Death Climbs a Tree (8 page)

But she was glad he was coming.

When she heard the Chevy, she went to meet him, picking her way carefully at first. She didn't trust the greenbrier and grapevines not to trip her. But once she reached the clearing, she ran.

Fred had thrown on yesterday's rumpled clothes, and he hadn't bothered to shave, but he looked good to her. His stubble rasped her cheek.

“So, what's this great find of yours?” His eyes crinkled down at her.

“I'll show you. It's just past Sylvia's tree.”

“Oh?” But he followed without pushing her to tell him more.

Joan was glad she'd left the stick to mark the spot. “Here it is,” she said. With a twig, she lifted the wet leaves by the log. “There. Look at that!”

He looked blankly. “That what?”

“That Petoskey stone.” She pointed the twig at the gray, oval pebble nestled in the leaf mold.

“What's a Petoskey stone?”

“A kind of fossilized coral. When they're polished or wet, like this one, they're easy to spot. I used to find them on the beach when our family spent vacations on Lake Michigan, especially up by Petoskey, where they developed. It's the waves of the lake that make them so smooth. But this is a long way from the beach—it didn't get here by itself.”

“You brought me out here to show me a lake pebble?”

“I wanted to take it to you, but I was afraid I'd be destroying evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

She took a deep breath and blurted it out. “I think someone shot Sylvia with it. It looks just like a spot on the side of her head. The right size and shape, I mean.”

“You and Andrew didn't hear a shot.”

“No, but with Andrew talking and the birds carrying on, we couldn't have heard a slingshot. Andrew used his Wrist-Rocket—it's a kind of powerful slingshot—to shoot a line over the platform.”

“You're serious?” He squatted down to look at it.

“Yes. It's smooth enough that it might have fingerprints on it. I was afraid I'd destroy them. Besides, if I moved it, you wouldn't see where it landed.”

“You're not the only person to go to the beach. People down here like Lake Michigan, too, you know. Maybe it was a special souvenir to Sylvia, and she had it on her platform. It could have fallen off when she did.”

Joan thought about it. “I don't see how. She landed only a few feet from the tree, over there. Why would it fall here, on the opposite side? But if it was shot from a distance, couldn't it keep going after it hit her?”

Still squatting, he looked up at her. “What's the range of that thing?”

“A Wrist-Rocket? About a hundred yards. That's why I took Andrew's away from him when he was shooting at cans in our neighborhood. I couldn't afford to fix any more windows.”

Fred stood and looked through the trees, and Joan followed his gaze. Even without leaves, the tree trunks seemed to cluster together in the distance.

“So someone could have stood far enough away that you might not have seen anything,” he said. “It's possible, I'll grant you that. Even so, this rock could have come from some kid shooting out here, like Andrew and his cans. Nothing to do with Sylvia.”

“So you're not going to do anything about it?”

“Not much to do.” But he pulled a camera out of his jeans and snapped several shots, including a couple that showed the distance of the stone from Andrew's tree. Then he pulled plastic gloves from another pocket, picked up the stone, and put it in an evidence bag, which he marked before tucking it in the pocket. “Just in case.”

He came prepared, she thought. So he had taken her seriously. “If someone did that on purpose, or even by accident, I think we ought to know, don't you?”

“You planning to join the force?”

“Oh, Fred.” At least he wasn't laughing at her. Or was he?

“Come on home, woman. Feed me breakfast.”

All right, he was, but she didn't care. Arm in arm, they walked past Andrew's tree and out into the clearing. Still no sound from Andrew. Fine. He didn't need to know she'd been checking on him.

8

Showered and shaved, Fred arrived at the station only a little later than usual. When he walked in, Ketcham put down the phone and looked up, his eyes serious behind his wire rims. “She's dead.”

“Who?” But he knew.

“Sylvia Purcell.”

“Any word from her sister?”

“According to the ICU nurse, she decided to drive and didn't make it in time. The nurse thinks she'll arrive later today.”

