Father’s Day Murder (13 page)

In fact, as she recalled, he'd had to get a special permit from the state and town health departments just to dispose of the chemicals. He'd also had to use a special waste-handling company that specialized in hazardous materials.

Lucy suspected that Ted was the exception, taking the time and trouble to get rid of the dark room properly. Most publishers probably didn't bother, even after switching to digital cameras that produced images on the computer. They just shut the door on the no-longer-needed facilities and forgot about them, leaving the cyanide and other chemicals in place. Why go looking for trouble? they'd reason. Let the EPA and OSHA and the health department in the place and you never knew what they'd find. Talk about opening a can of worms.

Lucy wasn't sure who she imagined was speaking these words. Perhaps Harold Read? Or maybe Sam Syrjala? Neither one would welcome any sort of outside intervention in their business; they would resent work-place rules and regulations as imposing on their personal freedom.

And if the police were still considering Junior their prime suspect, she didn't see why Harold and Syrjala couldn't remain hers. Especially, she realized, with a sensation like a brick dropping through her interior, since Syrjala carried a bottle in his briefcase. Had it really been bourbon? She should have sniffed it when she had the chance. Cyanide, as she knew from her habit of reading mysteries, smelled like bitter almonds.

Suddenly energized, Lucy decided to head back to the hotel to track down Ted. She wanted to know what he made of this new development.

She gathered up her packages and began walking briskly along the pathway. A bit too briskly, perhaps, because she forgot to take the turn that would lead her to the corner of Tremont and Boylston. Instead she once again found herself at the crosswalk leading to the Public Garden.

Quite a crowd of people had gathered, waiting for the long light to change. Lucy didn't like to be crowded and she felt uneasy, especially since traffic was whizzing by so closely. A single misstep or a stumble could have terrible consequences, since there was no way the driver could stop in time. She hoped parents were holding tight to their children, and took a step backward herself. She had the oddest feeling, as if someone were watching her.

Trying not to be too obvious, she bent down as if to adjust her shoe and took a quick look over her shoulder. She almost jumped out of her skin when she spotted Sam Syrjala.

The light finally changed and she walked across, reminding herself to be calm. She was imagining things. Why would Sam follow her? How could he possibly know she suspected him?

Because, she told herself, he knew she'd won a prize for investigative reporting. Because he knew she lived in Tinker's Cove, where Luther's death and Junior's arrest would be big news. Because he was guilty and he wanted to protect himself from a snooping reporter.

There was a way to figure out if she was being followed, she reasoned. She could vary her pace or step off the beaten path and observe what he did. Emboldened, she marched toward the bridge, then took an abrupt left, pausing at a trash barrel and making a show of emptying her pockets. Syrjala, she saw, had also stopped, ostensibly to read the label on a very large tree. It was taking him a very long time to read two words, even if they were in Latin.

Moving quite slowly she strolled along the path that ran along the bank of the pond. It wasn't crowded, but there were plenty of people around. They were taking their time, not using the Public Garden as a shortcut but lingering to enjoy its beauty. The path eventually brought her around to the gate, and she knew she had to come up with a plan to get rid of him. She was safe enough in the park, but she didn't want him following her down the long, empty blocks and alleys around the hotel. She stood on the curb, waiting once again for a break in traffic, and spotted her solution: the Four Seasons Hotel. She'd duck into the hotel and wait him out in the lobby. If he followed her inside, she would complain to the doorman. If he loitered outside, waiting for her to emerge, the doorman would certainly send him on his way.

The stream of cars finally dwindled, and she dashed across the street with a handful of pedestrians and ducked under the hotel's porte cochere. The doorman greeted her with a smile and she sashayed inside. Surely nothing terrible could happen here, she thought, taking in the luxurious furnishings, the bowl of Granny Smith apples, and the vases of fresh flowers.

The lobby was much smaller than the Park Plaza's, it could almost be taken for someone's large living room. Someone with exquisite taste, she decided, perching on a sofa and angling herself so she could see out the window. Sure enough, moments later she saw Syrjala walk by, scowling.

As soon as he passed she felt a huge sense of relief and let out a big sigh. He'd really spooked her, she realized as the tension left her body.

“Can I get you something?” It was one of the bellmen, bending over her with a look of concern.

“No, thank you,” she said. “I'm just catching my breath.”

“Very well,” he said. “Take as long as you need.”

“I'm feeling better already,” said Lucy, getting to her feet. “Thank you.”

Back on the street, Lucy saw no sign of Syrjala. She started back to her hotel, passing the windows of the restaurant at the Four Seasons. Several tables were set in the window, she noticed, offering passersby a glimpse of the leisured, privileged world inside. What would it be like, wondered Lucy, to be one of the well-dressed people sitting at a window table, sipping tea and nibbling on lobster salad, unconcerned about paying the check?

Not quite as carefree as she imagined, she discovered, judging from the couple in the second window. They certainly weren't enjoying themselves; they were having a hell of an argument. It was so obvious, even through the glass, that people on the sidewalk were pausing to watch the little drama.

“It's better than TV,” said one woman.

