Father’s Day Murder (17 page)

B
oylston Street was quiet, with only the occasional pedestrian and little traffic. Rush hour was over, and it was too early for people to begin coming into town for nightclubs or theaters. Lucy strolled along, determined to enjoy the sensation of having the city to herself on her last night in Boston.

She didn't envy Carole, she decided, even if she did have a fancy career and gorgeous clothes. Her life seemed so frantic, somehow. She was here, there, and everywhere, always on her way to some meeting or other. And all her hard work hadn't gotten her all that far. She was the features editor of the Hartford
Gazette,
to be sure, but the people on the news desk tended to think of features as fluff. It wasn't “real” news, like fires and automobile crashes and politics and world affairs. Of course, women hadn't been able to get jobs on the news desk until recently. Carole was a victim of her time. If she were starting out now, like Morgan, her chances would be much better.

Lucy couldn't help but smile when she thought of Morgan. That girl certainly knew how to get her goat, almost as if she were one of her children. That was when it hit Lucy: Morgan looked a lot like Elizabeth, with her spiky black hair and determined little chin. Of course, Morgan had a lot more drive than the lazy Elizabeth. She reminded Lucy of a feisty little terrier who wouldn't let go once she'd gotten her teeth into something. The something in this case was Luther Read's murder, and Morgan had set her mind on breaking the story. Lucy was convinced she'd succeed or die trying.

More power to her, thought Lucy. She had some leads of her own that she intended to follow up when she got back home. After talking to Louise she was more convinced than ever that Harold was bleeding Pioneer Press dry in order to keep up his lavish lifestyle. She wondered if Ted was having any luck with those annual reports. It might be worth the expense to have an accountant take a look at them. If it panned out, this could be a big story that the regional papers, and maybe even national press, would pick up.

The plan buoyed her spirits. It would be good to be home, to sleep in her own bed, cuddled up against Bill. She even missed his snoring, she realized as she passed a liquor store and remembered she needed vodka for his traditional Father's Day Bloody Mary. She dithered a bit, debating whether she should wait to buy it in Tinker's Cove, but decided she didn't want to risk it. She might forget; she might not have an opportunity once she was back in the thick of family life. She went in.

The vodka was in the rear of the store, tucked behind freestanding displays of wine. Lucy found Bill's favorite brand and brought it to the counter to pay for it, only to encounter Sam Syrjala, smelling like a distillery.

“Whaddya mean, you won't sell it to me?” he thundered, banging his fist on the counter.

“It's against the law to sell to inebriated persons,” said the clerk, a thirtyish fellow who looked as if he played rugby on his day off.

“You think I'm drunk? I'm not drunk. Ask the lady.” Syrjala turned and focused his bloodshot eyes on Lucy. “Hey, I know you,” he declared, smiling woozily. “Do I look drunk to you?”

Lucy watched as he swayed back and forth. “Actually—” she began.

“Sorry,” said the clerk, cutting her off and looking steadily at Syrjala. “You're not getting anything here, so you might as well leave.”

“You're kicking me out?”

“Get out now, before I call the cops.”

“Okay.” Syrjala held up one hand and belched. “Okay. I'm going.”

Lucy and the clerk watched his unsteady progress past the shelves of liquor and out the door.

“I'm sorry about that,” said the clerk, ringing up her vodka.

“No problem.” Lucy handed him a twenty, took her change, and tucked the wrapped bottle under her arm.

Which was where it was when Syrjala spotted her leaving the store. He'd been waiting outside, leaning against a convenient trash barrel.

“Hey, lady,” he said. “How 'bout we have a little party?”

“No, thanks,” said Lucy, setting off briskly down the street.

“I know you,” he said, tagging after her. “News convention.”

Lucy kept her eyes fixed straight ahead and marched down the street. Syrjala, however, was faster than she thought possible, considering his inebriated condition.

“I got a room, y'know,” he said, grabbing her by the hand.

Lucy whirled around and snatched it away. “What do you think you're doing? Leave me alone,” she said in a snarl.

