Read Birthday Party Murder Online

Authors: Leslie Meier

Birthday Party Murder (18 page)

“I saw Sean Penfield kissing Jennifer,” said Zoe. “And you know what? I think Sara likes Billy Hogan.”
“I think he likes her back. He gave her a really nice present.”
“Sara's too fat to have a boyfriend.”
“Zoe! Sara's a very pretty girl. Lots of boys are going to like her, just like lots of boys are going to like you.”
“Yuck! I'm not going to like them.”
“We'll see,” said Lucy, spotting the big red barn in the distance.
It sat on a little rise, surrounded by acres of hay fields. It would make a great summer home, thought Lucy, especially since a creek ran through the property. A perfect spot for kids to hunt for frogs and crayfish and to cool off on a hot summer afternoon.
She was bouncing down the drive that ran along the stone wall when she first sensed that something was wrong. The big window that took up the entire eastern wall wasn't reflecting the light the way it should.
It was broken, she realized, pulling up beside Bill's red pickup truck and braking.
It wasn't until she'd gotten out of the car that she spotted Bill, lying on the ground outside the window, surrounded by bits of glittering glass.
“Stay in the car!” She barked the order to Zoe.
Then she ran to Bill, fumbling in her purse as she went, groping for her cell phone.
It was in her hand and she was punching 911 as she knelt beside him.
So much blood. He seemed to have cuts everywhere. The phone was pressed to her ear and she could hear it ringing. Why was his arm bent at that odd angle?
“Rescue,” came the dispatcher's voice.
“My husband's been hurt,” screamed Lucy, feeling for his pulse. She found it, but it didn't seem very strong to her.
“Your location, ma'am?”
Where were they? Lucy babbled out the answer. “That old red barn on Slocum Road, out by the town line.”
“Is your husband breathing?”
“Yes, but he's unconscious.” She knew she was yelling, but she couldn't stop. “You've got to get somebody out here—he's got cuts all over. He fell through a window. There's a lot of blood.”
“I'm sending an ambulance. They're on their way. Don't try to move him.”
“Thank you,” sobbed Lucy. She clicked off the phone and set it on the ground. Then she slipped off her jacket and laid it across Bill's shoulders, listening for the sirens that meant help was coming.
 
 
Hours later, Lucy was sitting in the ER waiting room at Tinker's Cove Cottage Hospital with Zoe sound asleep on the couch beside her. The waiting room was deserted. It was apparently a quiet night in Tinker's Cove. So why, wondered Lucy, were they taking so long with Bill? Why wasn't someone telling her what was going on?
She stroked Zoe's soft hair and told herself Bill was a big, strong man. He would be fine. She refused to think about the possibility of spinal cord damage and paralysis; she would not even acknowledge the possibility that the fall had occurred because of a heart attack or stroke. Bill had always been healthy, he never took a day off from work and she didn't doubt for a minute that he would walk out with nothing more than a Band-Aid on his forehead and a prescription for a muscle relaxant.
But when the ER doctor appeared in the doorway dressed in those green hospital scrubs, it was all she could do to keep herself from leaping to her feet and knocking Zoe off the couch. He motioned for her to stay seated, however, and took the closest chair.
“It looks like he'll be fine,” he began, keeping his voice low. “Most of the cuts were superficial, though I'm a little concerned about one in his thigh. I had to remove a goodsized piece of glass. Luckily, it missed the artery.”
The room began to suddenly darken, which Lucy found puzzling. Even more puzzling was the fact that she found herself with her head between her knees.
“Have you eaten anything?” asked the doctor.
“I had something from the machine,” said Lucy, realizing the soda and peanut butter crackers she'd bought were untouched on the table beside her.
“Eat this,” he said, unwrapping the crackers and handing her one.
“Well, as I said, the wound in his thigh will need watching and he has a broken leg, but it's a nice, simple fracture. Nothing complicated there. He'll have to stay off his feet for a couple of weeks. As for the contusion on his forehead, I'd really like to keep him overnight just to make sure there's no concussion.”
Lucy nodded, her mouth full of crackers that were as dry as dust.
“You can see him if you like. He's still in the ER while we get a room ready.”
She gave Zoe a little shake and helped the sleepy little girl to her feet. Together they followed the doctor to Bill's curtained bed.
Bill was propped up on pillows with a bandage on his forehead and an enormous plaster cast that extended from midthigh to his ankle. An IV tube was attached to his left hand, and his left leg, the one with the cut, was elevated.
“Oh, my God,” exclaimed Lucy.
“It's not as bad as it looks,” said Bill. “They say I'm going to be fine.”
“Do you know what happened?”
Bill grimaced. “I was painting the casing around that window and reached a little too far. It was as simple as that. I lost my balance and fell right through the window.”
“Ouch,” said Zoe.
“You can say that again,” said Bill, grinning.
Lucy suspected he was well medicated. “They want to keep you tonight,” she said, yawning.
Bill nodded. “You go on home and get some sleep.”
“You, too,” said Lucy, brushing her lips against his. “I'll see you in the morning.”
Lucy felt a little surge of energy as she left the hospital. Bill was going to be okay, and hopefully it wouldn't be too long before he was back at work. They had some disability insurance and that would help. It didn't look as if he'd require any complicated nursing, and she was sure Ted would let her rearrange her schedule so she could take care of him. All in all, he'd been pretty lucky considering what could have happened.
She felt a sudden chill and shivered, hurrying across the parking lot to the car.
 
