Birthday Party Murder Read online

  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

  Something 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 it
s 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?”

  Lucy shook her head. “I’m sure you can make better sense of it than I can. Besides, I know where you are in case I need anything.”

  Bob picked up the bag and stood, pausing at the door. “I don’t want to pressure you, but have you made any progress on the investigation?” he asked.

  It was the question Lucy had been dreading.

  “I’ve still got a few leads to check out, but to be honest, I’ll be amazed if anything turns up.”

  Lucy watched as his shoulders sagged. He seemed five years older.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “It’s not your fault. I know you’re doing your best.” He pushed open the door and the bell jangled, incongruously cheerful, considering the circumstances.

  He cocked his head, studying her face in the sunlight.

  “You ought to try some cortisone.”

  “Coming right up,” said Phyllis, waving a plastic bag with the drugstore logo.

  She was wearing a bright plaid jacket and had tied a matching yellow scarf around her head, leaving the ends free to flutter in the spring breeze. Compared to Bob, she looked like a ray of sunshine.

  “You’re a lifesaver,” said Lucy, grabbing the bag and heading for the dingy little hole that was The Pennysaver’s employee bathroom.

  Phyllis had done her best to brighten the place up, donating a crocheted cozy for the spare roll of toilet paper and hanging up a set of framed prints depicting kittens and puppies. Somehow it all just made the cracked plaster and curled linoleum look worse.

  Lucy yanked the string that turned on the bare lightbulb that hung from the ceiling and leaned into the mirror, smoothing the cream on her face. She looked awful, she felt awful, but for once, she realized, she had too much on her mind to bother feeling sorry for herself. She had just gotten back to her desk when the phone rang.

  It was Rachel and she was too upset to indulge in any niceties. She brushed aside Lucy’s greeting and her mention of having seen Bob.

  “They wouldn’t let me in! They told me I’m fired.”

  “Shirley fired you? I can’t believe Miss T would let her do that.”

  “I know!” exclaimed Rachel. “But when I asked to see her, they told me she was unavailable. She slammed the door in my face!”

  “Have you tried the phone?”

  “Shirley wouldn’t let me talk to her.”

  “Maybe she was taking a bath or napping or something.” Lucy didn’t really believe what she was saying, but she didn’t think she could handle Rachel’s problems on top of her own. Not right now, anyway.

  “Why don’t you believe me, Lucy? That woman and her motorcycle maniac are keeping me out for a reason, and I don’t think it’s a good reason. I’m really worried they’ll do her some harm.”

  Unbidden, the image from the elder abuse pamphlet of the frail old woman and the looming shadow popped into Lucy’s head. She relented. “Why don’t we go together, in a few hours? Say, just before lunchtime? See what happens then?”

  “Will you do that, Lucy? I’d really appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” said Lucy, adding another item to her packed agenda.

  When the noon siren sounded, Lucy was feeling a lot better. Her face didn’t itch so much, thanks to the cortisone cream, and the swelling and r
edness had gone down. Her face was still pretty puffy, though, she decided as she peered into the rearview mirror of her car, like little Shirley Temple on steroids. At least the wrinkles were gone. Countess Irene had kept her promise.

  She went through the McDonald’s drive-through on the way to Rachel’s, polishing off a small cheeseburger and a container of milk as she drove. She’d read somewhere that fast food wasn’t actually that bad for you if you skipped the fries, but she had to admit she missed them. She honked as she pulled into the Goodmans’ driveway and Rachel came out of the house, buttoning her jacket as she ran.

  “What happened to your face?” asked Rachel, buckling herself into the passenger seat.

  “Allergic reaction. I tried that face cream Sue recommended.”

  “Isn’t that just typical.” Rachel sighed. “Stuff that works for Sue never works for anybody else. I tried to make her flourless chocolate cake once, but it came out like pudding. I don’t even try anymore. Face it, she exists on a higher plane than we mere mortals.”

  “I wasn’t trying to look like her,” said Lucy, whipping around the corner a bit too fast. “I was just trying to get rid of the wrinkles.”

  “Well, you did,” said Rachel. “Would you mind slowing down? I’d like to live to see another day.”

  “Sorry. It’s just I’ve got so much to do. Bill’s in the hospital. . . .”

  Rachel listened as Lucy recounted the story.

  “I never would have bothered you with this if I’d known,” Rachel said, feeling rather ashamed.

  “It’s okay,” said Lucy, pulling up in front of Miss Tilley’s. “How long can it take?”