The View from the Cherry Tree (7 page)

His mother was looking rather pale, Rob thought, but she was welcoming them all. He
withdrew as quickly as he could toward the back of the house, before any of them should decide to kiss him or something. Now
that
was
his
idea of gruesome.

He didn't know Sylvester or the others very well, although they sometimes came over the Christmas holidays. Then they usually stayed with his Grandmother Mallory, and he hadn't liked any of them well enough to try to get better acquainted. Little Neddy he remembered; he'd pulled up all his mother's tulips the last time he was here, and broken a vase she especially valued.

He didn't want to stick around long enough to get caught up with that crowd, and he knew he'd better remove the spiders before Aunt Sylvia saw them, or his cousin Elsie. Elsie was grown up, but she was a real fraidy cat. He got the jar and held it so nobody would notice what was in it, and on his way past the hall table he rescued two small vases so that they'd be out of reach of three-year-old hands. He put them on the windowsill in the kitchen.

Sonny immediately jumped up to investigate them, and Rob cuffed him sharply. “You
knock those off, stupid, and they're apt to draw and quarter you!”

Sonny withdrew with dignity, gazing at him through resentful yellow eyes.

“And if I were you,” Rob went on in a conversational tone, “I'd stay out of the way of Neddy. I'll bet he picks cats up by their necks.”

Sonny switched his tail in a challenging manner.

“Yeah, well, you scratch the little brat, even if he is choking you to death, and his mother will kill you.”

“Who are you talking to?”

His Aunt Grace had come down for her tea, since no one had brought it up. She looked around the empty kitchen.

“Just Sonny.”

“Where's your mother keep the tea?”

He found it for her, silently. She nearly stepped on Sonny, who stood his ground; he knew his rights. He made a protesting sound when Rob scooped him up and put him out on the porch. Aunt Grace wasn't terribly fond of cats, either.

“Oh, Marge . . . I'm just making myself some tea. Do you want some?”

“What I really need,” Mrs. Mallory said frankly, “is a very dry martini. Which I don't dare have. Grace, did you see that mob they brought? Sylvester and nine other people! Where am I going to put them? Does Mother have any sleeping space left?”

“No. Every corner is filled. Unless Ray's gone . . . his room would be empty.”

“Ray? Is he gone somewhere?” Mrs. Mallory paused, frowning, in the act of reaching for a cup. “Isn't he going to be here for the wedding?”

Nobody was paying any attention to Rob. He heard Aunt Grace start to pick up the pieces on that blooper. It would be good to see how she got out of that, but it also seemed a good time to slip out the back door with his spiders. He put them down in the grass beside the steps until he could think of a safe place for them. They moved sluggishly, climbing over one another.

It was pleasantly hot in the sunshine. Rob picked at one of the scabs on his lip and started
the place bleeding again. Sonny came to crouch beside him, rubbing against his leg. Rob put down a hand to stroke the dark fur, feeling the powerful muscles beneath it. It wouldn't be a bad life, to be a cat like Sonny.

Something hit the step between his feet with a sharp, splintering sound.

Rob glanced down, frowning, and saw that a bit of the wood had been torn away. There was a second report, and Sonny screamed in pain and fury, bounding away toward a refuge in the shrubbery.

Unbelieving, Rob sat for a moment more, staring at the drops of blood left in a trail across the concrete of the sidewalk. He dove after the cat at last, only vaguely aware of the third shell that hit the porch steps right where he had been sitting.

Eight

He hauled the protesting cat out of the bushes and ran his hands over the animal. At least he wasn't killed, though he easily might have been. At first Rob couldn't even find where the blood was coming from, and then his fingers felt moisture.

“Robbie! Robbie, was that someone shooting?”

His mother came to the door, her voice anxious.

“Some dumb kid shooting a .22, I think.”

She saw the blood then. Not a lot of it, but enough so you could tell what it was. “Robbie, were you hit?”

“No, they got Sonny, though. It's just on his tail . . . scared him more than anything, I guess.” He carried the big cat toward the
house. “I hope it didn't break it . . . do you think it did?”

Anger swept across her face. “What's the matter with anybody who'd shoot right into someone's yard? Who around here has a .22?”

“Oh, practically everybody, Mom. What'll I do with Sonny?”

Surprisingly, Sonny allowed her to examine him. Usually he hated being touched by anyone but Rob, unless he asked to be petted. Mrs. Mallory parted the hair, examining the area at the base of his tail.

“No, I don't think it's broken. I don't think we have to do anything to it; he'll take care of it himself. But that idiot might have killed Sonny . . . or you, for that matter, if you were right here, too. I've got a good mind to call the police.”

He remembered his father's comments about calling the police when Mrs. Calloway had attacked him.

“Are you sure you want to take time to talk to the police? They come around writing out reports and everything.”

“Well . . . I suppose I haven't got any time to spare, but if it happens again, I'll have to
make the time before someone gets hurt. Did you find what was smelling up your room?”

“Yes. It was Randolph, like I thought. He's gone now. I think I'll punch that Paddy in the mouth. I'll bet he knew that mouse was going to die.”

“Give him the benefit of the doubt, and forget it. You don't need to be any more battered than you are already.”

