Birthday Party Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Barney’s expression was serious. Lucy stopped smiling and got her license out of her wallet and fished around in the glove compartment until she found the registration, crumpled but readable. Maybe, she hoped, he’d let her off with a warning.

  Then again, maybe he wouldn’t, she decided, watching him take the documents back to his cruiser.

  When he returned, he was shaking his head mournfully.

  “Your license expired three months ago.”

  “That’s impossible!” Lucy snatched it back and checked the date.

  “I guess I never got a renewal notice,” she suggested.

  Barney raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  A search through the dim recesses of her memory produced a vague recollection. She had planned to renew the license, but there had been a bad snowstorm and she’d postponed the trip until the roads were cleared. And by then, she’d forgotten.

  “Look,” said Barney, leaning on the car, “I can’t let you go with a warning because of this here.” He gave the license a nod. “I’ve got to cite you for that and I’ve got to have a reason for pulling you over in the first place, so I’m gonna ignore the speeding and just put down your defective headlight.”

  “I’ve got a bad headlight?”

  Barney nodded, signed the ticket with a flourish and handed it over. “You better get these things attended to,” he advised, his jowls quivering. “And watch your speed!”

  “I will,” she promised, feeling like a naughty child as she stuffed the flimsy piece of paper in her purse.

  Barney didn’t go back to his cruiser but lingered, giving his heavy utility belt a hitch.

  “I heard you were in the station looking for me the other day,” he said, leaning down and peering at her through the window. “I don’t suppose that had anything to do with a call we got about two women breaking into Sherman Cobb’s house?”

  Lucy’s face went red. “It wasn’t a break-in,” she sputtered. “I had Bob Goodman’s permission to look around the house. I even had the keys!”

  Barney furrrowed his face, looking like a worried bassett hound. “The investigating officer found it kinda suspicious that nobody was there. It kinda looked like the intruders had made a hasty exit. Like they were up to no good, if you know what I mean.”

  Lucy shook her head. “I didn’t want to have to explain, that’s all.”

  Barney nodded, making his jowls quiver. “Did you find anything?”

  “Not really,” said Lucy. “Why do you ask?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno.” He studied his shoes, which were polished to a high gleam. “The whole thing’s kinda fishy to me. What was a guy like Cobb doing with a Saturday night special? It wasn’t even registered.”

  Lucy hadn’t thought about the gun. Guns were common in Maine; lots of people had them. She had just assumed Cobb had owned the gun legally.

  “I guess if he wanted to shoot himself, he wouldn’t have wanted to wait for the paperwork,” surmised Lucy. “Wouldn’t a Saturday night special be the quickest, easiest way to get a gun?”

  But even as she spoke she thought it was an atypical choice for Cobb. From what she’d learned about the man—his obsessive love of order, his preference for quality clothing and furnishings, his fondness for Civil War trappings—the choice of a cheap, even risky, weapon seemed incongruous. A ritual suicide, a shot from an antique Colt revolver following a toast to the regiment, seemed more in character.

  “I guess we’ll never know,” said Barney, running his hand through his brush cut and replacing his cap squarely on his head. “You take care now,” he said.

  He went back to his cruiser and waited, lights flashing, while she pulled back onto the road, but there was no need. It was close to six and the brief increase of traffic that constituted rush hour in Tinker’s Cove was over.

  Lucy was tempted to step on the accelerator and roar off in a cloud of dust, but she knew that wouldn’t be wise. It would be stupid and immature, which happened to be exactly how she felt. And betrayed. What kind of friend was Barney? He should have let her go. Now she’d have to tell Bill why she was late and he’d be furious with her. She could just hear him: “Two kids in college and you’re getting traffic tickets—like we’ve got a lot of extra money to waste on fines!”

  Reluctantly, she flipped on her signal for the turn onto Red Top Road, the last leg of her drive home. She didn’t want to go home. She didn’t want to deal with the girls’ squabbles; she didn’t want to cook a dinner that she wouldn’t have time to eat; she didn’t want to listen to Bill’s reproaches.

