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  PRAISE FOR THE CLAIRE MALLOY MYSTERY SERIES

  “Joan Hess is one of the funniest people in the mystery world.”

  —Margaret Maron, author of Slow Dollar

  “With her wry asides, Claire makes a most engaging nar- rator… The surprising denouement comes off with eclat/'

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Joan Hess is seriously funny. Moreover, she is seriously kind as well as clever when depicting the follies, foibles, and fantasies of our lives. Viva Joan!"

  —Carolyn Hart, author of April Fool Dead

  “Joan Hess shares with P. G. Wodehouse an unmistak- able comic voice and the ability to juggle a dizzying num- ber of subplots. She has the remarkable ability to take caricatures and bring them to life and make us care about them in book after book.”

  —M. D. Lake, author of Death Calls the Tune

  “Witty, ironic, and biting… Joan Hess has an unerring comedic instinct.”

  —Bookpage

  “Joan Hess fans will find a winning blend of soft-core feminism, trendy subplots, and a completely irreverent style that characterizes both series and the sleuth, all nicely onstage.”

  —Houston Chronicle

  MORE…

  “Breezy and delightful… Claire Malloy is one of the most engaging narrators in mystery.”

  —Drood Review

  “Definitely entertaining. Hess deftly sprinkles red her- rings and odd characters throughout.”

  —Library Journal on

  The Murder at the Murder at the Mimosa Inn

  “Dear Miss Demeanor is great fun … Hess's poniard is tipped with subtle wit.”

  —Chicago Sun Times on Dear Miss Demeanor

  “Hess's theme is a serious one, but she handles it with wit. Claire is an appealing character, and this is an en- gaging mystery for anyone who likes crime mixed with comedy.”

  —Booklist on Roll Over and Play Dead

  “Hess's style—that of a more worldly Erma Bombeck— rarely flags. Amiable entertainment with an edge.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Joan Hess is one funny woman.”

  —Susan Dunlap

  ALSO BY JOAN HESS

  A Really Cute Corpse

  A Diet to Die For

  A Conventional Corpse

  Dear Miss Demeanor

  The Murder at the Murder at the Mimosa Inn

  Strangled Prose

  Roll Over and Play Dead

  Death by the Light of the Moon

  AVAILABLE FROM

  ST.MARTINS|MINOTAUR PAPERBACKS

  OUT ON A

  LIMB

  Joan Hess

  St. Martin's Paperbacks

  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  OUT ON A LIMB

  Copyright © 2002 by Joan Hess.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2002069939

  ISBN: 0-312-98632-7

  EAN: 80312-98632-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  St. Martin's Press hardcover edition / November 2002 St. Martin's Paperbacks edition / November 2003

  St. Martin's Paperbacks are published by St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

  To Mary Lightheart,

  whose act of courage inspired so many of us

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank Kyle Russell and Rob Merry-ship for helping me muddle through the complexities of property development. All errors contained herein are due to my faulty notes, and not to their generously offered information. I would also like to thank John Dixon, a geologist at the University of Arkansas, who went so far as to supply me with a geological map so I could ponder the infamous Fayetteville Fault.

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  CHAPTER ONE

  “So all is forgiven and you’ll be moving into the castle with Prince Perfectly Charming?” asked Luanne Bradshaw, my best friend and toughest critic. She took a slice of pizza from the box on the coffee table, studied it as though it were a slide from a lab, and cautiously took a bite. She does not suffer pepperoni gladly.

  We were sitting in my living room in the top half of a modest duplex, which has two small bedrooms and a cramped and often cranky bathroom but redeems itself with a view of the campus lawn undulating gently down the slope from Old Main. Undergraduate classes had been dismissed for the day, and only a few students were cutting across the grass or lingering on the marble benches meant to inspire thoughts of Plato and Aristotle. The sky was blue, with a cloud here and there to break the monotony. Luanne and I had closed our respective businesses for the day—hers a vintage clothing store, mine a bookstore down the hill from Farber College. Both of us clip coupons.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Peter swore he was never interested in his ex-wife, and pulled all that nonsense just to make me jealous. I suppose P. T. Barnum had me in mind when he delivered the line about a sucker born every minute. I think I showed maturity and restraint, however.”

  “Oh, yes, you had all of us fooled. It never occurred to me when you called at least once a day to rant that you were the tiniest bit perturbed. I just assumed it was an extended bout of PMS.” She picked up her beer and took a sip. “So Lovely Leslie, as you called her, has scuttled back to Manhattan and you and Peter are back to whining and dining?”

  “He’s coming by later.”

  “And?”