“You're no fun,” he said, dropping his chin to his chest and stumbling awkwardly.

“Careful there,” said Lucy, watching in dismay as he lurched off in the wrong direction, stumbling against a fire hydrant. The man was headed for trouble, and she didn't want tomorrow's headlines on her conscience. “It's this way,” she finally said, watching as he narrowly missed knocking over a garbage bin. “The hotel is this way.”

Syrjala stopped and swayed backward, then turned around. “I'll follow you,” he said.

“Right. All three of me and the dancing pink elephants, too,” muttered Lucy, setting off once again.

She tried to keep her distance at the same time she kept a watchful eye on Syrjala, making sure he remained headed in the right direction. She wasn't happy about the situation but couldn't bring herself to abandon him, either. The man was in no condition to be wandering about the city alone, where chances were he'd get mugged if he didn't get hit by a car first. But as soon as they got to the hotel, Lucy vowed, he was on his own. There was no way she wanted to be associated with him.

The revolving door, however, proved more than Syrjala could manage, and he began pushing it in the wrong direction. A small crowd of amused onlookers had gathered by the time Lucy managed to extricate him. Embarrassed, she tried to explain that they were not together but found she was speaking to herself. The little knot of people had dispersed and she was alone with Syrjala. She led him to the elevator.

It was when they were riding together in the elevator that Lucy realized she had been presented with a real opportunity, a last chance before she had to leave Boston. Syrjala was dead drunk; she was sure he would pass out the moment he hit the bed. She would be able to search his room unhindered, maybe even find proof of Harold's financial manipulations. Tomorrow Syrjala would never even remember she was there.

Lucy drew the line at searching his pockets to find his key card. Instead she instructed him to go through them one by one until he found it. Then there was the problem of getting it to work. When the little green light finally lit up, Lucy followed him inside his room, remaining cautiously in the doorway until he fell face-forward on the bed. He was out like a light; she was sure of it because he remained absolutely motionless.

Lucy shut the door behind her and set the bottle and her purse on the floor, ready for easy retrieval should a quick escape become necessary. Not that it would, she decided, advancing into the room. Syrjala was sprawled on the bed, dead to the world. In fact, Lucy wasn't positive that he wasn't actually dead, and was relieved when he rolled onto his back and began snoring noisily.

She opened the closet and peered inside. Empty hangers, a pile of clothes on the floor. Grimacing, she bent to the distasteful task of checking the pockets. There was no vial of cyanide, no list of instructions from Harold. What did she expect to find anyway? she asked herself, as she moved on to the chest of drawers.

She'd know when she found it, she told herself. Budget projections, annual reports, cash-flow analyses—the editor-in-chief of a daily paper surely must need this information, but she didn't find anything. Except for a Gideon's Bible and a phone book, the drawers were empty.

That left the briefcase, propped on the chair, and the bedside table. Lucy peered into the briefcase, now full of papers, and pulled them out. She flipped through them but they were nothing more than handouts from the convention. There were no contracts, phony or otherwise, no pension fund transfers, no offshore bank accounts.

That left the bedside table.

Lucy looked at it, calculating the distance from Syrjala's hands. It was risky. If he regained consciousness he'd be able to reach her. It was a risk Lucy was willing to take. From the steady snoring it didn't look as if he was going to wake up anytime soon. She stepped forward and slid the drawer open, revealing a pint bottle containing a clear liquid.

Lucy reached for it, only to feel Syrjala's hand grip her wrist in a tight hold.

“Whaddya think you're doing?” he demanded, leaping nimbly to his feet despite his excess weight. His eyes were hard and his voice was steady, much to Lucy's dismay. If he really had been drunk, and she was beginning to wonder if it had all been an act, he certainly didn't seem drunk now.

“Just pouring a drink,” said Lucy, attempting to smile brightly. “I thought this was a party.”

Syrjala was having none of it. His grip tightened on her arm. “You were searching my room! What for? Cash?”

