Birthday Party Murder (11 page)

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Authors: Leslie Meier

BOOK: Birthday Party Murder
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“ ‘Not inconsistent with suicide' isn't very definitive,” said Ted, taking a big bite of egg roll.
Lucy's stomach gave a painful twist.
“I mean, it could just as easily mean ‘not inconsistent with homicide,' ” continued Ted.
“Except that if he said that, then they'd have to investigate,” said Lucy. She knew that the bottom line tended to drive a lot of decisions.
“Horowitz said they're leaving the case open, but that there wasn't enough evidence to warrant an investigation at this time.”
“So they're waiting for something to come up?” asked Lucy, aware that she was salivating like one of Pavlov's dogs.
“That's the impression I got.” Ted chewed the last of his egg roll.
Lucy got up and walked over to the water cooler and filled her mug.
“Who inherits his money?” asked Phyllis, chasing down a dumpling.
“Did he have much money?” asked Ted.
Lucy remembered Cobb's desk, which she hadn't been able to search.
“He was a lawyer. Of course he had money,” said Phyllis. “It was on
Matlock
last night. Cooey-boney or something like that. It means ‘who benefits.' ”
“Cui bono,”
said Ted. “It's Latin.”
“I know what it is,” muttered Lucy. “It's a really good idea. I'm going to call Bob up right now and find out who gets the dough.”
Bob answered himself; Anne Shaw was probably taking her lunch hour.
“Hi, Lucy. How's it going? I've got the medical examiner's report, if you want it.”
“Thanks, but I know all about it. Ted and I don't think it means much.”
“That's what I thought,” agreed Bob.
“I've got a question for you. Can you tell me about Cobb's will? Who'd he leave his money to?”
Bob groaned. “This is embarrassing. I'm actually one of the beneficiaries, along with the hospital and a bunch of other worthy causes. There's an adoption agency, the Legal Aid Society and, of course, his Civil War group.” He paused. “Some people are in for a nice surprise. I found some stock certificates with his stuff, and when I checked them out, I discovered they were much more valuable than I would have guessed.”
“You know what this means, don't you?” asked Lucy, adopting a teasing tone. “Now I'm going to have to consider you a suspect.”
“Ah,” said Bob, slowly.
“Cui bono.
That's not a bad idea, Lucy. I'll fax the will right over. Add me to the list of suspects, if it helps. Do whatever you need to. Just find out who killed my partner.”
“You've got a deal. You're on the list,” said Lucy. But as she replaced the receiver, she realized she didn't have a list of suspects. Not yet anyway. She looked at Phyllis. Maybe it was time to call for reinforcements.
“Phyllis? How about taking a lunch hour today?”
“Lucy, I hate to point out the obvious, but I've already eaten.”
“Actually, I was thinking of checking out Sherman Cobb's place. Want to come?”
Phyllis was on her feet in a flash. “You bet.”
 
 
“Let's park around the corner and cut through the backyard,” suggested Lucy. “He's got some nosy neighbors.”
“Tell me about it.” Phyllis sighed. “We'd just be getting a little romantic, if you know what I mean, when Snell would come knocking at the door.”
Lucy smiled. “So Cobb was a passionate sort of guy?”
“He had potential,” said Phyllis, stepping out of the Subaru.
Lucy led the way through a patch of woods, pausing at the edge and studying the back of Sherman Cobb's house and the adjacent Snell home. Both appeared to be deserted.
“I think we're in luck,” she said. “There's no car in the Snells' driveway.”
“Let's hurry,” urged Phyllis. “Before they get back.”
In a matter of seconds they were on the back porch, and Lucy was unlocking the door. She turned to look over her back as they entered the house and saw the curtain at the Snells' kitchen window twitch. Or was it her imagination?
“We better make this fast,” she told Phyllis.
Phyllis was standing in the kitchen, a sad expression on her face. “It hasn't changed a bit,” she said. “I used to think, back in the days when I thought we had a future, that I would paint the kitchen yellow and put up gingham café curtains.”
“I like gingham in a kitchen,” agreed Lucy, wondering if it had been a mistake to bring Phyllis. “Listen, you stand by the front window there and be the lookout, okay?”
