Father’s Day Murder (8 page)

For a moment neither Lucy nor Ted spoke. Lucy was simply trying to absorb what she had seen. Junior was under arrest. The police were going to charge him with murdering his father. Where had they gotten the idea he could do such a thing? she wondered. Anybody who had seen them together, who had seen the regard they so obviously had for each other, would know Junior could never do such a thing. It was absurd. Impossible. Crazy.

“This is a story,” said Ted, taking her elbow. “We've got to get to work.”

Lucy nodded and allowed herself to be steered back into the hotel. She was halfway through the revolving door when the thought hit her: she was the one who had seen Junior and Luther fighting before the banquet. She was the one who had told Detective Sullivan. Overcome with guilt, she grabbed Ted's arm and faced him.

“It's because of me,” she said. “Junior was arrested because of me!”

“D
on't flatter yourself, Lucy,” said Ted. “The cops didn't arrest Junior because of anything you said. They arrested him because they've got a case against him.”

Lucy watched miserably as the police cars turned the corner and vanished, carrying Junior off to jail. The lockup in Tinker's Cove was grim enough; she could only imagine what the cells in Boston were like.

“But I'm the one who told Sullivan about the fight.”

Ted wrapped an arm around her shoulder and led her back inside the hotel.

“People don't get arrested for murder because they had a disagreement,” he said. “Trust me, they wouldn't take someone with Junior's clout without a really solid case. Face it, he was there when his father died. That would automatically make him a prime suspect. He was on the scene; he had opportunity.”

“And means,” admitted Lucy reluctantly. “He would have known about his father's asthma and could have substituted an empty canister in his emergency inhaler.” She chewed her lip. “But what about motive?”

They had paused by one of the furniture arrangements in the lobby, and were half standing, half sitting, leaning against the back of a sofa.

“I don't know for sure, but I have a good idea,” said Ted. “He stopped by the office last summer with what he called an ‘interesting proposal.' He wanted to get out of the newspaper business and start a lifestyle magazine. He wanted to call it
Maine Living,
and he wanted me to invest in it.”

“Did you?”

“No. For one thing, I don't have that kind of money. For another, I thought it was a crazy idea.” Ted scratched his chin, chuckling. “I mean, there're simply not enough year-round people with disposable income to support something like that in Maine, and I told him so. I ribbed him some about it; I used to send him e-mails with suggestions for stories.
‘When Your Family's Had Enough: 101 Ways to Cook Moose.' ‘Fun in the Muck: Don't Let Mud Season Stop You.'
And then there was my favorite:
‘Flannel à la Mode: New Ways to Wear Your Favorite Shirt.'”

“Very funny, Ted,” scoffed Lucy. “But how is this a motive?”

“Junior came up with a better idea: a Connecticut lifestyle magazine.” He paused. “In case you didn't know, Connecticut has one of the highest per capita incomes in the country. There's a huge market there for the right magazine, but it would take a lot of capital to get started.”

“Which the National Media sale would provide.”

“Right. But if Luther had decided against it, or even to postpone it—”

“You think he's guilty!” accused Lucy, her voice rising.

“No, I don't. I've known Junior for a long time and I don't believe he could kill anyone, much less his father. But I think the police could see this as a motive.” He glanced at the door. “I think I'll head over to police headquarters and see what I can find out. While I'm doing that, maybe you could call his wife and see if she's got anything to say.”

Lucy was horrified. She didn't want to be the one to deliver the bad news to Angela.

“Are you crazy? We're under a gag order, remember?”

“Not anymore,” said Ted, grinning broadly. “They've made an arrest. They can't say we're impeding an investigation, can they? The investigation's over.” Ted started for the door, then turned. “If you get anything, leave a message on my phone. Okay?”

Lucy nodded glumly, watching him stride off.

The lobby was no place to make the call. It was too public and full of nosy journalists who wouldn't think twice about listening in. They'd think it was their duty, in fact. Rather than risk being overheard she decided to make the call from the privacy of her room. But even when she was safely inside the chained and bolted door, she hesitated.

This was the part of her job that she could never get used to. She hated intruding on anyone's private grief, yet she often found herself calling people who were reeling in shock from the death of a loved one. People who'd lost their house and all their belongings in a fire, or folks who'd seen a hurricane destroy the business they'd worked a lifetime to build.

