Death Climbs a Tree Read Online Free Page B

Save-the-Trees is hurting.”
    â€œAnd Diane Barnhart, who cleans for me,” said Annie. “Diane has the contract to clean all those apartments when the construction is finished. It comes to way more than she makes in a year. She’s married, but Bert’s unemployment ran out months ago, so now he helps her. I don’t think they have enough to eat.”
    The moist, flavorful meat loaf turned to dust in Joan’s mouth. Did Sylvia have any idea? Did she care?
    Did Andrew?
    Later, at home, she still hadn’t seen him by the time she had to leave for rehearsal, but she left him a note offering to drive the next time he went. Not that he and Sylvia would be likely to change their minds because of Cindy Thickstun’s daughter or Diane Barnhart’s need for work. She already knew what Sylvia would say: low-income housing would be fine, but not there.
    Still, they should hear about it from someone other than Mr. Walcher.
    *   *   *
    The tension in the orchestra put a mere tree sitter out of her head. Alex Campbell, pointing her baton like a dagger, descended on Joan the minute she lugged the box of music onto the stage.
    â€œYou knew she wouldn’t be here and you didn’t tell me! How could you do that to me? How can I play this concert with so few firsts? Where do you expect me to find another violin at this late date? The board won’t let me hire one!”
    Trying to stop Alex in mid-rant would only prolong it. Joan waited her out.
    â€œI have a couple of leads, Alex. Haven’t heard back yet.”
    â€œAnd you’re just sitting on your backside waiting for them to call you?” She was off again.
    â€œI’ll let you know the minute I know more.”
    Birdie Eads, now sitting in Sylvia’s chair, next to Nicholas Zeller, looked as if she’d lost her best friend, as indeed she had. For the near future, anyhow.
    While they were rehearsing the Britten, Nicholas pounced on her more than once, increasing Birdie’s obvious misery. Once, Joan could see, it was because Birdie didn’t turn a page quickly enough for him. Usually on the outside chair of the second stand, she was used to having the player next to her do that job. To make matters worse, Alex drilled the violins mercilessly in the segment of the piece that illustrated what their instruments could do. Birdie was near tears when Alex exploded at all of them for less than absolute clarity in the rapid, very high runs at the end. Joan thought the flutes and piccolo passage had sounded much more jumbled, but they had escaped. Not that she wanted to hear them raked over the coals in the same way.
    Jim Chandler’s smiles in Birdie’s direction as he introduced the violins again and again when Alex made them go back over their bit didn’t seem to help at all. Nor did the rest Birdie got while the violas worked to maintain a full tone on the long legato lines in their part. Finally, the whole orchestra struggled to hang together in the fugue at the end. It would be easier, Joan suspected, if they all practiced the theme at home until they could play it up to tempo. But she knew the odds were against that. Too many players, herself among them, lived busy lives and trusted the notes to sink into their brains and fingers in just two hours a week.
    During the break, Birdie was still sitting in her seat, shrunk into herself. Joan made a point of speaking to her.
    â€œYou holding up all right without Sylvia?”
    â€œI hate him!” Birdie burst out, and then covered her mouth with her hand and looked around as if to check whether Nicholas had noticed.
    â€œHe didn’t hear you. He’s back there eating cookies. Look, Birdie, if it’s that bad, I can arrange with Alex to move someone else up here and let you go back to your old seat.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter.” But her face screamed the opposite of her quiet words.
    â€œYou sure?”
    Birdie