Phyllis's hand fluttered to her chest. “Who am I watching out for? We're not doing anything wrong, are we?”
“Technically, no,” said Lucy, “but I'd prefer not to have to explain that to the police.”
Phyllis swallowed hard. “Got it.”
Lucy went straight to Cobb's home office and began going through his desk. The wide center drawer contained only stationery, with pens and pencils neatly lined up in the wooden tray provided for them. There was also a small cardboard envelope with a number written on it that contained a key, probably the key to a safe deposit box. Lucy pocketed it and pulled open the tall file drawer. It was neatly organized with hanging folders. She pulled out the one labeled “mutual funds” and flipped through the statements. Phyllis was right; Cobb had been a wealthy man with nearly a half million dollars worth of mutual funds. She was reaching for the “bonds” folder when Phyllis called her name.
“We've got company,” she said.
Lucy ran to the front window, where she saw a police cruiser pulling up.
“Out the back!” she hissed, watching as a heavy woman in a housecoat came out of the Snells' house and waddled slowly down the front path in her bedroom slippers, waving her arm at the officer.
“Thank goodness she's not in better shape,” said Lucy, pausing to lock the door while Phyllis headed for the woods. She soon caught up to her at the Subaru. The cops were just entering the house, they saw, as they drove by.
“That was close,” said Lucy.
“That was a hoot,” said Phyllis, fanning herself with her gloves. “Better than hormone replacement therapy.”
Chapter Twelve
T
ed was definitely not amused when Phyllis and Lucy returned to the office, giggling like two high school girls cutting a class.
“This is a place of business,” he admonished them. “The public expects us to behave in a professional manner.”
Lucy didn't dare look at Phyllis for fear of setting off another laughing fit. Chastened, she went straight to her desk and was just sitting down when Phyllis let out an explosive snort of laughter. Lucy was soon roaring with laughter and clutching her stomach.
“What exactly is so funny?” demanded Ted.
“Nothing—it's just nervous tension,” sputtered Lucy. This didn't seem the time to explain their escapade, especially their close shave with the police.
“Overwork,” offered Phyllis, who believed a strong offense was the best defense. “Just letting off steam.”
“Uh, well, that's all right then,” said Ted, withdrawing to the safety of his desk. He was never quite comfortable with the role of boss.
“Aw, gee,” moaned Lucy, studying her calendar desk pad. “I've got a finance committee meeting tonight.” Lucy adopted a pleading tone. “I don't suppose you'd let me skip the meeting and listen to the secretary's tape recording tomorrow?”
Ted shifted his weight in his grandfather's chair, making it creak.
“Will you have time tomorrow?” he asked. “I thought you had an interview. That new elder abuse program.”
“Oh, right.” Lucy sighed, looking ahead at her calendar. “That means I'll have two stories to write tomorrow.” She reached for the ever-present stack of announcements. “I guess I'd better get busy.”
“That's what I like to hear,” said Ted, beaming at her.
Lucy and Phyllis groaned.
 
 
Lucy was running late when she finally left the office. She had to stop and pick up some milk, get home, make dinner and be back in town by seven for the finance committee meeting. Intent on her agenda, she was driving too fast.
Exactly how fast she didn't realize until a police cruiser drew up behind her with lights flashing. She immediately slowed the car, but a quick glance at the speedometer showed she was going at least ten miles an hour above the speed limit. And that was after she hit the brakes.
Much to her relief, the officer who got out of the cruiser was Barney Culpepper.
“Hi, Barney,” she said brightly, giving him a big smile as she rolled down the window. “How ya doin'?”
Barney didn't return her smile. “Aw, Lucy,” he said. “I was afraid it was you. I thought I recognized the car.” He sighed. “License and registration.”
“You're kidding, right?”
Barney's expression was serious. Lucy stopped smiling and got her license out of her wallet and fished around in the glove compartment until she found the registration, crumpled but readable. Maybe, she hoped, he'd let her off with a warning.
Then again, maybe he wouldn't, she decided, watching him take the documents back to his cruiser.
