OUT ON A LIMB
ST. MARTIN'S
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PRAISE FOR THE CLAIRE MALLOY MYSTERY SERIES
“Joan Hess is one of the funniest people in the mystery world.”
—Margaret Maron, author of
Slow Dollar
“With her wry asides, Claire makes a most engaging nar- rator… The surprising denouement comes off with eclat/'
—Publishers Weekly
“Joan Hess is seriously funny. Moreover, she is seriously kind as well as clever when depicting the follies, foibles, and fantasies of our lives. Viva Joan!"
—Carolyn Hart, author of
April Fool Dead
“Joan Hess shares with P. G. Wodehouse an unmistak- able comic voice and the ability to juggle a dizzying num- ber of subplots. She has the remarkable ability to take caricatures and bring them to life and make us care about them in book after book.”
—M. D. Lake, author of
Death Calls the Tune
“Witty, ironic, and biting… Joan Hess has an unerring comedic instinct.”
—Bookpage
“Joan Hess fans will find a winning blend of soft-core feminism, trendy subplots, and a completely irreverent style that characterizes both series and the sleuth, all nicely onstage.”
—Houston Chronicle
MORE…
“Breezy and delightful… Claire Malloy is one of the most engaging narrators in mystery.”
—Drood Review
“Definitely entertaining. Hess deftly sprinkles red her- rings and odd characters throughout.”
—Library Journal
on
The Murder at the Murder at the Mimosa Inn
“Dear Miss Demeanor
is great fun … Hess's poniard is tipped with subtle wit.”
—Chicago Sun Times
on
Dear Miss Demeanor
“Hess's theme is a serious one, but she handles it with wit. Claire is an appealing character, and this is an en- gaging mystery for anyone who likes crime mixed with comedy.”
—Booklist
on
Roll Over and Play Dead
“Hess's style—that of a more worldly Erma Bombeck— rarely flags. Amiable entertainment with an edge.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Joan Hess is one funny woman.”
—Susan Dunlap
ALSO BY JOAN HESS
A Really Cute Corpse
A Diet to Die For
A Conventional Corpse
Dear Miss Demeanor
The Murder at the Murder at the Mimosa Inn
Strangled Prose
Roll Over and Play Dead
Death by the Light of the Moon
AVAILABLE FROM
ST.MARTINS|MINOTAUR PAPERBACKS
OUT ON
A
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Joan
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St. Martin's Paperbacks
NOTE:
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
OUT ON A LIMB
Copyright © 2002 by Joan Hess.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2002069939
ISBN: 0-312-98632-7
EAN: 80312-98632-2
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin's Press hardcover edition / November 2002 St. Martin's Paperbacks edition / November 2003
St. Martin's Paperbacks are published by St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3
To Mary Lightheart,
whose act of courage inspired so many of us
I would like to thank Kyle Russell and Rob Merry-ship for helping me muddle through the complexities of property development. All errors contained herein are due to my faulty notes, and not to their generously offered information. I would also like to thank John Dixon, a geologist at the University of Arkansas, who went so far as to supply me with a geological map so I could ponder the infamous Fayetteville Fault.
“So all is forgiven and you’ll be moving into the castle with Prince Perfectly Charming?” asked Luanne Bradshaw, my best friend and toughest critic. She took a slice of pizza from the box on the coffee table, studied it as though it were a slide from a lab, and cautiously took a bite. She does not suffer pepperoni gladly.
We were sitting in my living room in the top half of a modest duplex, which has two small bedrooms and a cramped and often cranky bathroom but redeems itself with a view of the campus lawn undulating gently down the slope from Old Main. Undergraduate classes had been dismissed for the day, and only a few students were cutting across the grass or lingering on the marble benches meant to inspire thoughts of Plato and Aristotle. The sky was blue, with a cloud here and there to break the monotony. Luanne and I had closed our respective businesses for the day—hers a vintage clothing store, mine a bookstore down the hill from Farber College. Both of us clip coupons.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Peter swore he was never interested in his ex-wife, and pulled all that nonsense just to make me jealous. I suppose P. T. Barnum had me in mind when he delivered the line about a sucker born every minute. I think I showed maturity and restraint, however.”
