Authors: Leslie Meier

Birthday Party Murder (19 page)

BOOK: Birthday Party Murder

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Lucy shook her head. “I'm sure you can make better sense of it than I can. Besides, I know where you are in case I need anything.”

Bob picked up the bag and stood, pausing at the door. “I don't want to pressure you, but have you made any progress on the investigation?” he asked.

It was the question Lucy had been dreading.

“I've still got a few leads to check out, but to be honest, I'll be amazed if anything turns up.”

Lucy watched as his shoulders sagged. He seemed five years older.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“It's not your fault. I know you're doing your best.” He pushed open the door and the bell jangled, incongruously cheerful, considering the circumstances.

He cocked his head, studying her face in the sunlight.

“You ought to try some cortisone.”

“Coming right up,” said Phyllis, waving a plastic bag with the drugstore logo.

She was wearing a bright plaid jacket and had tied a matching yellow scarf around her head, leaving the ends free to flutter in the spring breeze. Compared to Bob, she looked like a ray of sunshine.

“You're a lifesaver,” said Lucy, grabbing the bag and heading for the dingy little hole that was
The Pennysaver
's employee bathroom.

Phyllis had done her best to brighten the place up, donating a crocheted cozy for the spare roll of toilet paper and hanging up a set of framed prints depicting kittens and puppies. Somehow it all just made the cracked plaster and curled linoleum look worse.

Lucy yanked the string that turned on the bare lightbulb that hung from the ceiling and leaned into the mirror, smoothing the cream on her face. She looked awful, she felt awful, but for once, she realized, she had too much on her mind to bother feeling sorry for herself. She had just gotten back to her desk when the phone rang.

It was Rachel and she was too upset to indulge in any niceties. She brushed aside Lucy's greeting and her mention of having seen Bob.

“They wouldn't let me in! They told me I'm fired.”

“Shirley fired you? I can't believe Miss T would let her do that.”

“I know!” exclaimed Rachel. “But when I asked to see her, they told me she was unavailable. She slammed the door in my face!”

“Have you tried the phone?”

“Shirley wouldn't let me talk to her.”

“Maybe she was taking a bath or napping or something.” Lucy didn't really believe what she was saying, but she didn't think she could handle Rachel's problems on top of her own. Not right now, anyway.

“Why don't you believe me, Lucy? That woman and her motorcycle maniac are keeping me out for a reason, and I don't think it's a good reason. I'm really worried they'll do her some harm.”

Unbidden, the image from the elder abuse pamphlet of the frail old woman and the looming shadow popped into Lucy's head. She relented. “Why don't we go together, in a few hours? Say, just before lunchtime? See what happens then?”

“Will you do that, Lucy? I'd really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” said Lucy, adding another item to her packed agenda.

When the noon siren sounded, Lucy was feeling a lot better. Her face didn't itch so much, thanks to the cortisone cream, and the swelling and redness had gone down. Her face was still pretty puffy, though, she decided as she peered into the rearview mirror of her car, like little Shirley Temple on steroids. At least the wrinkles were gone. Countess Irene had kept her promise.

She went through the McDonald's drive-through on the way to Rachel's, polishing off a small cheeseburger and a container of milk as she drove. She'd read somewhere that fast food wasn't actually that bad for you if you skipped the fries, but she had to admit she missed them. She honked as she pulled into the Goodmans' driveway and Rachel came out of the house, buttoning her jacket as she ran.

“What happened to your face?” asked Rachel, buckling herself into the passenger seat.

“Allergic reaction. I tried that face cream Sue recommended.”

“Isn't that just typical.” Rachel sighed. “Stuff that works for Sue never works for anybody else. I tried to make her flourless chocolate cake once, but it came out like pudding. I don't even try anymore. Face it, she exists on a higher plane than we mere mortals.”

“I wasn't trying to look like her,” said Lucy, whipping around the corner a bit too fast. “I was just trying to get rid of the wrinkles.”

“Well, you did,” said Rachel. “Would you mind slowing down? I'd like to live to see another day.”

“Sorry. It's just I've got so much to do. Bill's in the hospital. . . .”

Rachel listened as Lucy recounted the story.

“I never would have bothered you with this if I'd known,” Rachel said, feeling rather ashamed.

“It's okay,” said Lucy, pulling up in front of Miss Tilley's. “How long can it take?”

She was out of the car and halfway up the walk before Rachel had figured out how to unlatch her seat belt. Lucy was knocking for the second time when Rachel joined her on the stoop.

“No answer?” Rachel's voice was worried.

“I hear noises. Somebody's in there.” Lucy banged louder.

Rachel nudged her and pointed toward the side of the house where a large motorcycle was standing.

Before Lucy could say anything, the door opened and they were confronted by Shirley, a rather different Shirley. The white, curly wig was gone, revealing short hair dyed a brassy shade of red. Silver dream-catcher earrings trimmed with feathers dangled from her ears and she was wearing a T-shirt that proclaimed her a “Motorcycle Mama.”

