Authors: Leslie Meier

Birthday Party Murder (16 page)

“It's awfully early, isn't it?” countered Shirley. “I haven't got the housework done.”

That sounded reasonable enough to Lucy, noting that Shirley was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. She glanced down and was shocked to see that Shirley was wearing metallic-gold mules.

“We won't be long,” promised Lucy.

“I'd be happy to help,” offered Rachel.

“Uh, well, the truth is she's not feeling very well today. She woke up with a headache and decided to stay in, hoping to sleep it off.”

“You mean she's still in bed?” Rachel was incredulous.

“Yes, she is.” Shirley's eyes were flat and expressionless. “She's sleeping like a baby. You don't want to disturb her, now, do you?”

“Oh, no,” said Rachel, stepping back from the door.

“Why don't you try later? Call first, okay?”

Rachel leveled her gaze directly at Shirley. “I'll do that,” she promised.

They were getting in the car when they hear a roaring noise approaching.

“What's that?” asked Lucy, as the noise grew louder.

She was about to cover her ears when a huge motorcycle rounded the corner of the street and turned into Miss Tilley's driveway.

Rachel's and Lucy's jaws dropped as the rider, a heavyset man dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, got off the bike. The back of the jacket was embellished with a picture of a coiled snake and the words Mountain Rattlers M.C. Club. The rider removed his helmet, revealing long, greasy hair and an unkempt beard. He set the helmet on the back of the bike and walked up to the house, setting his chains to jingling. When he reached the stoop, the door flew open before he had a chance to knock, and he stepped inside. The door shut.

Stunned, Lucy and Rachel sat in the car for a long time. Finally, Rachel spoke.

“Oh, my God,” she said.

Inside the house, Snake gave Miss Tilley's living room the once-over. Spotting the bronze bust of Lincoln on the mantel, he strode over and picked it up, examining the bottom.

“Might be worth something,” he decided. He glanced up at the portrait of Judge Tilley. “Who's the old geezer?”

“Your great-grandfather. The judge.”

Snake stepped back, shuddering. “Looks like a mean bastard.”

“From all accounts, he was.”

Snake plopped down onto the sofa and rested his motorcycle boots on the antique sea chest Miss Tilley used for a coffee table. “So what's the deal?” he asked, pulling out a crumpled cigarette pack.

“Don't light up,” warned Shirley. “She doesn't like it.”

Snake stared at her, then flicked a match against his thumbnail. “We'll see about that,” he said.

“Who was that?” Rachel's eyes were saucers.

“A relative? A boyfriend?”

“I admit I had my differences with Shirley, but I never thought she'd have anything to do with someone like that,” said Rachel.

“She let him in the house,” said Lucy, who couldn't get the image on the elder abuse pamphlet out of her head. Only this time, the shadow had taken the form of a bearded, helmeted biker. “I don't like to think of Miss T being alone with them.”

“You don't think they'd actually do her harm, do you?”

Rachel's face had gone white, and she was so tense that her grip on Lucy's hand actually hurt.

“Oh, no,” said Lucy, gently prying her hand loose and grasping it. “I only meant that it could be awkward. They don't really seem like her type.” Lucy paused and climbed into her car. “I was just thinking that this branch of the family tree seems to have gone off in a different direction.”

“Like Bob's cousin Alfred?” Rachel was fastening her seat belt. “The family had such high hopes for him when he got his degree in psychology, but then he went to work for a tobacco company. His job is figuring out ways to get people to smoke.”

“No!”

“Yes. Especially people in Third World countries who don't know better.”

“That's low.”

Rachel nodded. “You can't choose your family.”

“It's like those Chevy Chase movies, where the awful brother-in-law keeps turning up.”

“Exactly,” said Rachel, as they pulled into her driveway. “Just because he's dressed like a Hell's Angel and is kind of scary looking doesn't mean he's a bad person. We shouldn't judge him until we know him better.”

Lucy smiled encouragingly at Rachel, waiting while she got out of the car, but she wasn't convinced.

“Right,” she muttered to herself as she backed out into the road. “He dresses like that because he wants to win the Miss Congeniality contest.”

On Friday, Lucy made a point of phoning Miss Tilley and was reassured when she heard the old woman's voice.

“How are things going?” she asked.

“Just fine. Shirley's son is here. My grand-nephew. He's a very interesting fellow.” She lowered her voice. “He has a tattoo.”

This wasn't quite the reaction Lucy was expecting. “Oh, well,” she replied. “It takes all kinds to make a world.”

“Yes, it does,” agreed Miss Tilley.

That thought echoed in Lucy's mind on Saturday, as she watched the Civil War reenactors prepare for their recreation of the Battle of Portland, which was taking place in the nearby town of Granby. Why on earth grown men would dress up in costumes and play soldier was beyond her. Especially on an unseasonably warm spring day when the mercury was threatening to hit seventy or higher. The trees hadn't leafed out yet, so there wasn't a scrap of shade to be found on the grandstand overlooking the harbor, where the audience was seated. Before she could take her seat, however, Lucy had to track down Chap Willis. She found him on his hands and knees, rearranging the flags that decorated the bandstand.

