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Authors: Leslie Meier

BOOK: Birthday Party Murder
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Chapter Ten
L
ucy and Sue were walking along the sidewalk to the Tinker's Cove Community Church when Pam Stillings sailed by in her huge Oldsmobile.
“Why does she drive that rusty old boat?” muttered Sue. “It must be at least twenty years old.”
“Probably because it's paid for,” replied Lucy. “She and Ted are paying college tuition for Adam, you know.”
“Well,” sniffed Sue, “I'm sure they could find something affordable that doesn't look quite so—”
“Shhh! Here she comes!”
Pam, having parked the car, was running after them. In deference to the occasion, the funeral service for Sherman Cobb, she had traded her usual orange plaid poncho for a sober gray jacket and had jammed her wild mop of curly red hair into a black crocheted beret. Even so, she didn't quite look what Lucy's mother used to call “respectable.” Maybe it was the red cowboy boots that peeked out from beneath her wide-legged sailor pants.
“Cowboy boots?” Sue's eyebrow was raised.
“It was the best I could do. I couldn't find my black pumps. I know I wore them at Christmas, but I don't think I've seen them since. Maybe they got thrown out with the wrapping paper.”
Lucy nodded. It sounded logical enough, if you knew Pam.
“Ted tells me our birthday girl has a long-lost relative! Do you think she'll come for the party?” Pam's eyes grew even bigger than usual. “Wouldn't that be great?”
“I wonder what she's like,” mused Lucy. “Do you think she looks like Miss T?”
“I hope she doesn't look like the judge,” said Sue.
“Well, I think it's nice that she's not all alone anymore.” Pam nodded and a few curls bounced loose from her beret.
“Maybe she'll help out with the birthday party,” suggested Sue, who had a one-track mind. “I've signed up for the hall at the community center, I've got Bonnie's Bakery to donate a cake, the bottling plant is donating sodas, and the paper company is giving us cups and napkins and plates—”
Sue was interrupted by the chiming of the church bell.
“We'll have to continue this after the service,” said Lucy. “We don't want to be late.”
The three adopted solemn expressions as they mounted the steps and entered the flower-filled church. They had just taken their seats when the organist pounded out the familiar notes of “O God Our Help in Ages Past.”
As they got to their feet, Lucy scanned the crowd looking for familiar faces. Rachel was up front, sitting with Bob and Anne Shaw. She recognized Officer Barney Culpepper and a number of others from the Tinker's Cove police force, as well as a contingent from the fire department. Ted Stillings was there, of course, busily scribbling notes for the story he would write on Monday. Phyllis, she knew, had opted not to go and was spending the weekend visiting friends in Boston. The whole board of selectmen had showed up, as well as people Lucy recognized as members of the planning board and the board of appeals. Cobb had frequently appeared before them, representing clients who needed variances or site plan approvals.
Surprisingly, however, there were a lot of people Lucy didn't recognize. Perhaps members of the Civil War reenactment group, she guessed, as she opened her hymnal.
When the congregation had warbled a final
amen,
the Reverend Mr. Macintosh led the opening prayer. When she raised her head, Lucy's eyes fell on the flag-draped coffin in front of the church. It was closed, topped with a large color photograph of Sherman Cobb.
Lucy listened to the eulogies with one ear as speaker after speaker mounted the podium; she didn't really expect to discover a motive for murder in the uniformly flattering accounts. As the words droned on she found herself staring at the photograph. A middle-aged man in a brown suit. A smooth, somewhat fleshy face. Brown hair. Brown eyes.
Brown eyes? Lucy remembered the photos of Cobb's parents. Two pair of bright blue eyes. She was certain. Blue eyes. And although she hadn't exactly been the star of her high school biology class, she did remember that blue eyes were produced by a recessive gene. Two blue-eyed parents could not have a brown-eyed child.
She was still pondering the implications of this discovery when the organist struck a chord and everyone got to their feet for the final hymn: “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Then there was silence, and six men dressed in Union blue marched forward in formation and aligned themselves alongside the coffin. A seventh barked an order and the coffin was lifted onto their shoulders and carried down the aisle and out of the church. As it passed, Lucy felt a lump forming in her throat and tears stinging her eyes.
A nudge from behind reminded her that Sue was anxious to leave; she never liked to linger after an event.
“Are you going to the cemetery?” Lucy asked her as they slipped into the aisle.
“No. I promised Rachel I'd make sure everything was ready at the house. What are you doing?”
“I guess I'd like to go the cemetery, but I don't want to go alone. What are you going to do, Pam?”
“I'll go to the cemetery with you. I'm kind of in the funeral groove here. Might as well go whole hog.” She paused at the door and took the minister's hand. “Lovely service, Reverend.”
Lucy was still wondering how Pam had managed to shift gears so smoothly when it was her turn to shake hands with the minister. A quick hand clasp and she was out in the sunlight, blinking.
“I'll see you guys later,” said Sue, hurrying down the sidewalk to her car, leaving Lucy and Pam standing together.
“I want that at my funeral,” said Pam. “I want to be carried out on the shoulders of six stalwart young men. Preferably in loincloths.”
Lucy punched her in the arm. “You're awful.”
Pam shrugged. “Come on. What do you want at your funeral?”
“Doesn't matter. I'm not going to die,” said Lucy.
 
