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Authors: Leslie Meier

BOOK: Birthday Party Murder
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Maybe a little too conventional, she thought, wishing she'd been able to dig a little deeper. Everybody had some secrets and she wanted to know what Cobb's were. After all, people whose lives were truly open books rarely got themselves killed.
Lucy's steps slowed as she considered the pork chop. It was the strongest evidence she had that Cobb hadn't killed himself, and Snell had thrown it away. She shouldn't have let him do it, she realized; she should have insisted he leave it alone while she called the police.
She stopped, pausing on Main Street in front of
The Pennysaver
office. It was only a little bit farther to the police station. She kept walking.
“Is Barney in?” she asked the receptionist, who was sitting behind a sheet of thick Plexiglass. “I'd like to see him for a minute.”
Lucy had been friends with Officer Barney Culpepper ever since they'd served together on the Cub Scout Pack Committee.
“
Officer Culpepper
is out on assignment,” replied the receptionist. She had an unfashionable bouffant hairdo and bulging eyes, like a bug's.
Lucy didn't much like her officious attitude. After all, Lucy was hardly a stranger—she came in every week to pick up the police log for the paper. She always made an effort to be pleasant and friendly, and she was always met with the same disapproving stare. Lucy had even suggested dropping the log, but Ted insisted it was one of the paper's most popular features.
“Would you like to see someone else?” The receptionist's tone of voice suggested that Lucy was taking up valuable space in the empty vestibule.
Lucy considered her options. She knew she could count on Barney to take her seriously. The other officers only knew her from her job at
The Pennysaver
and tended to be closemouthed and guarded with her, unless they saw an opportunity to use her, and the paper, for their own purposes. She'd noticed they were awfully chatty when they'd scored a success, like winning an award from Mothers Against Drunk Driving, but tight-lipped when she questioned them about ongoing investigations, increasing crime rates and the ready availability of illegal drugs at the high school.
“Could I leave a message for Barney?”
The receptionist rolled her eyes and slid a pink memo pad through the opening in the bulletproof barrier. Why on earth the Tinker's Cove Police Department needed such a thing Lucy couldn't guess. Even banks had given them up. Were they expecting an angry populace to attack the station?
She scrawled her name and number on the pad and slid it through the opening, flashing a big smile. It was a personal challenge: no matter how unfriendly the woman was, Lucy refused to respond in kind.
She was turning to go when she heard someone call her name. She sighed, recognizing Lieutenant Horowitz's voice. She'd had plenty of contact with him over the years and, as far as she was concerned, the farther she could stay away from him, the better.
“Hi, Lieutenant.”
“What brings you here?” he asked. “Collecting the weekly log?”
“Something like that. Actually, I wanted to see Barney, but he's not here.” She started for the door.
“Well, perhaps I can help you.”
Lucy wondered what was up. Horowitz had never been particularly eager to help her before.
“What is this?” she asked suspiciously. “Be Nice to Reporters Week?”
The detective chuckled. “Actually, we have a new Elder Abuse Program we're initiating, funded with a community policing grant. The feds are matching the state dollar for dollar. I'd like to explain it to you sometime.”
“Well, sure,” said Lucy, glancing at her watch. She didn't want to listen to the usual alphabet soup of agencies and official jargon that would have to be translated into English. “I'm kind of in a hurry now.”
“Not today.” He held up his hand. “One day next week?”
Trapped, Lucy began excavating in her large shoulder bag, looking for her day planner. Finding it, she flipped through the pages.
“If we do it Monday or Tuesday I can get it in Thursday's paper,” she suggested.
“Tuesday. Ten o'clock?”
“It's a date.” She smiled at him, wondering if she should tell him about the pork chop.
“Something else?” he inquired.
“Sort of,” began Lucy, aware that she was probably making a mistake but willing to take the risk. “Bob Goodman asked me to check out Sherman Cobb's house. You know Bob doesn't believe his partner committed suicide?”
“I'm aware of that, yes,” said Horowitz, withdrawing into an invisible shell.
“Well, I found something,” said Lucy, her spirits sinking but determined to persist.
“What did you find?”
“A pork chop.”
“A pork chop?” repeated Horowitz.
“Set out to defrost. For his supper . . .”
“Ahhh . . .” He put his fingers together, making a tent. “You think that if he was planning to cook himself a chop for supper he wasn't planning to kill himself?”
Lucy nodded.
“Well, I'll tell you what I think,” he said, sticking his nose in her face. “I think it doesn't mean a thing, because he could've been planning to shoot himself after dinner, but decided he didn't want to wait. Or he could've felt lousy and forgot all about the pork chop. A lot of things can happen in a day.”
Horowitz's normally pale face was flushed and his voice had grown louder.
“And you know what else I think? I think you should leave police business to the police.”
