“I can imagine,” said Lucy. “Tell me, did Mr. Cobb seem agitated or different in any way when you saw him last?”
Tears sparkled in Anne's eyes. “Not a bit. He was joking with me on Friday, telling me to do my finger exercises over the weekend because we had such a busy week ahead.” She paused. “If anything, you know, I'd say he was looking forward to it. He loved litigation and he had some cases he was really eager to argue.”
“Thanks,” said Lucy. “You've been a big help.” She started to leave, then remembered she needed to speak to Bob. Again, she tapped on his door before poking her head into his office.
“Bob? I'm done here, but I'd like to look at Sherman's house. Is that okay?”
“Good idea,” said Bob, opening his drawer. “I've got a set of his keys here, but you know, I bet the house isn't locked. It's on Oak Street, number 202.”
“Thanks,” said Lucy, taking the keys.
“I'm the one who should thank you,” said Bob. “I really appreciate what you're doing.”
The depth of feeling in his voice made Lucy uncomfortable.
“I don't know what Rachel told you, but I'm not a professional investigator,” she said. “There's no guarantee that I'll be able to figure out what happened.”
“I know, I know,” said Bob. His eyes were fixed on hers.
He reminded her of her dog, Kudo, when he wanted a doggie biscuit. She looked away, out the window at the milky March sky.
“I just don't want you to get your hopes up,” she said, meeting his eyes. “You've got to face the fact that you may never know what happened.”
He nodded.
Lucy sighed. “And if he was murdered, well, you've got to realize that most murder victims are killed by someone they know.”
Bob swallowed hard. “By someone I know?”
“Most likely,” said Lucy. “Do you still want me to go ahead?”
Bob looked her straight in the eye. “Absolutely,” he said.
“Okay,” agreed Lucy, but as she limped down the steps to the parking area she wished she had a little more to go on than a gut feeling that Sherman Cobb hadn't committed suicide.
Chapter Six
D
riving down Main Street with the keys to Cobb's house tucked in her purse, Lucy found herself feeling extremely frustrated. She was already hooked on this investigation and desperately wanted to take a look at the house, but she knew she couldn't do it today. She was already running lateâon Wednesday, deadline dayâand would have plenty to explain to Ted.
When she got to
The Pennysaver
office, however, there was no sign of her boss. Only Phyllis, the receptionist.
“About time you got here,” observed Phyllis, poking a pencil into her bun and peering over her rhinestone-trimmed half glasses. “Did you pull a muscle or something? His nibs is having a fit.”
“I worked out with a videotape yesterday,” said Lucy, grimacing as she hung her jacket on the coatrack. “Where is he, anyway?”
“Over at the police station, trying to get something on this suicide.” She clucked her tongue. “Poor man. What a shame.”
Her sad tone piqued Lucy's curiosity.
“Did you know Sherman Cobb?”
“Oh, yes. I even dated him,” said Phyllis, lowering her head and smoothing her beaded turquoise cardigan over her ample bust.
“You did? When?”
“Quite some time ago. Let me think. I guess back in the eighties sometime.”
“Wasn't he quite a bit older than you?”
“Well, I wasn't getting any younger. I remember thinking that a twenty-year difference wasn't all that much. I mean we were both grown-ups.” She sighed. “He was a lovely man.”
Lucy did a quick calculation. She figured Phyllis was now in her mid-fifties, which would put her in her thirties when she dated Cobb and he would have been in his forties, maybe his early fifties. Not unreasonable.
“Was it serious?” Lucy asked.
“I had high hopes in the beginning,” replied Phyllis, “but it didn't work out. It was like my mother said, I had him hooked but I couldn't get him in the boat.”
“Afraid of commitment?”
“I don't think so,” said Phyllis, shaking her head and making her earrings jangle. “I finally decided he was simply a confirmed bachelor. He had a well-ordered life and I don't think he wanted to risk any changes.”
“Do you think he really killed himself?”
“I don't know, but I can tell you this: I don't think he would have wanted to become dependent upon anybody else.”
Lucy was just coming out of the bathroom, where she'd downed a couple of aspirins, when the bell on the door jangled and Ted strode into the office looking like a haunted man. A man haunted by a rapidly approaching deadline.
“Well, nice to see you decided to drop in,” he said sarcastically, tossing his jacket at the coatrack and missing. He left it lying on the floor and went straight to the old rolltop desk he'd inherited from his grandfather.
