Father’s Day Murder (9 page)

She decided to put it out of her mind and take that shower. But before she went in the bathroom, she made sure the lock was bolted and the safety chain was securely fastened.

T
hings always looked brighter after a good night's sleep. It was true, Lucy decided when she woke on Wednesday morning. Nothing had changed overnight except for her mood. She felt refreshed and ready to face whatever the day brought. Take Toby, for example. He was a decent kid at heart. No doubt he'd learn from his mistakes. And Kudo. She'd covered plenty of dog hearings and she was confident that if she came prepared with proof that Kudo was now housed in a proper kennel, with a fenced run, the selectmen would be satisfied and wouldn't take action against the dog.

Energized by these encouraging thoughts, Lucy leaped from bed and stretched, then threw open the drapes, revealing the dreary view. Not so dreary after all; sunlight was angling down, bathing part of the brick wall in a golden glow. It was going to be a good day, she decided, practicing the power of positive thinking.

She was still humming with optimism when she entered the coffee shop and ran smack-dab into the last person she'd expected to see. It was Catherine Read, looking crisp and professional as ever. Lucy knew it was wrong to judge people and that everyone reacted differently to death, but she would have expected Catherine to be in seclusion with her family. Unless, of course, some decision had been made to get out in public to show the family had confidence in Junior's innocence. Whatever it was, it was darned awkward.

“Hi,” she said, getting in line behind Catherine. It would be rude not to acknowledge the woman, after all.

“Hi, Lucy,” replied Catherine, managing a small, tight smile.

“I'm so sorry about your father.” Lucy didn't know what else to say. “And your brother.”

“You know,” said Catherine, handing over a couple of dollars and accepting a cardboard cup and a grossly oversize muffin, “I don't think I've absorbed it yet.”

She waited for Lucy and they sat down together at a table. Lucy eyed her muffin skeptically. “They say it's blueberry, but these seem more like little bits of blue gum or something.”

“Not like the blueberries that grow wild in Tinker's Cove,” said Catherine. “Gosh, I'd love to be there now.”

“This must be awful for you.”

“It's bad enough losing Dad in a tragic accident, but now that they've arrested Junior…” She paused and plucked a piece of muffin, keeping her head down. “It's ridiculous, of course. The whole family is behind him one hundred percent, and we've got the lawyers on it. We're hoping he can get the charges dropped so he won't have to go to trial.”

“Can I quote you on that?” asked Lucy. “I tried to reach Angela last night but she wasn't home.”

“You just missed her. She was here last night, kicking up a huge fuss and calling lawyers and anybody else she could think of, including Ted Kennedy, but I'm happy to say she left for Tinker's Cove first thing this morning.”

“Does she have a cell phone?” inquired Lucy.

“Do me a favor,” said Catherine, leaning toward Lucy. “Don't bother Angela. She's having a difficult time right now. I'll be happy to give you a statement on behalf of the family.”

“That's very kind of you,” said Lucy, pulling out her notebook.

Catherine took a moment to collect her thoughts, then spoke slowly so Lucy could get it all down. “My entire family believes the Boston Police Department has made a terrible mistake in arresting my brother and charging him with murdering his father. We know Junior is innocent and we're confident that he will eventually be exonerated, but these accusations have caused our family a great deal of additional sorrow.” She paused. “How's that?”

“Fine.”

“Not too strong?”

“Not at all.” Lucy chewed her muffin. “They were awfully quick to arrest him. Do you know why?”

Catherine blinked rapidly, as if considering how to react. “This is off the record, but in my opinion it's absolutely ridiculous!” she finally exclaimed indignantly. “Talk about a rush to judgment!”

Catherine had reduced her muffin to a pile of crumbs and was picking up one bit and then another, but not taking a single bite.

“Okay, so there was a full inhaler canister in his room, but that doesn't mean anything. We've all got inhalers—asthma and allergies run in our family. For me it's dust and mold. Junior can't handle tree pollen. Dad, rest his soul, couldn't be anywhere near a cat. But we all take the same medications—it's no wonder the canisters got mixed up. Dad probably put his down and Junior picked it up, thinking it was his. Who can tell one Proventil from another?”

“Your father was allergic to cats?” asked Lucy. “There are no cats here.”

“He's
most
allergic to cats, but he's allergic to lots of other stuff, too. You never know what's going to set you off. Sometimes I can drink orange juice; sometimes I can't.” She paused. “I didn't think I'd risk it today, considering everything.”

