Father’s Day Murder (3 page)

T
hen the doors closed and she was left alone in the elevator, ascending smoothly to the tenth floor. Lucy followed the sign when she got off the elevator, proceeding down a short hall and turning a corner, where she immediately found her room. At least she didn't have to walk all the way down the long hall, she thought, wondering if the elevators would be noisy at night. It took a few tries, but she finally got the key card to work and opened the door to her room. She closed it carefully behind her, fastening both the latch and the safety chain. She was a woman alone in the big city, and she wasn't going to take any chances.

Flicking on the light switch, she poked her head into the bathroom—white, tiny, and old-fashioned with a pedestal sink—and went straight to the window to open the drapes. Looking out, she was disappointed to see there was no view of the city, only four dreary brick walls punctuated with rows of windows. It was some sort of air shaft, she decided, that provided light and ventilation to the inside, less expensive rooms like hers.

Even so, she decided as she studied the furnishings, it was much more luxurious than the master bedroom at home, even if it wasn't much larger. The furniture all matched, for one thing. And the bed was covered with a puffy maroon comforter and the pillows encased in white Euro-style shams. It was much more sophisticated than the candlewick spread on the bed she shared with Bill. Bed stands with bulky square lamps flanked both sides of the bed, and a matching floor lamp stood in one corner, next to a rather stiff-looking armchair. A fourth lamp, with an enormous square shade, stood on a long, low bureau next to the TV. The shade was askew—the lamp had been shoved too close to the wall—and Lucy automatically straightened it. She hated cockeyed lampshades, and, come to think of it, she didn't much like all the bits and pieces of cardboard that advised her she was indeed welcome at the Park Plaza Hotel and putting her on notice that this was a nonsmoking room and offering her several choices of room-service breakfasts. She gathered them all up and shoved them in a drawer. It was her room, after all, and she was going to be here for the better part of a week. She might as well have things the way she liked them.

Warned in advance about the high cost of hotel telephones by Ted, she perched on the edge of her bed and pulled her cell phone out of her purse and called home. The call went through and she waited while it rang at least ten times, but nobody answered. They must all be out, she decided, but where? What could they possibly be doing on a Sunday evening? Sara and Zoe ought to getting ready for bed—tomorrow was a school day—and Elizabeth ought to be helping them. Bill usually watched a newsmagazine show on Sundays; he hated to miss it. And Toby…well, the less she thought about what Toby did with his time these days the better.

Unless, she thought, he hadn't gone out. Maybe he'd stayed home, provoking a fight with his father. She could see the headlines now:
Deadly Domestic Dispute Rocks Village. Violence Erupts on Red Top Road. Neighbors Never Suspected Family Dysfunction.

That last one needed work, she thought, regaining her senses. Bill had probably taken the younger girls out for ice cream. Or down to the town pier to see the seals. Elizabeth and Toby were probably out with friends. There was no need to panic, not yet anyway. She'd call first thing tomorrow. If nobody answered, then she'd panic.

Next on her list was a call to Ted, informing him she had arrived. She made that call on the hotel phone, calling the desk and asking to be connected to his room.

“You got in all right?”

His voice was so loud, it startled her.

“Safe and sound.”

“Great! Hey, congratulations! That series you did on the fishing industry got an award.”

“Really?” Lucy was delighted. “First place, second, honorable mention? What?”

“Dunno. They'll announce it at the banquet. But you definitely won something.”

“Wow.”

“Don't let it go to your head,” cautioned Ted. “There's no money in the budget for a raise or anything.”

“I won't,” promised Lucy. “Are you going to the hospitality suite?”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world.”

“I guess I'll see you there, then. 'Bye.”

Lucy carefully replaced the phone, then did a little victory dance around the bed. She'd won a prize. She was a winner! A prizewinning journalist. It was amazing. Fantastic. She was hot! No wonder the Reads had all been so nice to her. She was a star. A comer. A comet, blazing a trail of glory through the newspaper universe.

Well, at any rate, someone to watch. Someone to be taken seriously. A reporter readers could trust. One who generally got things right more often than she got them wrong. Someone, she decided as she opened her suitcase, who needed to calm down and get control of herself.

Now what exactly, she wondered, did you wear to a hospitality suite?

 

A short time later she was standing in the open doorway to the Pioneer Press hospitality suite, dressed in the polo-style shirtdress with the grosgrain ribbon belt she'd bought at the outlet mall. The saleslady had promised her it was a classic, but Lucy was beginning to think it was last year's classic look. Nobody else was wearing anything remotely like it.

“Lucy! So glad you could make it!” Junior clasped her hand and shook it energetically, radiating good fellowship and bonhomie. “The bar's in the corner and help yourself to the food.”