Lucy's hackles rose. “I was working on a story.”
“And what story was that? Something I assigned?”
“Uh, no,” confessed Lucy. “I was talking to Bob Goodman. He wants me to investigate Sherman Cobb's death. He doesn't believe he killed himself.”
“Yeah, well, that's not what I'm hearing from the cops. So unless there are some new developments, I don't want you working on this on my time. I need you too much for other things,” he said, handing her a stack of faxes.
“And here's today's mail,” said Phyllis, passing over a pile of press releases.
“Oh, goody,” said Lucy, feigning enthusiasm. “Breaking news: The VFW is having a roast beef dinner on Saturday. Just like the one they had last Saturday and the one they'll have next Saturday.”
“A complete roast beef dinner?” asked Phyllis, feigning excitement. “With mashed potatoes and gravy, vegetable, salad, dinner roll, dessert and choice of beverage? Six dollars for adults and four dollars for kids ages five to twelve?”
“How did you know?” asked Lucy, her eyes wide in fake amazement. “ESP?”
“Yeah, that must be it. ESP,” said Phyllis, turning to answer the phone.
At her desk, Lucy thumbed through the pile of press releases and sighed.
Â
Â
Finally headed for home later that afternoon with a car full of groceries, Lucy detoured down Oak Street past Cobb's house. Number 202 was a white clapboard bungalow with dark green shutters and a neatly clipped forsythia bush that was just coming into bloom. The clipped forsythia intrigued her; what sort of person trims a forsythia bush? Maybe Phyllis was right and Cobb was some sort of control freak.
She always let hers grow freely, setting out exuberant shoots of blossoms that nodded in the spring breezes. On the other hand, lots of people did trim their forsythia bushes into neat balls, or squared them off at the top. If only she could take a peek inside the house, she thought, slowing the car.
A glance at the dashboard clock told her she didn't have time. She had to get home and cook supper for the family. And tonight, following Video Debbie's advice, she had splurged on a beautiful piece of salmon. Low-calorie salmon chock-f of healthy omega acids that were good for the heart. She was going to serve it with a huge salad, small baked potatoes and lovely fresh asparagus. It was a meal that would make a dietician smile. It was a meal that would fuel the body without adding unwanted fat; it was a meal fit for a gourmet. A fit gourmet.
“What is that smell?” demanded Sara, as Lucy unwrapped the groceries.
“Fresh salmon,” said Lucy, smacking her lips.
“It smells like fish,” complained Sara.
“It is fish.”
“I'm not gonna eat fish. Especially not pink fish.”
“Try it, you'll like it,” said Lucy, who was listening for the crunch of tires on gravel that indicated Bill was home. “Do me a favor and set the table?”
“Zoe!” yelled Sara. “Mom wants you to set the table.”
Lucy gave Sara a look. “You can help her, and make the salad, too.”
Sara started to protest but, hearing her father's quick honk announcing he was home, reconsidered and carried a stack of plates into the dining room.
“Honey, I'm home,” chorused Bill, imitating Desi Arnaz.
Lucy couldn't help smiling. With his full beard, plaid flannel shirt and work boots, he didn't look much like the dapper Desi. She raised her cheek for a kiss.
“What's for dinner?” he asked.
“Have I got a treat for you: salmon, fresh asparagus, baked potatoes and salad.”
Bill wrinkled up his nose. “Salmon?”
“You'll love it.”
“If you say so,” he said, dropping his lunch box on the counter and reaching into the refrigerator for a beer.
Then he took his usual place at the round, golden oak table in the kitchen, pushing aside Lucy's purse to make room for his elbow. As he shoved it over, the keys to Cobb's house fell out of the outside pocket.
“How was your day?” he asked, picking up the unfamiliar keys and fingering them.
“Busy,” said Lucy, as she washed the asparagus and began trimming off the ends. “How was yours?”
“Usual,” he said, taking a long pull on the cold beer. “What are these keys for?”
“Sherman Cobb's house,” said Lucy. “Bob and Rachel don't believe it was suicide and asked me to poke around a little bit.”
Bill sighed in frustration. “What do you want to go and do that for? Haven't we been through this a million times? Why do you have to keep sticking your nose into police business, huh?”
Lucy felt her back stiffen. “Because my friends asked me to, that's why.”
