The View from the Cherry Tree (8 page)

Nine

Rob tried to shrug it off, it was so fantastic, but the idea nagged at him. That heavy pot, too, falling from a part of the house where he didn't think anybody ever went anymore. It had come from that front window on this side, and the shot could have been fired from there, too.

He'd lost his appetite. He put the remains of the tuna sandwich down on a step where Sonny would find it and sat looking at the house next door.

After a few minutes he got up and slowly made his way toward the Calloway house, the back part of it. He walked right up on the porch, his heart pounding so it ought to have made his shirt stick out with the force of it, although he knew that was silly. The old witch was dead and carried off; she couldn't hurt
him. And if there was anybody up on the second floor, they couldn't possibly see him or do anything to him while he was back here.

The flowerpots sat in a row on the white-painted railing. Five of them. And there was a mark where the sixth one had sat, right on the end. It was easy to see, because there was a cleaner spot which had been covered by the pot and then stains where the water had leaked through it.

Somebody took that pot upstairs. Why?

To drop on me,
he thought, and knew what all those people at home would say if he sprung that on them. They'd all bring up his macabre turn of mind, his morbid sense of humor, his poor taste.

He was sweating heavily, although it wasn't really so hot there on the porch. He stood for a moment, not really wanting to make the return trip across the yard to his own house.

“Hey, Rob! What're you doing?”

Derek stood on the Mallory steps, watching him.

Rob relaxed a little. It wouldn't be smart of anybody to try to . . . to shoot him, or anything,
with a witness standing by, would it? He went down the steps and walked toward Derek.

“I was just . . . checking something out.”

“Yeah? What?”

“Oh, nothing special. What will happen now to the house, do you think?”

“I don't know. I suppose my mother will get it. Why? You want to live in it?”

Rob couldn't repress a shiver. “No, I never want to go in it.”

“Oh, I don't know. She had a lot of junk over there, but I guess there's some stuff that's valuable, too. It's a big, roomy house. A family with twelve kids would have plenty of space. Too bad some of it isn't available for this crowd your mother has now. Are you going to have enough sleeping space for everybody?”

“I guess so. Mom's got it figured out.”

“We've got one extra room. If you want to get away from that little kid, what's his name? Neddy? Why don't you come over and stay with us tonight?”

“No, thanks. I can sleep on the floor like everybody else.”

“Well, suit yourself. If you change your
mind when you find out you have to sleep with six other people, let me know.”

Max came out of the house, eating a piece of cake. “'Ready to go? You coming, Rob?”

“No. Is that cake up for grabs?”

“Far as I know. See you later, then.”

They went off together, and Rob went in and got himself a wedge of cake. Nothing had happened when he was outside this time. Nothing at all. Was he just letting his imagination run away with him? His family all said he tended to do that. Maybe he did, but he knew when he was pretending and when he wasn't. He sure hadn't pretended either the shots or the falling flowerpot.

If somebody had tried to get him . . . there had to be a reason. He bit into the cake which was moist and chocolatey, chewing slowly. He watched enough television to figure out the answer to that. A guy got shot at because somebody wanted to be rid of him . . . he knew ­something he wasn't supposed to know, he'd seen something he shouldn't have seen.

There was only one thing he knew about that maybe he shouldn't have. That was Mrs.
Calloway's death. That was hearing somebody talking to her . . . well, hearing her talk to somebody else . . . and then seeing those arms pushing her out of the window.

He forgot about the taste of the cake, chewing mechanically. Had she really been murdered? Had somebody not just pushed her because he was mad at what she'd said to him, but because he wanted to kill her?

He thought about it a little more, pouring a glass of milk to balance the cake. If those things did happen because of what he'd seen from the cherry tree, then the sooner he told somebody . . . everybody . . . about it, the safer he'd be.

Only who was he going to tell? Who could he get to listen?

He'd make one more try with his mother, he decided.

