Birthday Party Murder

by Leslie Meier

  The phone started to ring and she grabbed it, hoping the old lady wouldn’t wake up.

  “Ma! What’s up?’

  The gruff voice was music to her ears.

  “Snake! I was just thinking about you.”

  “I told you you’d miss me, didn’t I? So what do you say? Is it time for my big entrance?”

  Shirley considered. It was a risk. What if the old bag got uppity? Well, what if she did? She could handle her, as long as those nosy women stayed away. And she was pretty sure they wouldn’t come calling once Snake was on the scene.

  “Like they say on TV: ‘Come on down! ’ ”

  “Get ready to rumble, Mama!”

  Shirley replaced the receiver and went into the living room just as Miss Tilley was awakening.

  “Guess what?” she cooed to the blinking old woman. “Your grand-nephew is coming to visit!”

  “How wonderful!” exclaimed Miss Tilley, clapping her hands together. “I can’t wait to meet him.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lucy was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee but skipping her usual English muffin because she was going to have breakfast later with the girls, and thinking about Toby. She was so disappointed in him. If he were home, she could shake some sense into him. But he was miles away in New Hampshire. Maybe she should drive out for a visit and see for herself what was going on.

  Bill had laughed when she suggested the idea the night before. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he’d told her. “Toby’s a big boy now. If he’s got himself in a pickle, he’ll just have to get himself out.”

  “But we can’t just let him throw away an opportunity like this,” she’d protested.

  “You know what they say: ‘You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink.’ We got him to college, but we can’t study for him. He’s got to do it for himself. It’s his life, after all. He’s got to take responsibility for it.” He paused, studying her expression. “You know I’m right.”

  “I know,” agreed Lucy. “But I don’t have to like it.”

  She was startled out of her reverie by Sara, who thumped in, yanked open the refrigerator door and stared inside.

  “There’s never anything good to eat in this house,” she said.

  “There’s OJ, V8, bananas, hot chocolate, milk, cereal, oatmeal, toast, English muffins, bagels, yogurt, frozen waffles, eggs, ham and cheese, fresh fruit—what do you mean there’s nothing good to eat?”

  “It’s all way fattening,” complained Sara.

  “Nothing is fattening, if you eat a sensible portion. Those are light yogurts, by the way. A hundred and ten calories. Definitely not fattening. V8 only has thirty-five calories, and it’s full of fiber.”

  Sara poured herself a glass of V8 and cautiously took a sip. “That’s disgusting,” she exclaimed, pouring the rest of the glass down the sink.

  “Waste not, want not,” muttered Lucy as Zoe arrived on the scene.

  “Cereal?” asked Lucy.

  “Yes, Mommy,” said Zoe, taking her usual seat and taking a banana from the fruit bowl in the center of the table. She peeled it and took a bite while she waited for her mother to fix the cereal, then dropped her head to her hands.

  “Are you tired this morning, sweetie?”

  Zoe nodded. “I couldn’t sleep because Sara was on the phone late last night.”

  “Tattletale,” hissed Sara.

  Lucy and Bill had reluctantly agreed to let the girls have a phone extension in their room on the condition that it not be used after eight o’clock, which was Zoe’s bedtime.

  “Is this true?’

  Sara’s expression was defensive. “She wasn’t supposed to tell! It was an emergency, Mom! Honest.”

  “An emergency?” Lucy was puzzled. There had been no sudden asthma attacks, no falls down the stairs, no fires that she was aware of.

  “Davia Didrickson says she might not come to my party,” wailed Sara.

  “Well, you have plenty of other friends.”

  “You don’t understand, Mom. Davia is the coolest girl in the eighth grade. If she doesn’t come, nobody will.”

  “Nonsense. All your old friends will come.”

  “Not the boys. The boys won’t come without Davia. The party will be ruined. We’ll just be a bunch of sad, unpopular girls, getting fat on pizza and doing each other’s nails in social Siberia.”

  “Well, at least you’ve got a sense of humor about it,” observed Lucy. “That’s a step in the right direction.”

  “I wasn’t joking, Mom.” Sara grabbed her backpack and marched out the door.

