Birthday Party Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “There’s no—” she began.

  “The police did take the blotter,” said Bob, anticipating her question. “There was very little blood,” he added, declining to mention that the police had told him the small-caliber bullet had bounced around inside Sherman’s skull, destroying his brain.

  “He was sitting here with his head on the desk?” asked Lucy. “Where was the gun? In his hand?”

  “By his hand. Like it had fallen out of his hand.”

  “No note?”

  “No. There was one of Doc Ryder’s appointment cards stuck in the side of the blotter. That was all.”

  Lucy furrowed her brow.

  “Don’t you think he would have written a note?”

  Bob sat down in a chair and held out his hands. “I can’t figure it out. I don’t believe he would have left all his business unfinished like this. He was an excellent lawyer. He did his best to represent his clients. These were long-term relationships, people he had known for years and years. And then there’s me and Anne. I wouldn’t have expected him to cry on my shoulder, but I think he would have told me he was ill.” Bob looked at her bleakly. “If he did kill himself like this, he must have been desperate, and that’s what really bothers me most. That after all these years he didn’t turn to me for support.”

  This was too much for Lucy, who reached for a tissue herself. After she had blown her nose and dabbed her eyes, she reached for Bob’s hand.

  “I’ll do what I can,” she said. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  “Thanks, Lucy,” said Bob. “You have no idea how much this means to me. If there’s anything I can do to help, just ask. Anything you need, it’s yours.”

  She smiled. “Right now, I think I’ll just look around here, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Sure,” said Bob, getting to his feet. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  Left alone in the office, Lucy perched on Cobb’s chair and opened the drawers, one by one. There were no hidden bottles of liquor, no dirty magazines or stashes of drugs. Just pens and pencils, pads of legal-sized yellow paper, Post-it notes in all sizes and colors, paper clips, a stapler, ink cartridges for a fountain pen, an instant camera and some packs of film, floppy disks for his computer, a ruler, scissors. Lucy fingered an ornate silver letter opener carefully; it was sharp enough to be a murder weapon. But it wasn’t, she reminded herself. Cobb had been shot.

  Shutting the last drawer, Lucy stood up and walked around the office, studying the decorations on the wall. There were neatly labeled photographs of various battle reenactments, a shadow box contained lead bullets and minnie balls collected at Gettysburg battlefield, and other frames held medals and insignia. It was all interesting in its way, but didn’t seem to offer any motive for murder.

  Pausing at the credenza, she began looking through the files of the cases he’d been working on before his death. Stapled to the front of each folder was a form listing dates for filings, motions, pretrial conferences and even trials. A personal injury suit was scheduled for the end of the week, she saw.

  Interested, she opened the file and began to read. Cobb had been retained by the defendant, who was accused of causing an automobile accident that disabled a local fisherman. It looked as if Cobb was planning a spirited defense of his client.

  Lucy closed the file and picked up another; this required a filing by the end of the week. Glancing through the files, Lucy began to share Bob’s conviction that Cobb would not have left so many people in the lurch, not least of all his partner. Bob was going to have a heck of a lot of work to do in addition to his own caseload.

  Closing the office door, Lucy went out to the reception area.

  “You know Bob has asked me to investigate Mr. Cobb’s death,” she began.

  Anne, a trim woman of sixty, nodded her head. Her eyes were puffy, but she had stopped crying.

  “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

  “Not at all. I’d like to help, but I don’t see how I can.”

  “Well, I was looking around in Mr. Cobb’s office and it seemed to me he had a lot of work on his plate right now. Is that so?”

  “Yes,” agreed Anne. “Circuit court goes into session next week, you know.”

  “I don’t know. What do you mean?”

  “Well, we have district court for misdemeanors, and superior court is for felonies and civil matters. Those are in session year-round. But say you want to appeal a case, take it to the next higher level, you have to wait for the circuit court to go into session. It happens twice a year.”

  “Why only twice a year?”

  “Because we don’t have enough population in our district to need an appeals court of our own. We share it, sort of, with five other counties. Our months are April and October.”