  “He’s coming by later—that’s all.” I picked up the clicker and turned on the local news. “Unless, of course, a disgrunded Kappa Theta Eta goes ballistic and takes out the housemother, thus demanding the attention of the CID. It never seems to happen between nine and five.”

  “There ought to be a law,” Luanne murmured.

  I was going to point out that there was a law when the image on the TV screen caught my attention. “Oh, my gawd! Is that who I think it is?”

  “Unless we’re under the influence of errant microwaves,” she said, as stunned as I. “What on earth is she doing in that tree—or any tree, for that matter?”

  Caron, my not-so-mild-mannered daughter, came through the front door in time to hear the question. Chronologically spe
aking, she’s sixteen years old, but she swings back and forth between toddlerhood and jaded savoir faire. The latter was the mode of the moment as she dropped her backpack on the floor. “I was Absolutely Humiliated. After school, everybody went out to see what was going on with this tree business, and Rhonda could barely contain herself when she saw who it was. You really ought to pick your friends more carefully, Mother. I have to live in this town, too.”

  “Not necessarily. I’m sure I can find you a job in a hospital in Guatemala or Sri Lanka. You’ll have to start with bedpans, but after a few years you’ll be allowed to clean gangrenous sores.”

  Caron grabbed a slice of pizza and slouched into a chair. “You are so not funny.”

  I turned up the volume on the TV. The reporter, her hair shellacked and her pert nose powdered to prevent even a glimmer of shininess, stared earnestly into the camera. “For those of you just joining us,” she began, her tone making it clear that those of us who had failed to join her earlier might well be residing in a swamp, “this is the situation thus far. Local environmentalists calling themselves the Farberville Green Party are staging a demonstration to stop developer Anthony Armstrong from cutting down a stand of oak trees in order to begin construction of the second phase of Oakland Heights. The demonstrators arrived during the early hours of the morning and built the platform you see behind me.” Her voice grew huskier, as though she were describing some sort of catastrophe in which scores of innocent victims had perished due to the cruel caprices of nature. “Its occupant, retired high school teacher Emily Parchester, has chained herself to the tree and vowed not to come down until the city council takes action. Other members of the Green Party say they will hold a vigil around the clock. And now the clock is ticking. The bulldozers are scheduled to arrive in the morning. Will Miss Parchester be able to defend this beloved tree?”

  The camera shifted to a group of a dozen or so people holding posterboard signs that claimed the developer to be an “herbicidal maniac” and other less-savory designations. The reporter approached them but remained prudently out of range should they descend into whackery.

  “Would you like to explain your position to the viewers at home?” she asked.

  Their designated spokesman, a man in his thirties with a neatly trimmed beard and wire-rimmed glasses, stepped forward. His tweedy jacket, turtleneck shirt, and corduroy trousers did not suggest he was a dedicated ecoterrorist, and I was not surprised when he said, “My name is Finnigan Baybergen, and I’m an assistant professor of botany at Farber College. I am also a concerned citizen who feels that the city council and, more specifically, the planning commission, failed to follow the city landscape ordinance designed to protect the environment from those who would make a profit from the destruction of our precious ecosystem. Drive by the mall and look at the acres of pavement, with only a few sickly saplings to replace trees that were here when Farberville was nothing but a sleepy little market town. Those apartment complexes across the road were built on what used to be peach and apple orchards planted by families that endured hardship to find a better way of life. Must we sacrifice hundred-year-old trees so that developers like Anthony Armstrong can make a few dollars? The members of the city council were elected to preserve and protect the unique ambience of Farberville, not to sell it to tho highest bidder.”

  “Disgraceful!” snorted a stout woman behind him. Beside her, a rotund man with a shock of white hair bobbled his head emphatically, as did the rest of the protesters.

  “Bunch of damn tree-huggers!” shouted someone beyond the range of the camera.

  “Kiss my oak!” shouted another.

  Unwilling to be upstaged by amateurs, the reporter gestured for the camera to follow her as she moved toward the tree. “Let’s see if we can get a statement from the demonstrator on the platform. Miss Parchester, are you confident you can remain there indefinitely? Have preparations been made for your comfort and safety?”

  Caron took another slice of pizza. “When we saw who it was, Rhonda began to laugh so convulsively that Louis had to steady her. How fortunate for her that he was conveniently nearby. It would have been such a tragedy if she’d plopped into a puddle. I would have been underwhelmed with grief.”

  “Miss Parchester is hardly a close friend of yours,” said Luanne. “Considering your mother’s epic reign of ineptitude and meddling in murder investigations, I should think your classmates would understand.”