He found her in the spare bedroom, supervising sleeping arrangements for Sylvester and Sylvia. There were some six people in the room, besides Marge, shifting wedding presents, opening and unpacking luggage, talking and getting in one another's way.

He had to raise his voice to be heard over the tumult.

“Mom, I have to talk to you.”

“Not now, Rob, I want to get people squared away here so they all know where they're sleeping. So the kids can go to bed when they get tired, whether I'm around then to give instructions or not.”

“But it's important, Mom. It's practically a matter of life and death.”

“So's this. Please, Rob, don't be a pest. It isn't like you to deliberately irritate me when you know I'm already frantic. Why don't you go up and keep an eye on Neddy? He's sleeping, and he may be frightened if he wakes up in a strange place.”

“Mom, honest, it's real important. It'll only take a minute . . .”

“A minute is something I haven't got.” She didn't notice the urgency in his tone; she was scarcely even looking at him. “Go on, look in on Neddy. When this is over, we'll have plenty of time to talk.”

Serve her right if somebody murdered me before then,
Rob thought, anger rising.
Only
trouble is, I don't want to take the chance.

He climbed the stairs, stepping aside for a crowd of giggling girl cousins on the way down, reaching the upper landing in a foul humor.

It was like one of those dumb old Abbott and Costello movies, where it was really important to tell someone something and totally impossible to do it. It looked funny on the screen, but he didn't see any humor in it now.

He eased open the door to his room and stopped, outraged. Neddy wasn't sleeping at all; he was standing on the bed, taking apart the model of the
Constitution
that had taken him days to assemble. Not to mention that he'd spent two weeks' allowance on it.

“You little brat! Give me that!” Rob snatched at the remains, knowing already that it was too late. He'd never be able to fix it. He heard some of the parts crunching under his own feet.

Neddy opened his mouth and let out a blood-curdling shriek; he fought for the damaged hulk.

Rob was stronger, and force won out as he twisted the model out of Neddy's hands; in so doing, he upset Neddy's balance and he fell off
the bed, striking his head against the corner of the dresser.

The sound Neddy uttered this time was no bellow of rage but a genuine cry of pain. Rob stared at him, uncertain what to do next. Cripes, why couldn't they have put him to bed somewhere else?

Elsie came running into the room, scooping up her child, then whirling on Rob with a fury that astounded him.

“How could you! He's only a baby, how could you hurt him this way?”

“I didn't hurt him. I only took my model away from him. He wrecked it.”

“Look at his head! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, a great big boy like you!”

“I didn't do anything to him. He fell off the bed. I never touched him.”

“What on earth . . . is he all right?” Mrs. Mallory stood in the doorway, looking from Rob's pale face to the two flushed ones. “What happened?”

Rob started to explain but Elsie got there first. “He knocked poor Neddy on the floor! Look at the lump on his head! Poor baby, don't cry, Neddy!”

“I didn't,” Rob said, tight-lipped. “I never touched him. I only took my ship model away from him, and he fell off the bed by himself.”

“A great big boy like you,” Elsie said accusingly. “You ought to be ashamed.”

“Rob, he
is
only a baby . . .” Mrs. Mallory began.

It was all so stupid. They could see Neddy had wrecked the model, and there was no reason to think he'd pushed the kid. Why wouldn't they listen? He said it aloud.

“Why won't anybody listen to me? Why won't anybody shut up long enough to hear my side of anything?” He had said it too loudly; he knew that at once by their expressions, although at last Elsie had stopped accusing him. She compressed her lips, and carried Neddy out of the room.

Mrs. Mallory looked at him with some ­coolness.

“You're being very rude, to shout that way, Rob.”

He tried to keep his voice under control, but he couldn't. He was hurt and angry and, yes, scared, and he couldn't sound calm and
unconcerned. “Why won't you listen to me, then? I keep trying to
tell
you, and all you can think about is that stupid Neddy! It was his own fault he hurt himself, it served him right for wrecking my model!
She
was screaming, Neddy was screaming, and the only way anybody could hear me was if I yelled, too!”