 
Only Sara was home, but every light in the house on Red Top Hill Road was burning. The TV was blaring, as was the stereo, but Sara wasn't listening to either of them because she was on the phone.
Lucy sent Zoe up to take a bath and went around the house, turning things off. Then she stood in front of Sara, giving her the evil eye.
“I've got to go,” said Sara, putting the receiver down. “How's Dad?”
“He's going to be fine, but he's got a broken leg. You're going to have to pitch in for a while, help with dinner and that sort of thing.”
“Sure, Mom.” Sara was halfway up the stairs.
Lucy opened the refrigerator and took out the milk, pouring herself a glass. Then she cut herself a piece of leftover birthday cake and sat down at the table, wishing that Monday morning wasn't looming like a black cloud on her horizon. How was she going to manage taking care of Bill and working and keeping track of the girls and making meals, not to mention her other commitments? She had an appointment with Bob to go through Sherman's safe deposit box, Sue would no doubt be calling to find out if she'd sent the promised fax to Sidra, she had promised Ted she would have the feature story about the Battle of Portland reenactment for him, and she was willing to bet that Rachel would be calling with some new and horrifying development at Miss Tilley's.
Hearing a commotion upstairs, she popped the last bit of cake into her mouth and ran the fork around the plate, getting the last of the icing. She rinsed the plate, set it in the sink and went to investigate.
She found an irate Sara banging on the closed bathroom door.
“Mom! Zoe's taking forever in there and she won't come out.”
“Zoe! You know we have a rule. Unlock the door.”
“Mom! I'm not done. Sara keeps distracting me.”
“Out! Out! It's past your bedtime.”
“See? I told you Mom would be on my side,” crowed Sara.
“I'm really getting tired of this endless bickering, Sara. If you don't watch it, you're going to find yourself grounded for life.”
“See? I told you Mom was gonna ground you!” Zoe exclaimed.
“If I can ground Sara, I can ground you, too,” Lucy warned.
An hour later, Lucy was lying in the bathtub beneath a cloud of billowy bubbles. She leaned her head back on her inflatable bath pillow and inhaled the delicious scent of lavender. It was supposed to be relaxing, and it seemed to be working. Lucy felt as if she could lie there forever, soaking away all her aches and pains, all her cares and worries.
When her fingers began to pucker and the water began to cool, she summoned her energy and heaved herself out. She slipped on her terry robe and brushed her hair, looking at her reflection in the mirror and studying her wrinkles. It was definitely time for Countess Irene.
She unscrewed the jar and smoothed on the lovely pink lotion, taking extra care with the tender area around her eyes. She ripped open the little sample packets of eye cream and throat cream and applied them. Amazing, she thought, taking a final look in the mirror—she looked better already. By tomorrow morning, when the creams had been able to work all night, she would certainly awake looking exactly like Isabella Rossellini.
Chapter Nineteen
S
omething was wrong. Lucy knew it the minute she opened her eyes. Then, sensing the emptiness in the bed, she remembered. Bill was in the hospital. Brushing an annoying stand of hair away from her face, she looked at the clock. It took a second or two for her eyes to focus. Eighttwenty-five.
Damn! She'd overslept. She'd overslept by two hours. She jumped out of bed, brushing furiously at her face. What was that itchy, tickling feeling? She looked in the mirror. Cripes! Her face was covered with pink bumps. Hives. She must be allergic to all those herbal extracts Countess Irene put in her Revivaderm cream. Knocking on the girls' door as she passed, she headed for the bathroom.
She looked even worse there, thanks to the bright light. Afraid of aggravating the eruption even more, she simply splashed some cold water on her face. She brushed her teeth and ran a comb through her hair, then headed back to her room to throw some clothes on.
“Wake up, girls! We're late!” she yelled.
She was nursing a cup of coffee at the kitchen table when the girls came downstairs.
“I can't believe you didn't wake me up, Mom,” complained Sara. “I had an algebra test first period.”
This was a change, thought Lucy. Sara complaining about being allowed to sleep in.
“These things happen,” said Lucy, yawning.
“I missed the field trip,” said Zoe, in an accusing tone. “Now I'll have to stay in the library with Mrs. Growley the Barbarian.”
“It's Mrs. Crowley the librarian,” said Lucy, automatically correcting her. This had been going on for years, ever since Toby had been reprimanded—unfairly, he claimed—by the school librarian.
“I bet I can get you there in time, if we hurry,” said Lucy, turning her face toward the girls.
The sight was too much for Sara, who let out an earsplitting shriek and pointed.
“What happened to your face, Mom?” asked Zoe.
“It's just an allergy, I think.” Lucy reached for a sponge and began mopping up her spilled coffee.
“You're not going to go out looking like that, are you?” challenged Sara.
“I have to. I have a lot to do today. I've got to get you guys to school, I've got to go to work and I have to pick up your father at the hospital.”
Sara grimaced. “Can't you put a scarf over it or something?”
“What are you? The Taliban?”
“Mom, Sara's right. You look
awful
,” agreed Zoe.
“I'll wear a hat and sunglasses. Now hurry up. We're leaving in ten, nine, eight . . .”
The girls scurried to get their bags and she popped into the downstairs powder room to look in the mirror. The girls were right, she admitted. She looked gruesome. Even jamming a long-brimmed cap on her head didn't help.
“You can drop us off here,” said Sara, when they were about a block from the school complex.
Lucy was driving the Subaru, disguised with hat and sunglasses. She'd wrapped a scarf around her chin. She felt ridiculous, like a bad imitation of Greta Garbo, but only a few inches of her blotchy cheeks were visible.
“That's right, Mom,” added Zoe. “It's really faster than if you go all the way up the drive to the door.”
“Don't be silly,” said Lucy. “It's faster if I drop you off at the door.”
“No, Mom. We can run really fast. You'll see.”
“Please, Mom.”
Lucy finally got it. The girls were afraid someone—one of their friends, for example—would see her swollen face.
“Okay,” she said, pulling over to the curb and braking.
“Thanks,” they chorused, clambering out.
 
