Father’s Day Murder (14 page)

D
espite her tiredness, it took Lucy a long time to fall asleep. She stretched out between the clean sheets, alone in the dark room, and closed her eyes, but her usual defense system failed her. Instead of filtering out the sounds of people coming and going in the hallway, the thunk of the elevator and the sirens in the streets outside, she found herself straining to hear what was going on. What were the people outside her door talking about? Who was in the elevator? Were they ambulance or police sirens? Had she fastened the safety chain on her door?

Her mind wouldn't rest but went around and around, chasing scraps of thought, tattered sentences and fleeting expressions. Harold's stare: had it really been directed at her or had he turned away in anger from Inez? She had only a kaleidoscope of impressions about Inez: hair like straw, a Barbie-doll face, pretty but was anybody home? Pointy bloodred nails, sharp little teeth, spike heels.

Then there was Harold's cat. A fluffy white Persian, claws well hidden. It had a woman's face. Inez's face. Suddenly the cat pounced on something, neatly pinning it with a single talon. The thing squirmed. It was Sam Syrjala, more concerned with recovering the bottle that was rolling away from him than with his own danger. The bottle spun around, and when it stopped it was pointing at Junior.

Who, me?
mouthed Junior; then he smiled, revealing a shark's mouth full of triangular teeth. Luther and Junior were in the elevator, which had become a glass-sided aquarium. They were swimming back and forth, endlessly chasing each other like the sharks in the giant tank at the New England Aquarium. A diver was bringing them food, big slabs of raw fish in a net bag. The bag was empty but the sharks were still hungry, circling the diver. She tried to swim away, but she couldn't. The sharks were now Bill and Toby. They kept nudging the diver with their snouts, forcing her down. She was on the bottom of the tank, on her back, face upward with hair swirling loosely around her mask. The face in the mask was her own.

Then she was awake, caught in a tangle of sheets, breathing heavily and damp with perspiration. It took her a moment to remember that she wasn't home; she was in the Park Plaza hotel because she was attending the Northeast Newspaper Association conference. What time was it anyway? She looked at the clock. Only four. She could go back to sleep. Maybe.

 

Lucy was sitting in the coffee shop, mulling over her dream and wondering if it had any significance apart from indicating her own tangled emotions, when Morgan Dodd plunked herself down in the seat on the opposite side of the table.

“Big news,” said Morgan.

Lucy doubted it, but she was willing to play along. “What?”

“Junior's out on bail.”

“That's good.”

Morgan narrowed her eyes. “I want to interview him.”

“You and everybody else,” said Lucy. “But his lawyer will never allow it. The most you can hope for is a carefully worded, prepared statement. He's probably ‘eager to prove his innocence at the trial,' or maybe even ‘willing to do everything he can to catch the real murderer, who is still at large.' They might even offer a reward, but maybe not, since PPG isn't doing all that well.”

“Whoa, Sally. Maybe, just maybe, he'd appreciate an opportunity to talk to a sympathetic local reporter who'll give him a chance to tell his side of the story.”

“What's that got to do with you?” asked Lucy.

“I was thinking I could go along with you, to set up the tape recorder or take a picture. Kind of be your assistant.”

“I don't think so,” said Lucy, amused. “Besides, why should I share my story with you? What's in it for me?”

Morgan smiled slyly. “I might be willing to share some information. I've been investigating on my own, you know, and I've uncovered some interesting facts.”

Did she really have something, or was she bluffing? Lucy was trying to decide when Junior suddenly appeared beside her, in the flesh. He wasn't the hale and hearty fellow she remembered, but seemed diminished in size somehow. Almost fragile.

“Hi, stranger,” she said softly. “How are you doing?”

“I'm Morgan Dodd.” Morgan stood up and grabbed his hand, pumping it energetically. “With the Framingham
Trib.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“It must feel pretty good getting out of jail,” continued Morgan.

“You bet.” He grinned at Lucy. “I can't wait to get back to Tinker's Cove.”

“Have you and your lawyer decided on a defense strategy?” Morgan asked.

Junior's eyes met Lucy's; then he turned to Morgan. “I can't comment on the case, except to say that I welcome the opportunity to prove my innocence, and I have complete faith in the American system of justice.”