“Oh, yes, you had all of us fooled. It never occurred to me when you called at least once a day to rant that you were the tiniest bit perturbed. I just assumed it was an extended bout of PMS.” She picked up her beer and took a sip. “So Lovely Leslie, as you called her, has scuttled back to Manhattan and you and Peter are back to whining and dining?”
“He’s coming by later.”
“And?”
“He’s coming by later—that’s all.” I picked up the clicker and turned on the local news. “Unless, of course, a disgrunded Kappa Theta Eta goes ballistic and takes out the housemother, thus demanding the attention of the CID. It never seems to happen between nine and five.”
“There ought to be a law,” Luanne murmured.
I was going to point out that there
was
a law when the image on the TV screen caught my attention. “Oh, my gawd! Is that who I think it is?”
“Unless we’re under the influence of errant microwaves,” she said, as stunned as I. “What on earth is she doing in that tree—or any tree, for that matter?”
Caron, my not-so-mild-mannered daughter, came through the front door in time to hear the question. Chronologically speaking, she’s sixteen years old, but she swings back and forth between toddlerhood and jaded savoir faire. The latter was the mode of the moment as she dropped her backpack on the floor. “I was Absolutely Humiliated. After school, everybody went out to see what was going on with this tree business, and Rhonda could barely contain herself when she saw who it was. You really ought to pick your friends more carefully, Mother. I have to live in this town, too.”
“Not necessarily. I’m sure I can find you a job in a hospital in Guatemala or Sri Lanka. You’ll have to start with bedpans, but after a few years you’ll be allowed to clean gangrenous sores.”
Caron grabbed a slice of pizza and slouched into a chair. “You are so not funny.”
I turned up the volume on the TV. The reporter, her hair shellacked and her pert nose powdered to prevent even a glimmer of shininess, stared earnestly into the camera. “For those of you just joining us,” she began, her tone making it clear that those of us who had failed to join her earlier might well be residing in a swamp, “this is the situation thus far. Local environmentalists calling themselves the Farberville Green Party are staging a demonstration to stop developer Anthony Armstrong from cutting down a stand of oak trees in order to begin construction of the second phase of Oakland Heights. The demonstrators arrived during the early hours of the morning and built the platform you see behind me.” Her voice grew huskier, as though she were describing some sort of catastrophe in which scores of innocent victims had perished due to the cruel caprices of nature. “Its occupant, retired high school teacher Emily Parchester, has chained herself to the tree and vowed not to come down until the city council takes action. Other members of the Green Party say they will hold a vigil around the clock. And now the clock is ticking. The bulldozers are scheduled to arrive in the morning. Will Miss Parchester be able to defend this beloved tree?”
The camera shifted to a group of a dozen or so people holding posterboard signs that claimed the developer to be an “herbicidal maniac” and other less-savory designations. The reporter approached them but remained prudently out of range should they descend into whackery.
“Would you like to explain your position to the viewers at home?” she asked.
Their designated spokesman, a man in his thirties with a neatly trimmed beard and wire-rimmed glasses, stepped forward. His tweedy jacket, turtleneck shirt, and corduroy trousers did not suggest he was a dedicated ecoterrorist, and I was not surprised when he said, “My name is Finnigan Baybergen, and I’m an assistant professor of botany at Farber College. I am also a concerned citizen who feels that the city council and, more specifically, the planning commission, failed to follow the city landscape ordinance designed to protect the environment from those who would make a profit from the destruction of our precious ecosystem. Drive by the mall and look at the acres of pavement, with only a few sickly saplings to replace trees that were here when Farberville was nothing but a sleepy little market town. Those apartment complexes across the road were built on what used to be peach and apple orchards planted by families that endured hardship to find a better way of life. Must we sacrifice hundred-year-old trees so that developers like Anthony Armstrong can make a few dollars? The members of the city council were elected to preserve and protect the unique ambience of Farberville, not to sell it to tho highest bidder.”
