Birthday Party Murder (17 page)

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Authors: Leslie Meier

BOOK: Birthday Party Murder
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Lucy could hardly wait for the AC to cool down her car. It had been sitting in bright sunlight, which had turned the interior into a sauna. She opened all the windows and turned the fan on high, enjoying the cool air on her face. She flipped down the sun visor and looked at her reflection in the mirror. These days she was constantly checking the crow's-feet around her eyes and the little lines on her upper lip, as if constant vigilance could stop their progress.
Maybe Sue was right, she thought, spotting a new line at the corner of her mouth. Maybe that cheap drugstore moisturizer wasn't doing enough. Sue had raved about the stuff she got at Markson's, in the new Galleria. Lucy hadn't been there yet, and everybody said it was worth the trip. This was her chance to see it without any distractions, and maybe she'd even get some of that Countess Irene face cream. How expensive could it be?
Chapter Seventeen
P
arking, Lucy was delighted to discover, was located underneath the glittering Galleria and was free, with validation. She carefully tucked the ticket in her purse and headed for the elevators, leaving the dank garage behind and emerging into a bright, fragrantly scented fantasyland. Stunned, she stopped in her tracks and gazed at the glassroofed atrium, where long strands of crystal beads shimmered high above her.
“Watch out, lady!” A gruff voice reminded her that she was blocking the elevator door and she stepped forward, wandering past the tempting store windows. Gourmet cookware, soaps and lotions, imported linens, lacy bras and panties, fine stationery, leather luggage—it was a far cry from the outlet mall that had popped up near the interstate that sold seconds and discontinued merchandise.
Coming to the end of a row of shops, Lucy paused outside the cavernous entrance to Markson's. Inside, tempting display cases were filled with jewelry, purses and shoes. Colorful scarves flowed from racks, baskets of trinkets were set out to tempt the reluctant shopper. In the distance she noticed the glimmering mirrors of the cosmetics department.
Lucy stepped forward, drawn by the promise of youth. She would find it, she knew, at the Countess Irene counter, where Natalie held the secret.
“Oh, dearie, you do need help,” said the heavily made-up woman in the pink smock. Her name tag identified her as Natalie. Her hair color, you didn't have to be her hairdresser to know for sure, came from a bottle. Nobody had lavender hair naturally.
“I'm looking for a good moisturizer,” said Lucy.
“I've got just the thing,” said Natalie. “It's our Revivaderm night cream. Heavy duty, but it still feels light on the skin. You won't believe the difference. In just six weeks you'll look ten years younger.”
Lucy studied the jar, looking for a price. There was none.
“Try it, dear.” In a second, Natalie had twisted off the top and was holding out the sweetly scented cream.
Lucy hesitated, then dipped in her finger.
“Now just smooth it under your eyes. Doesn't that feel fabulous?”
It tingled slightly, and she could imagine her skin tightening and firming. It was fabulous.
“Oh, yes.”
“Some of my customers say this is better than, you know, sex.”
Lucy studied her face in the mirror. “Is that where these wrinkles come from? Kissing?”
“Kissing is no longer a problem, thanks to our Countess Irene lip moisturizer. It's called ‘Smacker.' Isn't that cute?”
Lucy took the tube Natalie was proffering and spread the creamy unguent on her lips. It made them feel so silky.
“Of course, you will want to try our day cream, Preservaderm. It battles the effects of pollutants and UV rays, preventing skin damage.”
“Really? Day cream is different from night cream?”
“Oh, honey, you've gotta have both. Revivaderm replenishes and heals your skin while you sleep. Preservaderm protects the skin during the day.”
“I see. And they will make my wrinkles disappear? Especially these little ones around my eyes?”
Natalie nodded sagely. “Of course, the skin around the eyes is very delicate. You might want to try our Where'd You Get Those Peepers eye cream. Gets rid of puffiness without drying that fragile under-eye area.”
“I sometimes use tea bags,” confided Lucy. “I just soak them in cold water and place them on my eyes.”
Natalie's widened in horror. “Then you should definitely try Where'd You Get Those Peepers. There's absolutely no tannin. Tea is full of tannin, and you know what they use that for, don't you? Tanning leather.”