  “You are so not funny,” I muttered, meriting a dirty look from Caron. I leaned forward as Miss Parchester peered down from her perch some ten feet above the ground.

  She had chosen a cardigan sweater and a dress with a lace collar and cuffs as the appropriate garb for treesitting. Her bifocals glinted as sunlight found paths through the foliage. “Oh, yes, I’m quite nicely equipped. My friends have provided me with a sleeping bag and an air mattress. I have a small duffel bag with clothes and personal items, as well as a transistor radio and a flashlight to read by at night. A box contains provisions and several jugs of water. I have a tarp in case it rains. I shall be quite comfy up here in my leafy bower with the birds, butterflies, and squirrels.”

  The reporter gestured at those who had gathered at the edge of the parking lot. “Do any of you have an opinion that differs from that of the Farberville Green Party? Does Phase Two reflect economic progress or—”

  “You got a potty up there?” jeered a thick-necked man in a grimy T-shirt that did little to hide his protuberant belly. His companions, one with the pinched features of a weasel and the other with the flattened nose of a bulldog, guffawed at his witticism.

  Miss Parchester’s lips tightened briefly. “There are some questions a gentleman doesn’t ask and a lady doesn’t answer. This is not to imply I’m confident that you are a gentleman, but perhaps you might pretend to be one in order not to embarrass yourself on television.”

  “Why don’t you head on home to your outhouse?” added Finnigan Baybergen. The rest of his supporters inched forward, although they were less than menacing. With the exception of their leader, they appeared to qualify for Medicare and senior discounts at movie theaters. The yardsticks stapled to their signs would not fare well against the tire irons and monkey wrenches that the trio of troglodytes were likely to have in their pickup trucks.

  The reporter hastily moved away from the tree, wondering, perhaps, if Miss Parchester had a chamber pot at her disposal. “This is Jessica Princeton, on location for KFAR. Let’s go back to the studio for more local news.” She smiled brightly until the image faded and her twin, albeit a male, began to drone on about revised costs for renovations to the football stadium.

  “Goodness,” I said as I turned down the volume, “Miss Parchester does seem to create awkward situations, doesn’t she? Were there any police officers there?”

  Caron shook her head. “A private security cop was trying to keep people from parking in the spaces in front of the condos, but nobody paid any attention to him.”

  “How large was the crowd?” asked Luanne.

  “Maybe twenty-five, not counting the television crew and the protesters. Most of them probably heard about it on the radio and stopped by on their way home. Do you think Miss Parchester is really going to stay in that tree night after night?”

  “She might,” I said. “She may appear to be scatterbrained, but she has a great deal of determination to fight whatever miscarriages of justice she perceives. After all, as she is so fond of telling us, her dear papa was on the state supreme court.”

  “While her dear mama stayed home and made elderberry wine,” Luanne said through a mouthful of mozzarella. “I hope the designated martyr doesn’t have any alcohol with her. Stubbing one’s toe in the living room is momentarily uncomfortable; falling off a high platform is a bit more grievous.”

  I wasn’t pleased at the idea of again becoming embroiled in Miss Parchester’s affairs, having once aided and abetted her when she’d been charged with a murder in the teachers’ lounge, and on another oc
casion having retrieved her beloved basset hounds when they’d been stolen by a repulsive dealer. But despite all that, she’d offered me tea, cookies, and her trust—and I doubted Finnigan Baybergen had her best interests in mind when he allowed her to take the stage, so to speak, in this current drama.

  “I’ll drive,” I said to Luanne as I put down my glass. “Caron, you’ll have to come along and show us how to find this place.”

  Caron picked up her backpack. “I have already endured enough mortification for one day, thank you very much. Besides, I have a test tomorrow in algebra. Inez is coming over after dinner so we can study together.” She looked at the remains of the pizza. “Her mother fixes things like pot roast and baked halibut.”

  “You wouldn’t know a halibut if it bit you on the—” I stopped and took a breath. “Just give me directions. If Peter shows up, tell him I’ll be back shortly.”

  Luanne fiddled with the radio as we drove up Thurber Street, passing not only our businesses, but also the bars and pool halls that lured in Farber College students on weekends. If I believed a neon Budweiser sign in the window of the Book Depot might do the same, I’d have purchased one years ago. Caron and I skimp by without resorting to thrift shops and soup kitchens, although my gloomy accountant implies the possibility is not remote. I could easily imagine him perched atop a doorway, pointing at the pizza box and rumbling “Nevermore.” It was unfortunate that my deceased husband had met his demise without the benefit of a life insurance policy, but he’d found coeds more worthy of his attention than his family’s welfare. Then again, he hadn’t anticipated a chicken truck careening down an icy mountain road.