  Watching from the window, Lucy saw her wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “You’re going to miss the bus if you don’t hurry, Pumpkin,” Lucy told Zoe. “You better scoot, and take Sara’s jacket. She forgot it.”

  “Okay, Mom.” Zoe held out her cheek for a kiss.

  If only they could stay little forever, thought Lucy, watching as Zoe ran down the driveway after her older sister. Arrest growth at second grade. Why not? Think of the anguish it would save.

  Half an hour later she was parking the Subaru in front of Jake’s. Joining her friends at their usual table, she ordered the day’s special: Belgian waffles.

  “Going a little overboard, aren’t we?” asked Sue, nibbling on her wheat toast, no butter.

  “I need nourishment. It’s been a rough day.”

  “It’s only eight-thirty,” said Rachel.

  “Tell me about it. Sara’s upset because Davia Didrickson is threatening to skip her coed sleep-over birthday party.”

  “Ah, Davia,” said Pam. “The queen of eighth grade.”

  “You know her?”

  “I have not been so fortunate. I know of her. From volunteering at the middle school. Even the teachers are smitten with Davia.”

  “How does this happen?” demanded Sue. “Why do some kids become popular and others don’t?”

  “Hormones?” ventured Lucy.

  “Did you say coed sleep-over?” inquired Pam. “I don’t think I heard right.”

  “You heard right.” Lucy paused while the waitress set the plateful of Belgian waffles in front of her. “But if Davia doesn’t come, the boys won’t come and then it will just be Sara’s regular friends. Which would be fine with me but would break Sara’s heart.”

  “This is what they call a lose-lose situation,” said Sue.

  “I know all about those,” moaned Rachel. “I’m in one now, with Miss Tilley.”

  Lucy’s and Sue’s eyes met. “Shirley?” they said in unison.

  “I know I should be happy for Miss T that she’s got Shirley to take care of her, but I can’t help feeling a little resentful about being displaced. Now I don’t know whether I should keep going or what. They don’t really need me over there anymore since Shirley moved in. She does everything I used to do. And more.”

  “You could visit,” suggested Lucy. “Miss T enjoys your company.”

  Rachel put down the muffin she was about to bite. “The truth is I don’t feel welcome there anymore. Shirley just glares at me. I’m afraid I’m going to go over there and she’s not going to let me in.”

  “That couldn’t be true!” exclaimed Pam. “I’m sure you’ve misunderstood.”

  “I don’t think she’s misunderstood anything,” said Lucy. “There’s something that isn’t quite right about Shirley, if you ask me. You know she wears a wig? And she’s been hitting Miss T’s sherry. I found the empty bottle hidden behind the cleaning supplies.”

  “She’s probably having chemo, poor thing,” said Pam.

  “That’s what I told Nancy Drew here, but she doesn’t believe me,” said Sue.

  “I think Lucy may be on to something,” said Rachel. “That Shirley’s sneaky. Why didn’t she just put the sherry bottle with the other bottles to be recycled?”

  “Who knows?” said Pam, impatiently. “Maybe she’s got some hang-up about alcohol. Listen, we’ve got to talk about t
he party. I’ve got the music lined up. Who else has something to report?”

  “I’ve got the food organized,” said Sue. “And Lucy’s going to send some notes to Sidra. How’s that coming?”

  “It’s coming,” said Lucy, uncomfortably aware of how little she’d accomplished. “I’ll fax it today,” she promised.

  “I only hope Shirley will let the birthday girl out of the house,” said Rachel.

  “Don’t be silly,” said Pam, dismissing her concern with a wave of the hand. “She can’t lock her up!”

  “I suppose not,” said Rachel.

  “I still can’t get over it,” said Pam, finishing up her oatmeal. The woman is going to be ninety years old. It’s amazing.”

  “Not that amazing these days,” said Sue. “There was a report on the evening news last night that said the fastestgrowing segment of the population is the extremely old. We could all live to be a hundred.”

  “I’ll never make it,” groaned Lucy. “I’m ready to retire now.”

  “What will we look like?” asked Sue. “I’d rather die young and stay pretty.”