 
“Poison ivy?” inquired Phyllis, when Lucy arrived at
The Pennysaver
office. “You can get in real trouble if you try to clean your yard this early, before things have leafed out.”
“Not poison ivy. Poison Irene.”
Phyllis smoothed her cardigan over her size-44 bust. “Never heard of it.”
“It was a new face cream I tried. Countess Irene. Very expensive. I must be allergic to the herbal extracts.”
“Stick with Vaseline. That's what I do.” Phyllis patted her heavily powdered and rouged cheeks. “You should take that stuff back for a refund, you know.”
“That's a good idea. I think I will. When I get a chance.” She yawned and collapsed into her chair. Summoning her last reserve of energy, she switched the computer on. It groaned in protest.
Phyllis furrowed her brow, watching the performance. “Honey, you look like something the cat dragged in! You have a rough weekend or something?”
Lucy told her about the coed sleep-over party and Bill's accident. She told her about oversleeping and waking up looking as if she'd slept in a beehive and how the girls hadn't wanted to be seen with her. Phyllis clucked her tongue sympathetically.
“Here's some coffee,” said Phyllis, setting a mug down in front of her. She narrowed her eyes, staring at Lucy's face through her rhinestone-trimmed glasses. “Have you tried cortisone cream?”
“No.”
“I'll get you some. You hold the fort here and I'll be back in a mo.”
Bob came in just as she was leaving.
“Hi,” said Lucy, hoping he wouldn't notice her face. “What brings you here?”
“Poison ivy?” he asked, leaning closer for a better look. “I figured something had come up when you didn't show up at the bank.”
Lucy slapped her hand against her head. “Aw, gee. I'm sorry. I forgot all about it.”
“No problem. I've got everything from the safe deposit box in here.” He held up a shopping bag.
“Didn't you need the key?” asked Lucy, leading the way into the tiny morgue, where a table was kept free of clutter for consulting the fragile old bound newspapers that were arranged in chronological order on the shelves that lined the walls.
“I had a duplicate,” he said, sitting down heavily and leaning his elbows on the table. “Sherman gave it to me years ago, and I forgot all about it.”
His eyes were dull, and his face lacked its usual ruddy color. Even his hair seemed to have lost its bounce and shine.
“So how's it going?” asked Lucy, seating herself opposite him. “You look a little tired.”
Bob let out a giant-sized sigh. “I worked all weekend,” he said. “I didn't get home till after eleven last night. And when I finally do get home, all I want to do is go to bed. Not that it does me any good.” He looked at her blankly. “I think I'd be fine if I could just get a decent night's sleep, but I don't. I toss and turn and when I fall asleep I dream about Sherman.”
Lucy hesitated. She knew that dreams often held information that the conscious mind was unaware of, but she didn't want to intrude on Bob's private grief. As it happened, she didn't have to ask. Bob couldn't wait to let it pour out.
“It's always the same. It's night and I'm coming into the office. I see the wastebasket is tipped over and I hear voices, angry voices. I know something's wrong and I start running to Sherman's office, to help him. But it's like I'm on a treadmill and I can't get anywhere. I'm so tired, but I know I have to run faster, and I do. I get to the door and it opens, but all I see is a hand holding a gun. And then I wake up.” He shrugged. “Actually, it's around this time that Rachel wakes me up. She says I'm tossing and turning and shouting ‘Stop!' ”