  Lucy found she had braked and was turning the car around. She didn’t have to go home—she could call and tell them to go ahead without her because she’d been held up at the office. Between them, Bill and the girls could certainly cook themselves some supper. She’d get herself a slice of pizza at Joe’s, where it was usually nice and quiet on Monday night. People took personal days off from work all the time—she was going to take a personal supper.

  Lucy felt rather uneasy when she arrived at the police station on Tuesday morning for her interview with Horowitz. As a state police officer it was unlikely he would concern himself with routine traffic stops, but living in a small town had taught her that gossip traveled fast. She felt as if she were wearing a scarlet S for Speeding when the bug-eyed receptionist nodded at her.

  “They’re in the conference room,” she said, hitting a button that produced a very loud buzz signaling that the triple-plated door was unlocked.

  Lucy grabbed the knob and dashed through, resisting the impulse to cover her ears.

  Horowitz was standing in the hallway, where the floor was covered with thick, gray vinyl tile and the cement block walls were painted battleship gray. He was dressed as usual in a neat gray suit, white shirt and sober tie. “We’re in here,” he said, indicating a doorway. “I hope you don’t mind, but I asked Liz Kelly from Senior Services to join us.”

  Lucy’s previous experiences with Liz hadn’t given her a very high opinion of the woman, but she greeted her with a polite smile when she entered the conference room. Liz had already seated herself at the table, where she had staked her claim to most of the territory with an assortment of papers, brightly colored tote bags and a hand-knitted scarf that appeared to be at least eight feet long.

  “Lucy, I’m so glad you’re doing this story,” gushed Liz. “This is a program that’s really going to make a difference for a lot of our elders.”

  “Well, thank you very much for meeting with me,” said Lucy, taking a seat and trying not to look at Horowitz.

  She’d noticed an uncharacteristic twinkle in his eye and had a paranoid conviction that he knew all about the citation that was buried in her purse. Maybe he even knew about her visit to Cobb’s house. She focused instead on a pamphlet Liz had slid across the table to her. The cover featured a photo of a frail old woman clutching a walker and cringing as a hulking shadow loomed over her.

  “Can you start by giving me some idea of the extent of the problem?” suggested Lucy, who found herself fascinated by the photograph.

  “It’s enormous,” said Liz, extending her arms and spreading out the folds of the Guatemalan wrap she was wearing. It made her look eerily like the shadow in the photo, thought Lucy.

  “It ranges from unscrupulous contractors who frighten elders into unnecessary and expensive repairs to home-care aides who pilfer cash and jewelry to relatives who deny Grandma the medicine she needs in an effort to preserve her estate for themselves. And that’s just the financial aspect. There’s also emotional and physical abuse.”

  “I have a video we’d like to show you,” said Horowitz. “It will only take a few minutes.”

  He picked up a remote that was on the table and clicked on a TV set that was standing nearby on a wheeled trolley.

  “This was taken on a surveillance camera we installed in a nursing home, after relatives complained their loved one had a lot of unexplain
ed bruises,” he said.

  Lucy stared at the grainy footage, eventually picking out the shape of an elderly woman lying quietly in bed. Then another figure entered the scene, yanked back the covers and slapped the old woman.

  Involuntarily, Lucy flinched. The video continued to roll as the old woman feebly raised an arm to fend off more blows, but the aide swatted it away.

  “Why is she hitting her?” demanded Lucy.

  “The old woman had wet the bed,” said Liz.

  Horowitz clicked the remote and the TV screen went black. “I know it’s difficult to watch,” he said, “but this video got us a conviction. That aide is in jail now.”

  “So this is a law enforcement program?”

  Horowitz nodded. “Actually, it’s a hybrid. We have a state community policing grant from MACP, plus matching funds from HHS, and additional grants from ESAM, COA and Senior Services.” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you getting that all down?”