  “You’ve got to exercise, of course,” advised Rachel. “The news report said exercise was a big part of it.”

  “Exercise can only do so much,” complained Lucy. “I’ve been exercising, taking vitamins, drinking water, smearing myself with lotions—and I found a new wrinkle this morning.”

  Sue studied her face. “What moisturizer are you using?”

  “Forever Young. I got it at the drugstore. I put it on every time I wash my face.”

  “You’re not using soap, are you?”

  “Of course. What else would I use?”

  “Cleanser. If I were you, I’d head straight to Markson’s, at the new Galleria. Go to the Countess Irene counter and ask for Natalie. She’ll fix you up.”

  “Do you really think I should?”

  “If you want your face to last until you’re a hundred, you’d better hurry.”

  Lucy looked at her watch. “Actually, I’d better hurry if I want to keep my job. See you all next week!”

  “I’ve got to go, too,” said Rachel. “Bye, guys.”

  She walked out of the restaurant with Lucy, pausing on the sidewalk to ask her if she’d learned anything about Cobb’s death.

  “I’m pretty much at a dead end,” Lucy admitted. “I spoke to Chap Willis at the funeral, but I didn’t get much information from him.”

  “Really?” Rachel was surprised. “They were best friends.”

  Lucy shrugged. “He didn’t want to talk about it. I think he’s grieving.” She paused. “I didn’t find much at the house, except for a safe deposit box key. I’d love to take a look inside, but I don’t know the procedure after someone’s dead.”

  “I’ll have Bob give you a call. He’ll know.”

  “Thanks. Oh, and there’s one other thing. I’ve been trying to find out if any of the cops on patrol that night saw anything unusual. I’ve already spoken to one, but the other is on vacation until Monday.”

  Rachel nodded excitedly. “You know who else you might try? The cleaning service. They might have seen something.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said Lucy, jotting down the phone number Rachel gave her. “Well, it’s off to the salt mines for me. What about you?”

  “I’d like to go over to Miss T’s, just to see if she’s all right, but I feel funny about it. Shirley just doesn’t seem to like having me around.”

  Lucy thought for a minute. “You know, I could use some more information for Sidra. Why don’t we go together and see what’s going on?”

  “Great idea.”

  When they arrived at Miss Tilley’s little gray house, they were surprised to see that the window shades were drawn. It gave the house a blank, unwelcoming look.

  “That’s weird,” said Rachel. “She never draws the shades. Not even at night. Says she likes to wake up to the sun shining through the windows.”

  “You don’t think something’s happened? After all, she’s very old.”

  “Don’t say that, Lucy.”

  Together they hurried up the walk and knocked on the door.

  After what seemed a long wait, it was opened by Shirley.

  “Oh, it’s you two,” she said, scratching her head.

  Definitely a wig, thought Lucy. Shirley was only standing a few feet from her and she had an up-close view.

  “We just thought we’d drop by for a little visit,” said Rachel. “Can we come in?”

  “It’s awfully early, isn’t it?” countered Shirley. “I haven’t got the housework done.”

  That sounded reasonable enough to Lucy, noting that Shirley was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. She glanced down and was shocked to see that Shirley was wearing metallic-gold mules.

  “We won’t be long,” promised Lucy.

  “I’d be happy to help,” offered Rachel.

  “Uh, well, the truth is she’s not feeling very well today. She woke up with a headache and decided to stay in, hoping to sleep it off.”

  “You mean she’s still in bed?” Rachel was incredulous.

  “Yes, she is.” Shirley’s eyes were flat and expressionless. “She’s sleeping like a baby. You don’t want to disturb her, now, do you?”

  “Oh, no,” said Rachel, stepping back from the door.

  “Why don’t you try later? Call first, okay?”

  Rachel leveled her gaze directly at Shirley. “I’ll do that,” she promised.

  They were getting in the car when they hear a roaring noise approaching.

  “What’s that?” asked Lucy, as the noise grew louder.

  She was about to cover her ears when a huge motorcycle rounded the corner of the street and turned into Miss Tilley’s driveway.