“Paddy's so fat, he can't lay a hand on me.”

“Then it's hardly fair to hit him, is it?”

“It wasn't fair to trade me a sick mouse, either.”

“You can't be sure he knew it was sick. ­Robbie, run up and dig out those old sleeping bags, will you? We're going to need them all, I guess, and then I'm not sure we'll have enough to go around.”

“Dad already got them out. They're on the upper landing.”

“Just the good ones. We're going to need the older ones, too. And I think yours is still in your closet. Maybe Neddy could sleep in that.”

Rob looked at her in dismay. “Mom, Neddy wets his pants!”

“Well, if he ruins your bag, we'll replace it. You need a new one, anyway. Go on, please, get the others out. I'm going out of my mind trying to think where to put everyone.”

“Didn't you invite them all?”

“Yes, but most of them said they couldn't come, so I told Nick he could sleep here as well as Sylvia and Sylvester. We'll have to move you out of your own room . . . Lord knows where you'll find a few feet of floor space to spread a sleeping bag. Oh, and we'll have to move the wedding presents off the bed in the spare room. There's no place to put them if we're going to use the dining room, so people will just have to climb around them, but get everything moved off the bed, at least, will you?”

He knew it had been a mistake not to vanish when he'd had the chance. He put the cat down, and Sonny streaked along the house, retreating to a hideaway underneath where no one could get at him. Rob didn't blame him. If he could think of a place to go, he'd hide, too.

His mother had turned to go back into the house; she paused with one final order. “Oh,
and move the sprinkler, will you? Be sure to keep the water off the sidewalks.”

Cripes, if he lived through this weekend it would be a miracle. Rob turned off the water, plodded through the wet grass to pick up the sprinkler, and moved it closer to Mrs. ­Calloway's house. It was going to be funny to think of it as somebody else's house.

He could make out the crushed spot on the grass where the old woman's body had been before they took it away. The men had walked in her flowerbeds, too, crushing some geraniums. He could just hear her now, up in heaven, giving them what-for, for trampling her flowers.

Wow, what was he thinking? Old Lady ­Calloway wasn't going to be in heaven, was she? If she got there,
he
sure didn't want to join her.

He couldn't remember afterward why he had suddenly moved away from the house. Maybe he'd heard some sound from above, he didn't know. Just standing where the body had been . . . the corpse, he thought . . . was enough to give a guy the creeps. He jumped right in
the nick of time, anyway, for whatever reason.

The pot landed where he had been moments earlier. With a sickening crack the container split on a rock that edged a flower bed, forming two halves with the dirt and some scroungy-looking plant remaining intact between the sections.

Rob stood quite still, looking at it, then gazing upward to where it must have fallen from. He didn't think the old lady had been upstairs in years, yet she must have, because there was a window open. Right over his head. Funny place to keep a plant, when you spent most all your time on the ground floor. He scowled at it. As a matter of fact, it looked like one of the plants she'd kept on the rail on the back porch.

Cripes, the thing could have killed him if he'd still been standing there. He wondered what had made it fall.

Well, it hadn't hit him. He shrugged, kicking at the dirt so that it came apart. It wasn't rock-hard, like dirt that hadn't been watered lately. He kicked the pottery pieces into the flower bed beside the house and then glanced
around, guiltily. If anybody saw him and thought he'd broken it on purpose, they'd be sort of ticked off.

Just out of curiosity, he walked toward the back of the house to look at the row of pots on the porch rail. There were five of them, just like the one that had fallen from the second story. Had there been six, when he was lying out there smeared with ketchup, waiting for Mrs. Calloway to find him?

He couldn't remember. It didn't matter, anyway. He crossed to his own yard and turned on the water, setting the sprinkler to whirling.

Across the street he saw Paddy and Bo Crepps and Andy Dunbarton. They were wearing bathing trunks and carrying towels over their shoulders, off to the city pool. He wished he could go, too; it would be a lot more fun than hauling out sleeping bags and dodging little Neddy, but he knew it was pointless to ask. His mother would probably froth at the mouth if he even mentioned it. He sure hoped she'd get back to normal immediately after this blamed wedding was over. Well, as soon as all the relatives went home, anyway.

Old Max's car drew up at the curb as he rounded the corner of the house. Teddi looked bright and happy. There must be something different about girls; they all seemed to love weddings, no matter whose they were or how much bother.

“Hi, Rob! Who all's here?” She pointed to the station wagon full of luggage and the dusty sedan behind it.

He told her. “And Neddy. Nasty little Neddy.”

“Oh, he's only a baby, Rob. He's all right.”

“Last time he was here he wet in the ­middle of my bed. Now Mom wants to put him in my sleeping bag tonight.”

“Oh, probably they'll put plastic pants on him, or something. He's cute. Your mouth's bleeding.”

He touched it with a finger, which came away smeared with red. “I guess I picked at the scab.”

“You'd better stop that. Darcy's having fits now about the way you're going to spoil her wedding pictures. It's a good thing you aren't an usher or ring-bearer or anything, so you'd have to be in the official pictures.”