  “Ah, yes,” said Lucy, scribbling away.

  “For the first time we’re going to be able to work with social workers like Liz and other reporters.” He continued, tapping the TV set. “We were only able to make this case because the family members came to us and filed charges. That doesn’t happen very often.”

  “Lots of times it’s family members who are actually the abusers,” said Liz.

  Horowitz nodded. “Now we’ll be able to take a referral from Senior Services, or a bank teller or the mailman, and open a case right away.”

  “And we’re also going to be setting up outreach programs in an effort to educate people in the community—like bank tellers and postal workers—about the issue and what they can do. But we also need for everyone in the community to be more aware of the problem—that’s where you come in, Lucy.” Liz was staring at her.

  “Well, I’ll do what I can,” said Lucy, deciding that Liz wasn’t so bad after all. She certainly seemed to have her heart in the right place.

  “If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to call us, either of us,” said Horowitz.

  Lucy took the information packet he handed her and tucked it into her notebook, then stood to go.

  “One more thing,” said Horowitz. “There’s no rush about this, the program is just starting. Take your time. There’s no need to speed back to the office.”

  Lucy felt her face burning. So he did know. He’d probably been waiting all morning to deliver that little zinger.

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” snapped Lucy, glaring at him.

  She could hear him chuckling as the conference room door closed behind her.

  She marched angrily down the hall and had almost reached the triple-plated security door when she was struck with an inspiration. As she knew all too well, the police patrolled the streets all night long. It was definitely worth finding out who had been on duty the night Sherman died. If there had been any strange activity, it would certainly have been noticed.

  Instead of proceeding through the secutrity door, she ducked into the dispatch office, where the receptionist was located. It felt odd to approach her from the rear, without a thick layer of Plexiglas separating them.

  “Hi!” said Lucy brightly. “I wonder if you could help me with something?”

  Startled, the receptionist jumped. She gave Lucy a baleful look.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” Lucy said quickly. “I was just wondering if you could tell me who was on duty the night of the seventeenth?”

  “Here at the desk? That would be Marge.”

  “Actually, I wondered who was out on patrol.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  Lucy knew she had every right to ask for the information, but decided this was not the time to invoke the public’s right to know about the use of its tax dollars.

  “I’m thinking of doing a story on people who work at night,” fibbed Lucy.

  “I work at night, you know,” said the receptionist, brightening up.

  “Do you?” replied Lucy, feigning interest while the receptionist reached for a clipboard with large wire rings and flipped back through the pages.

  “Here it is: three to eleven was Howie Kodak and eleven to seven was Bob Wickes.” She paused. “Why the seventeenth? Is it special?”

  “Not really. I just picked a random date. A night in the life of Tinker’s Cove. That’s the idea.”

  “Too bad. I was off that night.”

  “That is too bad,” agreed Lucy sympathetically as she jotted down the names. “Any chance either of these guys is here in the station?”

  The receptionist checked the roster again and shook her head. “Bobby’s on vacation this week, and Howie’s got the eleven o’clock shift.”

  “Thanks,” said Lucy.

  “I’m glad to be of help,” said the receptionist, patting her hair. “I’m here if you need any more information.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Lucy, dashing for the triple-plated security door. Sometimes three layers wasn’t enough.

  Chapter Thirteen

  From her usual seat in the Boston rocker, Miss Tilley had an unobstructed view of the mailbox and she kept an eye out for the postman.

  “The mail’s here,” she called to Rachel, as soon as the white van came into sight.

  “I’ll get it,” replied Rachel from the kitchen, where she was washing up the lunch dishes.

  She grabbed a towel and ran down the front path, drying her hands as she went. She regretted her haste, however, when the chilly breeze hit her damp hands. Quickly tucking the towel under her elbow, she pulled the mail out of the box and ran back to the house.

  “Anything interesting?” inquired Miss Tilley eagerly, holding her hand out.

