Birthday Party Murder (3 page)

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Authors: Leslie Meier

BOOK: Birthday Party Murder
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Miss Tilley Day was just what the town needed, Lucy thought. A day for year-round residents to come together before the annual onslaught of tourists and summer people and enjoy themselves. A day to celebrate their town, its history and its heritage. A day for Tinker's Cove to celebrate itself. She could hardly wait to get to work and tell Ted all about it.
But first, she had an errand. She switched on the blinker and made a right into the drugstore parking lot. Leaving the engine running, she dashed inside and went straight to the hair care aisle where she was temporarily baffled. So many choices. Scanning the rows of boxes she found a familiar brand she had seen advertised. She chose the color that seemed closest to hers and went around the corner to the skin care section. Her positive personal paradigm, she decided, did not include getting old without a fight.
Chapter Three
A
nother sunny day. Blustery, but that was expected in March. Bob Goodman zipped up his jacket on Tuesday morning and opened the front door, hanging on to the knob so the wind wouldn't catch it, and carefully closed it behind him.
Climbing into his brand-new compact SUV, he inhaled the new-car smell. Gosh, life was good, he thought, as he waited for the motor to warm up. He patted the steering wheel fondly. He loved this car. It was irrational, he knew, but it had been love at first sight. And fortunately, he was now in a position where he could indulge himself. Not that he was a millionaire or anything, but the law practice was doing very well. The family finances were on a sound footing, even with the hefty tuition he was paying Harvard College to educate his son, Richie.
It was worth it, of course. Richie was a smart kid and he was doing very well, showing no sign of a sophomore slump. His grades were good but, even more important to Bob and Rachel, he seemed happy and engaged in his studies. He had even undertaken an independent project, cleaning and cataloging a dusty collection of Greek vases he had discovered in the basement of his dorm. Probably collected and abandoned by some nineteenth-century rake, thought Bob, with a chuckle.
He slipped the car into gear and purred down the driveway. This car was so sexy, he thought, smiling with satisfaction. Not only did he have a sexy car, he had a sexy wife. Rachel was so beautiful, and last night she had been in a particularly affectionate mood. He remembered running his hands down her long back, her soft lips parted to receive his kiss, the way she moaned with pleasure when he lifted her hips.
Hearing an angry beep, he firmly put those thoughts out of his mind. He had better pay attention to the road. But honestly, who could blame him for loving his wife? And he did love Rachel, even more than he had when they were first married. He loved the quiet way she took care of him, making sure his clothes were clean and cooking dinner for him every night. He loved her kindness, the way she had simply started taking care of Miss Tilley after she had that awful accident. Rachel hadn't gone in and taken charge like some Lady Bountiful; instead she'd tactfully overcome the stubborn old woman's resistance by paying regular visits and bringing her freshly baked cookies or running an errand for her, as any friend might. Soon she'd become a fixture in the retired librarian's home, providing meals and chauffeuring her around town. Now, she even got paid, through the town's senior services program.
Bob glanced at the dashboard clock and saw that he was early, so he decided to run the new car through the automatic car wash. There was still a residue of salty slush on the roads and he wanted to keep the finish looking new as long as possible. The car wash was a popular place this time of year and he had to get in line.
While he waited for his turn, he thought about the party Rachel and her friends were planning for Miss Tilley. Rachel had told him about it over dinner, growing excited as she described the “This Is Your Life” program they were planning. He liked the idea; in fact, he wouldn't mind participating. Goodness knows he felt indebted to Miss Tilley, who had taken an interest in him when he was a small boy.
He could remember searching through the stacks in the old Broadbrooks Library, looking for popular biographies and war stories. She had never criticized his choices, but had offered suggestions of her own. “Ah, you like plenty of action? Maybe you'd like to read
Ivanhoe
or
The Three Musketeers
?” Soon he'd given up the slim, watered-down books written for his age group in favor of long and complicated stories by Dickens, Scott and Dumas. He'd rapidly become a fast and discerning reader, a skill that had carried him through college and law school.