  “Did Mr. Cobb have any cases for this session?”

  “He had several.” Anne leaned closer to Lucy and lowered her voice. “Between you and me, this has left Bob in a terrible position. I don’t know how he’s going to manage to get everything done. Just getting the postponements and delays is going to be a nightmare. I mean the court clerks are being very nice and understanding, but there’s so much paperwork involved. . . .” She threw her hands up in the air. “It isn’t like changing a dentist’s appointment, you know. There’s a lot more to it.”

  “I can imagine,” said Lucy. “Tell me, did Mr. Cobb seem agitated or different in any way when you saw him last?”

  Tears sparkled in Anne’s eyes. “Not a bit. He was joking with me on Friday, telling me to do my finger exercises over the weekend because we had such a busy week ahead.” She paused. “If anything, you know, I’d say he was looking forward to it. He loved litigation and he had some cases he was really eager to argue.”

  “Thanks,” said Lucy. “You’ve been a big help.” She started to leave, then remembered she needed to speak to Bob. Again, she tapped on his door before poking her head into his office.

  “Bob? I’m done here, but I’d like to look at Sherman’s house. Is that okay?”

  “Good idea,” said Bob, opening his drawer. “I’ve got a set of his keys here, but you know, I bet the house isn’t locked. It’s on Oak Street, number 202.”

  “Thanks,” said Lucy, taking the keys.

  “I’m the one who should thank you,” said Bob. “I really appreciate what you’re doing.”

  The depth of feeling in his voice made Lucy uncomfortable.

  “I don’t know what Rachel told you, but I’m not a professional investigator,” she said. “There’s no guarantee that I’ll be able to figure out what happened.”

  “I know, I know,” said Bob. His eyes were fixed on hers.

  He reminded her of her dog, Kudo, when he wanted a doggie biscuit. She looked away, out the window at the milky March sky.

  “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up,” she said, meeting his eyes. “You’ve got to face the fact that you may never know what happened.”

  He nodded.

  Lucy sighed. “And if he was murdered, well, you’ve got to realize that most murder victims are killed by someone they know.”

  Bob swallowed hard. “By someone I know?”

  “Most likely,” said Lucy. “Do you still want me to go ahead?”

  Bob looked her straight in the eye. “Absolutely,” he said.

  “Okay,” agreed Lucy, but as she limped down the steps to the parking area she wished she had a little more to go on than a gut feeling that Sherman Cobb hadn’t committed suicide.

  Chapter Six

  Driving down Main Street with the keys to Cobb’s house tucked in her purse, Lucy found herself feeling extremely frustrated. She was already hooked on this investigation and desperately wanted to take a look at the house, but she knew she couldn’t do it today. She was already running late—on Wednesday, deadline day—and would have plenty to explain to Ted.

  When she got to The Pennysaver office, however, there was no sign of her boss. Only Phyllis, the receptionist.


  “About time you got here,” observed Phyllis, poking a pencil into her bun and peering over her rhinestone-trimmed half glasses. “Did you pull a muscle or something? His nibs is having a fit.”

  “I worked out with a videotape yesterday,” said Lucy, grimacing as she hung her jacket on the coatrack. “Where is he, anyway?”

  “Over at the police station, trying to get something on this suicide.” She clucked her tongue. “Poor man. What a shame.”

  Her sad tone piqued Lucy’s curiosity.

  “Did you know Sherman Cobb?”

  “Oh, yes. I even dated him,” said Phyllis, lowering her head and smoothing her beaded turquoise cardigan over her ample bust.

  “You did? When?”

  “Quite some time ago. Let me think. I guess back in the eighties sometime.”

  “Wasn’t he quite a bit older than you?”

  “Well, I wasn’t getting any younger. I remember thinking that a twenty-year difference wasn’t all that much. I mean we were both grown-ups.” She sighed. “He was a lovely man.”

  Lucy did a quick calculation. She figured Phyllis was now in her mid-fifties, which would put her in her thirties when she dated Cobb and he would have been in his forties, maybe his early fifties. Not unreasonable.

