Birthday Party Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Okay,” agreed the woman. “I don’t have any damage that I can see, and I want to get home before the kindergarten bus.”

  “Not so fast,” said the driver of the Hyundai, a middle-aged man Lucy recognized from the IGA, where he worked behind the meat counter. “I’ve got damage here. I say nobody moves until the cops get here.”

  “But we’re holding up traffic,” said Lucy. “We’ll give you all our info and you can just pull into this parking spot right here until the tow truck comes.”

  “I don’t care about traffic, I care about my car,” grumbled the man. “Women drivers!”

  “Hey,” said Lucy, feeling her hackles rise. “You hit me, you know.”

  “Well, you hit me,” said the woman. “But I did hit the brakes kind of suddenly when I saw a pedestrian in the crosswalk. We all should have been more careful, with the rain and all.” She pulled a cell phone out of her purse. “I’ll see if my neighbor can meet the bus.”

  They could already hear a siren and see the flashing lights of an approaching police cruiser. Lucy went back to her car to get her registration card, and when she joined the others, they were already talking to one officer. A second was directing traffic.

  “Officer Wickes,” she exclaimed, reading his nameplate. He seemed impossibly young, with red hair and a freckled face. “This is lucky.”

  They all looked at her as if she were crazy.

  “It’s just that I’ve been trying to reach him for quite a while,” she explained. “I have a question, but we can take care of that later.”

  “Let’s step under this awning and get out of the rain,” suggested Wickes. “I have to fill out an accident report.”

  The awning provided some protection from the rain, but it was still dank and cold. Lucy was shivering by the time Wickes began questioning her.

  “Your license expired three months ago,” he said, carefully examining her documents.

  Damn, she’d forgotten all about renewing the darn thing. Even worse, she’d already been cited once and it would certainly show up on the computer when he ran her license number.

  “I know,” she said, adding a huge sigh. “But my husband’s been sick and I’ve been real busy lately and I haven’t had a chance to—”

  He waved away her explanation. “Don’t waste your breath. I’ve got to cite you. But I’m going to put the accident down to the rain and road conditions. That way it’s nobody’s fault, nobody’s insurance goes up.”

  “Thank you,” said Lucy, taking the fistful of papers he was giving her.

  “If I were you, I’d get that license taken care of today.”

  “Good idea,” said Lucy

  He was turning to go when she remembered her unfinished business.

  “Stop!” she shouted.

  He turned slowly. “There’s something else?” he asked.

  “I understand you were on duty the night of March seventeenth. Do you remember anything unusual that night?”

  The young officer gave her a curious look. “March seventeenth was weeks ago, before I went on vacation,” he said. “How am I supposed to remember?”

  “It was the night the egg truck crashed.”

  “That was unusual,” said Wickes. “Nastiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “What I mean is, was there anything else unusual that night?”

  He’d taken a step or two backward, getting some distance between them.

  “No. Lady, I don’t remember anything more unusual than the egg truck. Now, I’ve got to get back to work and you’ve got to get your license renewed. Have a nice day.”

  “Right,” muttered Lucy, hurrying back to the shelter of her car. She’d got rear-ended and would probably be wearing a cervical collar tomorrow for whiplash, she’d gotten a second citation for her expired driver’s license and it was raining. Having a nice day didn’t really seem to be in the cards. Especially if she added in Bill’s accident and Toby’s problems at school.

  She drove along Main Street to The Pennysaver office in the next block, but there were no empty parking spaces at all. Not a nice day, not a nice day at all, she decided, driving around the block to the municipal parking lot behind town hall.

  “Honey, you look like something the cat wouldn’t even bother to drag in.”

  Lucy gave Phyllis a dirty look. “You really know how to make a girl feel good.”

  “Are you having a bad day?” asked Phyllis, adjusting her cardigan and settling in for a listen. “Why don’t you tell me all about it?”

  “I wouldn’t know where to begin,” said Lucy, removing her sodden coat and hanging it on the coat stand. “I think I’ll just try to put it all behind me.”