He slid the car onto the automatic track of the car wash and enjoyed the sensation of being dry and comfortable inside as the car was sprayed with water and pelted with detergent and wiped with whirling wheels of cloth. Then the light turned green and he drove out into the sunlight, flicking on the windshield wipers.
His good fortune had continued, he acknowledged, when Sherman Cobb had hired him as a summer associate while he was still in law school. Sherman hadn't limited him to title searches and running errands but had entrusted him with real cases, sending him into court to argue for bail, restraining orders and child support payments. That summer had changed him forever, convincing him that a small-town legal practice was preferable to a high-paying job with a whiteshoe law firm in Boston. When Sherman had asked if he'd consider joining the practice, he'd accepted without hesitation.
He'd never regretted that choice, he thought, pulling into the driveway by the
COBB AND GOODMAN LAW OFFICES
sign. Oh, he probably could have made a lot more money in Boston, but here in Tinker's Cove he'd been able to make a real difference in many people's lives. He'd helped them buy houses, he'd arranged their estates, he'd gotten them out of trouble. Occasionally, he'd made sure they didn't get away with something they shouldn't. Even after more than twenty years in practice, he still looked forward to going to work every morning.
Today was no different. He couldn't wait to dig his teeth into that wrongful injury suit. But first, he resolved, he'd stop in Sherman's office and thank him for bringing him into the practice. Goodness knows, it was long overdue. Oh, sure, there'd always been an understanding between them, but he'd never actually told Sherman how grateful he was and how much he'd enjoyed working with him all these years. And lately, he'd noticed Sherman hadn't been quite himself. Probably feeling his age.
It was exactly the things you didn't say that haunted you later, thought Bob, pulling open the outside door. Once inside the vestibule, he felt a small sense of alarm when he noticed the office door was open. Not ajar, wide open. This was unusual, and he quickened his pace as he proceeded into the reception area. There, a wastebasket was tipped over in the middle of the room.
He stopped and righted it, setting it back in its place by Anne's desk. Then it occurred to him that he wasn't behaving very intelligently if the office actually had been burglarized and he stuffed his hands into his pockets so he wouldn't touch anything else. He looked around for further signs of a break-in, but nothing else seemed to be disturbed. Using a handkerchief, he pulled open the top drawer, where Anne kept the petty cash, but it hadn't been touched. The only thing that was amiss was the door to Sherman's office. It was open.
Taken by itself, that wasn't terribly unusual. What was unusual was the fact that the light was still burning. Sherman would never have left the light on.
Maybe the burglar had been after something in Sherman's office. But what? There was nothing of value there. On the rare occasions when a client had entrusted them with stock certificates or Grandma's diamond lavaliere, they had always arranged for the transfer to take place in the bank so the valuables could be stored in a safe deposit box.
Bob realized he was hedging. He didn't want to go into Sherman's office. He was afraid of what he would find. Angry with himself, he straightened his shoulders. How bad could it be? Overturned files, papers spread everywhere, he could deal with that. If the office had been defaced in some way, well, they employed a cleaning service. There was absolutely no reason for this sense of dread that was paralyzing him. He forced himself to take a deep breath, exhaled and walked through the doorway.
Sherman was seated at his desk, with his head resting on the blotter.
Bob felt as if he had been hit with a jolt of electricity. Why had he dithered so? A heart attack, a stroke, seconds counted. He ran to the desk and reached for Sherman's wrist, hoping for a pulse, but Sherman's arm was stiff and cold. Bob's gaze went to Sherman's face. He could see his right eye, partly open, and a pool of congealed blood spread out beneath him on the blotter. Bob dropped Sherman's arm and stepped backward, fighting nausea.
Panting, he reached over Sherman's body for the phone. He had almost touched it when he saw the small handgun lying beside it. He snatched his hand back and reached instead into his pocket for his cell phone and dialed 911.
 
 
“It looks like a clear case of suicide to me.”
Bob stared in disbelief at Lieutenant Horowitz, the state police detective who investigated serious crimes in the region. Over the years the two men had developed a cordial working relationship based on mutual respect. Bob had been relieved when Horowitz appeared just as Sherman's body was being taken away, convinced that the detective would not rest until he'd tracked down the murderer. Now he couldn't believe the words coming from his mouth.