  “Was it serious?” Lucy asked.

  “I had high hopes in the beginning,” replied Phyllis, “but it didn’t work out. It was like my mother said, I had him hooked but I couldn’t get him in the boat.”

  “Afraid of commitment?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Phyllis, shaking her head and making her earrings jangle. “I finally decided he was simply a confirmed bachelor. He had a well-ordered life and I don’t think he wanted to risk any changes.”

  “Do you think he really killed himself?”

  “I don’t know, but I can tell you this: I don’t think he would have wanted to become dependent upon anybody else.”

  Lucy was just coming out of the bathroom, where she’d downed a couple of aspirins, when the bell on the door jangled and Ted strode into the office looking like a haunted man. A man haunted by a rapidly approaching deadline.

  “Well, nice to see you decided to drop in,” he said sarcastically, tossing his jacket at the coatrack and missing. He left it lying on the floor and went straight to the old rolltop desk he’d inherited from his grandfather.

  Lucy’s hackles rose. “I was working on a story.”

  “And what story was that? Something I assigned?”

  “Uh, no,” confessed Lucy. “I was talking to Bob Goodman. He wants me to investigate Sherman Cobb’s death. He doesn’t believe he killed himself.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not what I’m hearing from the cops. So unless there are some new developments, I don’t want you working on this on my time. I need you too much for other things,” he said, handing her a stack of faxes.

  “And here’s today’s mail,” said Phyllis, passing over a pile of press releases.

  “Oh, goody,” said Lucy, feigning enthusiasm. “Breaking news: The VFW is having a roast beef dinner on Saturday. Just like the one they had last Saturday and the one they’ll have next Saturday.”

  “A complete roast beef dinner?” asked Phyllis, feigning excitement. “With mashed potatoes and gravy, vegetable, salad, dinner roll, dessert and choice of beverage? Six dollars for adults and four dollars for kids ages five to twelve?”

  “How did you know?” asked Lucy, her eyes wide in fake amazement. “ESP?”

  “Yeah, that must be it. ESP,” said Phyllis, turning to answer the phone.

  At her desk, Lucy thumbed through the pile of press releases and sighed.

  Finally headed for home later that afternoon with a car full of groceries, Lucy detoured down Oak Street past Cobb’s house. Number 202 was a white clapboard bungalow with dark green shutters and a neatly clipped forsythia bush that was just coming into bloom. The clipped forsythia intrigued her; what sort of person trims a forsythia bush? Maybe Phyllis was right and Cobb was some sort of control freak.

  She always let hers grow freely, setting out exuberant shoots of blossoms that nodded in the spring breezes. On the other hand, lots of people did trim their forsythia bushes into neat balls, or squared them off at the top. If only she could take a peek inside the house, she thought, slowing the car.

  A glance at the dashboard clock told her she didn’t have time. She had to get home and cook supper for the family. And tonight, following Video Debbie’s advice, she had splurged on a beautiful piece of salmon. Low-calorie salmon chock-full of healthy omega acids that were good for the heart. She was going to serve it with a huge salad, small baked potatoes and lovely fresh asparagus. It was a meal that would make a dietician smile. It was a meal that would fuel the body without adding unwanted fat; it was a meal fit for a gourmet. A fit gourmet.

  “What is that smell?” demanded Sara, as Lucy unwrapped the groceries.

  “Fresh salmon,” said Lucy, smacking her lips.

  “It smells like fish,” complained Sara.

  “It is fish.”

  “I’m not gonna eat fish. Especially not pink fish.”

  “Try it, you’ll like it,” said Lucy, who was listening for the crunch of tires on gravel that indicated Bill was home. “Do me a favor and set the table?”

  “Zoe!” yelled Sara. “Mom wants you to set the table.”

  Lucy gave Sara a look. “You can help her, and make the salad, too.”

  Sara started to protest but, hearing her father’s quick honk announcing he was home, reconsidered and carried a stack of plates into the dining room.

