Birthday Party Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Phyllis was now rolling her eyes, but it made perfect sense to Ted.

  “Take as much time as you need,” he said.

  Lucy stopped at Phyllis’s desk on the way out.

  “So Bill’s not a patient patient?” she asked, her bosom jiggling with laughter.

  “I’d love to tell you all about it, but I don’t have time. We’re out of ginger ale.”

  “A tragedy,” said Phyllis.

  “You better believe it.”

  An hour later, Lucy tossed the last of the grocery bags into the Subaru and dutifully trundled the wire cart back to the corral in the parking lot. She gave the cart a final shove and walked slowly back to her car, wondering why she felt so tired. She would have expected spending the day working at the paper and chasing stories all over town would be more tiring than nursing one invalid. Especially an invalid who wasn’t really sick. Just injured.

  There was never a good time for an accident, she told herself as she settled behind the wheel, but Bill’s accident had come at an especially bad time. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have enough on her mind worrying about Toby. Plus, there was the odd situation with Miss Tilley, not to mention the investigation of Cobb’s death.

  She certainly hadn’t made much progress there, and now it didn’t look as if she ever would. The more she got to know about Cobb, the odder he seemed. She thought of his tightly clipped forsythia bushes, his relationship with Phyllis that never went anywhere, and she wondered if it had something to do with the fact that he was adopted. Having been given up by his birth parents, perhaps he feared further rejection. She was no psychologist, but it made sense to her that an adopted child, unlike her own children who took her love for granted, might very well feel he had to be very neat and very good so that his new parents wouldn’t decide to send him back to the orphanage. It was no wonder he’d settled for the rather formalized relationships the Civil War brigade offered, based on similar interests rather than the spontaneous discovery of kindred spirits. Even his best friend, Chip Willis, had spoken of Sherman’s contributions to the brigade, rather than his personal qualities.

  And now there was the monograph he’d written about George Washington Tilley. Bob had been right on target when he’d pointed out its adulatory tone. It had contained some useful background material for her story, that was true, but the main purpose of the monograph was to lionize old G.W. Tilley. Lucy chuckled at the memory of some of the flowery phrasing. But why? she wondered. Why had Sherman Cobb chosen him for a hero?

  Spotting the turn for Red Top Road, and recalling what awaited her there, she made a resolution. The demands of the living would simply have to take precedence over those of the dead. Bill needed her, Toby needed her, the girls needed her, and it looked as if she was going to have to get involved in the situation at Miss Tilley’s.

  She flicked on the signal, resolving to wrap up the Cobb investigation. She had a few phone calls to make, to the cleaning lady and the cop, and she doubted very much that they had anything to tell her that would be helpful. She’d go through the motions, she’d make the calls, and that would be it. Finito. Over. Done.

  Energized by her decision, Lucy got the groceries unloaded and put away in record time. Then she dialed the number Rachel had given her for Maids to Order. The owner listened patiently to her explanation for the call, but was afraid she couldn’t be of much help.

  “Ginger North cleans that law office,” she said, “but she’s on vacation. Took three weeks to go to Florida.”

  “Lucky her,” said Lucy, enviously. It seemed as if everyone, except the Stone family, was vacationing in the Sunshine State.

  “Not so lucky. Her mother’s getting frail and Ginger’s trying to figure out what to do. The old lady doesn’t want to make any changes, but she can’t live by herself anymore.”

  From the family room, Bill was calling for something to eat.

  “That’s too bad. Would you ask her to call me when she gets back?”

  “Sure,” said the woman, but Lucy didn’t really expect her to follow through. She wasn’t a customer, after all, so why should the woman bother to pass along her message?

  “Just a minute, Bill,” she yelled back. “I’m just making a phone call.”

  She quickly punched in the nonemergency number at the police station. The voice on the other end informed her that Officer Wilkes was indeed back from his vacation, but he was not in the station. She left her number and the dispatcher promised that Officer Wilkes would return her call.

  Duty done, Lucy turned her attention to Bill, fluffing up a pillow for him and rearranging the afghan over his legs.

  “What do you want for lunch? Peanut butter and jelly? Ham? Tuna?”

