Birthday Party Murder (12 page)

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Authors: Leslie Meier

BOOK: Birthday Party Murder
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“If you have any questions, don't hesitate to call us, either of us,” said Horowitz.
Lucy took the information packet he handed her and tucked it into her notebook, then stood to go.
“One more thing,” said Horowitz. “There's no rush about this, the program is just starting. Take your time. There's no need to speed back to the office.”
Lucy felt her face burning. So he did know. He'd probably been waiting all morning to deliver that little zinger.
“I'll keep it in mind,” snapped Lucy, glaring at him.
She could hear him chuckling as the conference room door closed behind her.
She marched angrily down the hall and had almost reached the triple-plated security door when she was struck with an inspiration. As she knew all too well, the police patrolled the streets all night long. It was definitely worth finding out who had been on duty the night Sherman died. If there had been any strange activity, it would certainly have been noticed.
Instead of proceeding through the secutrity door, she ducked into the dispatch office, where the receptionist was located. It felt odd to approach her from the rear, without a thick layer of Plexiglas separating them.
“Hi!” said Lucy brightly. “I wonder if you could help me with something?”
Startled, the receptionist jumped. She gave Lucy a baleful look.
“I didn't mean to startle you,” Lucy said quickly. “I was just wondering if you could tell me who was on duty the night of the seventeenth?”
“Here at the desk? That would be Marge.”
“Actually, I wondered who was out on patrol.”
“Why do you want to know?”
Lucy knew she had every right to ask for the information, but decided this was not the time to invoke the public's right to know about the use of its tax dollars.
“I'm thinking of doing a story on people who work at night,” fibbed Lucy.
“I work at night, you know,” said the receptionist, brightening up.
“Do you?” replied Lucy, feigning interest while the receptionist reached for a clipboard with large wire rings and flipped back through the pages.
“Here it is: three to eleven was Howie Kodak and eleven to seven was Bob Wickes.” She paused. “Why the seventeenth? Is it special?”
“Not really. I just picked a random date. A night in the life of Tinker's Cove. That's the idea.”
“Too bad. I was off that night.”
“That is too bad,” agreed Lucy sympathetically as she jotted down the names. “Any chance either of these guys is here in the station?”
The receptionist checked the roster again and shook her head. “Bobby's on vacation this week, and Howie's got the eleven o'clock shift.”
“Thanks,” said Lucy.
“I'm glad to be of help,” said the receptionist, patting her hair. “I'm here if you need any more information.”
“I'll keep that in mind,” said Lucy, dashing for the triple-plated security door. Sometimes three layers wasn't enough.
Chapter Thirteen
F
rom her usual seat in the Boston rocker, Miss Tilley had an unobstructed view of the mailbox and she kept an eye out for the postman.
“The mail's here,” she called to Rachel, as soon as the white van came into sight.
“I'll get it,” replied Rachel from the kitchen, where she was washing up the lunch dishes.
She grabbed a towel and ran down the front path, drying her hands as she went. She regretted her haste, however, when the chilly breeze hit her damp hands. Quickly tucking the towel under her elbow, she pulled the mail out of the box and ran back to the house.
“Anything interesting?” inquired Miss Tilley eagerly, holding her hand out.
“Just ads,” said Rachel, flipping through the envelopes. “What's this? Social Security? It's not the right time of the month.”
“Maybe they sent me an extra one,” said Miss Tilley, snatching the envelope.
Rachel looked over her shoulder as she opened the familiar envelope and produced a green check.
“It's a fake!” declared Miss T. “The paper's not right.”
Rachel took the flimsy check. “Boy, it looks real, though, doesn't it? But if you cash it, you're signing on for a loan. It's really just a credit card offer.”
“Didn't fool me,” crowed Miss T.
“But I wonder how many people do get fooled,” mused Rachel aloud, as she ripped up the offer and dropped it in the wastebasket.
“Can't blame folks for trying,” mused Miss T. “ ‘A fool and his money are soon parted.' That's what Papa used to say. ‘Caveat emptor.' ”
Rachel was about to protest, but went to answer the doorbell instead. Shirley was standing on the stoop, her hands clasped together and her handbag dangling from her arm.
“I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd just drop in,” she simpered, looking over Rachel's shoulder to Miss Tilley. “I hope it's not a bad time.”
“There's never a bad time for you, dear.”
Miss Tilley was practically singing. Rachel had never heard her sound like this. What had happened to the Miss Tilley she knew? The woman who proudly declared she never hesitated to think the worst of anyone.
“Come right on in and set a spell,” continued Miss Tilley.
“Let me take your coat,” said Rachel, remembering her manners. “Have you eaten lunch? Can I get you something?”
“Aren't you sweet,” declared Shirley. “I could stand a cup of tea.”
“Good idea. I'll have one too,” chimed in Miss Tilley, dismissing Rachel.
Rachel headed for the kitchen, trying not to feel snubbed. After all, it was only natural that Miss T would want to spend time with her long-lost niece. She set the kettle on the stove and began arranging cookies on a plate. She didn't intend to eavesdrop but couldn't avoid it; the women's voices carried in the small house.
“Guess what!” exclaimed Shirley. “I brought pictures of Mother. I thought you might enjoy looking at them.”
“Photographs? What a good idea. And aren't you thoughtful to bring them.”
“I just brought a few today. The most recent ones. But if you're interested, I could bring the family albums.”
“Family albums! I'd love to see them.”