Max grinned at him. “She'd have you painted up with makeup to cover the black eyes and the scabs. You really are a thing of beauty, mate.”

“I pretty nearly was even worse.” He told them about the falling flowerpot. “And before that some nut with a .22 fired into the yard. Didn't hit me, I was sitting on the back steps, but it got Sonny's tail and made it bleed.”

Teddi's concern showed on her face. “Did you take him to the vet's?”

“No. Mom said he could take care of it himself. He's hiding under the house.”

“I'd hide under the house, too,” Max approved. “Boy, this is one swinging neighborhood today. Listen, Teddi, do you think there's any chance of ripping off a beer and a sandwich before we take on the next project? I'm about to perish of starvation.”

“Sure. Come on in.”

Rob watched them go. Good old helpful Max. He bet if Teddi wasn't here he wouldn't be around offering to run errands.

“Catch me doing a lot of unnecessary work because of some dumb girl,” he muttered, and went to get down the sleeping bags.

He had to get into his closet for his own, and he found his cousin Elsie there, putting little Neddy down for a nap on his own bed. Rob halted with the rolled sleeping bag hugged against his chest, looking at the child.

He didn't see what was cute about him. Anybody could tell he was a stinker, just looking into his big blue eyes. He wondered why they didn't cut his hair; all those yellow curls, he looked like a girl.

“Last time he wet on my bed,” Rob said.

Elsie smiled at him. “Oh, he doesn't do that anymore, do you, honey? Don't worry, Robbie, he won't wet.”

“He'd better not. I just put clean sheets on the bed, and Mom says we're running out of sheets.”

His cousin smiled reassuringly. “Don't worry. Neddy's a big boy now.”

Obviously nothing he said was going to make a difference. Rob left, adding his own sleeping bag to the stack on the landing. Be lucky if he had a place to sleep himself tonight.

He almost ran into Derek in the lower hallway. He thought Derek looked tired, like maybe
hauling that champagne was hard work.

“Oh, hi, Rob. I wondered where you were.”

“Why?”

Derek gave him an odd look. “Well, why not? I mean, everybody else is around.”

“Dad's not.”

“Oh? Well, it doesn't matter. I need to talk to your mother, actually. Do you know where she is?”

“No. She's not upstairs, I know that.”

Derek followed him toward the rear of the house. “Who are all the people running in and out?”

“Relatives.”

“Are they all staying here? Where you going to put them?”

Rob didn't answer. Teddi and Max and his mother were all in the kitchen; Max had a can of beer, and Teddi was making sandwiches.

“Hey, that looks good. I don't suppose you've got another one?” Derek asked.

Mrs. Mallory turned with a smile, looking almost her normal self. “Teddi, get the boy a beer. You want a sandwich, too?”

“No, thanks. I had some trouble, Mrs. Mallory.”

Rob edged over to the counter. “Is there enough tuna fish, so I can have some, too?”

Mrs. Mallory's smile had faded. “What sort of trouble?”

“Well, with my car. It stalled. I got stranded a few blocks away. It won't start. It's the fuel pump, I think. I'll have to go get a new one. I picked up the champagne, okay, but I still have it in the car. I couldn't get it over to the ­Country Club.”

“And the ice?”

“I didn't get the ice yet.”

“Give me a chance to ease my hunger pangs, and I'll relieve you of the champagne and go get the ice,” Max offered. “If Teddi can be spared to come along and direct things?”

Mrs. Mallory sighed. “Yes, I guess so. Grace got that dress hemmed, and I think I've got beds figured out; pray nobody else shows up at the last minute. Listen, you kids are on your own for food until after the rehearsal. I don't know what to do about the mob that showed up . . . I hadn't planned dinner for so many.”

“Send them out to KFC,” Teddi suggested.

“Maybe that's what we'd better do. Pick up some chicken and some more salads from the delicatessen, and that ought to stretch it. Maybe Max? . . .”

“Sure, I'll go pick it up for you.” Max stuck his head into the refrigerator and got himself another beer. “Hey, that looks good enough to be eaten twice!”

Teddi made a face at him. “Is that a polite way of saying you want two of them?”

Rob made his own sandwich and started for the back door. Eating outdoors was easier than watching where all the bits of lettuce fell.

“You want to come along and help us transfer the champagne to Max's car?” Derek called after him.

“No, thanks.” He escaped to the comparative peace of the yard. Just before he sat down on the steps, though, he remembered that's where he'd been when that nut fired off the .22. He hesitated, then sank down, probing the splintered spot with one finger. He hadn't heard any more firing, so the kid must have gone somewhere else. Maybe he'd
realized how close he came to hitting ­someone.

He chewed on the sandwich, idly figuring out the probable trajectory of the .22 shell. His frown deepened as he thought he had it located . . . but it wasn't very likely anyone had fired from upstairs in Mrs. Calloway's house.

The idea, when it came, was startling enough to make him stop eating.

What if it
had
been fired from there? When he got to thinking about it, where else
could
it have come from, to hit where it did, at the angle it did?

The sun was hot on his bare arms, but Rob felt a sudden chill, like somebody'd run cold water down his spine.

What if it wasn't some stupid kid, at all, but somebody shooting at
him?