Father’s Day Murder (4 page)

“No. I just give the name and phone number to the guys in photo.”

Seeing nods all around, Lucy felt embarrassed.

“Well,” she said, adding a nervous little chuckle, “the
Pennysaver
is pretty small. There's just me, a receptionist, and Ted, who's the editor and publisher.”

“Who do you interview, anyway?” demanded Morgan. “Isn't the
Pennysaver
one of those throwaways?”

“Not in Tinker's Cove. It's been around forever, and used to be called the
Advertiser.
The owner changed it to the
Pennysaver
during the depression. There's also a Five Cents Savings Bank in town. I guess a penny used to be worth a lot more.”

The others laughed at her little joke and Lucy began to feel better.

“I've heard of your paper,” said Syrjala, rousing himself from the nap he'd settled into immediately after arriving. “Didn't you break that Ron Davitz story last summer?”

Lucy felt her cheeks redden. “That was me,” she said.

“That was lucky, having a big story fall in your lap like that,” said Morgan.

Lucy sat up a bit straighter. She'd risked life and limb to get that story and she wasn't about to pretend otherwise. “That's not the only story we broke that got picked up by the wires,” she said. “There was the Metinnicut casino scandal and the cop who was dealing drugs and…” Lucy's voice trailed off; she didn't want to brag, after all. She shrugged. “Tinker's Cove isn't a typical small town. We have a lot of tourists and a lot of high-powered summer people.”

Catherine Read looked as if she was about to speak, but was cut off by Morgan.

“Well, when I interviewed Robert Andrade, the work-place shooter, he was pretty much in a state of shock. Almost catatonic. The way I got him to talk was that I convinced him I was on his side. I pretended to sympathize with him and pretty soon it all came spilling out. How he hated his boss and how the others made fun of him and—”

“That poses an interesting question about the ethics of pretending to sympathize with an interview subject,” said Catherine. “Let's hear from some of you other people.”

The workshop picked up after that and the rest of the morning flew by. The panel went a little over its allotted time before Catherine finally closed it at a quarter past noon. Lucy was slipping her notebook into her tote bag when Catherine stopped by her chair.

“Thanks for helping to get the ball rolling,” she said. “I always hate those awkward silences.”

“Me too,” said Lucy. “I sometimes wish I could just keep my mouth shut, but I always end up jumping in.”

“Actually, that's not a bad interviewing technique. Do you use it often?”

“Always,” said Lucy, laughing.

“Listen, would you like to have lunch with me? There's a Legal Seafoods around the corner that's pretty good, and I'd love to catch up on news from Tinker's Cove. My family has a summer home there, you know.”

“I'd love to have lunch with you,” said Lucy, who hated eating in restaurants by herself. “Actually, we have quite a bit in common—my daughter is working for your brother as a mother's helper.”

Catherine considered this news for a moment, then brushed it aside with a little joke. “From what I hear about Trevor, she'll definitely have her hands full.”

 

Legal Seafoods was crowded, and Lucy expected they would have to wait for a table, but the maître d' took one look at Catherine and led them to a quiet corner table for two. What was it with this family? wondered Lucy. Were they charmed or something?

“This isn't too bad,” said Catherine, picking up the menu. “It's not near a window, but it's not by the kitchen door, either.”

“It's fine,” said Lucy, opening her menu and looking for something that wouldn't take too long to be prepared. “I've got another panel this afternoon and I don't want to be late.”

“Not like Sam Syrjala,” observed Catherine, showing annoyance for the first time. “Honestly, I don't know what people like my brother and my uncle see in him. Okay, so he was a legend in his day, but now he's really resting on past glories.” Pursing her lips, as if she realized she'd spoken too freely, she opened her menu and deftly changed the subject. “What shall we have? I've heard the chowder is fabulous.”

They both ordered salads and chowder with glasses of iced tea, then chatted while they waited for their food.

“Do you get to Tinker's Cove much?” asked Lucy conversationally.

“Not as much as I'd like,” replied Catherine. “I think I may be working too hard. That's what people tell me, anyway.”

“I guess it's always like that with a family business.”

“You're right. You can't escape it. Every holiday somehow turns into a business conference.” She laughed. “I can't complain, though. When it comes to fun—and by fun I mean good, old-fashioned hell-raising—there's nothing like the newspaper business, is there?”

Her eyes sparkled and she smiled when she said this, and Lucy responded warmly.

“You know, when I first started working for the
Pennysaver,
I simply couldn't believe I was getting paid to have such a good time. Running around, talking to people, writing it all down and then, every Thursday, seeing my stories with my byline, it all seemed too good to be true. I was in seventh heaven.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” said Catherine. “I actually hate to leave at night because I might miss something.”