  “You know what I’d really like?” he asked, managing a weak smile. “I’d love a nice turkey sandwich.”

  Lucy counted to ten.

  “Let’s try that again. Would you like peanut butter and jelly, ham or tuna? We don’t have any turkey.”

  Bill’s voice was small and sad. “Ham.”

  Lucy was guilt-stricken. “I’ll get you some turkey tomorrow. I promise.”

  By the time Thursday rolled around, nothing short of a natural disaster could have kept Lucy from her weekly breakfast with the girls. Even Bill agreed it was a good idea.

  “Maybe it will cheer you up,” he said. “You haven’t exactly been Miss Congeniality.”

  “I’m not Miss Congeniality,” snapped Lucy. “I’m Nurse Nancy. Now here’s your ginger ale, your Advil, your clicker—do you think you can cope for an hour?”

  “I have news for you,” said Bill. “You’re no Nurse Nancy.”

  Lucy didn’t pause to reply as she hurried out of the house. When she arrived at Jake’s, however, the others all looked pretty glum, especially Rachel.

  Lucy patted her hand as she took the empty chair next to her.

  “Have you been able to talk to Miss T?” she asked.

  Rachel shook her head.

  “Shirley always answers the phone and says she’s sleeping.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Miss T,” said Sue.

  “Maybe she had a stroke,” offered Pam.

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” asked Rachel. “If she had a stroke, why aren’t they getting her medical care? She ought to be in the hospital. I don’t think she’s sick at all. I think they’re keeping her from talking to me.”

  “How could they do that? If she was awake, she’d be demanding to see you.”

  “Pam’s right,” said Sue. “Miss T is a strong-minded woman. She doesn’t let anyone take advantage of her.”

  “I just have a bad feeling about it,” grumbled Rachel. “I wish I knew what to do. First it was Sherman, now it’s Miss Tilley. I feel like I’m losing everyone who matters to me.”

  “I guess the birthday party’s out of the question?” inquired Sue.

  Lucy’s eyes met Rachel’s.

  “Yeah,” said Pam, speaking for them. “The guest of honor’s unavailable. No Miss T, no party.”

  “And I guess that means no Norah! TV show, either,” added Lucy.

  “Why not?” Sue raised a delicately arched eyebrow and lifted her cup of black coffee. “Sidra told me everyone on the show is very pleased with the material Lucy sent, especially the photos. They’re going to use them, like in that Civil War documentary. They’ve almost finished the segment, but they need one more thing.”

  Lucy shook her head, like a two-year-old in the throes of a tantrum. “I can’t. I can’t. I absolutely can’t do another thing and I won’t.”

  “Mature, Lucy. Very mature,” observed Sue, sarcastically.

  Reaching into her bag, she took out a narrow cylinder and withdrew a pair of tiny reading glasses, propping them on her nose. Then she leaned a little closer, studying Lucy’s face.

  “Did you get Countess Irene? Your skin looks fabulous.”

  “It’s the cortisone. Countess Irene gave me hives.”

  The news didn’t faz
e Sue in the least. “Cortisone. I’ll have to try that,” she said, removing the glasses and tapping the table with them. “Now, back to business. All Sidra wants is some old newspaper stories to use as graphic elements.” She turned a wide-eyed gaze on Lucy. “Now, that’s not too hard, is it?”

  In spite of herself, Lucy was intrigued. “You mean her birth announcement, stuff like that?”

  “Sure. Anything involving Miss T or her family. Or local history. Blizzards, hurricanes. Anything noteworthy.”

  “We can use The Pennysaver archives,” said Pam. “They go back over a hundred years and pretty much cover everything that happened in town.”

  “The Pennysaver is a hundred years old?” Rachel looked doubtful.

  “It wasn’t called The Pennysaver. It was The Courier, and then The Advertiser.”

  “Okay,” said Lucy. “I’m stuck home anyway with Bill. I might as well have a project.”

  “Better yet,” suggested Rachel, with a wily smile, “have Bill do the research. Give him something to do that will keep his mind off his boo-boo.”