Bill set his can down with a thunk. “And you have to do everything that anybody asks? You can't ever say no?”
“Apparently not.” Lucy's temper flared as she set the asparagus pot on the stove. He had a valid point and she knew it. She also knew she had something else to confess. “I'm working on learning how to say no but I haven't quite got there yet.” She took a deep breath. “I told Sara she could have a sleep-over for her birthday party. Is that okay with you?”
“Sure.” Unwilling to continue the fight, Bill retreated. “It would have been nice if you'd checked with me first, but Sara deserves a nice party.” He chuckled, recalling her last sleep-over. “Those girls are so funny. Remember how they giggled and squealed over Brad Pitt? I just hope they don't keep us up all night.”
“It's not just girls this time,” said Lucy, shoving the salmon pan under the broiler. “She's invited some boys.”
“Boys? What do they want boys for? They like to fiddle with their hair and try makeup and polish their nails. One year they polished my nails, remember?”
“Sara says all the kids are doing it.”
“Well, they're not doing it here,” said Bill, flatly.
“Why not?” shrieked Sara, storming into the kitchen through the swinging door. She'd obviously been listening on the other side. “Mom said I could, didn't you, Mom?”
“I did,” admitted Lucy. “But you have to admit you got me when I was distracted. You kind of took advantage of me.”
“You said I could!” repeated Sara, in the triumphant tone of a prosecuting lawyer who has caught the defendant in a contradiction.
Lucy's eyes met Bill's.
Help me out here,
she silently telegraphed him.
“Dad! Mom said I could and that means I can, right? I've already told all my friends and they all want to come. I can't go back now and say that my parents won't let me. I'll look like a jerk.”
“It doesn't sound like a good idea to me,” began Bill in his reasonable voice.
“Why not?” demanded Sara, ripping open a bag of salad and dumping it into a bowl. “What's the big deal? Toby's my brother and he lives here when he's not at college. And his dorm is coed, and so is Elizabeth's. And all my friends have brothers and sisters. I mean, people don't divide up their families. Boys in one house, girls in another.” Sara paused for breath. “I mean, what is with you people? It's a coed world, you know.”
Bill cleared his throat and Lucy glanced at him. He looked like a drowning man.
“Sara, I don't think you should talk to your father in that tone of voice,” said Lucy, throwing him a lifeline.
“I'm responsible for what happens in my house,” said Bill, sitting up a little taller. “I don't think mixing boys and girls together all night is a good idea.”
“You don't trust me,” wailed Sara.
“Of course I trust you,” said Bill.
Lucy knew he was done for. He'd let the lifeline slip from his fingers and it had floated out of reach.
“Then I can have boys at the sleep-over?”
“I guess so,” said Bill, surrendering to his fate.
“Dinner's ready,” said Lucy, lifting the salmon onto a platter.
Â
Â
It had been a surprisingly pleasant dinner, thought Lucy, as she cleared the dirty dishes. They'd gotten the controversial stuff out of the way before sitting down at the table. And Zoe had been so cute, talking about how the pet mice had escaped their cage and run around her second-grade classroom. Amazingly enough, the heart-healthy, low-calorie salmon had disappeared without any complaints. It was an unfamiliar food and even Lucy had to admit she preferred flounder or cod, but little Zoe had finished her piece without protest.
Lucy had stacked the plates and was reaching for the crumpled paper napkins when she discovered the truth. Both girls had hidden their portions of fish in their napkins . . . and so had Bill. Ten dollars' worth of fish was going to the dog. A very heart-healthy dog.
She was loading the dishwasher when the phone rang. It was Sue.
“Just wanted to make sure you're coming to breakfast tomorrow,” she began. “I've got some exciting news about Miss Tilley Day.”
“Really? What?”
“No fair,” said Sue, in a teasing voice. “You'll just have to wait like everyone else. So be there.”
“I wouldn't miss it for the world,” said Lucy.
“How's the show coming?” asked Sue.
Lucy swallowed hard. “Not well,” she admitted.
“Lucy! You haven't forgotten, have you?”
“No, I didn't forget. I was going to interview Miss T this morning, but I had to go see Bob Goodman instead. He wants me to investigate his partner's death.”
“Do you have time for that? On top of the party and all?” inquired Sue. “Maybe you'd better leave this one to the police. After all, we don't have that much time left. Only five weeks.”