When he returned, he was shaking his head mournfully.
“Your license expired three months ago.”
“That's impossible!” Lucy snatched it back and checked the date.
“I guess I never got a renewal notice,” she suggested.
Barney raised a skeptical eyebrow.
A search through the dim recesses of her memory produced a vague recollection. She had planned to renew the license, but there had been a bad snowstorm and she'd postponed the trip until the roads were cleared. And by then, she'd forgotten.
“Look,” said Barney, leaning on the car, “I can't let you go with a warning because of this here.” He gave the license a nod. “I've got to cite you for that and I've got to have a reason for pulling you over in the first place, so I'm gonna ignore the speeding and just put down your defective headlight.”
“I've got a bad headlight?”
Barney nodded, signed the ticket with a flourish and handed it over. “You better get these things attended to,” he advised, his jowls quivering. “And watch your speed!”
“I will,” she promised, feeling like a naughty child as she stuffed the flimsy piece of paper in her purse.
Barney didn't go back to his cruiser but lingered, giving his heavy utility belt a hitch.
“I heard you were in the station looking for me the other day,” he said, leaning down and peering at her through the window. “I don't suppose that had anything to do with a call we got about two women breaking into Sherman Cobb's house?”
Lucy's face went red. “It wasn't a break-in,” she sputtered. “I had Bob Goodman's permission to look around the house. I even had the keys!”
Barney furrrowed his face, looking like a worried bassett hound. “The investigating officer found it kinda suspicious that nobody was there. It kinda looked like the intruders had made a hasty exit. Like they were up to no good, if you know what I mean.”
Lucy shook her head. “I didn't want to have to explain, that's all.”
Barney nodded, making his jowls quiver. “Did you find anything?”
“Not really,” said Lucy. “Why do you ask?”
He shrugged. “I dunno.” He studied his shoes, which were polished to a high gleam. “The whole thing's kinda fishy to me. What was a guy like Cobb doing with a Saturday night special? It wasn't even registered.”
Lucy hadn't thought about the gun. Guns were common in Maine; lots of people had them. She had just assumed Cobb had owned the gun legally.
“I guess if he wanted to shoot himself, he wouldn't have wanted to wait for the paperwork,” surmised Lucy. “Wouldn't a Saturday night special be the quickest, easiest way to get a gun?”
But even as she spoke she thought it was an atypical choice for Cobb. From what she'd learned about the man—his obsessive love of order, his preference for quality clothing and furnishings, his fondness for Civil War trappings—the choice of a cheap, even risky, weapon seemed incongruous. A ritual suicide, a shot from an antique Colt revolver following a toast to the regiment, seemed more in character.
“I guess we'll never know,” said Barney, running his hand through his brush cut and replacing his cap squarely on his head. “You take care now,” he said.
He went back to his cruiser and waited, lights flashing, while she pulled back onto the road, but there was no need. It was close to six and the brief increase of traffic that constituted rush hour in Tinker's Cove was over.
Lucy was tempted to step on the accelerator and roar off in a cloud of dust, but she knew that wouldn't be wise. It would be stupid and immature, which happened to be exactly how she felt. And betrayed. What kind of friend was Barney? He should have let her go. Now she'd have to tell Bill why she was late and he'd be furious with her. She could just hear him: “Two kids in college and you're getting traffic tickets—like we've got a lot of extra money to waste on fines!”
Reluctantly, she flipped on her signal for the turn onto Red Top Road, the last leg of her drive home. She didn't want to go home. She didn't want to deal with the girls' squabbles; she didn't want to cook a dinner that she wouldn't have time to eat; she didn't want to listen to Bill's reproaches.
Lucy found she had braked and was turning the car around. She didn't have to go home—she could call and tell them to go ahead without her because she'd been held up at the office. Between them, Bill and the girls could certainly cook themselves some supper. She'd get herself a slice of pizza at Joe's, where it was usually nice and quiet on Monday night. People took personal days off from work all the time—she was going to take a personal supper.