It was clear to Lucy that the Northampton
News
meant more to Catherine than a job or a title. Lucy wondered what her future plans were once the papers had been sold, and blurted out the question without thinking.

Catherine's smile vanished. “I know there are a lot of rumors about the company, but I really can't talk about it.”

Ouch. Lucy felt as if she'd been stung. The little smile Catherine tacked on made it worse somehow. It was time to change the subject.

“Northampton's an interesting town,” said Lucy. “I visited there when my daughter was looking at colleges. It has a reputation of attracting a lot of people seeking alternative lifestyles, especially lesbians and militant feminists, but there's this base of old-time conservative farmers. How do you handle that?”

Catherine took so long to answer that Lucy wondered if she'd stuck her foot in her mouth yet again.

“I don't know what you mean,” she said. “The paper is committed to equal rights for everyone, regardless of race, religion, sexual persuasion, whatever. That's the American way.”

Lucy knew that things were never that simple, but she didn't feel as if she could pursue the issue. No matter; Catherine wasn't going to give her a chance.

“So where did your daughter decide to go?” she asked.

“Chamberlain College. Here in Boston.”

“Good choice. They have an excellent journalism department there. Is she interested in following in her mother's footsteps?”

Now it was Lucy's turn to laugh. “Not a chance. At this point she doesn't think much of her mother or her father, for that matter. As far as she's concerned we're Neanderthals. Lumbering brutes who stand between her and freedom.”

“Parenting is a tough job,” said Catherine. “But speaking of jobs, I was wondering if you're still happy in Tinker's Cove? I could really use someone like you in Northampton.”

Stunned, Lucy dropped her soup spoon with a clatter.

“I'm flattered,” she said. “But I'm in no position to relocate. My husband has a contracting business; I've got kids in school….”

“I figured as much,” said Catherine, “but I thought I'd give it a shot.”

“Thanks for the offer,” said Lucy, signaling the waiter for another spoon.

“So which workshop are you going to this afternoon?” asked Catherine, spooning up the last of her chowder.

“Libel,” said Lucy. “A truly terrifying subject.”

“Just remember,” advised Catherine, “if it's true, it's not libel.”

“If only I had your confidence,” said Lucy, spearing a clump of lettuce.

Catherine signaled for the check and the waiter brought it promptly. Lucy reached for her wallet, but Catherine refused to let her pay.

“Thank you—everything was delicious and I had a lovely time,” said Lucy.

“Thank you—for the pleasure of your company,” replied Catherine, signing the check with a flourish.

Lucy was impressed once again by the unfailing politeness all the members of the Read family seemed to exhibit. Of course, she thought as she hurried back to the hotel for the workshop, good manners could work like a hedge, protecting one's privacy with an attractive, impermeable barrier. The conversation during lunch had hardly been freewheeling and spontaneous, thought Lucy, remembering how deftly Catherine had parried her questions. Instead of giving a workshop on getting the story, she thought wryly, Catherine could have given a workshop on how to deflect a reporter's questions.

A
s she dressed that night, Lucy remembered Catherine's words: “If it's true, it isn't libel.” It had taken five panelists more than three hours and countless convoluted sentences to essentially say what Catherine had succinctly said in six words. It had been all Lucy could do to stay awake while the lawyers and editors on the panel debated the fine points of the law. When it was over she had the same sense of freedom that Sara and Zoe felt when the school bell rang at three o'clock.

Not that she was quite as carefree as they were. She had a banquet to attend and, in addition to sharing in the Trask Award, which Ted would accept, she would also receive her award. Would it be like the Oscars? she wondered. Would there be a hushed silence while everyone waited for the winner to be announced? Would she have to give a speech? Or would it be like the awards assembly at the middle school, where the principal droned his way down an endless list of names? Judging from the number of winning stories and photographs on display, it would probably be the latter.

That was probably just as well. If winning first place meant she had to make a speech, she'd prefer an honorable mention. She hadn't enjoyed being the focus of attention at the morning workshop, and was uncomfortably aware she might have tooted her own horn a little too loudly, giving herself the reputation of an investigative hotshot. The problem with reputations, she thought as she slipped her dress over her head, was that they were so darn hard to live up to.