“Hi,” said Lucy, taken aback. “We just stopped by to visit with Miss T for a bit.”

She stepped forward, hoping to breeze past Shirley.

“Not so fast,” said Shirley, blocking her way.

“I brought some cookies,” said Rachel, holding up a bakery box. “Her favorite kind.”

“I'll make sure she gets them,” said Shirley, taking the box.

“Can't we see her?” persisted Rachel.

Shirley looked past them, shaking her head.

Lucy followed her gaze, recognizing the heavyset Hell's Angel she'd seen arriving a few days ago strolling down the driveway as if he owned the place. Rachel threw a questioning glance Shirley's way.

“That's my boy, Stanley. I named him after his pa, but he don't like it much. He likes to be called Snake.”

Rachel swallowed hard. “He would be Miss T's nephew?” she asked.

“That's right,” Shirley said, proudly. “My son, her grand-nephew.”

“And he's staying here with you?” inquired Lucy.

“Just to help out.”

They glanced at Snake, who was squatting next to his motorcycle, revealing most of his buttocks.

“Snake!” bellowed Shirley. “Hike up yer pants!” She leaned toward Lucy and Rachel. “Boys will be boys,” she said.

From her darkened bedroom, Miss Tilley heard voices outside. She recognized Shirley's voice, of course. Who could miss that strident yell? But there were other, lower voices, too. Rachel's, she thought, and Lucy's. They must have come to visit her.

She tried to get up, to go out and see them, but she couldn't. Her body wouldn't work. How odd. Maybe she could call out to them. They could visit in her room. But when she tried to raise her voice, all that came out was a faint little squeak. What was the matter with her? Had she been taken ill? That was a worrying thought. She was never sick. Strong as an ox, that's what they always said. Not today. Today she felt as weak as a kitten. Her lips twitched at the thought. She was smiling when she fell asleep.

“She's taken a little turn,” said Shirley, plucking the string on the box of cookies.

“You mean she's sick?” asked Rachel. “Have you called the doctor?”

“Not so much sick as tired, I think. Nothing you wouldn't expect, considering her age.”

“Well, just to be on the safe side, why not have Doc Ryder take a look at her?”

“I don't think it would do any good,” said Shirley. “She's that weak.”

Shirley glanced at Snake, who was now standing beside his motorcycle, holding a heavy wrench in one huge hand and tapping it against the other.

Lucy wasn't sure why, since Snake hadn't made any overt signs of hositility, but she felt threatened.

“Maybe she'll be better tomorrow,” said Lucy. “We'll come back then.”

“I wouldn't bother, if I were you,” said Shirley. “Considering her age and all, I don't think she's going to be improving.”

“Well, I hope she'll be back on her feet in time for her birthdayâwe're planning a party,” said Rachel.

Snake had come closer and was leaning against the house.

“It's too bad, really,” said Shirley. “But I wouldn't be at all surprised if she didn't last until then.”

“You mean she's dying?” exclaimed Rachel.

“It looks that way,” said Shirley, looking suitably downcast “Don't it, Snake?”

Snake tossed the wrench across the yard, where it clattered against some other tools. He scratched his stomach and hitched up his pants.

“Sure do,” he said.

Back in the Subaru, Lucy and Rachel debated what to do.

“I don't like it one bit,” fumed Rachel. “How do we know she's sick? And why won't they call the doctor? It seems pretty fishy to me. We don't know what they're doing to her in there.”

“At the very least they seem to be taking advantage of her, moving in like that.” Lucy shook her head. “It's hard to believe that Miss T would welcome someone like Snake into her home, even if he is her grand-nephew.”

“And Shirley isn't quite the little old lady we thought she was at first, is she? I wonder why she's showing her true colors now?”

“Why not? She wheedled her way into the house and now she's in control. They could have locked Miss T in her room. They could have her drugged or tied up.”

The thought made Lucy feel sick to her stomach. “I don't have a good feeling about this.”

“We have to do something. We have to help her,” said Rachel. “But how?”

“I know how. There's that new elder abuse program. I did a story about it last week. It's designed for situations like this. Liz Kelly at Senior Services is running it.”

“Oh, Lucy, you're a lifesaver. Let's go over there right now.”

Lucy's face fell as she braked in front of Rachel's house and she let out a long sigh. “I wish I could go with you, but I really can't. I've got to finish up a couple of stories for Ted because I don't know when I'll get back to work. As it is, Bill's waiting at the hospital for me to take him home.”

Rachel gave her arm a squeeze. “Don't worry about it. You take care of Bill. I can handle this.”

Lucy still felt guilty, despite Rachel's assurances. “Let me know what happens,” she said, as Rachel got out of the car.

Then, giving her head a little shake and shifting into drive, she sped back to the office.

Chapter Twenty

L
ucy was finishing up the reenactment story when Rachel called. She sounded furious.