“So you don't want to see me Tuesday after all?”
Horowitz pulled down his long upper lip and clamped his mouth shut. “You know perfectly well what I mean. See you Tuesday,” he snapped, before marching out the door.
Lucy stood for a moment, collecting herself, then dropped her agenda into her purse. Aware of the receptionist's stare on her back, she pulled open the heavy door and stepped outside. She knew she really ought to go straight to
The Pennysaver,
where a mountain of work was waiting for her, but there was something she wanted to do first.
 
 
Walking over to Bob Goodman's office took her in the wrong direction, and her guilt goaded her into hurrying. She was out of breath when Anne Shaw greeted her.
“Lucy! What is it? You look as if you ran the whole way.”
“Not quite,” gasped Lucy. “I've just been walking—for exercise—and it was farther than I thought.”
“Can I get you some water?”
Lucy nodded.
When Anne returned with a flimsy paper cup holding an ounce or two, she downed it in one gulp.
“Thanks,” she said, wishing for eight or ten more just like it.
“Well, what can I do for you?” inquired Anne. “I'm afraid Bob isn't in right now. He's making arrangements for the funeral Saturday.”
“Two things,” began Lucy, holding up two fingers. “First, could you ask him to call Sidney Snell, Sherman's neighbor? He's keeping an eye on the house and didn't want me poking around.”
“No problem,” said Anne. “I'll make sure Bob gives him a call.”
“The other thing—I just wanted to look through those case files again. . . .”
Anne hesitated. “This is very unusual, you know—but Bob said I should help you any way I could. . . .”
“I'm just checking something,” said Lucy, hoping to reassure her. “One little fact. It's probably nothing”
“Oh, all right,” said Anne, unlocking the door to Cobb's office. She remained in the doorway, however.
Lucy glanced through the file folders on Cobb's desk and the credenza, but didn't find the one she was looking for.
“That's funny,” she said. “I'm sure Miss Tilley told me she had some legal matters pending, but I don't see her file here.”
“Miss Tilley?” Anne looked blank.
“Maybe her will?” prompted Lucy. “Something like that?”
Anne shook her head. “Nothing I'm aware of. Sherman wasn't doing any work for her. I'm certain of it.”
“Maybe I misunderstood,” said Lucy. “Sorry to bother you.”
“It's no bother,” said Anne. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“I wish there was,” said Lucy.
Chapter Nine
G
lancing at her watch, Lucy saw that it was almost noon. She really should have been at work a couple of hours ago. She cursed her decision to walk as a selfish indulgence. If she'd used her car, she could have saved time.
Worst of all was knowing that she had nothing to show for her efforts to get to the bottom of Sherman Cobb's death. She might have convinced herself that he hadn't killed himself, but her attempt to convince Lieutenant Horowitz had backfired. All she'd succeeded in doing on that front was to tick him off. And now she'd have to interview him and write that stupid story he wanted on elder abuse. She shook her head in dismay. It would just be a lot of the same old doublespeak and an endless list of cooperating agencies, all of which had to be mentioned if she didn't want to get a spate of angry letters and phone calls.
Stopping at the curb and waiting to cross Main Street, Lucy tapped her foot impatiently.
She watched the cars zipping by, each a tiny little universe of its own. Here a mother with a van full of youngsters and an anxious expression, there a twenty-something with spiked hair bobbing his head and banging his hand on the steering wheel in time to music only he could hear. That was how it was with this investigation, she thought. Sherman's life was like one of those cars—you could see in but you couldn't really tell what had been going on. Why was the mother anxious? What was the fellow with spiked hair really thinking? She didn't have a clue, and she certainly hadn't learned much about Cobb from searching his home and office.
The next step, she realized, taking advantage of a break in traffic to run across the street, would be to interview people who knew him well. Rachel could probably give her some names; she'd call her later. But for now, she vowed, yanking open the door to
The Pennysaver
office and setting the little bell jangling, she had work to do.
“Just in time for lunch,” said Ted.
“You know I never take a lunch hour,” said Lucy, hanging her coat on the rack. “I always eat at my desk.”
“Good thing.” Ted was clicking away at his computer as he talked to her. “Otherwise you'd never get any work done.”
“That's his idea of a joke,” said Phyllis, who was making out a deposit slip. “Pathetic, isn't it? Kind of like my paycheck.”
“Don't blame me,” said Ted. “Blame the federal government, the state government and the Social Security Administration. And don't forget the HMO.”
Phyllis studied her pay stub. “Shocking, I call it. Like I'm ever going to collect a dime from Social Security.”
Lucy opened her pay envelope and glanced at the total. “There's always the lottery,” she said with a sigh.
Phyllis stood up and got her coat. “I'm going to the bank. Anybody need anything?”