  Rachel’s and Lucy’s jaws dropped as the rider, a heavyset man dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, got off the bike. The back of the jacket was embellished with a picture of a coiled snake and the words Mountain Rattlers M.C. Club. The rider removed his helmet, revealing long, greasy hair and an unkempt beard. He set the helmet on the back of the bike and walked up to the house, setting his chains to jingling. When he reached the stoop, the door flew open before he had a chance to knock, and he stepped inside. The door shut.

  Stunned, Lucy and Rachel sat in the car for a long time. Finally, Rachel spoke.

  “Oh, my God,” she said.

  Inside the house, Snake gave Miss Tilley’s living room the once-over. Spotting the bronze bust of Lincoln on the mantel, he strode over and picked it up, examining the bottom.

  “Might be worth something,” he decided. He glanced up at the portrait of Judge Tilley. “Who’s the old geezer?”

  “Your great-grandfather. The judge.”

  Snake stepped back, shuddering. “Looks like a mean bastard.”

  “From all accounts, he was.”

  Snake plopped down onto the sofa and rested his motorcycle boots on the antique sea chest Miss Tilley used for a coffee table. “So what’s the deal?” he asked, pulling out a crumpled cigarette pack.

  “Don’t light up,” warned Shirley. “She doesn’t like it.”

  Snake stared at her, then flicked a match against his thumbnail. “We’ll see about that,” he said.

  “Who was that?” Rachel’s eyes were saucers.

  “A relative? A boyfriend?”

  “I admit I had my differences with Shirley, but I never thought she’d have anything to do with someone like that,” said Rachel.

  “She let him in the house,” said Lucy, who couldn’t get the image on the elder abuse pamphlet out of her head. Only this time, the shadow had taken the form of a bearded, helmeted biker. “I don’t like to think of Miss T being alone with them.”

  “You don’t think they’d actually do her harm, do you?”

  Rachel’s face had gone white, and she was so tense that her grip on Lucy’s hand actually hurt.

  “Oh, no,” said Lucy, gently prying her hand loose and grasping it. “I only
meant that it could be awkward. They don’t really seem like her type.” Lucy paused and climbed into her car. “I was just thinking that this branch of the family tree seems to have gone off in a different direction.”

  “Like Bob’s cousin Alfred?” Rachel was fastening her seat belt. “The family had such high hopes for him when he got his degree in psychology, but then he went to work for a tobacco company. His job is figuring out ways to get people to smoke.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. Especially people in Third World countries who don’t know better.”

  “That’s low.”

  Rachel nodded. “You can’t choose your family.”

  “It’s like those Chevy Chase movies, where the awful brother-in-law keeps turning up.”

  “Exactly,” said Rachel, as they pulled into her driveway. “Just because he’s dressed like a Hell’s Angel and is kind of scary looking doesn’t mean he’s a bad person. We shouldn’t judge him until we know him better.”

  Lucy smiled encouragingly at Rachel, waiting while she got out of the car, but she wasn’t convinced.

  “Right,” she muttered to herself as she backed out into the road. “He dresses like that because he wants to win the Miss Congeniality contest.”

  On Friday, Lucy made a point of phoning Miss Tilley and was reassured when she heard the old woman’s voice.

  “How are things going?” she asked.

  “Just fine. Shirley’s son is here. My grand-nephew. He’s a very interesting fellow.” She lowered her voice. “He has a tattoo.”

  This wasn’t quite the reaction Lucy was expecting. “Oh, well,” she replied. “It takes all kinds to make a world.”

  “Yes, it does,” agreed Miss Tilley.

  That thought echoed in Lucy’s mind on Saturday, as she watched the Civil War reenactors prepare for their recreation of the Battle of Portland, which was taking place in the nearby town of Granby. Why on earth grown men would dress up in costumes and play soldier was beyond her. Especially on an unseasonably warm spring day when the mercury was threatening to hit seventy or higher. The trees hadn’t leafed out yet, so there wasn’t a scrap of shade to be found on the grandstand overlooking the harbor, where the audience was seated. Before she could take her seat, however, Lucy had to track down Chap Willis. She found him on his hands and knees, rearranging the flags that decorated the bandstand.