Lucy took the little jar. It couldn't cost much, she reasoned. It was tiny. And she certainly didn't want her delicate under-eye skin to turn into leather.
“Do you mind if I ask you what cleanser you're using?” inquired Natalie, her voice seemingly full of sincere concern.
“Soap and water.”
Natalie seemed ready to burst into tears at this horrifying news.
“No!”
“Actually, yes,” confessed Lucy.
“My dear, soap is so drying. It adds years to your face. You must promise me not to use soap anymore. Use anything but soap. Promise?”
“But what can I use?”
“Facial cleanser. Countess Irene Clean as a Whistle not only cleans, and I mean really deep-cleans your skin, but it also nourishes your skin with vitamin E.”
“I take vitamin E,” said Lucy, nervously eying the collection of products Natalie was setting aside for her. “I don't think I need the cleanser.”
“Dearie, I'm going to be frank with you. You can't afford not to take the cleanser.”
Lucy reflexively stroked her throat. “Really?”
“Trust me on this. Thorough cleansing is vital. Why, it's practically the first thing our mothers teach us. Never go to bed without washing your face.”
Lucy nodded. Her mother had certainly warned her of the perils of sleeping with a dirty face.
“Prevention is worth a pound of cure,” continued Natalie. “That's why I want to let you know about Countess Irene Throat Cream. It prevents that saggy, baggy look.” She leaned closer, whispering. “I had a woman in here yesterday, I'm telling you, she looked like a turkey. Her neck was that red and wrinkled. And the shame of it is, she could have prevented it by using Countess Irene Throat Cream.” She clucked her tongue. “Such a shame.”
Lucy didn't want to look like a turkey. “I'll take the throat cream, too. But that's all. How much do I owe you?”
While she rummaged in her shoulder bag for her wallet, Natalie rang up the cosmetics and bagged them. “Two hundred seventy-eight dollars. Shall I put that on your Markson's account?”
Lucy gasped. She had no idea these things were so expensive. How much did Sue spend on her face?
“This is embarrassing,” said Lucy. “But I don't have a Markson's charge account, and I don't have that much cash with me.”
“No problem.” Natalie waved a hand tipped with highly polished lavender talons. “Why don't you just take the basics today? Clean as a Whistle, Revivaderm and Preservaderm. They come packaged together in a special travel-size offer for only sixty dollars.”
Lucy felt a huge sense of relief. “That sounds great.” She watched as Natalie canceled the sale and rang up the new purchase. “I'm so sorry about causing you trouble.”
Natalie dismissed her apology. “It was no trouble at all. And I've given you plenty of free samples to try.”
“Thank you so much,” said Lucy, handing over three twenty-dollar bills.
“You're welcome, dear.”
Lucy was floating as she left the store carrying the little pink bag with the Markson's logo. She could hardly wait for bedtime, when she would wash her face with Clean as a Whistle and anoint her skin with Revivaderm. But first, she realized as she came down to earth with a thud, she had to get through Sara's birthday party.
 
 
Actually, she thought, as she pulled off Red Top Road and into the driveway, now that the kids were older it was easier to throw a party. Bill was going to pick up a couple of videos on the way home, and she had plenty of soda and microwave popcorn on hand. All she had to do this afternoon was bake a cake and order the pizza. She would have plenty of time to experiment with her Countess Irene purchases.
Kudo bounded up to the car as she got out, and escorted her to the door, licking her hand to signal his happiness at her return. She scratched him behind the ears and went inside.
“Mom! You're home!” exclaimed Zoe. “I made Sara's cake for you!”
Lucy stood in the doorway, clutching her little pink Markson's bag. She would have liked to put it down, but there was no place to put it. Zoe had managed to transform the kitchen into a snow scene, covering every surface with sugar and flour. The mixing bowl, with batter dripping down its side, sat in the middle of the table. The floor was covered with baking pans of assorted sizes. The temperature in the room was at least ninety degrees, thanks to the oven, which Zoe had set at five hundred.
Lucy yanked the door open and pulled out the layer pans, not surprised to find the cakes were burned to a crisp on the outside while the middles remained white and wobbly.