Horowitz fingered the small white card he was holding and tapped it against his other hand. “He had an appointment with Doc Ryder last week. You know anything about it?”
“He never said anything. Maybe a checkup or something ?”
Bob sat while Horowitz punched the keypad of his cell phone and listened numbly while Horowitz questioned the doctor.
“The doc says he had pancreatic cancer. He refused treatment. Not that it would have done much good. Nothing they could do. He only had a couple of months at the most.”
Bob absorbed the information. Pancreatic cancer. He hadn't had the faintest idea.
“He never said a word to me about it.”
Horowitz put a hand on his shoulder. “Lots of times they don't, you know. Once they accept that it's inevitable, they just decide to end it all without any fuss. Nice and neat. It's a way of taking control.”
Bob's ears roared and he put up his hands to cover them. He didn't want to hear it, to admit it. Horowitz was wrong. He didn't know Sherman; he didn't know the first thing about it.
Horowitz stood, his hands in the pockets of his tan raincoat, and studied Bob. “Are you going to be okay?” he asked. “Do you want a ride home or something?”
“No, I'll stay,” said Bob, “if that's okay with you.”
Horowitz held up a hand. “It's fine. We're done here.”
“You're done?”
Horowitz nodded. “Crime scene boys dusted for prints, they bagged the gun for forensics, but I don't think there're going to be any surprises.”
He paused in the doorway, as if he were reluctant to leave. “I'm real sorry about this, you know,” he said, his voice tired.
Bob looked at the detective's gray, world-weary face and wished he could wrap his hands around his neck and shake him. That was crazy, he knew, but this whole thing was crazy. He wanted to erase Horowitz, erase the entire morning and go back to yesterday when Sherman was still alive.
“Thanks,” said Bob. “Call me when you get the medical examiner's report?”
“Sure thing.”
Then Horowitz finally left and he was alone. He sat at his desk and looked at the blank legal pad in front of him. He drew a line down the middle, intending to find a way to make sense of it all. On one side he wrote “cancer.” What should he put on the other side? He didn't know. Sherman had no family. He'd always put his work first. But to someone faced with cancer, he doubted work would continue to seem very important.
Bob propped his elbows on the desk and buried his head in his hands. Why hadn't he said something when he'd first noticed Sherman seemed distracted? He'd attributed it to his age, but now he knew it was cancer. Sherman had been in pain; his suffering had driven him to commit suicide.
No more problems for him,
snorted Bob,
but a whole lot of problems for me
.
Instantly, Bob felt guilty and ashamed. Sherman would never have left him in this mess unless he'd been in despair. And that was what hurt the most. He'd thought Sherman was more than his partner, he'd thought Sherman was his friend. Why hadn't he turned to him—if not for support and comfort, at least to say good-bye?
Sherman always said good-bye. He had never once left the office ahead of Bob without poking his head into Bob's doorway to let him know he was leaving.
Bob took off his eyeglasses and rubbed his eyes, remembering the Sutcliffe case. All the evidence had weighed heavily against Tim Sutcliffe, who eyewitnesses agreed had robbed the Quik Stop one steamy July night, shooting the clerk and leaving her for dead. Even Bob had figured Sutcliffe was really guilty, given his extensive record. But Sherman had plugged away, persistently questioning the eyewitnesses and proving, one by one, that they hadn't really seen the robber that well. Only the clerk had remained certain it was Sutcliffe. And then, just when the case was to go to the jury, hadn't somebody else confessed to the crime?
No, thought Bob. Sherman never gave up, even when it seemed hopeless, and he wouldn't have killed himself. Which meant somebody else had to have done it.
Suddenly, Bob remembered the overturned trash can and the unlatched door. Of course. Someone had come in last night when Sherman was working late and shot him. Then they'd left the gun so it would look like suicide. He reached for the phone, intending to call the police, when a surge of grief hit him. He'd missed his chance to tell Sherman how much he appreciated all he'd done for him.

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