Then he was gone. Lucy scanned the room, looking for Ted. Or someone she knew. Anybody. But except for Monica Underwood and Luther Read, she didn't recognize a single soul. She didn't feel as if she could presume on her slight acquaintance with them; besides, they were busy working the room, greeting important people. They seemed important, anyway, these tall men in their tailored suits and slicked-back hair with their reed-thin wives on their arms.

The type was familiar to her from home. The folks who had summer homes on Smith Heights Road and belonged to the yacht club. The men played golf and the women belonged to the garden club and organized house tours to raise money for favorite charities. They didn't mingle much with year-rounders like herself.

Lucy decided a glass of white wine might help boost her confidence, so she headed for the bar. Then, glass in hand, she began a slow circuit of the room, looking for someone to strike up a conversation with. Most everyone was in a group, engaged in lively conversation punctuated with bursts of laughter, but she finally spotted another loner, a heavyset woman with a glum expression.

“Hi! Nice party, isn't it?” said Lucy.

The woman stared at her through thick glasses, as if she'd made an indecent proposition, then abruptly turned and clomped off.

Oh, well, she'd done her best. She'd tried to be sociable, but now it was time for the prizewinning journalist to hit the buffet table. That was where Ted found her, stubbornly holding her own amidst the crowd of hungry journalists browsing among the platters of shrimp, cheese, and raw vegetables. There were also chafing dishes holding hot Swedish meatballs, bacon-wrapped scallops, and pigs-in-blankets.

“Some spread, huh?” said Ted. “We probably won't need supper after all this.”

“I guess not,” said Lucy, attacking the platters with new gusto. “But what about dessert?”

“There's a fruit platter on the other table.”

The other table, Lucy saw, was surrounded by an even larger crowd of people. It was a positive feeding frenzy; she'd never seen anything like it.

“Maybe later,” she said.

“I'm going to get in there before it's all gone,” said Ted, diving into the fray.

Lucy retreated to a quiet corner, where she stood and nibbled on her supper of hors d'oeuvres. It was a funny sort of party, she decided. Except for the Reads and their crowd, probably publishers, not much socializing was going on at all. People were just eating and drinking as fast as they could. These were most certainly the reporters and editors at the bottom of the organizational pyramid. They put in long hours, they didn't make much money, and they weren't about to pass up a free meal. In fact, quite a few of them were snagging snacks for later, wrapping bits of food in paper napkins and tucking them away in purses and pockets.

Once Lucy had finished eating she didn't see much point in sticking around, so she put her plate on a table by the door and headed for her room. She still hadn't unpacked and she had a fresh bottle of bubble bath and an emergency chocolate bar in her suitcase. Just the thing to round out her dinner.

W
hen Lucy woke the next morning it took her a moment or two to remember where she was. She missed the warmth of Bill's body, his bulk, beside her. At home she liked to savor the first moments of her day, lying in bed and listening to the birds singing outside. Once she'd checked the clock, she always looked at the white-curtained window, gauging whether it would be sunny or cloudy. Then she'd consciously prepare herself for the day ahead by counting her blessings: being alive, being married to the man she loved, having four healthy children. Those things topped the list, but Lucy didn't stop there. She counted the house, the well-stocked pantry and refrigerator, the peas ripening in the garden, the buds on the rosebushes along the fence, the six new pairs of underpants neatly folded in her top drawer.

She tried the exercise in the hotel, stretching luxuriously under the crisp, white sheets, but it just made her feel homesick. It was already past seven, and at home she would have been up for an hour. She'd be hurrying Sara out the door to catch the school bus, reminding her of after-school activities and checking to make sure she had her lunch and homework. Then there would just be time for a swallow of coffee before she had to get Zoe, who took the eight-o'clock elementary school bus, started on her breakfast. It was a pretty complicated routine, and Lucy acted like a conductor, making sure everyone got fed and dressed and got a turn in the bathroom. She wondered how they were managing without her.

Probably not very well, but there was nothing she could do about it here in Boston. She rolled over and dug the card listing room-service breakfasts out of the drawer where she'd stowed it. The Businessman's Special with bacon and two eggs was an outrageous eighteen dollars, but she was seriously tempted by the Continental at a more reasonable twelve dollars. It would be an extravagance, but one that she herself could afford. The phone rang and she grabbed it eagerly, hoping it was Bill. Instead she heard Ted's voice, sounding a little thick, as if he'd been out partying the night before.

“G'morning,” he said. “The registration desk opens at eight, so what say you get there first thing to beat the crowd and then we'll get some breakfast.”

Lucy regretfully slipped the room service menu back into the drawer and checked the clock. It was almost seven-thirty, which meant that her leisurely morning was at an end.

“Okay. I'll meet you in the lobby in half an hour.”

“Righto.” Ted chuckled. “I'll be wearing a white carnation.”

