Birthday Party Murder (23 page)

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Authors: Leslie Meier

BOOK: Birthday Party Murder
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Chapter Twenty-five
L
ucy punched out Rachel's number and waited impatiently while the phone rang.
Answer the phone, answer the phone,
she repeated, like a mantra. She didn't want to leave a message, she didn't want to wait for Rachel to return her call. She wanted to talk about this right now.
“Hello.”
Finally.
“It's me. You'll never guess what I found out. Snake was spotted not far from the office the night Sherman was killed.”
“Really?” Rachel's voice was breathy.
“According to the cleaning lady, Ginger. She saw him.”
“Do you think he killed Sherman?”
“I think it's a definite possibility.”
“I don't like this at all,” said Rachel, sounding deadly serious. “He's over there at Miss Tilley's. God knows what he and Shirley are up to.”
“I'm pretty sure there's a link between Miss T and Sherman Cobb,” said Lucy, struggling to put all the pieces together. “I'm not positive, but I think the judge was Sherman's father, which would make him Miss T's half brother. My guess is the Hendersons wanted him out of the way so they could go after Miss T.”
“Oh, my God,” gasped Rachel. “He's a killer and he's in her house.”
“We've got to go to the police,” said Lucy. “Meet me there.”
Lucy was shrugging into her clammy jacket when Phyllis snatched it away from her.
“You'll catch your death in that. Here, wear mine.”
She thrust her raincoat at Lucy and handed her an umbrella.
Lucy gave her a quick smile and dashed out the door, raising the umbrella as she ran down the street. She knew she must be quite a sight, rushing along the sidewalk in Phyllis's oversized, puffy-pink down coat waving the flowery umbrella, but she didn't care. When she got to the police station Rachel was just pulling into the parking lot in her aged Volvo.
“Do we have a plan?” asked Rachel, meeting Lucy on the stoop.
“Let's start with Barney. Maybe he's in.”
“And if he isn't?”
Lucy didn't have a plan B. “Let's hope he is.”
The receptionist gave Lucy a big smile and was only too happy to call Barney, the community relations officer, to let him know that two citizens wanted to speak with him.
A moment later, the security door opened and Barney ushered them down the hall to his little office.
“Come on in, ladies,” he said. “Have a seat.” He took his own seat on the other side of the desk and folded his hands on the blotter. “What can I do for you?”
Lucy hesitated for a moment; then the words poured out. “I have some new information about the Cobb case that indicates Miss Tilley is in danger,” she said.
“Whoa there, Lucy. Cobb case? I didn't know there was a case,” replied Barney.
Rachel gave him a glance that would wither a turnip. “Don't play coy with me, Barney Culpepper,” she snapped. “You know damn well that Sherman Cobb did not commit suicide, and we're trying to prevent a second murder. Shut up and listen to Lucy.”
“Yes, ma'am,” said Barney.
“Ginger North, who cleans the law office, told me she saw Snake Henderson riding his motorcycle near the office on the night Cobb died. And now we're worried because Snake and his mother have moved in with Miss Tilley and aren't letting anyone see her. We think there's some sort of mischief afoot.”
Barney's forehead folded like an accordion. “What kind of mischief?”
“Well, it's obvious,” said Lucy, impatiently. “He killed Sherman and now they're after Miss Tilley. God forbid she may even be dead already. We don't know because they won't let us see her or talk to us on the phone.”
“You think these two things are related somehow?” asked Barney, scratching his head with an enormous hand.
Lucy sat up bolt upright. “Yes! Judge Tilley was Sherman's father. He arranged for the court bailiff to adopt him and insisted he be named Sherman. Why would he do that if he wasn't his son?”
“And Miss T's brother,” said Rachel. “Half brother.”
“Hold on,” cautioned Barney, holding up one hand in the gesture he used when he was directing traffic. “Maybe the old judge did have some fun on the side, but what's that got to do with anything? And I gotta tell you, just because somebody saw this Henderson guy in the vicinity doesn't make him Cobb's murderer.” He scratched his head. “Why would he kill him? Somehow I don't think he was worried about the shame of it all, the disgrace of his extremely respectable grandfather having an illegitimate son.”