“Good call,” agreed Lucy. “My daughter has asthma. Like you say, sometimes the pollen count is high and she's fine; other days it's low but she runs into trouble anyway.”

“Then you understand what it's like. I hope Junior's doing okay in jail. You can just imagine the conditions: mildew, dust mites—I can't deal with it. Angela took his medicine over, but we don't know if they'll let him have it.” She examined a lump of muffin, then put it down.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't be venting like this, inflicting my feelings on you.” She shook her head ruefully. “I'm on the organizing committee, you know. I'm supposed to be running the conference, but I don't know whether I'm coming or going.” She furrowed her brow. “How's it going, by the way?”

“Great,” said Lucy, making her voice sound enthusiastic. “Terrific workshops. Fabulous. I've learned a lot.”

“I'm so glad.” Catherine sounded relieved. “Have you heard anything about the judging? We made some changes, you know, to try to make it fairer.”

Where was this conversation going? wondered Lucy. If she were in Catherine's place she would hardly have been thinking about rule changes.

“I can only speak for myself, but I don't think it could be any fairer,” she said. “Of course, I could be biased, since I won a first place.”

“Congratulations!” Catherine paused. “You know that job offer's still good.” She stood up. “Thanks for listening. I've got to run.”

Lucy watched her leave, chewing thoughtfully on the last bit of her muffin. Definitely not blueberries, she decided, but some artificial substance designed to simulate blueberries. Real blueberries wouldn't keep very well; the muffins might spoil before they could be sold.

Maybe something similar was going on at Pioneer Press, thought Lucy. Maybe the Reads were putting on a good appearance, pretending all was fine with the company, so they could unload it on National Media. Or maybe Pioneer wasn't in such rocky financial shape as she thought. After all, Inez could hardly go on shopping sprees at Armani, and Catherine couldn't hire new staff if the company was almost bankrupt, could they?

Was it one of those phony corporate bookkeeping scams she'd heard so much about lately? Were they deliberately fiddling with the figures for some reason? To avoid paying taxes? To make the company more attractive to a buyer? Was that what Sam Syrjala had on them?

As her mind leaped from one idea to another, Lucy realized she'd had the same confused sensation after her lunch with Catherine on Monday. Only this time Catherine had taken great pains to connect with her emotionally and win her sympathy. Had it been genuine, or had she been deliberately manipulating her? It was as if Catherine had a list of ideas that she wanted to convey, almost like a government official who had a list of talking points to cover.

For one thing, Lucy didn't buy her insistence that Luther's death had been an accident. Catherine was too experienced a journalist to believe that the police would make a mistake like that. They might have arrested the wrong person, and Lucy happened to think they had, but they never would have announced it was a homicide if there was the least possibility it was an accidental death.

She'd also refused to give Lucy Angela's cell phone number, which guaranteed Angela would be incommunicado until after Lucy's deadline at noon today. Was that intentional, or just coincidence?

As for the bit about the conference, Lucy thought it was more proof that Catherine was busily erecting barriers to protect herself from her true emotions. Instead of grieving for her father or worrying about Junior, she was focusing on the conference as something manageable and controllable.

Okay, maybe she was sounding like a psychologist, but she was beginning to think that Catherine might have built up quite a few resentments against her father over the years. There was the issue of her sexuality and whether that was the reason Luther had left all of his Pioneer Press shares to Junior. And what about Monica? Perhaps Catherine didn't see her as a worthy successor to her late mother. Maybe she even feared losing her father's affection when he became involved with Monica. Especially if his relationship with Monica was the reason he'd decided against selling the chain. Catherine had as much to gain from the sale as Junior, maybe more. She was clearly one of the stars of the company with her profitable paper, and National Media would certainly want to keep her. For Catherine, the giant conglomerate would certainly offer her more opportunities for advancement than she would have had in the small, family-owned Pioneer Press.

Lucy popped the last of her muffin into her mouth. It may have been fake, but it did taste a lot like blueberries. The imitation blueberries somehow tasted more like blueberries than the real thing, which were sometimes bland, or acidic instead of sweet. And maybe she was overreacting. She'd like to think so, she admitted to herself, but it was hard to overlook the fact that Catherine had plenty of reasons for wishing her father dead.