“About a million,” said Ted.
“Ha, ha,” replied Phyllis, shoving open the door.
“Shall we go over the story budget?” suggested Ted, pushing his chair away from his desk and facing her.
“Now's as good a time as any,” said Lucy, unsnapping her day planner.
 
 
She was busy polishing up an interview with the new superintendent of schools when the phone rang. It was Sue.
“Well?” she demanded.
“Well, what?”
“The interview! How'd it go?”
“Oh.” Lucy took a moment to sort out her thoughts. The interview with Miss Tilley seemed to have receded into the distant mists of time. “Okay. Very well, I'd say.”
“So you got the answers to all the questions for the
Norah!
show?”
“Uh, no.”
“No! Why not? Sidra's already called me twice and I promised I'd get them to her this afternoon at the latest. What am I going to tell her?”
Lucy stared at the blinking cursor on her computer screen. She really didn't have time for this. “Tell her Miss Tilley is ninety years old, almost, and only has a limited amount of energy. She nodded off, as old people are known to do.”
Sue was incredulous. “She fell asleep in the middle of your interview?”
“Well, it was actually the end because I couldn't get much out of her after she fell asleep.”
“Did you get anything at all on the changing roles of women?” demanded Sue.
“Papa insisted she go to college so she wouldn't have to depend on a man.”
“Well, that's something, I suppose.”
“Depends on how you look at it,” observed Lucy. “She was hardly a groundbreaking feminist if she only went because Daddy made her.”
“Anything else?” pleaded Sue.
“They had one of the first automobiles in the town and it used to scare the horses.”
“Cute.”
“Yeah,” agreed Lucy. “And she got to play Barbara Frietchie in 1965 when the town observed the one-hundredth anniversary of the end of the Civil War.”
“Who?”
Lucy glanced uneasily at Ted, who she suspected wasn't quite as absorbed in his account books as he appeared.
“I've got to go,” she said. “I'll call you tonight.”
“But what am I going to tell Sidra?”
“Make something up,” suggested Lucy, hanging up.
“What was that all about?” asked Ted as she turned back to the new superintendent's views on education reform.
“Sue's trying to get the
Norah!
show to do a piece about Miss Tilley's ninetieth birthday.”
“And when were you going to tell me about that?” he asked, scowling at her. “It's news, Lucy. News.”
“Not yet, it isn't,” said Lucy, pounding away on her keyboard. “Right now it's just a rumor. But that reminds me. I forgot to tell you that Lieutenant Horowitz wants me to write up a new elder abuse program. I'm going to talk to him on Tuesday.”
“Can you do it for next week's paper?”
“Sure.”
“Just watch the officialese. Try to find out what it means to the average senior citizen.”
“I will,” promised Lucy, as her phone started ringing again.
This time it was Rachel.
“I was going to call you,” said Lucy. “You beat me to it.”
“I'm sorry about the interview—she just nods off like that. Did you get enough material?”
“Probably not, but it's not my problem. Sue's got to deal with Sidra.”
“Well, she is her mother.”
There was a pause as they considered the ramifications. Sidra, they both knew, was every bit as bossy as Sue was.
“Listen, the reason I'm calling is because something incredible has happened. Miss T's just heard from a long-lost relative! Her niece telephoned today out of the blue. She'll be here Monday. I thought maybe you could take a photo for the paper.”
“Her niece?” Lucy was puzzled. “I thought her sister died as a child or something.”
“No.” Rachel lowered her voice. “She was disowned. By the judge.”
“Wow,” breathed Lucy, thinking of her struggles with Sara. “Families must have been a lot different then. He disowned his own daughter but left money to Sherman Cobb? Why would he do that?”
“Beats me,” said Rachel. “Old Judge Tilley was a force to be reckoned with. He did whatever he wanted. I think Miss T really lived in fear of him. Anyway, she's awfully happy that this niece is coming to see her.”
“She's never seen her before?”
“Never! Didn't even know she existed.”
“That's some story,” said Lucy, giving Ted a meaningful glance. “You're sure she won't mind if I take a photo for the paper?”
“I think she'd love it,” said Rachel. “You know, she's been loosening up a lot lately.” She paused, collecting her thoughts. “It's almost as if she's having some sort of delayed adolescence. I never know what to expect anymore. She's been kicking up her heels.”
“Good for her. What time should I come?”
“Ten?”
“Ten it is. Hey, before you go, just one other thing. I need to talk to someone who knew Cobb really well. Did he have any close friends?”
“Chap Willis was his best friend, I guess. He'd be the one to talk to.”
“Great. Can you give me his number?”
“I don't have it here,” said Rachel. “But he'll be at the funeral Saturday. You can talk to him there. You'll be there, won't you?”
“I'll be there.”

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