“Very funny,” snapped Lucy. “I don't think Snake gives a damn what people think about him. I think it's got something to do with money. Inheritance. That's what's at the bottom of this. They want something. They didn't get it from Cobb so they killed him, and now they're trying to get it from Miss Tilley.”
“But what?” Rachel's dark eyebrows had shot up. “Sherman didn't leave anything to the Hendersons, or Miss Tilley.”
“What about Miss Tilley? Do you know what the terms of her will are?”
“Actually, I do,” said Rachel. “According to Bob, she left everything to the library, and everything isn't much.”
“Maybe they'll make her sign a new will,” suggested Lucy “A will in their favor. It's been done before.”
“I never thought of that,” said Rachel, looking down at her lap. She raised her head and leaned forward, practically on her knees, hanging on to Barney's desk like a prayer rail. “You've got to get in that house and check on Miss Tilley,” she said, pleading. “I know it's probably against department policy and everything, but think how you'd feel if you did nothing and all this time she's been suffering. What if she dies?”
“There, there,” said Barney, leaning across his desk to pat her hand. “You don't need to worry on that score. I was there yesterday and Miss T was sleeping peacefully.”
“You actually saw her? Shirley let you in the house?”
He nodded. “Nothing was out of order. Miss T was tucked in bed. Shirley seems to be taking good care of her.” He leaned back in his chair, which creaked. “She's very old. She's dying, but she's home with her family and they're taking care of her.” He folded his hands across his potbelly. “I think this is the way she'd want it. I really do.”
“Well, you can pretend everything's okay, but I'm not convinced,” said Lucy, jumping to her feet. “I have got to see for myself.”
“Whoa, there,” said Barney, hauling himself out of his chair. “You sit back down and listen to me.”
Resentfully, Lucy did.
Barney leaned over her, grasping the arms of the chair and sticking his face into hers.
“There's a fine line here between concern and meddling. The Hendersons are Miss T's family, her only family. They have the right to decide what's best for her and you have to abide by it. I've told you she's at peace, and that's going to be the end of it. Do you understand me? I don't want to have to arrest you for trespassing and harassment. Are we clear on this?”
Lucy nodded.
Barney let go of the chair and stood up.
“Ladies, you go on home now. Your families will be wanting their suppers.”
 
 
Lying in bed, Miss Tilley heard voices. A deep, rumbling male voice and a shrill female voice. First one voice, then the other. Sometimes both together, trying to outshout each other. It was almost like music, some modern, discordant type of music. The bass fiddle and the kettle drum, then the squealing, shrieking violins. Occasionally the percussionist banged out a beat or hit the cymbal. She had never liked modern music much.
Of course, she knew it was Shirley and Snake, arguing. If only she could hear what they were saying, then she might understand what was going on. It was too bad they had such poor diction. Apparently Harriet hadn't been a careful mother; Shirley seemed lacking in the most basic social skills. As for Snake, it seemed incredible to her that she could actually be related to this man. Tattoos!
There was a loud crash and she winced, wondering which of her antiques had been smashed to bits. What was going on out there? What was it all about?
Shifting her position, she encountered something hard under her shoulder. A pill. She had avoided swallowing them for some time by holding them in her mouth and spitting them out when Shirley wasn't looking. She reached under her shoulder with her opposite hand and retrieved it, slipping it under the rug. There must be quite a collection under there, she thought. Maybe she should find some other hiding place. It wouldn't do to have the pills crunch under Shirley's sneakered feet. She shuddered, thinking of the X Shirley had cut in each sneaker to accommodate her bunions.
The voices were quieter now and she wondered if she dared risk eating a cookie. She had a package of
petit beurre
biscuits in her nightstand drawer because she sometimes woke up hungry in the night. She had been eating them sparingly, waiting until her hunger pangs became almost unbearable. She was hungry now, but she didn't want to risk being discovered. It was better, she thought, to let Shirley think her plan, whatever it was, was working. That she was indeed drugged. It was just a matter of time, she told herself, until someone came to the house. Lucy, perhaps, or Rachel. Or even that social worker from the Council on Aging. Then she would call out for help.
The problem was, she admitted, that even without the drugs she tended to drift off into sleep. She hoped she hadn't missed a potential rescuer when she nodded off.
Hearing the voices growing louder once again, she decided to risk eating a cookie. Shirley, she had learned, was much more likely to pop in on her when the house was quiet and not when she was busy arguing with Snake.