Lucy still had a few minutes before her workshop, so she refilled her coffee cup and sat back down at the sticky Formica table, pulling her cell phone from her purse. She dialed Ted's room.

“I'll start with the bad news,” she said when he answered. “I couldn't get Angela.”

“Damn.”

“But there's good news. I did get a nice quote from Catherine.”

She read it off so Ted could get it down.

“Good work, Lucy. That fills the hole in my story nicely.”

Lucy knew he was speaking literally. He had probably written the story about Junior's arrest last night when he got back from police headquarters, leaving a space for reaction from the family. Now that the story was finished, he could e-mail it to Phyllis, who was putting the paper together for the noon deadline.

“Well, Catherine's a pro,” replied Lucy. “She knew what we wanted.”

“It sounds like you two are getting pretty buddy-buddy.”

“Hardly. She's all smoke and mirrors, believe me. She was trying to tell me that the cops have made a terrible mistake and Luther's death was really an accident.”

“It's called denial, Lucy.” Ted's voice was gentle. “Who can blame her?”

“Well, if my father were murdered I'd want to know who did it.” Lucy paused. “Heck, I'm just a casual acquaintance and I want to know who did it. Did you get anything interesting from the cops last night?”

“Lucy, listen to me. You're not investigating this murder; you're attending a conference. Don't you have a workshop this morning?”

Lucy checked her watch. It was time to get moving or she'd be late.

“I'm practically there,” she told Ted.

N
ew England weather is remarkably unreliable, but every now and then the meteorological forces cooperate to produce a perfectly brilliant day at least once every June. It was just such a morning when Lucy left the coffee shop: the sun was shining in a cloudless blue sky, the air was fresh, and a gentle breeze ruffled her hair. It seemed horribly unfair that Ted expected her to spend such a morning in a windowless subterranean meeting room.

In a small act of rebellion she decided to delay the inevitable by walking around the block to the entrance on the other side of the hotel. The top-hatted doorman was too busy to hold open the door for her and when she went inside she found quite a crowd of people standing by the valet parking window. They were all waiting for their cars to be brought from the garage, and some of them seemed to be growing impatient. Harold Read, she noticed, was among them.

“Who ever heard of a hotel that doesn't have a garage, that has to park the cars out in who-knows-where!”

Inez nervously plucked something from her beige, tailored silk sleeve. “Take it easy,” she murmured. “People will hear.”

Intrigued by this family drama, Lucy slowed her pace.

“I don't care if they do hear. We've been waiting for half an hour. Where the hell is the car? Out in Dorchester?”

“I'd like to send that cat of yours to Dorchester,” declared Inez, holding out her arms for his inspection. “Look at this. My new suit is covered with cat hair.”

Hearing the word
cat,
Lucy decided to stick around. She found a spot against the marble wall and joined the group waiting for their cars.

“One or two hairs, that's all,” said Harold. “It's not Fluffy's fault. Cats shed, especially in summer.” He tapped his foot. “Fluffy could have that car here faster than these idiots.”

“Calm down. You're just going to raise your blood pressure,” said Inez, brushing at her sleeve.

She was perched on stiletto heels and her hips were encased in a short, tight skirt that matched her jacket. Lucy couldn't imagine a more uncomfortable outfit. Inez was clearly a woman who put a premium on her appearance. The shoes, Lucy guessed, probably cost at least three hundred dollars; the suit must have set Harold back a couple of thousand. And then there was the hair, nails, and makeup, plus a generous sprinkling of jewelry. Inez was definitely high-maintenance and surely required frequent visits to the beauty salon, masseuse, and gym. It all seemed rather expensive for a man whose business was losing money.

“Tell me about it,” fumed Harold. “I know you don't like Fluffy much, Inez, but you've got to admit she has a calming influence. All she has to do is sit in your lap and start purring and it's better than a scotch and soda.”

“How would you know?” asked Inez. “You always have the scotch and soda, too.”

“I could use one now,” said Harold, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his brow. “Maybe I should talk to that guy again. Make sure he hasn't forgotten us.”

“The car's here,” said Inez, pointing with a coral-tipped and bejeweled finger.

“So it is,” said Harold, stuffing the handkerchief in his pocket and taking his wife by the elbow.

In his haste, he missed the pocket and the handkerchief fluttered to the marble floor. Lucy quickly scooped it up and followed them outside to return it. She never got a chance.