  “I’ll toast to that,” said Lucy, raising her coffee cup.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  When Pam cruised up to the old farmhouse on Red Top Hill in her aged boat of an Oldsmobile later that day, Lucy ran out to meet her. She stopped in her tracks, however, when she noticed the car was filled to the gunwales with old newspapers, all neatly bound in oversize volumes.

  “Golly, I had no idea there’d be so many,” she exclaimed.

  “Me, either. It took forever to load the car. So, where do you want them?”

  “In the family room, I guess. That’s where Bill is holding court.”

  Bill wasn’t exactly thrilled when the two women marched into his sickroom with their arms full of books.

  “What are those?” he demanded.

  “Old newspapers.” Lucy nodded toward a corner. “I guess we can just stack them here.”

  They dropped the books on the floor, creating a cloud of dust.

  “I don’t want those dusty things in here,” complained Bill.

  “I think we should line them up against the wall under the windows,” said Pam. “That way it will be easier to get at the volume you need.”

  “What am I? Invisible? Can’t you hear me? I don’t want them in here.” Bill was on his feet, leaning on a crutch.

  “You mean stack them as if this end of the room is a shelf?” asked Lucy, ignoring him.

  “Exactly,” said Pam.

  “Let’s get started,” said Lucy. “I don’t imagine there’s any way we could get them in chronological order?”

  “Hey!” Bill was tapping Lucy on the shoulder. “This is not a good idea. What about allergies?”

  “I did put the most recent ones in the car last, so they’re on top,” offered Pam. “And I only brought the ones from 1910 to 1985.”

  “You don’t have any allergies,” said Lucy, waving away his objections. “Let’s start at this end and work our way back.”

  Unable to refute this, Bill stumped back to his chair and clicked on the TV.

  “Okay,” said Pam, picking up one of the volumes and checking the date stamped on the spine. “July to August 1980; I’ll put it here for the time being. We can move it over when we find later ones.”

  “I’ve got January to February here, I’ll put it next to it.”

  “You keep stacking ’em and I’ll go out and bring in another load,” suggested Pam.

  “Okay.”

  “What about my lunch?” whined Bill. “I haven’t had lunch yet.”

  “Neither have we,” said Lucy, who was on her knees. “I’ll fix something for all of us when we’re done.”

  “I’m starving,” said Bill, hollowing his stomach. “I’ll probably be dead of hunger by then.”

  “Here comes 1976,” said Pam, staggering in under the weight of six books.

  “Ah, the Bicentennial. There’s probably good stuff in there. Oops, this is 1913.”

  “Don’t mix it in with the others,” said Pam. “We ought to keep it separate.”

  “Yoo-hoo! I’m here. I’m sick and I’m hungry.”

  “Just put it on top of Bill,” suggested Lucy. “Maybe it will shut him up.”

  “You mean kind of wall him off, like in that Poe story?”

  “That’s the idea,” said Lucy.

  “Not very funny at all,” snarled Bill.

  “Instead of carrying on like a big baby, why don’t you take a look inside? See if you can find any stories that mention Miss Tilley.”

  “In your dreams,” said Bill, changing the channel.

  Pam and Lucy looked at each other.

  “I bet he’ll change his mind,” whispered Pam.

  Lucy glanced at Bill, who had let the volume slide off his lap and onto the floor, and back to Pam.

  “I hope so.”

  An hour later, the books were neatly lined up in close-to-chronological order along the wall. Pam was shifting them around, trying to get the order straightened out, and Lucy was in the kitchen mixing up tuna salad. Bill had given up on daytime TV and was idly turning the yellowed pages of the 1913 issues of the Tinker’s Cove Advertiser.

  “Ho-ho,” he said, suddenly becoming interested. “You’ll never guess what I’ve found.”

  “What?” inquired Pam, panting as she switched the first half of 1954 and the second.

  “The old witch’s birth announcement. ‘Born to Judge William T. Tilley and his wife, Sarah, a daughter, seven pounds and two ounces.’ ”

  So this is what it’s like to die, mused Miss Tilley, blinking at the bright light that surrounded her. Everything was so white and she had the strange sensation of floating in a white cloud. This was what she’d always imagined death would be like. She waited expectantly for the clouds to part revealing Saint Peter and the Heavenly Host.