“I'm not yelling,” his mother pointed out, “but you still are. With a houseful of company . . . I hate to imagine what they're thinking about you, Rob.”

He was not going to cry. No matter how mad he was, he wasn't going to cry, but his eyes stung. “What do I have to do to get you to listen to me? Nobody will even listen, and it's important . . .” Somewhere in the house something fell and smashed; Darcy's wail of anguish drew his mother further away from him.

He saw her face close. As if a door had been shut, right in front of him.

“That's enough, Rob. Your theatrics are all right when it's just family at home, when we have time to make them fun. But this isn't fun, and you're not amusing me in the slightest. This has been one of the worst days I can remember,
and if you don't shut up right this minute, I'm going to lose my temper and slap you!”

He stared at her, trembling all over now, and he thought sure she would have to see how upset he was if she were looking right at him. Instead she was already moving to see which of the wedding presents had been broken. With a supreme effort, choking on it, he brought his voice to a very low level, very soft, very quiet.

“Mom, I'm not kidding, I'm not trying to be funny. Somebody is trying to . . .”

He thought she was really going to hit him. Her hand started to move in the beginning motions, and then she spoke with a deadly coldness he had never known in her before. “All right. If that's the way you want it. But I'm not going to put up with it, and nobody else will have to, either. You can stay in your room until you decide to behave yourself and apologize to Elsie.”

She was gone, closing the door with considerable force, leaving him alone.

The trembling was out of control, now; he had to sit down. He did so, on the edge of his own bed, and found that it was wet. Neddy had wet the bed.

The tears came then, and he couldn't stop them. Blinding, hot, angry tears. He wiped at them frantically, smearing his face. He got up, feeling the broken bits of the
Constitution
underfoot. He kicked at them, savagely.

Somebody wanted to kill him. Didn't they? Or did they? How could he know for sure? What should he do?

Call the police, maybe. There was an extension phone in his mother's room, if the place wasn't full of people.

He heard them in the hall, a bunch of feminine voices, and then they were moving away toward the stairs. “Someone's got to be at the church and the reception hall,” he heard Teddi say clearly, and then her voice was lost in the clamor of the others. All the girl cousins, running around, looking at the bridal gown and the bridesmaids' dresses and the blue, lacy garter and all the other junk.

That was all that was important. Darcy's wedding, and all the things that went with it. It didn't matter if someone shot Rob, or dropped a pot on his head and knocked him cold.

He opened the door and looked out. The last
of them were vanishing down the stairs, ­giggling. He swallowed the painful lump in his throat and crossed the hall to where his parents' door stood open.

There were wedding signs here, too, in the tuxedo his father would wear, which was hanging from the top of the closet door, and his mother's long dress to go with it. The bridesmaid dress that had been altered for Ellen Anderson lay across the bed, its folds carefully arranged so as not to muss the skirt. But the room was empty.

Rob went in and closed the door behind him, shutting off the sounds from the lower part of the house.

The police number was there on a red sticker on the base of the phone, along with the fire department, the ambulance, and the doctor's phone numbers. He dialed it, willing his finger to stay steady.

“City Police,” said a gruff voice.

Rob cleared his throat. “I want to report . . . that somebody's trying to kill me.”

There was a brief silence. Then the voice, deeper than before, said, “Look, sonny, it's against the law to play jokes like that with the
police department. You can get in trouble.”

“I'm already in trouble.” For a moment his eyes were so swimmy that the clothes hanging on the closet door shimmered and melted in front of him. “Please, I'm really in trouble.”

“What's your name?” the officer asked.

“Robert Mallory.”

“Do your folks know you're using the telephone?”

“No, I . . .” His throat ached so that it was hard to talk. “Nobody will listen to me. Look, somebody shot at me . . . at first I thought it was just some dumb kid shooting a .22 without paying attention where he shot, but then the pot fell out of the window almost on me . . .”