Lucy nodded. “I need bus fare home,” she lied. “I spent too much.”

Syrjala narrowed his eyes. “No,” he said, “you're that hotshot reporter. You were looking for a story.”

He let go of her hand and pushed against her chest, forcing her into the chair. Lucy was practically flat on her back, but when she struggled to sit up he punched her shoulder and pushed her back down. He was stronger than she thought; her shoulder ached from the blow.

“What story?” asked Lucy, hoping to convince him she was no threat. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Syrjala chuckled. “What story?
The story!
Luther's death, of course.”

“There's no story,” said Lucy. “The police have the right guy.”

“You don't believe that, or you wouldn't be here, trying to pin it on me.” His eyes flickered to the bottle.

Lucy noticed and tensed. What was in that bottle?

“That's crazy,” she said. “The cops have got their case all wrapped up. Besides, you don't have a motive.”

“That's a good one. I don't have a motive.” He stared at her. “I hated Luther's guts.” He reached for the bottle.

Lucy tried not to watch as he unscrewed the cap, but kept her eyes fixed on his. She didn't dare try to lift herself up and escape, but if he tried to force the liquid down her throat she'd spit it back at him. Maybe she could twist away and roll out from under him. Maybe not.

“He was rich, spoiled, arrogant. A real bastard.”

“What did he do to you?” asked Lucy, watching as he tossed the cap onto the floor.

“He took my girl.” Syrjala lifted the bottle to his lips and drank. He bared his teeth in a grimace, then smiled. “He didn't even have the good grace to keep her.” He lifted the bottle again. “I would'na minded, y'see, if he'd made her happy. But he didn't. He used her up and when he was done with her he dumped her. He did that with everything. Uses it up, tosses it out.”

Lucy slid her bottom backward and sat up.

“So that was your chance, no? Couldn't you catch her on the rebound?”

“She didn't rebound,” he said. “Besides, who'd be interested in a drunk like me?” He tilted his head back and drained the bottle, then crumpled onto the floor like a heavy coat falling off a hanger.

Lucy was on her feet and almost out the door when she heard the bottle hit the floor with a thunk.

W
aking up Saturday morning, Lucy wished it had all been nothing more than a bad dream. Had she really gone to Syrjala's room with him? Whatever had she been thinking?

She shuddered, considering what could have happened. She could have been raped or killed. The thought of Syrjala's paunchy belly, pasty skin, and greasy strands of hair plastered over his bald spot propelled her out of bed and into the shower.

She turned the faucet as far as it would go, but somehow the water wasn't hot enough to wash away the stinging memory of her foolishness. She'd really been asking for it, a little voice in her head scolded. She'd used poor judgment; she'd put herself in a dangerous situation that could have had tragic results. And not just for herself, the voice continued. What about Bill and the kids? What would it be like for them if she'd been hurt—or worse, killed? She'd completely ignored her responsibilities, and for what? A story? She'd behaved disgracefully, and no matter how hard she scrubbed she still felt contaminated. Even worse was the realization that her risky behavior hadn't paid off. She'd left Syrjala's room no wiser than she'd entered it.

When she finally turned the water off, she heard the phone ringing and ran to answer it, clutching a towel around herself. It was Ted.

“Hey, Lucy, what time are you getting in tonight?”

“Around five, if I catch the noon bus.”

“That late? Damn. I was hoping you could put in a few hours at the paper this afternoon. I'm way behind, thanks to the convention. I guess you'll have to come in tomorrow.”

Lucy couldn't believe it. “On Father's Day?”

“Sorry, but it can't be helped.” He paused. “Don't tell me you'll be waiting on Bill hand and foot for the entire day. Give him breakfast in bed and get yourself over here for a couple of hours.”

“Bill isn't going to like this. He considers Father's Day only slightly less important than Christmas, and he won't understand why I have to work.”

“I'm sure you can figure something out,” said Ted in his boss tone of voice. “I'll expect you around noon.”