Lucy mouthed the words
I told you so
to Morgan.

“I'm awfully sorry about your father,” said Lucy. “He's really going to be missed in Tinker's Cove. I often used to see him around town. He had a smile for everyone.”

Lucy could see Morgan rolling her eyes behind Junior's back but ignored her, allowing Junior to clasp her hand.

“That means a lot to me, Lucy,” said Junior, his voice thick with emotion.

“Will the funeral be in Tinker's Cove?”

“I don't know what's been decided.” He shrugged. “I've been out of the loop. I just want to go home and take some time to absorb what's happened.”

“That's understandable. I hope things work out for you.” The enormity of his situation loomed ominously between them. “I really do,” she added.

“Maybe you should consider granting some interviews to sympathetic reporters,” said Morgan in a helpful tone of voice, as if the idea had just occurred to her. “Like Lucy. Or me.”

“Thanks for the advice. Actually, I'm meeting with Ted tomorrow.” Someone outside caught his eye. Lucy followed his glance and recognized his lawyer from his picture in the
Globe,
standing in the doorway with Catherine. “Well, I've got to go. I just wanted to say hi. See you around, Lucy.”

As soon as he was out the door, Morgan grabbed Lucy's arm. “Who's this Ted?”

“My boss.”

Morgan wasn't one to miss an opportunity. “Is he here at the convention? Can you point him out to me?”

“I think he's gone. He was leaving first thing today.”

“Damn.”

“Are you going to the workshop this morning?” asked Lucy, checking her watch.

“Are you kidding? This is the story of a lifetime and I intend to get it.” She shook her head. “I mean, what's the point of all these workshops if you don't have anything to write about? The story's the important thing.”

She had a point, Lucy supposed, but did she know what a dangerous game she was playing?

“You know,” said Lucy slowly, recalling the frightening, toothy images of her dream, “if Junior isn't the murderer, that means there's somebody out there who doesn't want to be discovered. Somebody who's already killed once.”

“Are you telling me to be careful?” Morgan was defiant. “Because if you are, I already have a mother, thank you very much.”

Good point, thought Lucy. “Does your mother know what you're doing?”

Morgan didn't answer, but whirled around and strode out of the coffee shop. Lucy sighed and picked up her bag. She had a workshop to attend.

 

The creative writing workshop was better than she expected, and Lucy was both elated and depleted when it was over. She was too keyed up to consider returning to the confining meeting room for the afternoon session. Ted was gone; there was no one to chide her if she took some time for herself. She had always wanted to visit the famous Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, and this was her chance.

The doorman advised taking the Green Line, and Lucy followed his directions, soon finding herself gazing at the museum's glass-enclosed courtyard, where live green plants and flowering orchids mingled with fragments of ancient Roman sculpture and mosaics. The air was moist and heavy with the scent of earth and flowers.

A sign pointed the way to the café, and Lucy realized she was hungry. The tiny restaurant was crowded, so she followed the example of some others and purchased a bottled drink and a sandwich to eat outside in the sculpture garden. As she sat in the peaceful garden, she resolutely emptied her mind and concentrated on enjoying the moment. She studied the beads of moisture condensing on her bottle of iced tea, and concentrated on the chewy texture of the bread in her sandwich.

Refreshed by her little Zen exercise, she returned to the museum through the Chinese Gallery, pausing at John Singer Sargent's masterpiece
El Jaleo.
The subject was a flamenco dancer, famous in her day, and Sargent caught her in the midst of her dance with one arm cocked awkwardly and her head thrown back. It was full of life and light, and Lucy was saddened to think that Sargent would never lift another brush, the dancer would never again twitch her skirt, and the musicians and singers pictured in the background would be forever silent.

It was in this somber mood that she ascended the dark and dusty stairs to the second floor, where treasures collected by Mrs. Gardner were displayed in the rooms where she had once entertained the great and famous.