“You won't believe this,” she began. “After you dropped me off at the house, I decided to go over to Elder Services instead of calling. I thought the direct approach would be the best. So off I went. Turns out, this fancy new program is just a lot of nothing. I told Liz Kelly about Shirley and Snake and how they'd fired me, and that was a big mistake because I could almost see her writing up a report with me as a disgruntled employee. And then when I asked how soon she was going to look into it, she said she really couldn't do anything because families have rights and I didn't have any proof.”

“That's outrageous,” said Lucy. “It's time to go to the police.”

“That's what I think, too.” Rachel paused. “I was going to go myself, but then I started thinking that maybe because of Sherman and all, maybe someone else should go. I mean, I'm already involved in one case and it might look kind of funny.”

“I'm almost finished here,” said Lucy. “I'll go.”

Rachel let out a big sigh of relief. “Thanks, Lucy.”

“I'm leaving a little early,” she told Ted, when she filed her story. “And I don't know if I'll be in tomorrow.”

“Right.” His eyes were fixed on the computer screen; he was editing a story. “Give Bill my best.”

“I will,” she replied, already out the door.

The police station was only a few feet down the street, so she decided it would be faster to go on foot. She wasted no time, loping along at a fast clip. She was panting hard when she went up to the receptionist's counter.

“I would like to report a case of elder abuse,” she said.

“Fill out this form,” said the bug-eyed receptionist, sliding a sheet of paper under the glass partition.

Lucy stuck her reading glasses on her nose and started to fill in the blanks. She had completed one side before she even got to the line asking for the “alleged victim.” Finishing with a flourish, she slid the paper back.

The receptionist actually smiled at her, then glanced at the paper.

“I'll pass this along to the captain,” she said. “But first, maybe you'd want to put down something a little more concrete. Evidence of bruises. Financial misappropriations. Something like that.”

“I don't have evidence,” said Lucy. “I suspect something is wrong.”

The receptionist raised her eyebrows and added the complaint to a pile of papers.

“Will someone look into this? Will they at least send an officer out to investigate?”

The receptionist shrugged. “Are you still planning on writing that story about night workers?” she asked.

Lucy went blank for a minute, then remembered inventing the story as a way of getting the receptionist's sympathy the last time she was in the station.

“Uh, yes, well, some things have come up so I've had to postpone it, but I'm definitely planning to do it sometime, uh, soon.”

“Well, like I said, I'd be happy to help.”

Lucy wanted to growl something about if she really wanted to be helpful she'd make sure somebody saw her elder abuse complaint and acted on it, but instead she gave the receptionist a smile.

“Thanks. I'll keep that in mind.”

Lucy had pushed the door open rather harder than was necessary when she bumped into her friend, Officer Barney Culpepper.

“Whoa!” he exclaimed. “Where's the fire?”

“I've got to get Bill out of the hospital and I'm late.”

“I heard about that. Some fall he took. He's lucky he wasn't hurt worse.”

Barney removed his blue cap and ran his fingers through his brush cut. He squinted at her as he replaced it on his head.

“Poison ivy?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Lucy, unwilling to explain about Countess Irene. “Listen, Barney. I'm worried about Miss Tilley. These scummy relatives have moved in with her. They won't let me or Rachel in the house to visit. They won't even let us talk to her on the phone. Rachel went to Elder Services but they weren't any help. I filed a complaint here, but there hasn't actually been a crime that I know about and I don't thinkâ”

“Probably not,” agreed Barney.

“Could you stop by, unofficially? Just see what's going on?”

“Sure,” he said, reaching for the door. “And youâstay out of that poison ivy!”

“Right.” Lucy gave him a little salute and hurried down the sidewalk to the Subaru. Only two hours late, she decided, checking her watch. Not bad. Just try to convince Bill.

She circled the parking lot at the cottage hospital seven times before a spot opened up and she could park the car.
Make it two and a half hours,
she told herself, dashing through the automatic door too fast and crashing into it.

“Take it easy, ma'am,” admonished the security guard.

What was he doing there anyway? wondered Lucy. Was he there to keep the patients in?

Fortunately, Bill had told her his room number when she spoke to him on the phone that morning, so she didn't have to cope with the morons at the information desk.

Stop it,
she admonished herself as she waited for the elevator. She didn't know they were morons, they were probably perfectly nice ladies who volunteered one afternoon a week. She had to stop this negative thinking. Just because Liz Kelly was a lazy bum and the Tinker's Cove Police Department was useless didn't mean everyone in the whole world was stupid. It just seemed that way.

“Well, it's about time. . . .” began Bill, when she marched into his room. “What happened to you?”

Seeing his horrified expression, Lucy began to sniffle. She sat down in the Naugahyde visitor's chair and, reaching for a tissue, told him all about Countess Irene.

“I just wanted to look like Isabella Rossellini,” she sobbed.

“That's the funniest thing I ever heard,” he said, roaring with laughter.

BOOK: Birthday Party Murder

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