“I added lemon juice,” Zoe confided proudly. “'Cause Sara likes lemon cake best.”
Lucy didn't have the heart to scold her. The little girl had meant well, after all.
“I wish you'd waited for me,” she said. “We could have made the cake together.”
Zoe looked down at the burned pans. “Maybe we could scrape off the burned part?”
“Baking a cake is harder than it looks,” said Lucy. “There's always next time.”
Zoe took the bad news philosophically. “I think I'll go outside and swing awhile.”
“You do that,” said Lucy, scraping the cake into the garbage. “I'll call Dad and ask him to pick up a cake at the store.”
Left alone in the war zone that used to be her kitchen, Lucy didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She was saved from having to choose by the telephone. It was Bob.
“Hi, Lucy. Sue told me you want to see the contents of Sherman's safe deposit box? She said you found the key?”
“I did. It was in his desk.”
“That's great. I'd been meaning to look for it, but I've been so busy I haven't had a chance.” He sighed, and his voice sounded tired. “Just keeping the practice going is taking everything I've got. I haven't really had time to deal with his estate. Of course, there's no rush. I've got a year before there's any negative tax impact.”
“Right.” He might as well have been speaking Greek to Lucy. “Will there be any problem getting into the safe deposit box? I know banks can be awfully picky.”
“No problem. I have all the necessary documents. So when do you want to do it? It's just the good old Five Cents Savings Bank on Main Street.”
“How long do you think it will take?”
“Five, ten minutes, if we get there first thing Monday morning.”
That sounded good to her. Monday was already filling up; she knew it would take most of the morning to write up the Battle of Portland reenactment.
“I'll meet you at the bank at eight-thirty.”
“Eight-thirty sharp,” promised Lucy, hanging up the phone.
Chapter Eighteen
T
he one bright spot, thought Lucy as she surveyed the scene, was that it was only four o'clock and the kids weren't due to arrive for the party until six. Consoling herself with this thought, she bent to the task of picking up the pans off the floor so she could move around the kitchen without breaking her neck. That accomplished, she set the mixing bowl in the sink and began sweeping up the spilled flour and sugar with a dustpan and brush. A wet sponge, she reasoned, would only make things worse. Occupied with the task at hand, she didn't hear a car pull into the driveway.
“Hi, Mrs. Stone.”
Startled, Lucy jumped.
“I didn't mean to scare you,” said a young fellow with his blond hair gelled into little points that stood out from his head like porcupine quills.
“You must be one of Sara's friends,” said Lucy, hoping her heart would resume its normal beat soon.
“I'm Matt Zumwalt.”
“Well, hi, Matt. It's nice to meet you.” She paused, neatly depositing a pile of flour and sugar into the dustpan. “You do know the party doesn't begin for a couple of hours?”
“I'm sorry,” he said politely. “My mom had an errand on this side of town so she thought she'd drop me off.”
Some people have a lot of nerve,
thought Lucy. The woman could at least have called to see if Matt's early arrival would cause a problem. She studied the boy. Whatever was she going to do with him?
“Did you notice the dog outside?” she finally asked. “Why don't you play soccer with him for a little while? I'll tell Sara you're here.”
“Okay. Where's the ball?”
“It's out there somewhere,” said Lucy. “He'll probably bring it to you.”
As soon as Matt stepped out, Lucy headed upstairs, where she found Sara blow-drying her hair.
“Matt Zumwalt's here.”
“What?” shrieked Sara. “Look at me! I'm a mess!”
“You think you're a mess, you should see the kitchen.”
“This is no joke, Mom. What am I supposed to do?”
“Pull yourself together as fast as you can and go entertain him. Listen to some CDs, watch TV, play a game or something. He's outside with the dog now.”
“You didn't, Mom! That dog is so disgusting.”
When Lucy returned to the kitchen, she peeked out the window and saw that Zoe had joined Matt and the dog. They seemed to be having a fine time together chasing the ball around.
Lucy had just finished wiping the counters off when an enormous black SUV pulled into the driveway and disgorged a remarkably curvaceous girl. Lucy didn't recognize her, so she guessed the girl must be Davia Didrickson. Flicking her long blond hair, Davia approached Matt Zumwalt. Minutes later, Zoe marched into the kitchen.