That must have been some night if Ted was still feeling no pain, thought Lucy as she hung up the phone. She hadn't expected her boss to behave like a stereotypical conventioneer; she thought he was serious about attending the workshops and honing his skills. Then again, maybe he was here to party while she did the serious work. She stretched and got out of bed, heading for the shower.

Her hair was still damp when she found the registration desk, located on the mezzanine. No one was manning it yet, however, so she wandered into the exhibit room. There, portable partitions had been set up, creating a gallerylike effect, but instead of paintings they displayed tear sheets from newspapers. They were arranged by category, and Lucy soon realized these were the stories and photographs that had been chosen for awards by the judges. The awards hadn't been announced yet, but all of the displays would receive prizes ranging from honorable mention to first place.

Lucy was especially fascinated by the photographs: a firefighter with an infant folded against his chest, the stoic and tearless face of a military widow receiving a folded flag as her two young children clung to her legs, and a charming shot of a grandmother and grandchild sharing the first ice-cream cone of the summer season. She got a pleasant surprise when she rounded the corner to view the exhibits on the other side of the partition and saw a familiar page from the
Pennysaver
with her byline. It was a story she had written over a year ago, about the impact of federal and state regulations on Maine fishermen. The judge's comment, scrawled in Magic Marker, read,
Carefully chosen quotes and real-life stories give these statistics a human dimension—top-notch reporting and writing.

Lucy felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment and pleasure. It was true. They liked her work. She was good. She was a good reporter. Top-notch in fact. Wow. She stepped back to admire the page, taking in for the first time the three other stories in her category. They all had similarly flattering comments. Oh, well. Time would tell.

Hearing voices outside, she went back to the registration desk, where she discovered a short line had formed. Only one woman was staffing the desk, and she didn't seem terribly familiar with the process.

“I'm not even supposed to be doing this,” she explained. “I can't imagine what's keeping Susan and Debbie.”

“They're probably still in the Pioneer Press hospitality suite,” suggested one man, and the others chuckled.

“Oh, I don't think so,” said the clerk, who was flipping through a box of alphabetized registration packets.

Lucy was fourth in line, but at this rate she was going to be late. She sighed and looked down, only to be captivated by the shoes the woman in front of her was wearing. She'd never seen shoes like this before. They were witty and charming. Adorable, with tiny little curvy heels that reminded her of her very first pair of “high” heels. And the color, a wonderful coral, almost brick, that would go with absolutely anything. She shifted her position so she could see the toes and involuntarily gasped in pleasure. They were pointed, very pointed, and revealed a suggestive amount of toe cleavage.

Her gaze drifted upward, examining the rest of the woman's outfit. Not surprisingly, she was the very picture of urban sophistication in a short black skirt topped with a nubby beige twinset. Neat gold earrings were clipped on each ear, and her salt-and-pepper hair was expertly cut in a crisp boyish bob. A designer tote hung from her shoulder with one of those ubiquitous water bottles that everyone seemed to carry tucked in an outside pocket.

Lucy couldn't help thinking that she didn't fare very well in comparison. She was wearing her best khakis and had dressed up her polo shirt by tying a cotton sweater around her shoulders. Her feet were sporting sandals, which along with sneakers and patent-leather pumps comprised her entire summer shoe wardrobe.

“Name?
Name?”

Lucy snapped to attention and gave her name, receiving in exchange a folder and an official NNA badge that dangled from a blue-and-white lanyard. Oh, good, she thought as she hung it around her neck, just the touch my outfit needs.

She found Ted in the lobby, taking a catnap on one of the sofas.

“That was quick,” he said, blinking and yawning.

“Not really,” said Lucy. “It's a quarter to nine. They didn't even open until eight-thirty, and quite a few people were ahead of me.” She glanced at the Swan Court restaurant, where waiters were pouring deliciously fragrant coffee from silver pots. “Are we going to eat there?”

“At those prices? I don't think so. Follow me.”

Lucy sighed regretfully as Ted led her out of the hotel and around the corner to a familiar franchise coffee shop. There was one just like it in Tinker's Cove, at the interstate exit. They got in line and Lucy ordered juice, coffee, and a bagel sandwich. Ted stuck to black coffee.

“You seem a little bit under the weather,” she observed brightly, taking a big bite of the egg, cheese, and ham sandwich.

“Pam left last night, so I went out with some of the guys.” He stared into the depths of his coffee. “Big mistake. I shoulda gone to bed after the hospitality suite.”

“You were right—I didn't need dinner. I never saw so much food.”

“Musta cost 'em a pretty penny,” continued Ted, taking a sip of coffee. “I guess they want to go out with a bang.”

Lucy put down her sandwich. “What do you mean?”

“Pioneer Press has been sold, you know. Everything but signing the papers and cashing the check.”

“The whole chain?” Lucy could hardly believe it. And why, she wondered, had no mention been made of the sale when she'd talked to the Reads the night before? “Who's the buyer?”