There was a click and Lucy realized Ted had hung up. There wasn't going to be any discussion; he expected her to show up. On Sunday. On Father's Day. This was definitely a problem. She had promised Bill the best Father's Day ever, and she knew that this was one promise he expected her to keep.

Lucy mulled over her options while she dried her hair. Desert her husband on Father's Day and get herself divorced, or ignore her boss's demand and get fired. Faced with a choice like that, she was tempted to take the bus to New York City, or maybe all the way to Florida. Why not? she mused, as she studied her reflection in the mirror. Who wouldn't want a fresh start?

It was tempting. She had to admit she had enjoyed being on her own in the big city. It had been liberating to travel light, without her usual entourage of kids. No one to think about but herself. She could go where she wanted, eat what she wanted, even sleep when she wanted. It wouldn't be like that at home, where she'd be juggling the demands of five other people and the dog. Not to mention trying to fit her job in and get everyone fed. She had a feeling she had her work cut out for her, considering that things hadn't gone well in her absence. Toby and Bill were at odds, Elizabeth was running wild, the younger girls had been neglected, and she could just imagine what the house looked like: garbage bin overflowing, beds unmade, the family room strewn with newspapers and dirty dishes no one had bothered to tidy up. And then there was the matter of that upcoming dog hearing.

Lucy fastened her bra, pulled a polo shirt over her head, slipped into a pair of khaki slacks and stepped into her cute little red flats, clicking her heels together. This was better, she decided, firmly steering her thoughts back on track. There really was no place like home, even with the problems, and she missed Bill and the kids. She even missed the dog. She couldn't wait to get back. Really.

She had plenty of time before the bus, so she turned on the TV for company while she packed. She smoothed out the bedcovers and opened her suitcase on top of them, listening with one ear while she padded around the room, gathering up her belongings. She was taking home more than she brought, and she had to pack carefully if she was going to fit it all in. Plus, she wanted to make sure the vodka bottle was tucked in the center, where her clothing would serve as protective padding.

Most important, though, was her award. She couldn't forget that. She picked it up off the desk, where she had propped it against the wall, and admired the laminated wooden plaque which had her name printed in gold. She'd never won an award before, at least not since she left school. What should she do with it? Hang it in the kitchen? She chuckled at the thought. No, if she knew Ted, he'd insist that she hang it up in the
Pennysaver
office, where a small collection of similar framed certificates and plaques were arranged behind the reception desk.

First place. Investigative Reporting. She hugged the plaque and placed it on the bottom of her suitcase. On second thought, she removed it and wrapped a shirt around it for protection, then replaced it, arranging a pile of folded clothes neatly on top.

She wasn't really paying attention to the TV as she went to and from the closet to the bed. Even though she'd been in Boston for only a week, the news was already beginning to sound repetitive. Traffic was snarled on the central artery, hospital workers were on strike, a fire in a three-decker had left several families homeless, a woman's body had been found in the trunk of a car.

“Police have not identified the victim, pending notification of the family,” said the newscaster. “She is reported to have been in her mid to late twenties. Police received an anonymous call leading them to the automobile parked at the Riverside MBTA station.”

That's funny, thought Lucy; she'd heard somebody mention the Riverside MBTA station quite recently. It certainly sounded familiar, and she really had very little knowledge of the city's transit system. Somebody must have said something about it, but who? And when?

Lucy smoothed out the exercise shorts she'd tossed into a drawer and folded them, feeling vaguely guilty. She'd meant to take advantage of the gym by working out every day, but she'd gone only once. And then she'd plodded along on the Exercycle, hardly breaking a sweat, unlike Morgan, who had performed an intense exercise routine. And she hadn't even been staying at the hotel, Lucy remembered, but had sneaked into the gym. She'd been commuting to the conference from Framingham, taking the T and leaving her car in a commuter lot. At Riverside.

Lucy dropped her hairbrush.