Sometimes, she admitted, people were eager to talk. Glad to have someone who would listen. But others snarled insults—she'd been called everything from a ghoul to a filthy buzzard—or simply hung up. Lucy fingered the phone, doubting that she'd get very far with Angela. She took a deep breath and dialed.

A familiar voice answered.

“Elizabeth!” she exclaimed.

“Mom!” Elizabeth didn't question why her mother had called; she assumed it was to hear news from home. She plunged right in. “You'll never believe what happened! Dad fired Toby! He didn't come home last night, and when he showed up this morning they had a big fight and Dad told him he's got to find a new job by Friday or he gets kicked out of the house.”

“I thought something like that might have happened,” said Lucy. “Pam called Ted and said Toby spent last night there.” She decided not to mention the drinking. “How's everything else?”

“Okay, I guess. Sara and Zoe are real pains, I've got to tell you. They missed the bus yesterday and I had to drive them to school. I think they did it on purpose so they wouldn't have to ride the bus. They'd much rather have me chauffeur them around.”

Lucy knew the feeling. “What about the dog? I got a call from Mrs. Pratt. He got into her chickens again.”

“The dog? I haven't seen much of him lately.”

Lucy was beginning to feel dizzy. “That's exactly the problem, Elizabeth. You've got to keep track of him. Make sure he's in the house or on his run. He can't run loose.”

“Right, Mom. I've been pretty busy with this job, you know.” Elizabeth expelled a huge sigh. “I'm bored to death, Mom. Why didn't you tell me this job stinks? It's like I'm a slave or something. Angela doesn't do a thing. I have to do absolutely everything for Trevor: feed him and play with him and even wipe his bottom when he goes poopy.”

Trust Elizabeth to view the world from her own perspective, thought Lucy.

“Well, that's what you get paid for,” she said.

“And when I take him over to the club—you won't believe this, Mom—I'm not supposed to mingle with the members! That's what Angela actually said. ‘Mingling with the club members is discouraged.' Instead, I'm supposed to stay right by the kiddie pool with the other au pairs. I mean, it's like we're servants or something.”

Lucy didn't quite know how to answer this. No matter, Elizabeth was rattling on.

“The other girls are really nice, though. There's Emmanuelle—she's from France and has the cutest clothes—and Sonia from Italy and Katerina from Sweden or someplace where everyone is blond and tall and beautiful. We're very international, which is kind of fun because we're teaching each other swear words in different languages. But I don't know if I'm going to be taking Trevor to the club much anymore, because there's been a death in the family. It's his grandfather, but I don't think he knows about it yet. Or maybe he's too young to understand. I'm not supposed to say anything about it; I'm just supposed to keep him busy.”

When she paused for breath Lucy seized the opportunity. “You know, I really need to talk to Angela. Is she around?”

“Uh, no, Mom. She got a call a little while ago and had to leave. I'm supposed to stay until she gets back, even if I have to sleep over.”

Lucy wondered if Angela had heard about Junior's arrest. “Who called?”

“I dunno. She doesn't talk to me, except to give orders about Trevor. She's on the phone all the time, though. I mean, today I had to track her down in her office—you know I'm not supposed to bother her when she's working in there?—but there was nothing to give Trevor for lunch and I didn't know what to do. She was complaining to a friend, I think. Saying how everything's on hold now. I think she was talking about this magazine she wants to start,
Connecticut Country Life.
She's got pages and covers tacked up all around the office; it's a big deal to her.”

Lucy had a sinking feeling. If Angela had been pressuring Junior about the magazine it would have given him an even stronger motive for killing his father. The prosecution could argue that he was afraid of disappointing his wife.

“She's not upset about Luther?”

“Oh, yeah. Like I said, she's been calling lawyers and family members.”

Suddenly Lucy felt very sorry for the little boy who had lost his grandfather, whose father had just been arrested, and whose mother was too busy for him.

“Trevor's going to need some extra-special attention,” she advised Elizabeth. “He may not know what has happened, but he knows something is wrong.”

“You know, Mom, Trevor already misses his dad. He's always asking when he's coming home.”

Lucy felt a visceral stab of pain. “Really?”

“Yeah. There's pictures of the two of them all over the house. Trevor loves to look at them. I mean, you can't walk by some of them without him stopping to tell me all about them. ‘We went fishing,' he'll say. ‘That's Dad and me at the ball game.'”

Lucy swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the lump in her throat.