  “Honey, I’m home,” chorused Bill, imitating Desi Arnaz.

  Lucy couldn’t help smiling. With his full beard, plaid flannel shirt and work boots, he didn’t look much like the dapper Desi. She raised her cheek for a kiss.

  “What’s for dinner?” he asked.

  “Have I got a treat for you: salmon, fresh asparagus, baked potatoes and salad.”

  Bill wrinkled up his nose. “Salmon?”

  “You’ll love it.”

  “If you say so,” he said, dropping his lunch box on the counter and reaching into the refrigerator for a beer.

  Then he took his usual place at the round, golden oak table in the kitchen, pushing aside Lucy’s purse to make room for his elbow. As he shoved it over, the keys to Cobb’s house fell out of the outside pocket.

  “How was your day?” he asked, picking up the unfamiliar keys and fingering them.

  “Busy,” said Lucy, as she washed the asparagus and began trimming off the ends. “How was yours?”

  “Usual,” he said, taking a long pull on the cold beer. “What are these keys for?”

  “Sherman Cobb’s house,” said Lucy. “Bob and Rachel don’t believe it was suicide and asked me to poke around a little bit.”

  Bill sighed in frustration. “What do you want to go and do that for? Haven’t we been through this a million times? Why do you have to keep sticking your nose into police business, huh?”

  Lucy felt her back stiffen. “Because my friends asked me to, that’s why.”

  Bill set his can down with a thunk. “And you have to do everything that anybody asks? You can’t ever say no?”

  “Apparently not.” Lucy’s temper flared as she set the asparagus pot on the stove. He had a valid point and she knew it. She also knew she had something else to confess. “I’m working on learning how to say no but I haven’t quite got there yet.” She took a deep breath. “I told Sara she could have a sleep-over for her birthday party. Is that okay with you?”

  “Sure.” Unwilling to continue the fight, Bill retreated. “It would have been nice if you’d checked with me first, but Sara deserves a nice party.” He chuckled, recalling her last sleep-over. “Those girls are so funny. Remember how they giggled and squealed over Brad Pitt? I just hope they don’t keep us up all night.”

  “It’s not just girls this time,” said Lucy, shoving the salmon pan under the broiler. “She’s
invited some boys.”

  “Boys? What do they want boys for? They like to fiddle with their hair and try makeup and polish their nails. One year they polished my nails, remember?”

  “Sara says all the kids are doing it.”

  “Well, they’re not doing it here,” said Bill, flatly.

  “Why not?” shrieked Sara, storming into the kitchen through the swinging door. She’d obviously been listening on the other side. “Mom said I could, didn’t you, Mom?”

  “I did,” admitted Lucy. “But you have to admit you got me when I was distracted. You kind of took advantage of me.”

  “You said I could!” repeated Sara, in the triumphant tone of a prosecuting lawyer who has caught the defendant in a contradiction.

  Lucy’s eyes met Bill’s. Help me out here, she silently telegraphed him.

  “Dad! Mom said I could and that means I can, right? I’ve already told all my friends and they all want to come. I can’t go back now and say that my parents won’t let me. I’ll look like a jerk.”

  “It doesn’t sound like a good idea to me,” began Bill in his reasonable voice.

  “Why not?” demanded Sara, ripping open a bag of salad and dumping it into a bowl. “What’s the big deal? Toby’s my brother and he lives here when he’s not at college. And his dorm is coed, and so is Elizabeth’s. And all my friends have brothers and sisters. I mean, people don’t divide up their families. Boys in one house, girls in another.” Sara paused for breath. “I mean, what is with you people? It’s a coed world, you know.”

  Bill cleared his throat and Lucy glanced at him. He looked like a drowning man.

  “Sara, I don’t think you should talk to your father in that tone of voice,” said Lucy, throwing him a lifeline.

  “I’m responsible for what happens in my house,” said Bill, sitting up a little taller. “I don’t think mixing boys and girls together all night is a good idea.”

  “You don’t trust me,” wailed Sara.