Lucy nodded in agreement and continued on her way, looking back one last time. Her jaw dropped when she recognized the couple: it was Inez and Harold Read. She stopped in her tracks, gaping at them, only to catch Harold's eye. Embarrassed at her rudeness she hurried on, but his expression stayed with her. If looks could kill, she'd be a dead woman.

G
asping for breath, Lucy collapsed onto the nearest sofa when she reached the safety of the Park Plaza lobby. She'd been so unnerved by Harold's stare that she had practically run all the way back to her hotel. She was sprawled there with shopping bags strewn all around when Ted saw her.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I never actually saw someone shop until she dropped.”

Lucy wasn't sure if she was in trouble or not. She knew Ted expected her to take the conference seriously, but he was smiling. Sort of.

“This isn't quite what it looks like,” she said.

“Let me guess,” he said, moving a shopping bag aside and sitting beside her. “This was research for a feature story?”

“I was shopping. I admit it,” said Lucy, feeling rather warm. “But only after I went to the ‘Editors' Roundtable.' It was a dud. So I did the only sensible thing I could think of—I sought shop therapy.”

“Well, I guess it's all right then.” He paused. “Did you see the morning papers?”

“You mean about the cyanide?”

“Yeah. You know, I really can't see Junior doing something like that. When they thought it was the asthma, I could almost buy into it. The argument, a momentary flare of anger, some confusion about inhalers…” He shrugged. “Maybe if you stretched it you'd have a case for voluntary manslaughter. But not cyanide. Whoever did this planned ahead; it was calculated, cold-blooded murder.” He shook his head. “They've got the wrong guy.”

“Sam Syrjala keeps a bottle in his briefcase.”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw it.”

“It's probably booze.”

“Or he's not quite the drunk everybody thinks he is.”

Ted looked at her. “You think he's faking.”

“I don't know.” Lucy remembered the way Harold had looked at her through the window and shivered. “I do think Harold's got a guilty conscience about something, and I think Sam knows what it is. Some kind of corporate fraud. Just look at his lifestyle—designer clothes for Inez, a chauffeur—at the same time Pioneer Press is losing money. And they are losing money, even if they don't admit it. There have been layoffs the past few years. Cutbacks in employee benefits.”

“How do you know all this stuff?” demanded Ted. “You're supposed to be attending workshops, not conducting your own investigation.”

“I got most of it at workshops, talking to people,” said Lucy. “But if there were some sort of financial skul-duggery going on…”

“And Luther discovered it,” speculated Ted.

“Well, it would be an awfully strong motive….”

“And it would explain why he backed out of the National Media sale,” said Ted.

“But how can we find out for sure?” asked Lucy. “Pioneer is a privately owned company. They don't even have to make their annual report public.”

“Didn't you say Luther played tennis with the bank president?”

“Yeah. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if the Tinker's Cove Five Cents Savings Bank has invested in Pioneer Press.”

“Neither would I.” Ted scratched his chin. “I think I'll give Fred Ames a call. He's probably got those annual reports neatly filed away.”

“Meanwhile, kemosabe, what's happening with Junior?”

“Nothing. There's a bail hearing this afternoon, so I guess he'll be getting out of jail soon, but the DA is convinced he's got the right man and wants to take it to trial. He's making lots of noise about no plea bargains.”

“Junior wouldn't cop a plea.”

“You seem awfully sure,” said Ted.

“Aren't you?”

“I'm keeping an open mind. And an open line with his wife. I want to get an interview for Thursday's paper.”

“His lawyer probably won't let him talk.”

“We'll see,” said Ted, getting to his feet. “Listen, a bunch of us are going out to eat tonight at Durgin Park. Want to come?”

 

Durgin Park, Lucy discovered, was a venerable institution where the patrons did not get their own tables, but sat instead at long communal tables covered with snowy white cloths. The group from the convention was so large, however, that it didn't matter, because they took up an entire table anyway. They were also noisy enough for the whole restaurant.

“So where're you merrymakers from?” asked the waitress, pulling her pencil from her unnaturally red hair. Like all the waitresses, she was a heavyset woman who was getting on in years. She dropped her Rs, speaking with a broad Boston accent.

“New Hampshire!” proclaimed Fred Easton, Ted's longtime friend, who published the Franconia
Mountain News,
a weekly much like the
Pennysaver.

“Live free or die!” exclaimed Bob Hunsaker, who also published a weekly. His proclamation of the state motto was greeted with rousing cheers by the rest of the group, except for Ted.

“Remember Maine!” he yelled, inspiring a chorus of boos.

“Sam Adams all 'round?” It wasn't so much a question as a statement of fact.

“Sure,” agreed Fred.

“Have you got any light beer?” asked Lucy.

“Not for you, honey. You're too skinny as is.”

“Well, I never,” began Lucy, staring at the waitress's back as she crossed the room.

“The waitresses here are known for their rudeness,” said Bob. “It's one of the things that makes the place so popular.”

It didn't make much sense to Lucy, but she figured she was just going along for the ride. She opened her menu.

The waitress returned, easily carrying an overloaded tray filled with beers for the entire group. As soon as she'd finished distributing them she opened her pad, licked her pencil, and asked, “What'll you have? We'll start with the lady.”