To Rachel, in the kitchen, it sounded as if Miss T was practically salivating.
“Don't say another word. I'll bring them next time I come. Now this is Mother, sitting on the patio outside her condo at the retirement community.”
There was silence as Miss Tilley studied the photograph.
Her voice cracked when she finally spoke, commenting on an irrelevant detail. “What is that plant? I've never seen anything like it here.”
Rachel knew she was struggling to contain her emotions, using the tried and true technique of transferring her attention away from the subject she found disturbing: her sister.
“Oh, that? That's bougainvillea,” replied Shirley.
“Bougainvillea. I've read about it.” There was another pause. “She never went gray, I guess. How remarkable.”
Getting closer, thought Rachel, but still at a slant.
“Oh, she colored her hair. ‘Tangerine' was her favorite color but sometimes she'd vary it a bit. ‘Strawberry Fields' was another one she liked. I swear, I never go by that aisle in the drugstore that I don't think of Mom.”
In the kitchen, Rachel nearly choked. In the living room, Miss Tilley's jaw dropped.
“My sister dyed her hair?”
“Religiously. Every month.”
“Goodness. I must say she didn't look her age. Is she wearing shorts?”
“That was her golfing outfit. Cute, isn't it? I like the way the color on the shirt matches the shorts.”
“Harriet played golf?”
“Oh, yes. She loved it. She played regularly with three friends. They were even in a league. I believe they won a few tournaments. Of course, that was quite a few years ago, now. She didn't play really in the last few years of her life. Her health wasn't that good.”
“No?”
“Pretty typical, I guess. High blood pressure, of course. And then she had to have that cataract operation. It was after that the osteoporosis began to be a concern. Considering she smoked all her life it was a mercy she only had emphysema, not lung cancer. It was the leukemia that did her in, however.”
“Harriet smoked?”
“Like a chimney. I used to tell her she ought to stop but she'd never listen to me. Wouldn't listen to her doctor, either. Of course, I think she was right there. He had her on so many medications that you had to wonder what happened inside, after she'd swallowed all those pills. Expensive, too. She generally took about half of what he prescribed, but it still took her a good quarter hour or more every morning to take her medicines.”
“I do occasionally take an aspirin,” admitted Miss Tilley. “I have a touch of arthritis.”
Rachel smiled, hearing the waspish tone of Miss T's voice.
“Well, good for you. It must be this good, clean air you have up here.”
“Is this a tricycle?”
“Mom loved that trike. She rode it all around the retirement community. Over to the pool and the community center, you know. Mah-jongg every afternoon. She wouldn't have missed it for the world.”
“Tricycles are for children.”
That's my girl,
thought Rachel. The uncharacteristic fit of sentimentality was apparently over.
“And adults. In Florida they're very popular with older folks. Because of the stability, you know. They're not as tippy as a bicycle. You see a lot of them there, believe me.”
“I'm sure I would feel ridiculous on a tricycle.”
“You should try it! You might like it.”
When Rachel brought in the tea, she found the two women sitting side by side, studying the photographs.
“Look at this, Rachel,” said Miss Tilley. “It's my sister Harriet on a tricycle. Did you ever hear of such a thing?”
“I have. My father rides one.” She turned to Shirley. “My folks live in Naples.”
“That's not far from Fort Myers, where my mother lived.”
“It seems like another world,” said Miss Tilley, taking a restorative sip of tea.
“It's very different from Maine,” said Rachel. “My folks say they like it there, but even they say they miss the changing seasons. My mother says she can't get used to Christmas without any snow.”
“Not my folks,” said Shirley. “Pop said he hoped he never saw another snowflake. Mom used to love to listen to the weather reports; the colder it got up north, the happier she was.”
“She used to love snow when she was a little girl.” Miss Tilley's tone was wistful.
“People change as they grow older,” observed Shirley. “Don't you think so?”
“I don't know,” said Miss Tilley, a note of doubt in her voice. “I don't think I've changed.” She looked up at the portrait of her father on the wall.
“Well, I say life's an ever-flowing river. It's never too late to jump in and go along for the ride.”
“I suppose you're right,” said Miss Tilley, beaming at her. “So tell me more about this amazing sister of mine.”
Back in the kitchen, Rachel put the last dish away and hung the damp dish towel on the ancient wooden rack that hung above the sink. She looked around the room, basically unchanged since the old wood stove gave way to a newfangled propane model, and wondered why New Englanders were so attached to their old-fashioned things. It was pure cheapness, she decided. As long as something worked, a New Englander would hang on to it.
It was time for her to leave, but she hesitated. She didn't want to barge into the living room and disturb the two women. Miss Tilley was obviously enjoying hearing the titillating details of her sister's racy lifestyle.
Hearing a lapse in the conversation, Rachel stuck her head in the room.
“I'm leaving now, Miss T. Just wanted to say good-bye.”
“Is it time for you to go already?”
“Yup. Two o'clock. Oh, one thing before I go. Do you want me to pick up anything at the store for you?”
“No need for you to bother,” said Shirley. “I can get Auntie anything she needs.”
Rachel knew it was ridiculous, but she felt as if Shirley was taking over and pushing her out.
“Okay. Well, I'll see you tomorrow.”
“Don't you worry about a thing,” said Shirley. “I'll take good care of my favorite aunt.”
“I know you will,” agreed Rachel, as Shirley closed the door behind her.
She turned back as she walked to the car and saw Shirley watching her from the window. She raised her hand in a wave and Shirley waved back.
 