“That Davia spoils everything,” she grumbled.
“Davia's here!” exclaimed Sara, rushing into the kitchen. She paused to pat her hair nervously. “How do I look?”
“Great,” said Lucy, automatically.
“Look at me, Mom,” demanded Sara.
Lucy looked. Sara seemed taller and thinner, she realized. Her hair was clean and shiny, and the turquoise top she was wearing complemented her complexion.
“You really do look great,” she said. “Take these balloons out and ask your friends to help blow them up.”
“She stole your hair spray,” said Zoe. “And your lipstick, too.”
Zoe was obviously jealous at the attention Sara was receiving. Lucy gave her youngest a consolatory hug. “What do you say we make a birthday banner for Sara on the computer?”
“Okay.”
 
 
Three hours later, the family room resembled the old town dump before it had been replaced with the neat, new transfer station. Every surface was littered with gift wrap, pizza boxes, soda bottles and paper plates. The air was heavy with a mixture of sugar, Italian spices and teen sweat. Bill popped a video in the machine, and Lucy gathered up as much of the mess as she could, then returned with a big bowl of popcorn and some fresh sodas.
Exhausted, she joined Bill in the living room.
“What's going on in there?” he asked her.
“Something with Bruce Willis, I think. You got the video.”
“Not the video. The kids. What are they doing?”
“Watching the video.”
“Are you sure?”
“What else would they be doing?”
Bill gave her a look.
“Bill! They're just kids.”
“Kids mature younger these days,” he said, darkly. “You better go check on them.”
“Me? Why not you?”
“ 'Cause you can look more casual. Ask them if they want more soda or something.”
“I just gave them fresh sodas.”
“Maybe they'd like popcorn?”
“I gave them a big bowl.”
Bill was quiet. Lucy could practically hear the wheels turning.
“I know,” he finally said. “Tell them you just want to check the tracking on the VCR. Say it slips.”
Lucy groaned and got up. She pushed open the door to the family room. Eight pairs of eyes gleamed at her in the darkness. She flicked on the lights and peered at the VCR.
“Just checking the tracking,” she said.
“Mom!” protested Sara. “The tracking is fine.”
“Good.” Lucy glanced around at the hostile faces. “I'll make you some fresh popcorn,” she said, grabbing the bowl.
When she returned with the popcorn, only six pairs of eyes gleamed at her in the darkness. When she set down the bowl, she noticed two pairs of legs extending behind the couch. Taking a closer look, she found Sean Penfield entwined with Davia Didrickson.
“Break it up,” she said, prompting a chorus of giggles from the other kids.
Once she had everyone rearranged, she left the room, followed by Sara.
“Mom!” hissed Sara in the kitchen. “You're embarrassing me.”
“Well, your friends are embarrassing me and they ought to be embarrassing you, too.”
“You are
so
uncool,” was Sara's parting zinger.
“I'm
so
uncool,” Lucy told Bill.
“Hunh.” Bill was absorbed in his
Renovator's Digest.
“I had to break up a couple who were making out behind the couch!”
“What did you expect?”
“I didn't expect that. Next time you go in and break them up.”
“No way.”
“What do you mean?”
“This wasn't my idea, you know. I was never in favor of this shindig.” He got up and yawned. “Maybe this will teach you how to just say no.” He headed for the stairs. “I'm going to bed. Good night.”
Left alone in the living room, the horror of her situation dawned on Lucy. She had eight hormone-crazed adolescents on her hands. How on earth was she going to manage?
Hearing a shriek of protest from the family room, she hurried to investigate. What were they up to now?
In the family room, the kids had spread out sleeping bags on the floor and on the sectional couch. In the corner of the couch, Jennifer Walsh was sniffling.
“What's the matter?”
The other kids were giggling, looking rather guilty.
“Nothing,” said Jennifer, wiping her eyes and swallowing hard.
Group pressure, surmised Lucy. It would be fruitless to try to get Jennifer to tell her what really happened. The only thing she could do, she realized with a sinking heart, was to stay in the family room with the kids.