Lucy reached out and covered his hand with hers. “The sooner we get to the bottom of this thing, the better,” she said. “Let's see what you found in the safe deposit box. Is there anything interesting?”
“I don't know,” said Bob, “I just grabbed everything.”
His color was a little better, thought Lucy, watching him as he pulled handfuls of papers out of the bag and spread them out on the chipped porcelain-topped table. It reminded her of the table in her grandmother's kitchen.
“These look like old stock certificates,” said Lucy, picking up a sheaf of smooth parchment.
“I better check those out,” said Bob, unfurling them. “Maine Motorcar.”
He actually chuckled and Lucy smiled.
“Do you think they have any value?”
“You never know. I'll have to do some research.” He was sorting through the other documents. “The deed to his house, title to his car, army discharge papers . . . all pretty typical.”
Lucy shook her head over the pile of stiff documents, some so tightly furled that it was difficult to unfold them.
“You know, I have the feeling we could be looking at something important and we wouldn't even know it,” she said. “We don't really know what we're looking for.”
“What's that?” asked Bob, indicating a small yellow volume, about the size of an examination booklet.
“This?” Lucy read the title out loud. “
The Battle of Portland: A Definitive Account
by Sherman Cobb.” Her eyes met Bob's. “Did you know he was a writer?”
“I had no idea,” said Bob, taking the book from Lucy and flipping through it. “Another thing I didn't know about my partner,” he said, slumping even lower in his chair.
“He hasn't made it easy for us, has he? If only he'd scratched an initial in the desk or something. Like in Sherlock Holmes.”
“Look at this fellow,” said Bob, holding up the open book. “George Washington Tilley. I wonder if he was related to Miss Tilley?”
“Her grandfather,” said Lucy, peering at the reproduction of a grainy daguerreotype picturing a distinguished gentlemen with impressive whiskers. “He saved the day.”
“Listen to this,” said Bob, reading from the booklet. “‘It is impossible to know how many lives might have been lost, and if indeed the course of the war and its ultimate outcome might have been tragically different, but for the brave and selfless action of this son of freedom—George Washington Tilley.' ” He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “This sounds a lot like the papers Richie used to write for school about his heroes. ‘Doug Flutie: a Quarterback for All Time,' was my favorite.”
“Better Doug Flutie than Genghis Khan,” muttered Lucy, remembering an adulatory paper Toby had once written.
She took the booklet and leafed through the yellowed pages that provided a detailed account of the battle and the people involved. Cobb even offered several speculative explanations of why the Confederates had attempted the raid in the first place and what they hoped it would achieve.
“Listen, do you mind if I keep this for a little bit?” she asked. “This has a lot of good information. It would really help with the story I'm writing about the reenactment.”
“It's all yours,” said Bob, shoving the rest of the papers back into the shopping bag. “I'll take the rest of this and look through it when I get the chance. Unless you want it?”

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