“You've wrecked my car!” shouted Harold, grabbing the valet driver by the scruff of his neck and pointing to a ding on the door of his gold Lexus. “You're gonna pay!”

The driver tried to wriggle out of his grasp, all the while offering a rapid-fire explanation in a foreign language. A language Harold definitely didn't understand.

“Can't you speak English? This is America, God damn it.” He gave the driver a shake and yelled,
“We speak English!”

The manager hurried out of his booth, and Harold, distracted, let the driver go. He remained in place, gesturing with his arms and repeating his staccato explanation to the manager.

“He says it was like that; he didn't do anything.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” demanded Harold.

“No, no, no,” insisted the manager. “But it is a small dent. Very small. You may not have noticed it until now.”

“I would have noticed,” growled Harold. “I'm calling the police! I want to file a report!” His face was beet red, and Inez was trying to soothe his temper by patting his arm. He shook her off and planted himself in front of the manager, shoving his face out and jabbing the man's chest with his finger.

This was definitely not the time to return the handkerchief, especially since it was past time for her workshop. She'd mail it to him, or give it to Catherine. She certainly didn't want to get involved in this scene, even though it made for fascinating drama. She reluctantly pulled herself away, stepping into a pool of sunlight. The handkerchief, she saw, was sparkling. When she held it closer to examine it, she sneezed. Cat hair. Inez wasn't the only one covered with cat hair—the handkerchief was full of it.

“Dad, rest his soul, couldn't be anywhere near a cat.” That's what Catherine had said. But it seemed likely that Luther had been exposed to cat hair the night he died. Lucy remembered seeing Luther leaving the banquet room with a handkerchief over his face. Was it his handkerchief, or had Harold given him one of his? A handkerchief, if it was anything like this one, that was full of cat hair. And cat hair, Lucy knew, was one of the most powerful allergens. It could linger in carpets and furniture long after the cat was gone, even remaining in houses for years after the cat owners moved out.

What could Harold have been thinking when he handed Luther his handkerchief? wondered Lucy. What indeed? Had he simply not realized that the handkerchief would exacerbate Luther's symptoms? Or had he done it deliberately, knowing full well that Luther's inhaler was empty because he'd switched it? Murder by cat hair—could such a thing even be possible?

Lucy was debating whether she should call Detective Sullivan when she arrived at the workshop. She took a seat in the back and reached for her notebook, realizing she didn't have the foggiest idea which workshop she was attending. A huge sense of guilt accompanied this realization; she had to admit she really wasn't getting as much out of the conference as she could. She'd been too distracted by the murder, not to mention worrying about the situation at home. Ted wouldn't approve; she knew he'd be furious if he knew.

She resolved to mend her ways and pay attention from now on. She cleared her mind and focused on the speaker at the front of the room, a thirtyish fellow with wire-rimmed glasses dressed in a blue Oxford-cloth shirt and khaki pants.

“First off,” he said, “you have to recognize the fact that the cops are only going to tell you what they want you to know. Take, for example, the murder of the priest in Roxbury a few months ago. The man who was charged with the killing was very popular in the community, a coach and teacher. They wanted to let enough information out so there wouldn't be a public outcry that they'd arrested the wrong man, but they couldn't risk prejudicing a jury, either. They had to walk a very fine line in that case.”

“Or that kid who murdered the lady next door,” offered the second panelist, a heavyset woman with bangs and oversize glasses. Her nameplate identified her as Eileen Rivers, a name Lucy recognized from her byline in
Boston
magazine. “He looked like a choirboy. Hell, he
was
a choirboy. Big for his age, though. There was a lot of sympathy for that kid.” She paused. “He stabbed that poor woman forty-seven times or something.”

Ed Murphy, the third panelist, looked like he'd been around for a while and had seen it all.

“It affects how we cover crimes, too. We didn't run the little psychopath's picture on the front page at the
Herald
—the powers that be decided it would upset the little old ladies who go to Mass every day.” He scratched his chin. “Thank God for DNA or that kid woulda walked. Public sentiment was so strong, the jury never could've convicted him. Not if they wanted to live to tell about it.”

Lucy was enthralled, leaning forward eagerly to hear every word. This was the workshop she'd been most excited about attending: “The Police Beat: Cooperating with and Getting Cooperation from Police and Other Local Officials.” She'd really been looking forward to it, especially considering that her own relations with the police in Tinker's Cove weren't especially good. She had only one friend on the force, Barney Culpepper, and she suspected even he found her a nuisance more often than not.