  Phyllis smoothed her ruffled feathers and replaced her half glasses. “Well, if you need a sympathetic ear, I’m here.”

  Lucy started to answer but Phyllis held up a chubby finger tipped with orange nail polish and reached for the ringing phone. “It’s for you,” she said, transferring the call.

  Lucy waited for her phone to ring, then picked up. She didn’t recognize the soft, breathy voice on the other end of the line.

  “This is Ginger North, returning your call.”

  Lucy’s mind was blank.

  “From Maids to Order.”

  “Oh, right. You’re the one who cleans Cobb and Goodman, right?”

  “Right. I’ve been away in Florida. My mother’s getting on and she needed some help. But now I’m back home, for a while, anyway.” There was a pause. “I hope it’ll be a while, but I really don’t know. She’s so stubborn. She keeps firing her helpers, says they’re stealing her blind. I just don’t know. I’d like to move her up here, but my husband refuses to let her live with us and she doesn’t want to come anyway. I don’t know what to do.”

  Lucy thought of Miss Tilley. She didn’t know what to do either.

  “I know how hard it is,” said Lucy. “All of a sudden you’ve got to be your mother’s mother.”

  “You said it,” agreed Ginger. “And then I came back and found out Mr. Cobb had died. I swear you could have knocked me over with a feather. He was such a sweet man. Very obliging, grateful for everything you did for him. And he always gave me a very generous Christmas check.” There was a pause. “Of course, I would have liked him anyway. Isn’t that the way it is, though? The ones who are difficult and picky give you last year’s fruitcake and the ones who are sweeties give you a big tip. Somehow it ought to be the other way round.” Again there was a silence. “I can’t believe he killed himself.”

  “The police say that’s what happened, but Bob Goodman has asked me to investigate. He doesn’t believe it was suicide.”

  “But if he didn’t kill himself . . .” began Ginger, interrupting herself with a gasp.

  “Someone must have murdered him,” said Lucy, finishing the sentence. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. You may have been the last person to see him alive. Do you remember anything at all unusual that night?”

  “He died that night? After I left?” Ginger’s voice had gotten louder; she was practically shouting.

  “Did you notice anything? Did he seem anxious or distracted?”

  “Not a bit. He talked about this battle reenactment, the Battle of Portland, I think it was. He was looking forward to that. You know they wear costumes and pretend to be Civil War soldiers. He got a lot of enjoyment out of that.”

  “He was working late?”

  “Sometimes he did, you know. When he had cases coming up. He said he’d be burning the midnight oil, getting ready for circuit court.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a man who was planning to kill himself. Did he have any visitors?”

  “No. He was by himself when I left. He told me to have a safe trip and to call him if I needed any legal advice. I’d told him I wanted to make sure my mother’s affairs were in order, and he’d told me what I needed to do. He was great that way. Never charged me a cent.”

  “You didn’t see anyone at all? No extra cars in the
parking lot, for example?”

  “That reminds me. I did see a motorcycle.”

  Lucy stiffened and her grip on the receiver tightened.

  “In the parking lot?”

  “No. On the road.”

  Lucy’s interest ebbed. Even if it had been Snake, there was no evidence he had gone to Cobb’s office.

  “Did you recognize the rider?”

  “No. It was dark, of course. I just saw the lights and heard the motor. Very loud. It kind of startled me because you don’t usually see anybody on the road that time of night. It was one o’clock in the morning. Nobody’s out and around then except me, and sometimes I see a cop car parked out by the interstate exit. That’s it.”

  “So it was just a typical motorcycle rider with a big helmet? ’

  “No, come to think of it. He wasn’t wearing a big plastic helmet. He had on one of those small ones like Hell’s Angels wear, and I thought he must be pretty stupid if he thought his beard was going to protect him in a crash.”

  Lucy’s spine tingled.

  “He had a beard?”

  “Yes. A big, bushy one. My headlights picked it up. And there was a coiled snake on the back of his jacket—I saw it when he turned by the Quik Mart sign. That sign gives off quite a bit of light, you know.”