Moving slowly and carefully so the bed wouldn't squeak, she reached her arm out from under the blanket and grasped the crystal knob of the nightstand drawer. It slid open and she felt inside for the paper packet, wincing as it crackled under her fingers. She withdrew a cookie and bit off the tiniest bit of scalloped corner.
She sighed in ecstasy. It was delicious. She rolled the fragment around on her tongue, making it last as long as possible. Only when it had completely dissolved did she take another tiny bite.
When she had finally finished the cookie, Miss Tilley stretched. The movement made the plastic on her adult diaper crinkle. Lord, how she loathed these things. She had been shocked when she discovered Shirley had put one on her, outraged in fact. But as things had turned out, they had been a blessing in disguise. It would have been impossible for her to use the bathroom without alerting Snake and Shirley to the fact that she was clearheaded and awake.
Sitting up, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. They were really going at it now; she doubted they would disturb her. She walked over to the door and put her ear against it.
“You motherfucker!”
She jumped back as if scalded.
“You son of a bitch!”
She clucked her tongue. Papa had been right. Profanity was the sign of an uncultivated mind. She made her way around the bed to the opposite side of the room. There she put her feet together and reached her arms above her head, stretching. She would do a few sun salutations, she decided, just to stay limber. She placed her hands together in prayer position and took a deep breath, exhaling as she raised her arms above her head and leaned back
A loud bang, like a gun firing, startled her and she almost lost her balance. Frightened, she scampered back into bed. The silence pounded against her eardrums as she trembled.
Chapter Twenty-six
“I
can't believe he actually said that,” fumed Lucy, as she and Rachel left the police station.
The rain had stopped but the sky was still overcast and there were puddles on the sidewalk.
“ ‘Your families will be waiting for their suppers!'” mimicked Rachel, marching right into a puddle and splashing herself and Lucy. She was so angry she didn't even notice. “Why can't I get them to take me seriously? It was the same thing at Senior Services.”
“They didn't help you at all?”
“Oh, she made a few phone calls; she even checked with the bank. There was no unusual activity, she said, so she couldn't do anything.”
“You know, Snake and Shirley are playing this pretty smart. They're being careful not to arouse suspicion by emptying out her bank account; they even managed to fool Barney when he visited. I think this is a plan they've been working on for a while. Remember, Snake was in town the night Sherman died, which was a full week before Shirley showed up at Miss T's.”
“They must have known about Sherman's relationship to the family, too, don't you think? How could they know that?”
“From Shirley's mother, maybe? She was the older sister, remember. She might have been aware of things that went right over Miss T's head.”
“And she might have nurtured a grudge against her father,” added Rachel. “Imagine how she must have felt, disowned by a father who was unfaithful to her mother. A double betrayal.”
The thought made Lucy feel sick. Snake and Shirley weren't just out for gain, their motivation was far deeper. They wanted to even old scores. They wanted revenge.
“I wish there was something we could do,” she said, pausing next to Rachel's car.
Rachel squeezed her arm. “We've done everything we can. We've gone to the authorities; we've told them everything we know. It's out of our hands.”
“I guess you're right,” said Lucy, watching her drive off.
Lucy was still wearing Phyllis's coat, so she headed back to
The Pennysaver.
Phyllis looked up when she yanked the door open, making the little bell jangle.
“No go?” she asked, seeing Lucy's downfallen expression.
“We couldn't convince them that anything's wrong,” said Lucy, replacing Phyllis's coat on the rack. “Thanks for the coat.”
“It's like the time Elfrida's little boy, Howie, had appendicitis. She was in and out of the doctor's office telling him that Howie had appendicitis. She was sure of it but they wouldn't believe her because the tests came back negative. Howie kept getting sicker and sicker and she didn't know what to do.”
“What did she do?”
“Well, he finally got so sick that she took him to the emergency room and that time the tests came back different. They operated and the surgeon told her that if she'd waited any longer he might not have lived.”
“That's an awful story,” said Lucy.
“It gets worse,” said Phyllis. “Turned out the lab made a mistake on the first set of blood tests.”
“Good Lord.”
Lucy sat down at her desk, staring at the computer. Behind her, she could hear Phyllis preparing to leave.
“Bye now. Have a nice weekend,” said Phyllis.