“He sounds like a really good dad.”

“I think so, Mom. Angela asked me to help him make a Father's Day present, so we've been collecting seashells for a picture frame.”

“That's really nice.” Lucy suddenly felt tired. “I've got to go,” she said.

“Wait, Mom. There's just one more thing. If Toby doesn't get a job and Dad throws him out of the house, can I have his room? Please? It's just awful sharing with Sara and Zoe. I mean, I have no privacy at all.”

Lucy was once again feeling a familiar burning sensation in her chest. “We'll see,” she said, firmly pressing the end button. She immediately picked up the hotel phone and dialed Ted's room number, leaving a message that she hadn't been able to contact Angela.

She was off the hook for the moment, but Ted would be disappointed. He wouldn't give up, either. Sooner or later she'd have to talk to Angela.

I
t was dinnertime, according to the clock, but Lucy didn't have any appetite. She had heartburn. She reached for her purse and began searching for the roll of antacid mints she'd bought at the hotel gift shop. When she finally found them she popped two in her mouth and let herself fall back onto the bed, legs dangling over the side, waiting for them to work.

It must be the odd meals she was eating at the convention, she decided. At home she had three square meals every day, but here she'd been skipping meals and gnawing on stale pizza and eating strange, exotic foods in Vietnamese restaurants. Not to mention those jumbo-sized coffees every morning. No wonder she had heartburn. No wonder she couldn't seem to handle these long-distance calls.

It was one disaster after another. Lucy shook her head. It was so like Elizabeth to try to capitalize on her brother's disgrace. She could imagine only too well how angry Bill must have been with Toby, and she didn't blame him one bit. Toby was behaving irresponsibly, breaking the law. They couldn't tolerate this sort of behavior. It was bad enough that Toby was running wild, but Lucy suspected he was breaking his father's heart. Not that Bill would admit it, but he had been awfully pleased when Toby had suggested working with him and learning restoration carpentry. Now it seemed that Toby had been less interested in learning his father's craft than in coming up with an excuse to get out of going back to college.

Lucy remembered Toby as a cute little towheaded tyke, just like Trevor. When Toby was a boy he had adored his father. His favorite toys had been a set of plastic carpenter's tools. Bill had given him a nail apron, a giveaway from the local lumberyard, and for months Toby never went anywhere without his “tool belt.” Instead of watching
Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood
on TV with Elizabeth, he waited anxiously by the window every night for Bill to come home. No sooner would the red pickup turn into the driveway than Toby would be out the door, running to greet his father.

How times change, thought Lucy. These days Toby was probably working very hard to avoid his father. Unlike poor little Trevor, who was eagerly awaiting his father's return. Learning that Junior was a devoted dad, who was adored by his son, made Lucy feel absolutely awful. Maybe Ted was right that she'd had nothing to do with Junior's arrest, but she still felt guilty. She'd implicated an innocent man. Junior hadn't killed Luther; Lucy was sure of it. It was impossible. She'd seen him with Luther herself and had been struck by their obvious affection for each other; she'd even wished that Toby and Bill's relationship were more like theirs.

No, she decided, the police must have the wrong man. From what she'd seen at the banquet last night there was a whole tableful of Reads who had the means and opportunity to commit murder. She didn't know which one it was, but she was determined to find out. It was the least she could do. After all, she had to assuage her own guilt. She couldn't be the one who kept Junior from spending Father's Day with his son.

The only problem was, she admitted to herself as she sat up, she didn't have the foggiest idea where to begin. Moping in her room sure wasn't going to help. What she needed was some exercise, something to get the blood flowing, the neurons firing, and the synapses snapping. She needed a workout, but first she had one more chore. She had to call Mrs. Pratt and convince her not to insist on the dog hearing.

She didn't blame the woman one bit, she told herself as she dialed. She had every right to do it. But Kudo had already narrowly escaped with his life from a previous hearing when he belonged to Curt Nolan, and there was no guarantee he'd be so lucky a second time. She knew that the board of selectmen took a dim view of repeat offenders.

“Hi,” she began, when Mrs. Pratt answered the phone. “This is Lucy Stone. I heard Kudo got into your chicken coop again.”

“Well, it's about time you called.”

“I only just heard,” lied Lucy. “I'm out of town. In Boston.”

Mrs. Pratt sniffed. “Well, if you ask me, you've got no business running off to the city and leaving that dog unattended.”