To Lucy's mind there was something quaint and old-fashioned about the museum. Mrs. Gardner had stipulated in her will that nothing could be changed after her death, so everything remained as it had been during her lifetime. No new acquisitions could be added, and signs marked the empty places where the paintings once hung that were stolen in an unsolved theft. Especially fragile works, like drawings and lace, were contained in wood-and-glass cases with removable velvet covers that kept out the light.
Lift to View Contents
was printed on labels sewn onto some of the covers.

It was hard to take it all in. The collection was so diverse, containing everything from Han Dynasty Chinese bears to gilded eighteenth-century sedan chairs to masterpieces by Rubens and Raphael. Sometimes Lucy could hardly make out a painting at all, due to the light pouring in from the courtyard; other times she would puzzle over a beautiful painting that caught her eye, looking in vain for a sign identifying the artist.

One painting in particular caught her eye. It featured a classically columned courtyard filled with a crowd of people gathered in great excitement around the body of a beautiful young woman. Lucy had no clue as to who the unfortunate beauty was, but she could clearly identify the raw emotions displayed by the mourners: shock, denial, pain, grief, and rage. In fact, she thought, the scene was eerily similar to the one she'd witnessed Monday night at the banquet, when Luther's death was announced. She wanted to know more about the painting, but there was no little plaque identifying it or the artist who created it.

Discouraged, Lucy wandered around the room, gazing at the other paintings but inevitably drawn to the windows overlooking the courtyard. She stood there for quite a while, simply enjoying the ordered beauty of the lush interior garden. When she finally turned to go, she was surprised to see Carole Rose standing in front of the painting that had so fascinated Lucy. Carole was absorbed in a guidebook, busily shifting her gaze from painting to book and back again.

“Hi,” said Lucy. “Are you playing hooky too?”

Carole laughed. “You could say that.”

“Isn't this a wonderful museum? But frustrating. A lot of the paintings aren't labeled, like this one. Would you mind telling me what it is?”

“It's a real eye-catcher, isn't it?” said Carole. “It's by Botticelli,
The Tragedy of Lucretia.”

“Oh.” Lucy studied the painting. “How did Lucretia come to die? Was she a martyred saint or something?”

“Sort of,” said Carole, consulting the book. “Apparently she had a great reputation for virtue but was seduced by a villain who threatened to kill her if she didn't yield to him. The next day she confessed all to her husband and father and killed herself to save her reputation.”

Lucy was stunned. “My word. No wonder everyone's so upset.”

“Isn't that always the way? The stupid woman kills herself instead of going after the guy who seduced her. If you ask me, she should have stabbed him.”

“If she had, they probably would have caught her and executed her anyway,” said Lucy philosophically. “Women didn't have a lot of options in those days.”

“Probably,” agreed Carole. “But at least she would have had the satisfaction of getting revenge on the man who ruined her reputation.”

“I guess she figured she could leave that part to her father and husband. By killing herself she pretty much guaranteed they'd go after him.”

“This is exactly the kind of thinking that holds women back, even today,” said Carole. “Women are still turning their anger on themselves instead of at the guy who done them wrong. She should've killed him.” She paused. “How can she be sure her father and husband won't decide the guy's not so bad, and they all go out to the Coliseum together to watch the games and have a few flagons of mead?”

Lucy found herself laughing and enjoying herself as she and Carole worked their way through the rest of the museum. Carole kept up a lively commentary, spicing up the information from the guidebook with her own pithy observations. Lucy was sorry when they ran out of rooms to explore, and suggested they prolong the afternoon by having a cup of tea in the café.

“Sorry,” said Carole. “I've got to get back. I've got a meeting in half an hour. Do you want to share a cab?”

“No, thanks,” said Lucy. “I'm going to check out the gift shop.” She paused. “If I don't see you again, thanks for a lovely afternoon.”

“See you next year, right?”

 

Lucy was flipping through the postcards in the shop, looking for one of
The Tragedy of Lucretia.
What a story, she thought when she found it. Lucretia killed herself to save her reputation. Luther, too, had zealously protected his reputation when he was alive, but it would unravel fast now that he was dead. The Pioneer Press Group and the people connected with it would not come out of the trial unscathed; no one ever did. By the time the defense and prosecution attorneys had finished with them, reputations would be tarnished and family secrets would be laid bare.