“Too bad. You told her not to release the information until she gets here?” Not that hospitals needed to be told about privacy these days, but Sylvia was news, and leaks happened. Hearing it on the car radio would be a hell of a way to learn your sister was dead.

“Yeah,” Ketcham said. “And I called Henshaw.”

Dr. Henshaw was Alcorn County coroner, in charge of investigating accidental deaths, homicides, and any death under dubious circumstances. Fred appreciated his quiet competence. Not every county elected a coroner who knew what he was doing. For that matter, not every county had a forensic pathologist available to elect. But Henshaw lived in a small college town by choice and didn't seem to mind being called out of bed to the scene of a bloody highway accident. No longer young, he'd said more than once that he hoped to die with his boots on.

“The nurse was kicking herself,” Ketcham said. “She talked to the doctor and told Linda Smith they thought she had time to drive.”

She may not be the only one kicking herself, Fred thought, if it wasn't an accident, after all. He held out the evidence bag containing the smooth gray stone with the markings like cell walls on a microscope slide. It was about two inches long. “Get someone to check this for prints.” The thing looked smooth enough to take them. “Then turn it over to Henshaw for comparison.”

“A Petoskey stone?” Ketcham said.

“You know about them?”

“We go up there sometimes. My wife used to polish them, when she was on a jewelry-making kick.”

“This one was in Yocum's Woods. Near the tree sit.”

“Odd. Could be someone's souvenir, even Sylvia's.”

“I'm hoping we can find her prints on it.”

“But?” Ketcham always could read his mind.

“It's possible she was shot down with the thing, from a powerful slingshot.”

Ketcham nodded. “My oldest kid had one of those Wrist-Rockets. Drove us nuts till I finally made a target for him, out back, away from anything else.”

“If she was shot down, we might even find some DNA evidence, though I'd expect the rock that hit her to be closer to where she landed.”

“Maybe even on the platform.”

Which would mean Andrew had spent the night in the middle of a crime scene. They'd have to get him down sooner now, rather than later, and send up a young, agile officer to search the thing. Chuck Terry could probably handle it. Or Jill Root. As long as he'd been up there, though, Andrew had likely already touched everything on his platform. The scene was already contaminated, both in the tree and below it, first by the EMTs who had taken Sylvia to the hospital and then by Andrew and the others who'd helped him up to take her place and Skirv, whoever he was, who had carried Sylvia's things away with him. Not that the shooter had stood that close to the tree. Joan and Andrew hadn't seen anyone.

One thing at a time, Fred thought. With the advantage of the first hours already lost, he waited to hear about the stone they had in hand. The amazing thing was that anyone had spotted it at all, much less recognized it as not having any business where it had fallen. Might as well hope it belonged to Sylvia.

*   *   *

The good and bad news came from Henshaw, who phoned early in the afternoon. “That rock you sent over? It's not a match for her fingerprints.”

“So there was a print on it?” Hardly surprising, since the thing hadn't walked to southern Indiana.

“We lifted a couple of partials. A thumb on one side and a finger on the other side. But they're not hers.”

“Great.” It had been too much to hope for. Partials were better than nothing, but you couldn't check a partial fingerprint against all the prints in the computer. Holding the phone to his ear, Fred caught his toes under his desk for security and leaned back against the wall in the old wooden swivel chair that threatened to dump him.

“The good news is that the shape of the thing fits a bruise on her temple. Looks like your projectile, all right.”

“That's what killed her?” Hard to believe.

“I haven't done the autopsy yet. My first guess is the fall killed her. But if you want to know why she fell, it's a good bet. Was she standing up?”

Fred thought back to what Andrew and Joan had told him. “Yes. And letting her basket down. Probably leaning over.”

“Seventy feet off the ground?” The whole town knew that much.

“Yes.”

“Well, then. Whatever made that bruise hit her with enough force to throw her off balance. Startle her, at the very least. Maybe even knock her out. All the other injuries visible at first glance look like the result of the fall. I say your rock sent her over.”

Fred thanked him and sighed. Whatever the age or intent of the shooter, they were dealing with a homicide.