“I'll begin with salad.”

“Don't recommend it.”

Lucy figured arguing wouldn't do any good. “Okay. How about chowder?”

“Good.”

Lucy felt as if she'd answered the question correctly. Buoyed with confidence, she ventured to choose an entrée. “Broiled scrod.”

Wrong. No buzzers went off; no red lights flashed. The waitress simply overrode her choice. “Most people have the prime rib. Do you want beans?”

“Green?”

“Baked.”

“I'll pass.”

“You've gotta try the beans,” said Bob, assisted by a chorus of encouragement from the others.

“This is Boston, the land of the bean and the cod,” said Fred, and everybody cheered.

“What'll you tell the kids when they ask if you had Boston baked beans?” asked Ted.

Such an eventuality seemed extremely remote to Lucy, but she didn't want to be a party pooper. “Okay,” she said.

“And for dessert?”

“Just coffee.”

“No way!” exclaimed Fred. “She's got to try the Indian pudding.”

“Can't miss the Indian pudding,” agreed Bob. “It's the house specialty. Baked all day in a brick oven.”

“You'll want that à la mode, right?”

Lucy sighed. “Sure.”

The waitress moved on to Ted and Lucy took a sip of her beer. It was delicious, but filling. She vowed she'd sip slowly and make it last.

“Another round?”

The group cheered noisily.

 

It wasn't until the group was well into their second round of drinks that their high spirits began to subside and the conversation grew more serious.

“Who ever thought Luther Read would end up like this?” mused Fred. “Him, of all people. The man who had everything. I figured he'd grab the cash and live to a ripe old age, mummifying himself on some Arizona golf course.”

“I guess Junior had different plans for him,” said Bob.

“I don't buy it,” said a man with a crew cut whose name Lucy hadn't been able to catch. “He's too smart. He'd know he'd never get away with it. I think he was framed.”

Lucy nodded in agreement.

“If he did it, he must've known he was taking an awful risk,” said Fred.

“A stupid risk,” said Bob. “If he'd just let nature take its course he would have inherited his father's shares. Now it'll probably all go to Harold.”

“What do you mean?” asked Lucy. “I thought he left everything to Junior.”

“He can't benefit from a crime,” said Fred. “The chain will go to Harold, unless by some miracle Junior manages to get off.”

“Harold doesn't seem very happy about it,” said Lucy, wondering if his grim demeanor was an act.

“He lost his brother….”

“It's a big responsibility. Plus, the chain's not in good shape.”

“What would you do if you were in his shoes?”

“Me?” The guy with the crew cut scratched his head. “For starters, I'd sell off the losers and keep the money-makers, try to grow them.”

“I heard he's considering launching a chain of weeklies….”

“That'd be a smart move,” said Fred. “All it would cost him is the paper and ink, since he's already got the writers and editors, and he'd pick up plenty of advertisers who can't afford the dailies.”

“It'd be the end of independent weeklies in New Hampshire,” said Bob.

The group fell silent, considering his grim prediction.

“Why so glum?” asked the waitress, arriving with the chowder. Another round?”

“Another round!” said Fred.

Everybody cheered.

 

Lucy was glassy-eyed when she finally got back to her room, where she immediately unbuckled her belt and unbuttoned her slacks. She had never in her life eaten—or drunk—so much. The chowder and beer had pretty much filled her up, and she hadn't been prepared for Durgin Park's prime rib, which was two inches thick and so large that it hung over the sides of the plate. She'd left most of it, much to the derision of the waitress, but she still felt as if she might explode at any moment.

She really didn't know why she'd eaten the Indian pudding. She'd intended to have a taste, just a bite, but when she tasted the heady mix of corn meal and spices, a perfect foil for the cool, creamy vanilla ice cream, she'd been unable to resist eating the whole thing. Not that the waitress had been impressed. “Seconds, honey?” she'd asked.

Slowly, Lucy eased herself onto the bed and slipped off her shoes. Then she snaked her hand up her back and unhooked her bra. That felt better. She rubbed her taut tummy. She hated to admit it, but she felt great. Like a lioness who'd just finished off a tasty gazelle snack. All she wanted to do now was sleep. But first she had to call home. Sighing, she reached for the phone.

Bill answered.

“Hi.”

“Long time, no hear. How's the convention?”

Lucy didn't like his tone of voice. It was casual. Too casual, considering everything that had been going on.

“The convention's fine and I'm fine,” she snapped, “which is more than you can say.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on. You fired Toby, the dog ran away, the girls are at each other's throats and Elizabeth's running around town practically naked with some guy with a tattoo….”

“I don't know who you've been talking to, but it's not as bad as it sounds.”

Lucy didn't want excuses.

“You've been lying to me! Why do you keep pretending everything's okay when it's not?”

“I didn't want you to worry.”

“Don't you see? I worry more because I don't know what's really going on. Now, what are you going to do about Toby? You're not really going to kick him out of the house, are you?”

There was a long silence. When Bill spoke, his voice was dead serious.

“Listen, Lucy, you're not here and I am. I have to handle this my own way.”

“Oh, Bill,” she began, protesting, but Bill wasn't listening. He'd hung up.