Death Climbs a Tree by Sara Hoskinson Frommer Page A

for her would help when she tried to bring it up to speed.
    It felt strange to go to bed alone, but with no sign of Fred, she picked out a book and crawled in. To her surprise, considering all that was on her mind, she fell asleep before Beethoven’s Violin Concerto, playing on the college radio station, came to the last movement.
    Sometime in what seemed the middle of the night she felt Fred’s arms around her. “When did you get in?” she murmured.
    â€œHours ago. Phone probably woke you.”
    She rolled over and forced her eyes open. In the faint light coming through the window she could just see the outlines of his face. She didn’t remember the phone ringing. “At this hour? What’s wrong? Is it Andrew?”
    â€œFar as I know, he’s fine.”
    â€œThen what?” But her muscles were relaxing again. Nighttime phone calls weren’t all that unusual for Fred.
    â€œVandals. That was your friend Tom Walcher. Seems that when he got to work at six this morning, someone had damaged his construction vehicles.”
    â€œIt’s six? I just went to bed.”
    â€œSix fifteen. All right if I turn on a light? I can pull my pants on in the dark, but since you’re already awake…”
    â€œOh, sure.” She watched his efficient movements. Like a firefighter, he always kept his clothes within reach when he went to bed. “Want some breakfast?”
    â€œIt’ll wait. A cup of coffee?”
    â€œSure.” She pulled on a robe and put a couple of cups of water to boil while she ground Starry Night beans in the electric grinder Andrew had given Fred for Christmas. Tucking a filter into the funnel that fit over his big mug, she waited for the kettle to whistle. The coffee had dripped by the time he came out of the bathroom. Joan handed Fred his steaming mug and a couple of slices of his sourdough oatmeal bread, toasted and buttered.
    â€œThanks.” He sandwiched the toast together, washed down a couple of bites with his first slug of coffee, and took the rest with him. “I’ll see you when I see you.” For a man who’d thrown on his clothes, he looked remarkably put together. The tie that stuck out of his jacket pocket could make him totally presentable for the station—or for cameras, if it came to that. Only the roughness of his cheek when he kissed her gave away the fact that he hadn’t shaved since the night before. He’d told her when they were first married that he liked to shave at bedtime, just in case. It helped to be blond, she thought.

11
    Even though he’d answered Joan’s question casually, Fred felt anything but comfortable about Andrew’s safety. He’d left word at the station that he wanted to be called immediately about any problems at Yocum’s Woods. Johnny Ketcham, of course, knew why. Fred let anyone else think it was only because of Sylvia Purcell.
    Two uniformed officers met him at the edge of the clearing, Jill Root and Kevin Wampler, a tall, skinny kid who was newer on the force than Jill. Hard to think of her as experienced enough to work with a new officer, but she’d do a good job of it, if Wampler didn’t get on his high horse about a woman partner.
    Until now, only the tracks of large construction equipment in the clearing had suggested what Sylvia had been protesting. This time nothing had budged from those tracks. Men in denim and hard hats stood in clumps, talking and smoking. No skin off their noses if they were paid for doing nothing. Tom Walcher wouldn’t look at it that way, Fred was sure.
    â€œSo, what’s up?” he asked.
    â€œThey sabotaged the equipment,” Jill said. “Walcher’s ready to kill whoever did it.”
    â€œHe won’t have to look far,” Kevin said.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Fred asked.
    â€œThey signed it.” Kevin stood back and pointed.
    Emblazoned on the bulldozer behind him were crudely painted