Lucy felt her hackles rise.

“I didn't have any choice. It's part of my job.”

“Well, in my day women stayed home and took care of their families, including their dogs. There was none of this gallivanting around.”

Lucy counted to ten. She'd love nothing better than to tell Mrs. Pratt exactly what she thought of her outmoded views, but she knew it would be counterproductive. “The reason I'm calling,” she said, “is to tell you how sorry I am and to ask if you'd reconsider your request for a dog hearing. Kudo's already had one hearing, you see, and I'm afraid this time they'll order him destroyed. He's not really a bad dog, you know; he's a family pet and we all love him. I can promise you that once I get home he'll be under lock and key and he won't get out.”

Lucy thought it sounded pretty good. Mrs. Pratt didn't agree.

“Absolutely not. That dog is out of control, and frankly I don't care what happens to him.”

“I'm sure we can work something out,” pleaded Lucy.

“You're a day late and a dollar short, Lucy Stone. I'll see you at the hearing. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye to you, too,” shouted Lucy, but Mrs. Pratt wasn't listening. She'd hung up. So much for trying to get along with her neighbors. So much for tolerance. So much for animal rights.

Lucy stomped around the room, looking for her exercise clothes. When she found them she ripped off her clothes, tossing them on the floor, and pulled on her T-shirt and shorts. She jammed her feet into her sneakers, pulling the laces so tight that one of them snapped.

She wanted to scream and howl; she wanted to throw the sneaker against the wall. But she didn't. She sat on the bed and took a few deep breaths. Then she tied the broken ends of the lace back together and put the shoe back on. When she had it laced up she tucked her key card in her pocket and left the room, making sure the door was locked behind her.

 

In the gym she hopped onto a stationary bike and started pedaling as fast as she could, but that didn't last very long. A TV set above her head was playing the local news, and her pace slowed as she became interested in the report, wondering if they had the story about Junior's arrest. It was hard to tell. If they'd started the newscast with the story, she would have missed it. She was trying to figure out how much lead time a TV news report required when Morgan Dodd greeted her.

Morgan was dressed in a skintight Lycra workout outfit that bared her skinny little middle and actually bagged on her nonexistent bottom. She was so thin, in fact, that Lucy wondered why she was killing herself on the treadmill that way. The treadmill was just a warm-up for Morgan; after ten minutes she abandoned it for the StairMaster.

Lucy was amazed at Morgan's energy; she was already starting to feel winded on the bicycle, where the speedometer indicated she was going three miles per hour. It must be broken, she decided, pedaling steadily. Morgan soon joined her, climbing up on the adjacent bike. She was sweating profusely, but wasn't the least bit out of breath.

“Congratulations,” said Morgan, wiping her face with a towel. “I saw your series won first place.”

“It did?” This was news to Lucy. “How do you know?”

“Didn't you hear the announcement? They've got all the winning stories up on display in the mezzanine. You can pick up your award at the registration desk”

“I'll have to stop by,” said Lucy. “How did you do?”

“Second. I'm hot on your heels.” Morgan grinned. “Did you see the Boston papers this morning? Not very good coverage of Luther Read's death, do you think?”

“Not very good,” agreed Lucy. “Of course, it was pretty late last night and they were working on deadline.”

“I tell you, the
Globe
needs me,” said Morgan. “Sooner or later they're gonna realize it.”

Lucy found herself smiling at the girl reporter's chutzpah and wondered if she knew about Junior's arrest. Not that she was about to volunteer any information to a competitor.

“How come they need you? What do you know that they don't?”

“A lot,” said Morgan. “Because I'm pretty close with the cops working the case.”

Lucy was intrigued. “Really?” she asked.

“Yeah.” Morgan pedaled on in silence for a few minutes, and Lucy could see her muscles working underneath her tanned skin. “I know where they hang out, get coffee and stuff, you know. The doughnuts. So I was there first thing this morning.”

“These guys were willing to talk to you about an ongoing case?” Lucy couldn't believe it.

“Not exactly,” admitted Morgan with a shrug. “It's a small place. You hear things.”

“You can't use hearsay,” said Lucy, recalling her libel workshop.

“I can if I get it confirmed,” said Morgan.

“But then they'll know you were eavesdropping and they'll start watching what they say when you're around. Not a good long-term strategy.” Lucy's legs were aching, but she didn't want to stop pedaling before she found out what Morgan knew. “So what did you learn?” she asked.