  “Thank you,” said Lucy.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Lucy punched out Rachel’s number and waited impatiently while the phone rang. Answer the phone, answer the phone, she repeated, like a mantra. She didn’t want to leave a message, she didn’t want to wait for Rachel to return her call. She wanted to talk about this right now.

  “Hello.”

  Finally.

  “It’s me. You’ll never guess what I found out. Snake was spotted not far from the office the night Sherman was killed.”

  “Really?” Rachel’s voice was breathy.

  “According to the cleaning lady, Ginger. She saw him.”

  “Do you think he killed Sherman?”

  “I think it’s a definite possibility.”

  “I don’t like this at all,” said Rachel, sounding deadly serious. “He’s over there at Miss Tilley’s. God knows what he and Shirley are up to.”

  “I’m pretty sure there’s a link between Miss T and Sherman Cobb,” said Lucy, struggling to put all the pieces together. “I’m not positive, but I think the judge was Sherman’s father, which would make him Miss T’s half brother. My guess is the Hendersons wanted him out of the way so they could go after Miss T.”

  “Oh, my God,” gasped Rachel. “He’s a killer and he’s in her house.”

  “We’ve got to go to the police,” said Lucy. “Meet me there.”

  Lucy was shrugging into her clammy jacket when Phyllis snatched it away from her.

  “You’ll catch your death in that. Here, wear mine.”

  She thrust her raincoat at Lucy and handed her an umbrella.

  Lucy gave her a quick smile and dashed out the door, raising the umbrella as she ran down the street. She knew she must be quite a sight, rushing along the sidewalk in Phyllis’s oversized, puffy-pink down coat waving the flowery umbrella, but she didn’t care. When she got to the police station Rachel was just pulling into the parking lot in her aged Volvo.

  “Do we have a plan?” asked Rachel, meeting Lucy on the stoop.

  “Let’s start with Barney. Maybe he’s in.”

  “And if he isn’t?”

  Lucy didn’t have a plan B. “Let’s hope he is.”

  The receptionist gave Lucy a big smile and was only too happy to call Barney, the community relations officer, to let him know that two citizens wanted to speak with him.

  A moment later, the security door opened and Barney ushered them down the hall to his little office.

  “Come on in, ladies,” he said. “Have a seat.” He took his own seat on the other side of the desk and folded his hands on the blotter. “What can I do for you?”

  Lucy hesitated for a moment; then the words poured out. “I have some new information about the Cobb case that indicates Miss Tilley is in danger,” she said.

  “Whoa there, Lucy. Cobb case? I didn’t know there was a case,” replied Barney.

  Rachel gave him a glance that would wither a turnip. “Don’t play coy with me, Barney Culpepper,” she snapped. “You know damn well that Sherman Cobb did not commit suicide, and we’re trying to prevent a second murder. Shut up and listen to Lucy.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Barney.

  “Ginger North, who cleans the law office, told me she saw Snake Henderson riding his motorcycle near the office on the night Cobb died. And now we’re worried because Snake and his mother have moved in with Miss Tilley and aren’t letting anyone see her. We think there’s some sort of mischief afoot.”

  Barney’s forehead folded like an accordion. “What kind of mischief?”

  “Well, it’s obvious,” said Lucy, impatiently. “He killed Sherman and now they’re after Miss Tilley. God forbid she may even be dead already. We don’t know because they won’t let us see her or talk to us on the phone.”

  “You think these two things are related somehow?” asked Barney, scratching his head with an enormous hand.

  Lucy sat up bolt upright. “Yes! Judge Tilley was Sherman’s father. He arranged for the court bailiff to adopt him and insisted he be named Sherman. Why would he do that if he wasn’t his son?”

  “And Miss T’s brother,” said Rachel. “Half brother.”