“Okay,” she announced, grabbing a pillow off the couch. “This is how it's going to be. Boys on my right, girls on my left.”
Predictably, her announcement was met with groans. She persevered, however, and soon had the boys on one side and the girls on the other. She stretched out in the middle. She hadn't intended to sleep, but next thing she knew it was three in the morning, every bone in her body ached and she had to pee. But the kids were all sleeping soundly. She could go upstairs to her own bed.
 
 
Morning found a groggy Lucy standing at the stove, cooking bacon and blueberry pancakes.
“My mom never cooks breakfast,” confided Matt Zumwalt.
“This is really yummy,” said Jennifer, coming back for seconds.
“I guess I'll have just one,” said Davia, yielding to temptation. “And bacon doesn't have very many calories, does it?”
“Hardly any,” Lucy told her. After all, Davia hardly had to worry about her figure.
“When are these kids supposed to go home?” asked Bill, as the girls disappeared upstairs for showers and the boys went outside to kick the soccer ball around.
“The invitations said ten o'clock,” said Lucy.
“That was an hour ago.”
“I know, and frankly, I don't think the cavalry's going to show up any time soon. Think about it. If you were their parents, and you'd got a rare morning to yourself, would you hurry over to pick them up?”
“I'd like to think my nobler instincts would win out,” said Bill.
“I'll bet you nobody shows up before noon.”
Bill considered this. “You know, I'm a little behind on the job. I think I'll go over and bang some nails.”
Lucy's jaw dropped. “On Sunday? You never work on Sundays.”
“It's a big job and I've got some contractors coming this week.”
Lucy knew Bill was converting a huge old barn out by the town line into a summer home. It was a bigger project than he'd tackled in some time, but she didn't believe he was really worried about being ready for some contractors. He just wanted to get away from the kids.
“You'll pay for this. I'll make sure of it.”
He looked at her, wide-eyed and innocent. “I'm only trying to be a good provider—”
Bill was interrupted by a shriek from upstairs. He grabbed his jacket and ducked out the door.
“Coward,” muttered Lucy.
 
 
It was almost two o'clock when the last of the kids finally left and Lucy had some time to herself. She was tempted to settle down with the Sunday papers, but knew she couldn't afford that luxury. Instead, she sat down at the computer with her notebooks and started writing up her interviews with Miss T so she could fax them to Sidra tomorrow.
As her fingers flew over the keyboard, she wondered how the
Norah!
show would use the material. Would they show Miss T telling some of her stories? Maybe they would find old photographs? Or maybe, thought Lucy, chuckling to herself, they could use some old silent film footage. The incident with the motorcar scaring the horses, for example. Or a suitor, coming to call with flowers in hand, only to be sent firmly on his way by an angry father.
Old Judge Tilley, thought Lucy, could have scared off the most ardent suitor. She paused, thinking. That was wrong. Old Judge Tilley, terrifying fellow that he was, hadn't scared off Harriet's boyfriend. He had persisted and, in the end, the judge had only succeeded in ripping his family apart.
His daughters had indeed chosen two very different paths, thought Lucy. Miss T had stayed in New England, preserving the values her father held so dear. Harriet, on the other hand, had stepped boldly into the future alongside her cardcarrying Democrat of a husband. What would the old fellow have made of Shirley, wondered Lucy, and her Hell's Angel? Not much at all, she suspected, resolving to keep an eye on that situation.
She finished up her notes and started printing them out. Her printer was old and slow, so she looked out the window while she waited for it to finish spewing out pages, catching sight of Kudo. The dog was throwing up, having helped himself to the dirty paper plates in the trash.
Zoe soon arrived with the official announcement.
“Kudo's sick,” she said. “And there are paper plates all over the yard.”
“Well, pick 'em up,” snapped Lucy.
 
 
It was an hour later when, by way of an apology, Lucy asked Zoe if she'd like to go with her to see the barn Bill was renovating. It was almost five, anyway, and Bill would be finishing up. To tell the truth, she was surprised he had worked this long.
Zoe chattered away as they drove along, full of gossip about her older sister.

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