Ketcham stuck his head in the door of Fred's office. “Linda Smith's here.”

Fred's feet thumped onto the floor. “Bring her in.” He stood to meet her.

Ketcham made the introductions and then left. Fred nodded at him when he raised his eyebrows to ask whether to shut the office door, and he closed it unobtrusively.

Linda Smith wore a denim jumper and turtleneck. Her hair was speckled with gray that he didn't remember from the photos, and her eyes were red and swollen. “Thank you for seeing me, Lieutenant.”

“Ms. Smith, I'm very sorry for your loss,” he said, and meant it. “Won't you sit down?” He held the visitor's chair for her. “How can I help you?”

“Tell me what happened!” She twisted the sodden handkerchief in her hands. “They wouldn't tell me anything at the hospital, except that she never woke up, never spoke to them. They sent me to you.”

“I doubt that they knew much more. I've spoken with the coroner—”

“The coroner!”

“In Indiana, he's automatically called for any death that may not be from natural causes. He had to look at Sylvia's body.” Inside and out, but he didn't want to add to her distress by mentioning the autopsy. “We can take you there to see her.” In fact, he was glad she would be available to make a formal identification. Not that there was any doubt.

“She's in the morgue?” Her voice threatened fresh tears, but they didn't spill.

“In the funeral home—Oliver's so small that we use it, instead—but her body will be released to you soon, as her closest relative, and you can make whatever arrangements you prefer. Or maybe she told you what she wanted?”

“She never talked about dying. She's a young woman!”

“You were in close touch?”

She shrugged. “I thought so. But then you call and tell me she's been living up in an oak tree, and I realize that I don't know anything about her. I haven't seen her for years.”

“When's the last time you heard from her?”

“Well…” She paused to think. “Probably a couple of months ago. She didn't say anything about it then. She was working hard, she said, and playing in an orchestra. She played violin. Did you know that about her?” She managed a smile.

“Yes, I did.” He smiled back. “My wife plays in the same orchestra. Did she mention any friends?”

“Only a woman from work. Another violinist. Kind of old-fashioned name.”

“Birdie Eads?”

“That's the one! I ought to see her.”

“She was very concerned about your sister when I spoke with her yesterday.”

“Does she know she died?”

“Possibly, now that you're here. We don't like to release that information until the family has been notified. But the whole town knew that she fell. Her tree sit was big news in Oliver. I'm sure she'll make the news again this evening if she hasn't already. You may have the press coming around. Are you staying in Sylvia's apartment?”

She looked vague. “I hadn't thought that far. I suppose I might as well, if I knew how to get in.”

“I think Sergeant Ketcham may still have her key. When we were trying to reach you, her friend Birdie lent us her copy. The electricity and phone were working.”

“Is it a disaster? Sylvia always said there were more important things in life than polishing furniture.”

He smiled. Sylvia had put her life where her mouth was. “Not much there to polish, but it was neat when I saw it. Unless her friends have dumped her tree-sitting things there since then. I don't know whether they had a key.”

“Do you know her friends? Have you seen where she fell?”

“I know the young man who took her place. And yes, I was there after she fell.”

“Could I go there?”

“Of course. What do you want to do first?”

He could see her girding herself. She firmed her jaw, put the wet handkerchief in her jumper pocket, and said, “I want to see my sister. Then where she fell. Then her place.”

He had time for it this afternoon. And he might learn something from her. “I'll be right back.” Leaving her in his office, he went out to ask Ketcham to check whether Henshaw was in the middle of the autopsy and, if not, to warn him that they were coming to view the body.

When he got the all clear—Henshaw hadn't begun yet—he returned to Linda Smith. “They're expecting us.”

“Is it far?”

“No, just down the street.”

“Then let's walk. I've been sitting all day.”

He made sure she'd locked her luggage in her car before walking her over to Bud Snarr's funeral home. Gil, Bud's son, who ran the business these days, met them at the door of the big old rock-face limestone building with its distinctive roughly chipped look, which had to have been home to a large family at some time in its history. Or maybe it had been built to give that impression to grieving families.