Alone in the office, Lucy knew it was time to go home. It was time for her to get in the car and drive on up Red Top Road to the house. Kudo was probably sitting in his usual spot on the porch, waiting for her. Bill and the girls would be getting hungry, waiting for her to bring home the usual Friday night pizza. It was just like Barney said, they were waiting for their supper.
She got up and put on her still-damp coat; she turned off the lights and locked the door behind her. She got in the Subaru, started the engine and drove down Main Street. But instead of continuing on the way home, she took the turn that led to Miss Tilley's house.
If the police wanted hard evidence before they would act, if Senior Services needed some sort of proof, well, she'd get it for them. She knew in her gut that Snake and Shirley were up to no good and she was going to trust her instincts just like Elfrida did. She wasn't going to wait until it was too late.
She started to brake as she approached Miss T's little house, then realized it would be smarter to park the Subaru a bit farther down the street, where Snake and Shirley couldn't see it. That meant she had to walk back along the road, where she would certainly attract notice. Pedestrians were a rare sight in Tinker's Cove; it would be far better to appear to be a runner, out for a jog.
Shivering, she shrugged out of her jacket. At first glance her jeans, turtleneck and sweater might pass as athletic wear. Fortunately, she was wearing her usual running shoes. Leaving her purse and jacket in the car she jogged in place, then set off down the road at an easy pace. Her intention was to run past Miss Tilley's house, looking for signs of occupation. This was what burglars did, they cased a house before they attempted an entry. A bad analogy, she decided. She preferred to think she was on a reconnaissance mission, like one of Charlie's Angels.
She tried not to be too obvious and kept her head straight, only allowed her eyes to wander as she trotted past the little Cape Cod house. There was no sign of Snake's motorcycle, which had, until now, been parked in front of the garage. Lucy thought he must be out; she knew there was no room for the Harley in the garage because that was where Miss Tilley kept her huge old Lincoln. She didn't drive anymore, but Rachel occasionally chauffeured her around town.
Reaching the corner, Lucy had to stop to catch her breath. She bent over, hands on her knees, and rested, panting like Kudo after he'd chased a rabbit. The difference was, she realized with dismay, that Kudo could run for miles and she had only gone a few blocks. Thank goodness she hadn't tried this before she began her exercise program.
Straightening up she ran back the way she had come, keeping an eye out for homecoming traffic and neighbors. The street was sparsely settled, with only a few houses, and from outside she could see the flickering blue light of television sets through the windows. No children played outside, no curtains twitched. Everybody was watching TV.
Back at her car, Lucy wished she had X-ray vision. Miss Tilley's house could be empty; it certainly looked deserted with the shades drawn and the morning paper lying on the front path. If only she knew what was going on inside.
She considered another trick used by burglars and reached inside the car for her cell phone. She would call and see who answered the phone. Of course she wouldn't identify herself; she would just push the end button.
She punched in the number and listened to the rings, growing more hopeful with each ring. Maybe Snake and Shirley had both gone out. For groceries or cigarettes. Maybe they'd left town altogether. A girl could hope.
She was about to stop the call herself when she heard a click and a hello. It was Shirley; she recognized her voice.
It was as if an icicle had slid down her back and she shivered. Remembering she'd taken her jacket off, Lucy climbed in the car and started the engine so she could warm herself while she considered her options. If she wanted to play it safe, she decided, she could just go up to the front door and knock. If Shirley wouldn't admit her she could force her way in. Just march in as if she were welcome, breezing her way through the house to Miss Tilley's room.
Problem was, Shirley had managed to deflect that approach in the past. She might get as far as the living room but, unless she was willing to physically manhandle Shirley, Lucy doubted she'd get any farther.
No, she decided, a less direct method would be better. She knew the house well. If luck was with her she could slip unnoticed through the back door and into Miss Tilley's downstairs bedroom. It wouldn't be that difficult, not in an old house like Miss Tilley's where the small rooms all had doors and there were plenty of pantries and bulky old pieces of furniture. Why, she herself had been surprised more than once in her own house by a meter reader, come to check the water meter in the cellar, or one of the kids' friends come to retrieve a forgotten jacket or school book. In fact, that was one reason she liked having Kudo—he always barked and let her know when anyone came to the house.