“Well, from what I heard, it's just a matter of time before they arrest Junior.”

“You're right!” exclaimed Lucy. “They did it just about an hour ago. I saw the cops take him through the lobby.”

Morgan smiled smugly. “Pretty fast, don't you think? I mean, they didn't have time to run any tests on the physical evidence, but they went ahead anyway.”

“That's true,” said Lucy, who hadn't really thought about it.

“Well, it's because he was fingered by a disgruntled employee—that fat editor from the interviewing workshop, Sam Syrjala. The cops said he really hates Junior. They said he said that Junior was born with a silver pica pole in his hand.” She shrugged. “The guy's got a way with words.”

“I'm surprised the cops knew what a pica pole is,” said Lucy. The poles, specialized rulers used to measure column length, were rarely used anymore, now that newspaper pages were designed on computers.

“They didn't,” said Morgan. “But they had some interesting ideas.”

Lucy chuckled, thinking ruefully that if they were on real bicycles, Morgan would be miles ahead of her by now. “Did they say what Junior's motive was?”

“I wondered the same thing,” said Morgan. “I called some of my contacts but they told me they're still developing the case.”

Lucy was beginning to doubt that Morgan had a future at the
Globe.
Not if she couldn't tell when the police were stonewalling.

“This place where the cops hang out, is it around here?” asked Lucy, dismounting from her bike and leaning casually against it.

“Wouldn't you like to know,” said Morgan, pedaling even harder than before.

“Maybe we can work out something,” said Lucy, in a speculative tone. “I can give you some background on the Read family—they have a summer place in my town—and you can help me develop some police contacts.”

Morgan slowed her pace. “Two prizewinning reporters. We'd make a pretty good team. Let me think about it, okay?”

“Sure,” said Lucy. “You know where to find me.”

She started to leave, then paused, wondering why Morgan was staying at the hotel. The gym was open only to guests, she knew, but Morgan worked for a suburban paper. If she lived nearby, her paper would hardly provide hotel accommodations.

“Are you staying here at the Park Plaza?” she asked.

“No.” Morgan shook her head. “My boss is a real cheapskate. I'm driving to Riverside and taking the T in every day.”

“So how'd you get in the gym?'

“I just signed in. Nobody checks.”

“They might. What room did you put down?”

“Yours. I figured it's probably big enough for two. Right?'

“Wrong,” said Lucy, laughing. “It's hardly big enough for me.”

 

When Lucy opened the door to her room, she didn't mind its modest size at all. The best part of staying in a hotel, she decided, was leaving the unmade bed and dirty towels and coming back to find everything fresh and neat. Except, of course, for the little pile of dirty clothes she'd left on the floor. She flopped down on the smooth comforter, the one she hadn't had to wrestle into submission that morning, and kicked off her sneakers, enjoying the fact that all she had to do was take a shower and find herself some supper.

She hauled herself to her feet, intending to take a nice, long shower, since the hot water never seemed to run out at the hotel, unlike at home. She was passing the desk when something caught her eye. It was her notebook, flipped open.

Lucy stopped in her tracks. Why was her notebook open? She hadn't taken it out of her bag. Or had she? She stood in place, trying to remember her actions when she'd called the Read house to talk to Angela. She'd sat on the bed. She remembered that much. But had she taken her notebook out and then, when she hadn't been able to speak to Angela, put it on the desk? She didn't think so. She didn't remember doing it.

Of course, these days she often forgot things. Some mornings she couldn't remember if she'd brushed her teeth or taken her vitamin. The drive to work passed in a blur; she could rarely remember if the traffic light on Main Street had been green or red. And then there were those restless reading glasses—they seemingly wandered about the house of their own accord, turning up in the most unlikely places. So it was entirely possible she had put the notebook on the desk and forgotten all about it.

Considering the matter, Lucy decided she'd prefer it that way, because the alternative was that someone had entered her room while she was out and had rifled through her belongings. Who would do that? And why? The only explanation she could come up with was that someone with a guilty conscience—Luther's murderer?—had pegged her as a skilled investigative reporter, probably because she'd won first prize. But that was ridiculous. Lucy had no illusions about her abilities in that regard. Getting a story depended upon luck as much as anything, and she sure wasn't feeling lucky these days.