  Oddly enough, she wasn’t afraid. Of course, she had committed no sins that Saint Peter could reproach her for. She had been a dutiful and obedient daughter; she had willingly taken on the responsibilities of the post of librarian at Broadbrooks Free Library; she had worked hard, observed moderation in all things and followed the Golden Rule. All that was well and good, she told herself, but her trump card for admission through the Pearly Gates was the fact that she had remained a maiden lady throughout her long life.

  She smiled with satisfaction and opened her eyes wide in anticipation of the marvels that would soon be revealed to her. Instead, she saw the ceiling light fixture.

  She blinked in disbelief. Was she not aboard the express to heaven? Was she in fact lying in her bed, in her room, under a bright ceiling light? This couldn’t be true. And what was that light doing on anyway? She hated ceiling fixtures and much preferred the natural light of day or the soft light of lamps.

  She turned to her left. The Sandwich glass lamp was still on her nightstand, but it was off. She squinted, focusing on the wall beyond. The window shade was down. Now that was wrong. She never pulled the window shades. She would have to get up and open it, and while she was at it, she would switch off the ceiling light. She tried to rise from her bed but found she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t move.

  She was tired, she realized. So tired. The room was growing fuzzy again. The window and the walls receded into the bright whiteness that surrounded her. Once again she felt as if she were floating. It was like being in a pool of warm water. She felt so light, so weightless. All her aches and pains were gone. She felt entirely relaxed. She didn’t have any worries, either. Not a care in the world. Just this blissful sense that she was complete unto herself and utterly at peace. She felt divine.

  From the distance, she heard chimes. The music of the spheres. Or perhaps the grandfather clock. How many times did it chime? She’d lost count.

  “Just lift your head, dear.”

  She felt a hand slide under her neck, pulling her out of her cloud. She squinted and saw Shirley, dear Shirley, looming over her. She thought it was Shirley, but
what had happened to her hair? When had it turned red?

  “Open wide, now. Just a little bit of medicine.”

  It wasn’t Shirley. What a silly mistake. It was Mother. She was sick with rheumatic fever and she had to take the badtasting medicine. Obediently, she opened her mouth, but instead of the vile liquid she felt a tablet of some kind followed by a splash of water. She swallowed and soon the warm, fuzzy feeling returned. She was back in the clouds.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Friday was rainy. It wasn’t supposed to rain in May, thought Lucy, as she belatedly turned the kitchen calendar to a new page. April showers were supposed to bring May flowers, but the flowers were few and far between in her yard. The forsythia had dropped their petals and were putting out green leaves. The daffodils had also gone by and were yielding to the aggressive daylilies, whose spiky green leaves asserted their right to the flower bed they shared.

  Apart from those few patches of green, however, the yard presented a dismal sight. The trees hadn’t leafed out yet, so they were still gray, which also happened to be the color of the garden shed and the gravel driveway. The grass wasn’t gray, it was a dull, flat brown, and Lucy knew from experience that the soil beneath it would be squishy and slippery underfoot.

  Spring in New England was the season that wasn’t. Summer was hot and green, fall was crisp and gold, winter was cold and white. But spring was generally a cold and wet continuation of winter until the lilacs bloomed, when just like that, it turned to summer in an instant. Spring was over before it began.

  Not that she was complaining. These clouds definitely had a silver lining. Today she had been assigned to cover Team Day at the middle school. Team Day was the new, politically correct version of the old-fashioned Field Day that was designed to foster cooperation rather than competition. Lucy hadn’t been looking forward to spending the morning at the middle school and now she wouldn’t have to. Thanks to the rain, Team Day would most certainly be postponed.

  Which meant she could take her time this morning. She’d already started a load of wash, and while she waited for the machine to finish its cycle she’d called the police station, looking for Bob Wickes. He was out on assignment so she hadn’t been able to talk to him, but she had paid the bills and called the disability insurance company and requested the necessary paperwork so Bill could file a claim. It was great not to feel rushed, she thought, as she loaded the wet wash into the dryer and prepared Bill’s lunch.