  “Hold on,” cautioned Barney, holding up one hand in the gesture he used when he was directing traffic. “Maybe the old judge did have some fun on the side, but what’s that got to do with anything? And I gotta tell you, just because somebody saw this Henderson guy in the vicinity doesn’t make him Cobb’s murderer.” He scratched his head. “Why would he kill him? Somehow I don’t think he was worried about the shame of it all, the disgrace of his extremely respectable grandfather having an illegitimate son.”

  “Very funny,” snapped Lucy. “I don’t think Snake gives a damn what people think about him. I think it’s got something to do with money. Inheritance. That’s what’s at the bottom of this. They want something. They didn’t get it from Cobb so they killed him, and now they’re trying to get it from Miss Tilley.”

  “But what?” Rachel’s dark eyebrows had shot up. “Sherman didn’t leave anything to the Hendersons, or Miss Tilley.”

  “What about Miss Tilley? Do you know what the terms of her will are?”

  “Actually, I do,” said Rachel. “According to Bob, she left everything to the library, and everything isn’t much.”

  “Maybe they’ll make her sign a new will,” suggested Lucy “A will in their favor. It’s been done before.”

  “I never thought of that,” said Rachel, looking down at her lap. She raised her head and leaned forward, practically on her knees, hanging on to Barney’s desk like a prayer rail. “You’ve got to get in that house and check on Miss Tilley,” she said, pleading. “I know it’s probably against department policy and everything, but think how you’d feel if you did nothing and all this time she’s been suffering. What if she dies?”

  “There, there,” said Barney, leaning across his desk to pat her hand. “You don’t need to worry on that score. I was there yesterday and Miss T was sleeping peacefully.”

  “You actually saw her? Shirley let you in the house?”

  He nodded. “Nothing was out of order. Miss T was tucked in bed. Shirley seems to be taking good care of her.” He leaned back in his chair, which creaked. “She’s very old. She’s dying, but she’s home with her family and they’re taking care of her.” He folded his hands across his potbelly. “I think this is the way she’d want it. I really do.”

  “Well, you can pretend everything’s okay, but I’m not convinced,” said Lucy, jumping to her feet. “I have got to see for myself.”

  “Whoa, there,” said Barney, hauling himself out of his chair. “You sit back down and listen to me.”

  Rese
ntfully, Lucy did.

  Barney leaned over her, grasping the arms of the chair and sticking his face into hers.

  “There’s a fine line here between concern and meddling. The Hendersons are Miss T’s family, her only family. They have the right to decide what’s best for her and you have to abide by it. I’ve told you she’s at peace, and that’s going to be the end of it. Do you understand me? I don’t want to have to arrest you for trespassing and harassment. Are we clear on this?”

  Lucy nodded.

  Barney let go of the chair and stood up.

  “Ladies, you go on home now. Your families will be wanting their suppers.”

  Lying in bed, Miss Tilley heard voices. A deep, rumbling male voice and a shrill female voice. First one voice, then the other. Sometimes both together, trying to outshout each other. It was almost like music, some modern, discordant type of music. The bass fiddle and the kettle drum, then the squealing, shrieking violins. Occasionally the percussionist banged out a beat or hit the cymbal. She had never liked modern music much.

  Of course, she knew it was Shirley and Snake, arguing. If only she could hear what they were saying, then she might understand what was going on. It was too bad they had such poor diction. Apparently Harriet hadn’t been a careful mother; Shirley seemed lacking in the most basic social skills. As for Snake, it seemed incredible to her that she could actually be related to this man. Tattoos!

  There was a loud crash and she winced, wondering which of her antiques had been smashed to bits. What was going on out there? What was it all about?

  Shifting her position, she encountered something hard under her shoulder. A pill. She had avoided swallowing them for some time by holding them in her mouth and spitting them out when Shirley wasn’t looking. She reached under her shoulder with her opposite hand and retrieved it, slipping it under the rug. There must be quite a collection under there, she thought. Maybe she should find some other hiding place. It wouldn’t do to have the pills crunch under Shirley’s sneakered feet. She shuddered, thinking of the X Shirley had cut in each sneaker to accommodate her bunions.