 
The mournful sound of taps was still ringing in Lucy's ears as she and Pam drove up to Rachel and Bob's for the reception. As soon as they entered the house, however, she was caught up in the overfriendly exuberance that always seems to follow a burial.
“Thanks for coming,” said Bob, clasping her hand. “There's food in the dining room and the bar's out in the sunroom.”
“Looks like a heck of a party,” observed Pam, approvingly. “There's a full bar. Want to have martinis?”
Lucy's eyes widened. “It's eleven o'clock in the morning.”
“Trust me, Lucy. You look like you need a little something stronger than Poland Spring. How about some wine to go with those pigs-in-blankets?”
“Let's call it an early lunch,” said Lucy, accepting a glass of wine from a waiter who was passing a tray. “Did you say pigs-in-blankets?”
“And scallops wrapped in bacon. Come on, before they're all gone.”
After filling their plates, Lucy and Pam found a pair of chairs in a corner of the sunroom and sat down. Pam's beret had disappeared and her hair blazed in the sunlight.
“Do you color your hair?” The words had flown from Lucy's mouth. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude.”
Pam shrugged. “Of course I color my hair. Doesn't everybody ?”
“I just did mine. Do you think it looks okay?”
“I hadn't actually noticed. Next time, why don't you try something a little brighter?”
“Brighter?”
“Sure. If you're coloring it anyway, you might as well get some bang for your buck.”
Lucy was thinking about this when Rachel joined them, pulling up a hassock and perching on it.
“I think I can take a break for a few minutes,” she said. “Things seem to be going pretty well.”
“It's a great party,” said Pam. “But Lucy wouldn't let me have a martini.”
“Isn't it kind of early for a martini?” asked Rachel.
“It's never too early for a martini,” said Pam, fishing out the olive with her fingers and popping it in her mouth.
“Martinis give me a headache,” confessed Lucy. “Hey, while I've got you, there's something I've been meaning to ask you. Do you know why Sherman wanted to see Miss T?”
“Some sort of legal business, I think,” said Rachel. “Is it important?”
“I don't know,” admitted Lucy. “But I think it was something personal.” She took a sip of wine. “I don't know. The more I find out about this guy, the less I seem to know. Was he adopted, by any chance?”
“Yeah, he was. How'd you know?”
“He had brown eyes; his parents had blue eyes.”
“I never noticed. But he was adopted as a baby by an older couple. They had always wanted a child but couldn't have one of their own. From what he said they were very loving parents. His father was a court officer or something and he was terrifically proud when Sherman became a lawyer.” Rachel furrowed her brow. “Do you think the fact he was adopted has something to do with his death?”
“I don't know,” admitted Lucy. “But instead of sitting here swilling booze with Pam, I really ought to be talking to Chap Willis. Who is he? Just point me in the right direction.”
Rachel scanned the crowded rooms.
“See that guy in the uniform, the officer with the gold sash and all the brass buttons?”
Lucy spotted him, a middle-aged man in a knee-length blue coat. He was the man who had led the pallbearers.
“With the sword?”
Rachel nodded. “That's Chap Willis. They were best friends.”
As Lucy crossed the room to talk to Chap Willis, she realized she had seen his muttonchop whiskers and big grin in several of the photographs in Cobb's house and office.
“Excuse me,” she said, introducing herself. “The Goodmans have asked me to investigate Sherman Cobb's death and they said you might be able to help me.”
“I wish I could,” said Willis, smiling genially. “But I don't know what I can tell you.”
“I understand you were good friends,” prompted Lucy.
“The colonel and I go way back, let me tell you. I joined the Fifth Maine Brigade about the same time he did. Longer now than I'd care to admit, that's for sure.”
“The brigade was a big part of his life,” said Lucy.
“I'll say. He was voted colonel ten years ago. He really put a lot of himself into the brigade, and the fellows all recognized it. There was no question he deserved it.”
“I'm sure,” said Lucy. “Can you tell me anything about his personal life? Did you suspect he might be considering suicide?”
“Not a clue.” Willis shook his grizzled head. “Especially not with the Invasion of Portland reenactment coming up in just a few weeks. It's the biggest thing we've ever attempted. Reenectment groups are coming from as far away as South Carolina.” He scratched his chin. “His death has left us in a very awkward situation, you know.”
“Invasion of Portland,
Maine?
” Lucy wasn't sure she'd heard right.
“That's right. Not many people know about it. Truth is, the Confederates tried to take the harbor. They penetrated St. Albans, Vermont, too.”
Lucy was suspicious. “I never heard that.”
“There's a whole lot about the Civil War that they don't teach in school. Don't have time, I guess. But you've got to remember, it didn't take five years to fight the Battle of Gettysburg. It was a big war, over half a million men died. It changed the country.”
Lucy wanted to steer the conversation in a different direction; she wanted to learn more about Sherman Cobb. But whenever she brought up his name, Chap Willis would reply with a Civil War history lesson.
“You know what really caught the colonel's fancy?”
Lucy jumped at the bait.
“Them bringing up that Confederate submarine, the
Hunley
. He was just amazed that they had the technology to build a submarine back then. And the courage of those men. It was a suicide mission, you know.”
“What did he think about that? About suicide in general, I mean.”
“I don't know that he actually said.” Chap stroked his beard thoughtfully and returned to his favorite subject. “The mission succeeded. They blew up a Union frigate. The U.S.S.
Housatonic.”
Lucy felt her eyes glazing over as her brain filled with trivia. She had a feeling the
Hunley
and the
Housatonic
had displaced some vital information in her brain.
“Thanks for your help,” she said, wishing he'd actually been helpful. Then she had a second thought. “You know, I write for the local newspaper and I think the reenactment would make a good feature story.”

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