Birthday Party Murder (20 page)

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Authors: Leslie Meier

BOOK: Birthday Party Murder
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Chapter Twenty-one
“L
ucy, could you get me something to drink? And can you fix the window shade? I can't see the TV because of the glare.”
In the kitchen, Lucy bit her tongue and counted to ten before she plonked a couple of ice cubes into a glass and filled it with tap water. Then she breezed into the family room where Bill was seated in the recliner.
“Water? Is that all we've got?”
“Unless you want milk or margarita mix. Those are your other choices.”
“That margarita mix has been around since last summer,” grumbled Bill.
“I've been trying to get out to the store all day,” said Lucy, staring at him rather pointedly, “but things keep coming up.”
It had been a very long morning. Bill had insisted on breakfast in bed, and Lucy had run up and down the stairs several times—“Just a bit of jelly?” “I'd love to look at the morning paper, if you're done with it.” “Can you get some paper towels or something? I spilled the juice”—while also trying to get the girls ready for school. Bill had also required help showering and getting dressed before settling himself in the recliner, where the TV clicker had apparently become an integral part of his hand.
“That's not fair, Lucy. I need your help. It's very hard to do things when your leg's in a cast, especially when you're sore all over from falling off a ladder.”
Lucy brightened up. “Shall I fill that prescription for painkillers while I'm out?” she asked. If they were strong enough, they might knock him out for a few hours, giving her some peace.
“Don't go to any trouble for me,” he said. “I'll just take some Advil.”
“Okey-dokey,” said Lucy, trotting upstairs to the medicine cabinet.
When she came back down, the phone was ringing. There was an extension on the table next to Bill's chair, but he was ignoring the ringing. She handed him the bottle and reached over him for the receiver.
“Hi, Mom. It's me.”
“Hi, Toby,” she replied. “What's up?”
There was a pause.
“I talked to my advisor and she said I should drop Chinese and she's arranging for some tutoring in economics. I just wanted to let you and Dad know.”
“So you won't get any credit for Chinese?”
There was another pause.
“I was failing, Mom. I wasn't going to get any credit anyway, and this way I won't have an F on my transcript. Plus, I'll have more time for economics, and hopefully I'll bring my grades up there.”
“I just don't see why you're having so much trouble this term,” said Lucy. “You've always been a good student. What's going on?”
“Mom! Chinese is crazy. It's one of the most difficult languages in the world.”
“I told you that when you registered for the course. But you said you could handle it.”
A huge sigh came through the phone line. “I was wrong, Mom. You were right.”
Lucy immediately felt guilty. Maybe she wasn't being fair. And besides, he was under a lot of pressure and it wouldn't do any good to add to it. It might even backfire. What if he just couldn't take it and threw himself off the top of a building, like the poor kids you read about in the newspaper?
“Well, I guess it sounds like a plan,” she said. “Do you want to talk to your Dad? He's right here—he fell and broke his leg.”
“Uh,” hedged Toby, “I'd love to but I've got to run or I'll be late for my tutoring session. Just tell him for me to get well soon, okay?”
“What's going on?” demanded Bill as she replaced the receiver.
“Toby says he hopes you get well soon.”
“No! Before that—when you said he wouldn't get credit for Chinese.”
“He's dropping the course.”
“What?” Bill was sitting up straighter and his eyes were popping out of his head.
Lucy immediately felt defensive. She called on a higher authority.
“His advisor recommended it. He was going to fail anyway and this way he won't have a bad mark. Also, he'll have more time for his other courses.”
Bill humphed. “Of course the advisor said that. This way that bunch of thieves running the college get more money. We've paid for this course, you know, but Toby won't get any credit. He'll have to take something else to get his degree.”
“Well, I don't think we can fault the college for requiring that students pass courses to get credit,” said Lucy, huffily. “The problem isn't the school—it's Toby. I'm worried about him. Why is he having so much trouble?”
“Because he's not going to class and he's probably messing with drugs and booze and women.”
“Not Toby,” said Lucy, defending her firstborn. “I think he's just overwhelmed with all the pressure. Maybe he's depressed. They say it's the hidden disease of adolescence.”
“Speaking of disease,” he said, handing her the Advil bottle, “would you mind unscrewing this cap for me?”
Lucy twisted the cap off and handed him the bottle. She was on her way to phone Ted, to tell him she wouldn't be in today and probably not tomorrow, when Bill called her back.
“Would you get two out of the bottle for me? I don't want to spill them all over.”
She looked at him. Maybe she'd better ask Ted for a week.
 
 
“Can't you work from home?” asked Ted, when she stopped in at the office on her way to the grocery store.
“I wish. He's really kind of helpless. He says he's sore all over and I have to help him with everything.”
Phyllis was skeptical. Lucy saw her eyebrows shoot up over her rhinestone-trimmed eyeglasses and she pursed her Fire and Ice lips.
“Put yourself in his shoes,” suggested Lucy. “If you were injured, you'd want Pam to take care of you.”
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.”

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