way she'd come. Once out of the building, she felt her tight shoulder muscles relax.

The receptionist's light was off and her computer monitor shrouded in a dustcover, but the front door opened easily. Not seeing Birdie's car in the parking lot, Joan struck out on foot. Walking home from this side of town would take her maybe half again as long as from work, and without the park's green space to enjoy along the way, it would feel still longer.

She didn't care. The spring breeze washed her face, and even the exhaust of an Oliver College truck ahead of her was an improvement over the odor of Fulford. By the time she turned onto her own street, she was humming Sousa.

Her message machine was blinking when she walked into the house. She hit the button and heard Fred's voice. “I have to go back tonight. Call me if you'd rather I didn't bother to come home.”

Silly man. She made a quick supper automatically and slung two of everything on the table. When Andrew finally came home, she'd have to remember to set the table for three again. When she and Fred were first married, she'd forgotten to set his place more than once. Habit dies slowly, she thought.

He walked in the kitchen door just when she finished grinding the coffee beans.

“Wonderful smell,” he said. “Better than the coffee itself.”

“I know. We could sit around and sniff it and skip the rest.”

“Not tonight. Tonight might be another late one.”

She knew better than to ask why and finished making the coffee. Fred hung his jacket on a hook and watched her.

“You bring me the paint can?”

“It got away from me, sorry. I'll bring you the one he uses tomorrow.”

“Just can't get good help these days,” he said, shaking his head.

“Not at this pay rate.”

“But consider the fringe benefits.” He nuzzled the back of her neck and nibbled her ear but then tore himself away. “I really do have to go right back. Maybe I won't be too late.”

“Wake me when you come in.”

*   *   *

Tuesday dawned cold and bright. Joan's first thought when the cold air hit her on the way to work was of Andrew. This isn't as cold as last week, she told herself. His sleeping bag is rated for much colder than this, and he has his parka and ski pants.

But when she picked up the green paint, the clerk reminded her to wait. “Don't use it below fifty degrees.”

She thanked him and hefted the gallon can. At least the bail didn't dig into her gloved hand as it would have if she'd been bare-handed. By afternoon, she hoped, the sun would have warmed the air enough for Bert to finish.

But the sun went behind a cloud before it could do the job, and when Bert arrived, she had to send him home.

He wasn't happy about it. “I've painted lots colder days'n this.”

“Maybe so, but I don't want to have to have it done over again. I'm sorry, but it's worth waiting one more day.” She held her breath, but he didn't put up a fight. Merely hitched up his jeans and left.

Fred wouldn't be happy, but even Bert had worn gloves today. Letting him go ahead wouldn't have helped Fred any more than it would have helped the railing.

During the afternoon she found time to work at transposing the tenor part of the hymns for Sylvia's funeral to the viola's alto clef. With no staff paper, she drew her own with a ruler and pen, added the alto clef sign, and copied the page on the photocopier before adding the notes. She wrote the notes themselves in pencil, so that she'd be able to fix any goofs easily. Let Nicholas look down his nose. She'd managed to find more notes than she'd expected during their rehearsal, but the way she saw it, there was no reason to struggle. Playing for Sylvia's service was a favor for her sister, after all, not a test. And it should sound as good as Joan could make it.

She tucked the results into the hymnbook and stashed the book in her shoulder bag. She'd run through the hymns on the viola tonight, just to be sure.