 
 
Lucy felt rather uneasy when she arrived at the police station on Tuesday morning for her interview with Horowitz. As a state police officer it was unlikely he would concern himself with routine traffic stops, but living in a small town had taught her that gossip traveled fast. She felt as if she were wearing a scarlet S for Speeding when the bug-eyed receptionist nodded at her.
“They're in the conference room,” she said, hitting a button that produced a very loud buzz signaling that the triple-plated door was unlocked.
Lucy grabbed the knob and dashed through, resisting the impulse to cover her ears.
Horowitz was standing in the hallway, where the floor was covered with thick, gray vinyl tile and the cement block walls were painted battleship gray. He was dressed as usual in a neat gray suit, white shirt and sober tie. “We're in here,” he said, indicating a doorway. “I hope you don't mind, but I asked Liz Kelly from Senior Services to join us.”
Lucy's previous experiences with Liz hadn't given her a very high opinion of the woman, but she greeted her with a polite smile when she entered the conference room. Liz had already seated herself at the table, where she had staked her claim to most of the territory with an assortment of papers, brightly colored tote bags and a hand-knitted scarf that appeared to be at least eight feet long.
“Lucy, I'm so glad you're doing this story,” gushed Liz. “This is a program that's really going to make a difference for a lot of our elders.”
“Well, thank you very much for meeting with me,” said Lucy, taking a seat and trying not to look at Horowitz.
She'd noticed an uncharacteristic twinkle in his eye and had a paranoid conviction that he knew all about the citation that was buried in her purse. Maybe he even knew about her visit to Cobb's house. She focused instead on a pamphlet Liz had slid across the table to her. The cover featured a photo of a frail old woman clutching a walker and cringing as a hulking shadow loomed over her.
“Can you start by giving me some idea of the extent of the problem?” suggested Lucy, who found herself fascinated by the photograph.
“It's enormous,” said Liz, extending her arms and spreading out the folds of the Guatemalan wrap she was wearing. It made her look eerily like the shadow in the photo, thought Lucy.
“It ranges from unscrupulous contractors who frighten elders into unnecessary and expensive repairs to home-care aides who pilfer cash and jewelry to relatives who deny Grandma the medicine she needs in an effort to preserve her estate for themselves. And that's just the financial aspect. There's also emotional and physical abuse.”
“I have a video we'd like to show you,” said Horowitz. “It will only take a few minutes.”
He picked up a remote that was on the table and clicked on a TV set that was standing nearby on a wheeled trolley.
“This was taken on a surveillance camera we installed in a nursing home, after relatives complained their loved one had a lot of unexplained bruises,” he said.
Lucy stared at the grainy footage, eventually picking out the shape of an elderly woman lying quietly in bed. Then another figure entered the scene, yanked back the covers and slapped the old woman.
Involuntarily, Lucy flinched. The video continued to roll as the old woman feebly raised an arm to fend off more blows, but the aide swatted it away.
“Why is she hitting her?” demanded Lucy.
“The old woman had wet the bed,” said Liz.
Horowitz clicked the remote and the TV screen went black. “I know it's difficult to watch,” he said, “but this video got us a conviction. That aide is in jail now.”
“So this is a law enforcement program?”
Horowitz nodded. “Actually, it's a hybrid. We have a state community policing grant from MACP, plus matching funds from HHS, and additional grants from ESAM, COA and Senior Services.” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you getting that all down?”
“Ah, yes,” said Lucy, scribbling away.
“For the first time we're going to be able to work with social workers like Liz and other reporters.” He continued, tapping the TV set. “We were only able to make this case because the family members came to us and filed charges. That doesn't happen very often.”
“Lots of times it's family members who are actually the abusers,” said Liz.
Horowitz nodded. “Now we'll be able to take a referral from Senior Services, or a bank teller or the mailman, and open a case right away.”
“And we're also going to be setting up outreach programs in an effort to educate people in the community—like bank tellers and postal workers—about the issue and what they can do. But we also need for everyone in the community to be more aware of the problem—that's where you come in, Lucy.” Liz was staring at her.
“Well, I'll do what I can,” said Lucy, deciding that Liz wasn't so bad after all. She certainly seemed to have her heart in the right place.

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