  “Just ads,” said Rachel, flipping through the envelopes. “What’s this? Social Security? It’s not the right time of the month.”

  “Maybe they sent me an extra one,” said Miss Tilley, snatching the envelope.

  Rachel looked over her shoulder as she opened the familiar envelope and produced a green check.

  “It’s a fake!” declared Miss T. “The paper’s not right.”

  Rachel took the flimsy check. “Boy, it looks real, though, doesn’t it? But if you cash it, you’re signing on for a loan. It’s really just a credit card offer.”

  “Didn’t fool me,” crowed Miss T.

  “But I wonder how many people do get fooled,” mused Rachel aloud, as she ripped up the offer and dropped it in the wastebasket.

  “Can’t blame folks for trying,” mused Miss T. “ ‘A fool and his money are soon parted.’ That’s what Papa used to say. ‘Caveat emptor.’ ”

  Rachel was about to protest, but went to answer the doorbell instead. Shirley was standing on the stoop, her hands clasped together and her handbag dangling from her arm.

  “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d just drop in,” she simpered, looking over Rachel’s shoulder to Miss Tilley. “I hope it’s not a bad time.”

  “There’s never a bad time for you, dear.”

  Miss Tilley was practically singing. Rachel had never heard her sound like this. What had happened to the Miss Tilley she knew? The woman who proudly declared she never hesitated to think the worst of anyone.

  “Come right on in and set a spell,” continued Miss Tilley.

  “Let me take your coat,” said Rachel, remembering her manners. “Have you eaten lunch? Can I get you something?”

  “Aren’t you sweet,” declared Shirley. “I could stand a cup of tea.”

  “Good idea. I’ll have one too,” chimed in Miss Tilley, dismissing Rachel.

  Rachel headed for the kitchen, trying not to feel snubbed. After all, it was only natural that Miss T would want to spend time with her long-lost niece. She set the kettle on the stove and began arranging cookies on a plate. She didn’t intend to eavesdrop but couldn’t avoid it; the women’s voices carried in the small house.

  “Guess what!” exclaimed Shirley. “I brought pictures of Mother. I thought you might
enjoy looking at them.”

  “Photographs? What a good idea. And aren’t you thoughtful to bring them.”

  “I just brought a few today. The most recent ones. But if you’re interested, I could bring the family albums.”

  “Family albums! I’d love to see them.”

  To Rachel, in the kitchen, it sounded as if Miss T was practically salivating.

  “Don’t say another word. I’ll bring them next time I come. Now this is Mother, sitting on the patio outside her condo at the retirement community.”

  There was silence as Miss Tilley studied the photograph.

  Her voice cracked when she finally spoke, commenting on an irrelevant detail. “What is that plant? I’ve never seen anything like it here.”

  Rachel knew she was struggling to contain her emotions, using the tried and true technique of transferring her attention away from the subject she found disturbing: her sister.

  “Oh, that? That’s bougainvillea,” replied Shirley.

  “Bougainvillea. I’ve read about it.” There was another pause. “She never went gray, I guess. How remarkable.”

  Getting closer, thought Rachel, but still at a slant.

  “Oh, she colored her hair. ‘Tangerine’ was her favorite color but sometimes she’d vary it a bit. ‘Strawberry Fields’ was another one she liked. I swear, I never go by that aisle in the drugstore that I don’t think of Mom.”

  In the kitchen, Rachel nearly choked. In the living room, Miss Tilley’s jaw dropped.

  “My sister dyed her hair?”

  “Religiously. Every month.”

  “Goodness. I must say she didn’t look her age. Is she wearing shorts?”

  “That was her golfing outfit. Cute, isn’t it? I like the way the color on the shirt matches the shorts.”

  “Harriet played golf?”

  “Oh, yes. She loved it. She played regularly with three friends. They were even in a league. I believe they won a few tournaments. Of course, that was quite a few years ago, now. She didn’t play really in the last few years of her life. Her health wasn’t that good.”