“National Media. They're buying everything they can. They want to be the premier national news outlet, maybe the only one, for that matter.” Ted stared into his coffee. “So what's your first panel?”

Lucy opened the packet she'd been given at the registration table and studied it. “‘Interviewing Techniques, or Getting the Story They Don't Want You to Print.' Sounds interesting.”

“Don't be late,” said Ted.

Lucy checked her watch and discovered it was already a quarter past nine, and she had no idea where the panel was meeting.

“I guess I'd better get going,” she said, crumpling up her paper wrapper and juice container and putting them in the trash. The coffee she took with her, just in case the panel wasn't as stimulating as promised.

A lot of other people had the same idea, she discovered when she found the meeting room, tucked down a flight of stairs underneath the lobby. Almost everyone seated at the rows of tables had either a covered takeout coffee cup or a bottle of water. One of the panelists seated at the front of the room, a young woman, was apparently expecting a drought—she had an enormous two-quart bottle of springwater.

The second panelist, an attractive woman in her thirties, arrived at nine-thirty, precisely on time.

“Our third panelist is running late,” she said, “but we'll begin without him. I'm Catherine Read and, as most of you know, I'm the publisher of the Northampton
News.
That's Northampton, Massachusetts. We're a daily with a circulation that varies from twenty to thirty thousand, and we're owned by the Pioneer Press Group.”

Lucy noticed that Catherine did indeed bear a resemblance to Luther and Junior Read, and guessed she must be Junior's younger sister. She wondered if she had gotten her job through hard work and ability or family connections. Maybe both.

“My esteemed colleague here is Morgan Dodd, who is a reporter for the Framingham
Tribune,
a daily located right here in the Boston suburbs.”

Lucy recognized the name; she'd seen it on the byline of one of the other stories selected for a prize. The same prize she'd been chosen for. They were competitors. She listened closely as Catherine continued.

“I might add that Morgan won first prize last year for her profile of Robert Andrade, the man who went to work the day after Christmas and shot seven fellow employees at Rayotex Industries.”

Hearing this, Lucy's spirits sank a notch. Her chances of winning first place weren't as good as she thought.

The audience was impressed, however, and Morgan looked pleased at the buzz in the room. Her smile vanished, however, when the third panelist threw open the double doors at the rear of the room with a bang and staggered to the front. Lucy caught a definite whiff of alcohol as he passed, the same stale smell she associated with the district court on Monday morning, when the weekend catch of DUI's were arraigned.

“Here's our missing panelist,” said Catherine in a spritely voice. “Sam Syrjala, editor of the Hartford
Gazette.
That's Hartford, Connecticut, and the
Gazette,
also owned by Pioneer Press Group, is a daily with a circulation of over a hundred thousand, making it one of the biggest papers in the group.”

Syrjala didn't acknowledge this gracious introduction but collapsed into his chair. Unlike Morgan, who was neatly dressed in an edgy urban outfit complete with spiky hair and chunky shoes, and Catherine, neatly put together in a tan pantsuit and a silk camp shirt, he looked as if he'd slept in his rumpled seersucker suit. But even if he'd taken the trouble to dress in fresh clothes that morning, Lucy doubted it would have done much good. Seriously overweight and balding, with droopy jowls and bloodshot eyes, Syrjala was not a good-looking man.

“Well, let's get started,” said Catherine. “Today's topic is interviewing techniques, and instead of sitting here and patting ourselves on the back for our past successes, I'd like to turn this panel over to you—the folks who are out there every day getting the stories. Then, as panelists, we can add our two cents' worth. How does that sound?”

It sounded pretty good to everyone except Morgan Dodd. Lucy noticed she was definitely miffed at losing a chance to talk about her prizewinning interview. Had it been an intentional slap in the face, or was Catherine simply trying to include as many people as possible in the discussion?

“Okay, let's get started,” she said, adding an encouraging smile. “Would somebody, anybody, like to share an interviewing technique that really works—maybe something that puts the subject at ease?”

Nobody said a word. It was like being back in school, where everyone avoided making eye contact with the teacher. They examined their fingernails, they wrote in their notebooks, they tightened the lids on their coffee cups, they did anything except raise their hands.

Lucy couldn't stand it. Her hand shot up.

“Great, we have a volunteer,” said Catherine, rewarding her with a big smile. “Would you mind introducing yourself?”

Lucy took a deep breath. “Well, I'm Lucy Stone, and I'm a reporter at the Tinker's Cove
Pennysaver;
that's in Maine.” Lucy was rushing, sliding the words together. “One thing I've found really helpful is to let the subject know right up front that I'll be taking the photo at the end of the interview. A lot of people worry about having their picture taken, but if you tell them you're not going to spring it on them it gives them a chance to relax a bit.”

“You take your own pictures?” asked a young fellow with a shaved head.

“Doesn't everybody?”