It was just a coincidence, she told herself, bending to retrieve it. A gleam of gold caught her eye, and as she worked to disentangle a pearl stud earring from the carpet pile she tried to convince herself that the dead woman couldn't possibly be Morgan Dodd. Young women got killed every day, she told herself, examining the earring. You could hardly open up a big-city newspaper without reading of some poor girl who'd gone home with the wrong fellow and ended up dead.

A previous occupant must have dropped it, she decided, placing the earring in clear sight in the middle of the dark-wood desk for the housekeeper to find, all the while continuing her private argument. Morgan was street-smart; she was a big-city girl. She knew how to take care of herself, surely, after covering so many rapes and murders. She'd be sure to park in a well-lit part of the lot, and she'd have her keys ready in her hand so she could gain quick access to the safety of her car. Why, she probably carried a little can of Mace or pepper spray, just in case. Not that she would need it, because she was physically fit. She'd probably taken a self-defense course and knew to go for an attacker's eyes, or was a master of some trendy unpronounceable martial art and could flip an assailant neatly over her shoulder and onto his back. Besides, it had been quite early when Morgan had left the McDonald's, and plenty of daylight had still remained.

“I'm going to break this story wide open…”

Damn, thought Lucy, Morgan might have the street smarts of a big-city girl but she wanted to get the story. She'd go anywhere with someone who promised her a lead. Good judgment would go out the window. Lucy knew it; she'd done the same thing herself. Fortunately, she'd lived to regret her rashness. She was beginning to suspect that Morgan hadn't.

Where had she gone? Who had she met? Lucy remembered they'd been talking about Junior. Had she gone to meet him? Were the police right: Was Junior really a murderer?

Before she realized what she was doing, Lucy was dialing the Reads' home in Tinker's Cove, praying that Elizabeth would answer.

“Hello.” Lucy heard Angela's clipped tone.

“Hi,” she stammered, “this is Lucy Stone. Could I please speak to my daughter—it's a bit of a family emergency.”

“I'm sorry, but Elizabeth no longer works here.”

“Oh.” Lucy was stunned. When had this happened? Why hadn't Elizabeth told her? Drat the girl; she'd probably gotten herself fired.

“In that case, could I speak to your husband?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Is he there? Or is he in Boston? I really need to talk to him.”

Lucy knew she sounded desperate and she sensed her pleas were falling on deaf ears.

“I'll tell him you called,” said Angela, ending the conversation.

Ah, thought Lucy bitterly, the Read way. Invariably polite, presenting that smooth, impenetrable surface. Would she really give Junior the message? Lucy had no idea. She didn't even know if Junior was home. Maybe Ted would know. She dialed the
Pennysaver,
and Phyllis answered.

“Howdy, stranger. How's tricks?”

Lucy had no time for small talk. “Is Ted there?”

“He went out a bit ago.”

“Is he with Junior Read? He was supposed to interview him.”

“I don't really know.”

“Is Junior in town? Have you seen him?”

“Can't say that I have, but I did hear that he's out of jail.”

Lucy was disgusted. “I can't believe it. Everybody is supposed to know everybody's business in a small town. What's wrong with Tinker's Cove?”

“Well, since you asked, I think it's that shopping channel. Instead of keeping an eye on their neighbors, people are buying nonstick pans and genuine fake diamonds and—”

“I've gotta go,” said Lucy.

She perched on the edge of the bed, clutching the phone, telling herself to be rational. For goodness' sake, she didn't even know that it was Morgan in the trunk. For all she knew the girl was sleeping in late, or eating pancakes for breakfast under her mother's doting gaze. As for Junior, she didn't know if Morgan had met him last night or not. And Junior wouldn't have killed her. Or would he?

She dialed home, hoping to talk to Elizabeth, but nobody answered the phone even though she let it ring and ring. She considered calling Morgan, even dialed Information, but there were twenty Dodds listed in Framingham, none of them named Morgan. Not even an M. Dodd.

She put the phone down and picked up the remote, flipping through the channels. She stopped when she saw Morgan's face filling the screen.

“A Framingham
Trib
reporter was found dead this morning….”