Birthday Party Murder by Leslie Meier Page B

there when Lucy came up the path to the neat Capestyle house built in 1799.
    Miss Tilley was sitting in the Boston rocker she favored, but her cheeks had lost their usual rosy pink color and she seemed frailer than ever. Lucy suspected she was taking the news of Sherman’s death rather hard.
    â€œLucy, isn’t it terrible about Sherman?” she asked, as Lucy took her trembling hand and gave her a peck on the cheek.
    As soon as Lucy released her blue-veined and agespotted hand, Miss Tilley clasped it with the other and began kneading her swollen knuckles.
    Lucy nodded as she took the wing chair on the other side of the fireplace. Her glance wandered to the floor and she noticed Miss Tilley was indeed wearing a jazzy pair of silver running shoes on her size-four feet. Ordinarily, Lucy would have teased her about them, but not today.
    â€œHe’ll be missed by a lot of people,” murmured Lucy, turning her attention to the cup of tea Rachel was offering her and doing her best to resist the gingersnaps perched on the saucer. “Did you know him well?”
    â€œI was always very fond of him,” said Miss Tilley, setting her teacup on the little antique tavern table next to her chair. “I watched him grow up, you know. He used to come into the library every week. He was a great reader. And then he went off to college and law school and I was his first client when he came back to Tinker’s Cove and opened his law practice. He handled the closing for this house.”
    Lucy bit into a gingersnap while Miss Tilley continued.
    â€œHonestly, I really don’t know what I’m going to do now.” She was agitated, practically wringing her hands. She was also shuffling her feet, setting off little explosions of colored lights that Lucy did her best to ignore. “I suppose I’ll never know what it was he wanted to talk to me about. He called Monday afternoon. He was quite insistent.”
    â€œHe wanted to see you? I thought it was the other way round.” Lucy cast a questioning glance at Rachel, who was sitting on the couch. “I thought you wanted to get your affairs in order.”
    â€œMy affairs are in order,” said Miss Tilley. “Always have been, thanks to Sherman. He always handled all my legal matters, you know. I’m too old to switch now. What will I do?”
    Lucy wanted to pursue the matter, but was interrupted by Rachel.
    â€œDon’t you worry,” said Rachel. “Bob will take care of everything for you.”
    Miss Tilley grimaced. “It won’t be the same. He’ll do his best, of course, I know that. But Papa had a very high opinion of Sherman.”
    She looked up at the oil painting of her father that hung above the fireplace. He was pictured in his flowing judge’s robe, holding a thick volume in one hand. His expression always reminded Lucy of the famous World War I poster of Uncle Sam pointing his finger and declaring “I Want You!” Lucy guessed the old judge didn’t want to enlist anyone into the military; he wanted to swoop down like winged justice and send them to jail for a good long time.
    â€œPapa always took an interest in Sherman Cobb,” said Miss Tilley, nodding up at the old buzzard fondly. “He left him money to go to law school, you know.”
    Lucy looked up at the painting, wondering if she’d misjudged the old guy, and bit into the third gingersnap. She reached into her bag and took out her reporter’s notebook, with the pen neatly tucked into the wire coil, and unfolded the fax. Before she could pose the first question, however, Miss Tilley turned the tables and questioned her.
    â€œYou didn’t live here in 1965, the year we had the Centennial, did you?”
    Lucy shook her head. Maybe Miss Tilly was getting forgetful. The Bicentennial was in 1976.
    â€œToo bad. You really missed a swell time.”
    â€œWas that the town’s hundredth birthday?” asked