“Given the fact that the police are naturally going to be stingy with info, we have to figure out some ways to get them to be more forthcoming. Any ideas?”

It was the first panelist, looking for input from the class. He was also acting as moderator and was standing in front of the table where the others were seated. Lucy couldn't see his nameplate and wondered who he was.

Only one hand was up, and Lucy was not surprised to see it belonged to Morgan Dodd. The girl reporter was so eager to talk that she didn't wait for the moderator to recognize her.

“Well, I always find that one hand washes the other, you know. I think I can say I have a pretty good relationship with the Framingham police, and that's because I give them a lot of coverage for Neighborhood Watch and the annual bike auction. It really pays off when we have a big story.”

“Framingham's not Boston,” said Eileen, exchanging glances with Ed.

The moderator, however, nodded encouragingly at Morgan.

“It's always good to do all that you can to develop good relations with the police,” he said, “but it can be dangerous to rely on them too much. If you can get information from somebody else—witnesses, family members, whoever—then you've got some firepower. If they know you're going to print it anyway, sometimes they'll be more forthcoming.”

“Isn't that blackmail?” Lucy was surprised to hear her own voice.

The moderator stared at her, as if affronted, then smiled slowly.

“Any ideas on that?” he asked.

Hands shot up around the room. Soon a lively discussion was under way, which inevitably turned to Luther Read's murder.

“I was a little surprised at the local coverage, especially the
Globe,”
said Lucy. “I guess murder isn't front-page news in Boston.”

Everyone fell silent and Lucy knew immediately that she'd said the wrong thing.

“That was my story,” said the moderator. “I'm Brad McAbee.”

“Oops,” said Lucy, and everyone laughed. “I didn't know that—I came a little late.”

“No problem. You're right, of course. I don't know if there's a lot of pressure from the chamber of commerce or what, but it's now company policy to put violent crimes on the Metro page, unless it's someone very important.”

“Luther Read wasn't important enough?”

“He probably was, actually, but he got himself killed late on Sunday night. There's no way they'd change the front page except for the president…maybe.”

Everybody laughed again, recognizing the truth of what he was saying. The cry to stop the presses was heard a lot more frequently in movies than pressrooms because of the enormous expense involved.

“But what about Tuesday's paper? There wasn't much in that either. Are the police being especially close-mouthed?” asked Lucy.

“You could say that,” said Brad. “And I haven't been able to follow my own advice of developing alternate sources. His family's talking but it's all spin. They're in the business so they know the danger of talking freely to reporters.”

There were knowing chuckles from around the room.

“Part of the problem is that he got killed here, at the convention. If he'd died at home, I could talk to the neighbors. But here, I don't know who knew him and who has an ax to grind. I could find out, if I had plenty of time, but my editor isn't going to budget much time for this story.” Brad shrugged. “How about you guys helping me out—anybody got any theories? Have the cops got the right guy?”

That was the very question Lucy wanted to ask. The only person who raised a hand to answer was Morgan.

“I got it from a very reliable,
official
informant that they have ‘every confidence' that they'll get a conviction.” She nodded knowingly. “Figure it out. It had to be somebody close to him, somebody in the family, who could switch the asthma medication.”

Eileen and Ed were exchanging glances, as if they'd never heard anything so stupid in their lives.

“You're young and obviously new to the business, but you can take my word for it that a lot of people at this convention know Luther Read has asthma,” said Ed. “It's common knowledge.”

Instead of being insulted, Morgan nodded like a good student.

“Don't forget, the cause of death hasn't been officially determined,” cautioned Brad.

Lucy pricked up her ears.

“You mean it might have been something else?” asked Morgan.

“I have my doubts about the asthma theory,” said someone else. “How could the killer know he'd have an attack in the first place?”

“The murderer could have introduced an asthma trigger,” offered Lucy, thinking of the handkerchief. “If the murderer knew he was allergic to cat hair, for example…”

This was met with titters from the group.

“Cat hair! That's a good one,” scoffed Morgan.

“How could the killer be sure he would have a severe enough attack to kill him?”

“Maybe time wasn't important. Maybe the murderer was willing to try again if it didn't work this time,” speculated Lucy, defending her theory.

“Again, that would seem to point to someone in the family, someone who knew there would be other opportunities,” said Brad.