Death Climbs a Tree by Sara Hoskinson Frommer

now on. Sylvia would have liked that.”
    She would, Joan thought. “How well did you know her, Andrew?”
    â€œNot as well as you did—I wasn’t in love with her, if that’s what you’re thinking—but I agree with what she was doing.”
    â€œYou think it’s worth it?”
    â€œWorth dying for? I don’t want to die. But I’d rather die for this beautiful land and wildlife than a lot of things they give out medals for. And no one had the right to do that to Sylvia! I’m standing up for her, and for her commitment.”
    She wished his father could hear him. He would have been so proud. But she hoped Andrew wasn’t literally standing up on his dinky platform. How did the mothers of people on active duty in the military bear it, knowing that at any time their children might be killed? She couldn’t answer him.
    â€œThey’ve already got big equipment in that clearing where we buried her basket. It’ll serve ’em right if they dig it up.” The grin on his face came through in his voice.
    â€œIt’s no joke!”
    â€œI know, Mom, but I’ve gotta do it.”
    *   *   *
    She wondered during the afternoon whether he was right about the attention the protest would get. On the way home after work, though, she knew he was. A straggly crowd, mostly young, was already marching though Oliver, beginning at the Oliver College campus and apparently headed for city hall, or maybe the police station.
    â€œWho killed Sylvia?” they were shouting, and, “Don’t kill the trees!” Fists pounded the air to the beat of the shouts.
    Joan paused at a corner to watch, as did a couple of men who’d been playing pool at the senior center. Several uniformed police officers also were watching, but not attempting to interfere with the march. Probably wise, she thought. A little shouting wouldn’t hurt anybody. But she hoped they weren’t dismissing the march as campus nonsense. She thought it was in dead earnest. And if those fists started pounding anything besides air, Fred might be in for a late night. For that matter, he probably was anyway, if the police were investigating Sylvia’s death. As the detective first on the scene, he’d be sure to end up with the case.
    The intensity of the demonstration was picking up. She was glad Yocum’s Woods wasn’t within easy marching distance. A confrontation out there could turn ugly fast, if Mr. Walcher enlisted any of his construction crew.
    â€œThose kids are spoiling for a fight.”
    Joan jumped. Intent on the marchers, she hadn’t noticed Annie Jordan behind her.
    â€œYou want a ride home? I’m parked right over there.” Annie pointed at her elderly Escort.
    â€œNo, thanks, Annie. You know me. I like to walk.”
    â€œBetter not hang around here much longer, then, unless you’ve got a flashlight.”
    In the depths of her shoulder bag, Joan kept a slender flashlight for just such situations, but she nodded. Annie was right. There was no point hanging around.
    â€œSee you tomorrow,” Joan said. Turning her back on the marchers, she started toward the park that made her daily pedestrian commute a pleasure.
    As she’d expected, Fred didn’t make it home for supper. She scrambled eggs, zapped fresh broccoli spears in the microwave until they were just past raw, and toasted a couple of slices of Fred’s sourdough oatmeal bread. A real Andrew supper—she couldn’t help wondering what he was eating tonight.
    After supper, alone and with no excuse not to, she pulled out her viola and attacked the Britten. The viola section’s lush solo wasn’t actually too hard, if she could just keep a smooth legato tone, but the fugue took real work. An hour later, she thought she could pull it off, if not as fast as Alex probably would take it. Even so, making her fingers comfortable with fingerings that worked