 
From inside the house, Shirley waited until Rachel had driven away. Then she turned her attention to her aunt.
“Aunt Julia, would you like to watch a little TV? Norah's on in a few minutes and, well, I don't watch much TV, but I do enjoy
Norah!”
There was no answer, and when she looked closer she saw that the old woman's eyes were closed. She had nodded off.
 
 
Because she lived so close to the school, Julia always went home for lunch. She didn't have to bother to carry a lunch pail like the children who lived outside town, and she didn't have to eat at her desk or put up with the antics of the rowdy boys during recess. Instead, she walked the block or two home, her mind lost in daydreams inspired by the morning reading lesson. Today, she was imagining herself as the beautiful Rowena in Sir Walter Scott's
Ivanhoe.
Rowena's eyes widened as she heard sounds of battle coming from inside the castle. . . . No, it wasn't sounds of battle. It was Father, roaring, and Mother, crying, inside the big white house on Main Street.
Julia pushed open the kitchen door and saw her mother, hunched over the kitchen table with her head in her arms. Mother was sobbing.
“What's the matter?”
Mother sat up and wiped her eyes on her apron. “It's your sister . . .”
“Has something happened to Harriet?”
“It hasn't happened to her! It's what she's done!”
Julia tried to swallow the lump in her throat. “What has she done?”
“She's cut her hair!”
Julia's mouth made a little o. She couldn't believe it. Harriet had been threatening to bob her hair for months, but Father had absolutely forbidden it.
“Her beautiful, long hair. Her best feature. Gone.” Mother threw up her hands in a gesture of defeat.
From upstairs, Julia heard the drone of Father's voice, followed by shrieks from Harriet. She knew that Father had found a use for the hairbrush Harriet would not be needing anymore.
“Mother, what's that smell? I think something's burning.”
Mother jumped to her feet. “The cream puffs! Oh, no!” She pulled a pan from the oven.
“They don't look too bad to me,” said Julia, brightly.
After all, they only had patches of black. For the most part they were just very, very brown.
“I was making them for the bridge club. They're coming this afternoon.”
Even Julia, who was only ten, knew that her mother could not serve anything that was less than perfect to the bridge club. If she did, soon everyone would be saying what a shame it was that Mrs. Tilley was having
difficulties
. No, her mother would not serve scorched cream puffs to the bridge club.

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