Hopefully there were no dogs here, she told herself as she got out of the car and cut through the Wilsons' backyard. The Wilsons were Miss Tilley's longtime neighbors and they always spent the winter in Florida. They probably wouldn't be back for a couple of weeks but Lucy stayed away from the house and close to the lilac hedge that marked the end of their property.
Her heart began to pound as she pushed her way through the privet into Miss Tilley's yard. She paused and stood very still, checking the windows. The shades were drawn tight on every one; only the glass pane on the kitchen door, which was only covered with a white muslin curtain, offered the possibility of a peek inside.
Attempting to look natural, Lucy approached the back door. It was only when she was at the little wooden step that she crouched down, then carefully raised herself just enough so that she could see between the curtain panels. Her view was limited because the back door opened into an ell, a shed that was an intermediate space between inside and outside. In winter it offered an airlock between the heated kitchen and the frigid outdoors; in summer it was a handy place to store garden tools and flowerpots.
Peering through her little peephole, Lucy saw nothing but the expected clutter of newspapers waiting to be recycled, a bag of deicing crystals and a couple of snow shovels, several pairs of boots neatly lined up against the wall and a few jackets hanging from nails.
Her hand was steadier than she expected as she turned the knob, but then she was half hoping the door would be locked. It wasn't. Obligingly, it swung inward, practically inviting her to enter.
Lucy slipped through soundlessly and shut the door carefully behind her, listening intently. She listened not just with her ears but with every fiber of her body; even the hairs on her arms were raised and alert to the slightest vibration. But all Lucy heard was the hum of the refrigerator and, from upstairs, she thought, the indistinct rise and fall in volume of a TV show. Good, she thought. Shirley was watching TV.
Cautiously, Lucy pushed the kitchen door open a crack. She couldn't see much, just the bulky electric stove with its automatic timer that had been the ultimate in cooking technology in 1952 and the old-fashioned refrigerator with its round top. She pushed the door a little farther and her view now included the kitchen table, which was covered with old, yellowed documents.
Lucy rushed forward, her breath catching in her throat. She began rifling through the papers, greedily hunting for information. Then, remembering the need for caution, she snatched her hands back. She hoped she hadn't disturbed them too much. Moving as quietly as she could, she sorted through them. As far as she could tell they were a jumble of everything from old savings account books to product warranties to more of those old Maine Motorcar stock certificates. With a start she noticed a preprinted will, the sort you could buy in a stationery store, naming Shirley the sole heir and signed by Miss Tilley in a weak, wavering hand.
A burst of canned laughter reminded her of her mission. She tiptoed across the kitchen to the door that led to the dining room and pressed her ear against it. All she could hear, louder now, was the television set. It sounded like one of those daytime talk shows, with loud bursts of clapping and booing. She sent up a silent prayer that Shirley would be fascinated by “Mothers Who Steal Their Daughters' Boyfriends” or “Men Who Love Their Cars More Than Their Wives.”
Lucy waited for a loud burst of applause and opened the door a crack, recoiling in shock at what she saw. Miss Tilley's prized rosewood dining table was covered with a scattering of dirty dishes, ashtrays and beer cans. Even worse, the pottery rabbit that served as a centerpiece was broken, smashed into bits. The room was empty, though, and so was the living room beyond. The way was clear to Miss Tilley's bedroom, right next to the living room.
Lucy stepped over the bare wood floors and onto the thickly cushioned oriental rug and hurried past the messy table. Not a good sign, she thought. If Miss Tilley were in control, she would never have allowed something like that to happen.
Lucy was sure the living room was empty but she paused when she reached the connecting archway, just to make sure, and stepped into a shadowy corner. From her vantage point she could see the entire room and it wasn't an encouraging sight. Books had been tumbled from the shelves, cushions had been yanked from the chairs and sofa and thrown on the floor, pieces of old china had been thrown onto the floor. Lucy winced at the sight of the smashed Coalport teapot, which had once held pride of place in the china cabinet.
This was worse than she had expected. She had suspected something was wrong in the household, she had even been worried for Miss Tilley's safety, but she hadn't admitted to herself the possibility of violence. She wasn't sure exactly what she thought had been going on, but she hadn't thought it would involve broken china. Stealing, maybe, even threats, but not wanton destruction. There was no longer any doubt about it, she had to get Miss Tilley out of here.

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