“The country's in a sorry state,” he said, as she approached. “The blue is supposed to be on the left. Always. You'd think people would know that.”

Lucy shrugged sympathetically. “Those outfits seem pretty warm,” she said, noticing that Chap Willis was sweating profusely in his blue wool jacket. “Did they wear them year-round?”

“You just got one set of clothes in those days,” replied Chap. “You were hot in summer and cold in winter.”

“I guess people were made of sterner stuff then.” Lucy fanned herself with her notebook. “You know, I still have some questions I'd like to ask you about Sherman Cobb.”

Willis surveyed the pier, where costumed soldiers were gathering and forming ranks, preparing to board the four ships moored alongside. Two were side paddle-wheelers, the third a five-masted fishing schooner named
Archer
and the fourth a sleek black sailboat with three tall masts named the
Caleb Cushing.

“Sherman would have loved this,” said Willis, growing misty-eyed. “He was the one who tracked down the
Caleb Cushing,
you know. A genuine U.S. revenue cutter, circa 1860. Isn't she a beauty?”

“She sure is.”

“O' course she isn't the real
Caleb.
The Confederates burned that ship.”

“What a shame,” said Lucy, scribbling in her notebook.

“Oops, I've got to go. They're running up the Stars and Bars, and it's too early. The Confederates haven't taken her yet!”

Before she could protest, Cobb was gone. She decided to get a seat in the bandstand where she could enjoy the spectacle. She headed for the highest row of seats and sat down, watching the preparations. If she focused on the pier, she could almost imagine herself back in 1863, when Confederates aboard commandeered cruisers were raising havoc among fishing vessels in the Gulf of Maine. Of course, it took a certain amount of willpower to erase the modern buildings around the harbor, not to mention the McDonald's sign.

The two sailing vessels were soon under way. The
Caleb Cushing
anchored out in the harbor under the Stars and Stripes and waited while the
Archer
sailed off to the harbor entrance. There it turned, raised all its canvas and the Confederate flag, and rushed the
Caleb Cushing
at full speed.

Surprised, the crew aboard the revenue cutter put up little resistance, and soon the Confederate crew swarmed aboard and lowered the flag, replacing it with their own. Everyone in the stands booed energetically. All attention now turned to a group of men on the dock, dressed in nineteenth-century garb. One man, sporting a top hat and luxuriant side-whiskers, appeared to be their leader.

Gesturing broadly, he indicated that the men should board the two side-wheelers and attempt to take back the
Caleb Cushing.
Soon the two paddleboats were steaming out into the harbor, neatly cornering the captured ship and forcing the Confederates to surrender.

Lucy joined the applause as the boats returned to the dock and the reenactors took their places on the flag-draped, raised platform. While she waited for the ceremony to begin, Lucy studied the enlarged photograph of Sherman Cobb that had been placed in center stage and draped with red, white and blue bunting.

That face, she thought, reminded her of someone. But who? Brown eyes, square jaw, hooked nose, all arranged in a pleasant and relaxed expression. A slight smile revealed straight, white teeth. Where had she seen that face before?

“First off, I want to thank you all for coming,” began Chap Willis, taking the podium. “We are here today to honor those brave men from both the North and South who fought so gallantly for their beliefs, and especially to commemorate those valiant citizens of Portland who, under the leadership of Mayor George Washington Tilley, rallied to defend their fair city from Confederate invaders in 1863.”

Everyone applauded, and a few folks even cheered. When the commotion died down, Willis continued.

“We also want to take this occasion to honor one of our own, Colonel Sherman Cobb, who played such a big part in bringing about today's reenactment. It was a project very dear to his heart and it's a shame he couldn't be here with us as he has gone to answer that Final Roll Call. Now, I'd like to call for a moment of silence.”

With the others, Lucy lowered her head. The sudden silence was punctuated only by a distant honk from an automobile.

Willis cleared his throat and shook his head sadly. “A fine man. He first became interested in the Civil War, he told me, when he learned he had been named for the great general, William Tecumseh Sherman. He will be missed. And now, I'd like to introduce . . .”

Lucy jotted down the names, remembering Miss Tilley's comment that her grandfather was the “hero of Portland.” Putting two and two together, she concluded that George Washington Tilley must indeed have been Miss Tilley's grandfather. She snapped a few photographs of the crowd, then went out on the dock to photograph the boats. It would be an interesting story, she thought, something a little different for
Pennysaver
readers. And, she realized when she checked her watch, it hadn't taken nearly as long as she had thought. She wasn't expected home for at least four hours; she had time to do something for herself before Sara's party.

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