Smoothing the silky sheath over her hips, she looked at her reflection in the mirror and smiled. She loved this dress—it fit perfectly, and the bright pink-and-orange poppy print was gorgeous. She'd been attracted to it the minute she saw it on the sale rack at the Carriage Trade, and had been delighted when she'd tried it on. It was perfect for outdoor theater and concerts, cocktail parties and cookouts, the sort of dress-up occasions that filled her summer calendar in Tinker's Cove. It was a casual, fun sort of dress that called for bare, tan legs, white sandals, and chunky jewelry, but it dressed up quite nicely for the city with her black patent pumps and a ladylike string of faux pearls.

Well, maybe it was a bit casual, but it would have to do, she decided as she dabbed on some pink lipstick and gave her hair one last lick with the brush. Her only other option was the black dress she wore to funerals, and tonight was a night of celebration, not mourning.

There was only one chore remaining before she could head to the party—she wanted to call home. This time the phone was answered on the first ring by Bill, who proudly announced he was in the kitchen fixing dinner.

“Where were you last night?” demanded Lucy, surprised at how upset she felt. “I called and nobody answered.”

“We were over at the Orensteins'. Sadie's mom invited the whole family for a cookout.”

“That was awfully nice of her,” said Lucy, feeling rather left out. Juanita Orenstein was the mother of Zoe's best friend, Sadie. She was a warm, caring person, and the invitation was typical of her. Juanita wasn't much on cleaning house, but she wouldn't think anything of inviting five extra people for dinner. So why this little stab of jealousy, as if Juanita were trying to take over her family?

“Yeah. I took over the hamburgers you left for us and she had some stuff, too. She makes terrific potato salad. So how's the conference?”

Lucy didn't know how to answer. In only one day she'd had so many experiences and had met so many new people. It would take hours to tell him all about it.

“So far, so good,” she said. “How are things at home?”

“Fine. No problems at all.”

Lucy wanted to believe him, but she was doubtful.

“So things are okay with you and Toby? You were both pretty upset when I left.”

“Oh,
that.”
Bill's tone was dismissive. “That was nothing. He's doing fine. He's a real asset on the job.”

“Did you say ‘asset'?”

“Yeah. What did you think I said?”

Lucy let it go.

“How's Elizabeth's job working out?”

“Great.”

This didn't sound like Elizabeth. “No complaints?”

“Not that I've heard.”

It might be true, conceded Lucy. It was only her first day on the job. And Bill was getting a bit hard of hearing.

“Sara and Zoe? How are they doing?”

“Fine, fine. Zoe's taking care of Kudo, feeding him and all that. And Sara's been a big help.”

And hell's freezing over, thought Lucy, who remembered Sara's lack of enthusiasm when Lucy had first announced she was going to the convention. And Zoe had always been afraid of the huge dog.

“What are you doing for supper tonight? More potato salad?”

Now where did that come from? Besides, Lucy knew for a fact that Juanita put too much mayonnaise in her potato salad. No wonder Bill liked it. He liked anything so long as it was loaded with cholesterol.

“I'm going to make a stir-fry, soon as I find the wok.”

“It's in the pantry. Top shelf.” Lucy heard a sudden shriek in the background, as if the girls were fighting. “Are you sure everything's okay? I thought I heard Zoe scream.”

“No, no, just the TV,” insisted Bill. “Well, I guess I'd better get started cooking. Don't worry about a thing. Everything's under control.”

The poor fool, thought Lucy, as she tucked her key card and banquet ticket into her tiny evening bag. He probably did think he had things under control. It was only an illusion, of course. He'd find out soon enough.

 

The mezzanine was crowded when the elevator door opened, and Lucy joined the crowd of conferees, most of whom were milling about with drinks in their hands and talking at the top of their lungs. She would have loved a glass of wine, but the crowd clustered around the bar was more than she could handle. When someone bumped into her from behind and she narrowly avoided a potentially disastrous collision with a woman holding a glass of red wine, Lucy decided she'd had enough of this crowd scene. It was great if you knew these people, she supposed, but she didn't. She was being pushed and shoved, the noise was deafening, and she was pretty sure all the oxygen was being used up. It was time to find her table and sit down.

The registration table, where late arrivals were still picking up name tags and packets, was set up in front of a pair of double doors, which Lucy assumed gave entry to the grand ballroom. The doors were shut, but Lucy didn't think anyone would mind if she slipped inside, out of the fray. She reached for the ornate gold handle and in a moment she was through, grateful for the rush of cool, fresh air. She leaned against the closed door for a moment while she recovered from the crush and got her bearings.

“Don't think you're going to get away with this!”

She snapped her head up, shocked at the speaker's angry tone. It was Junior Read, of all people, apparently very upset about something. He was facing his father, jabbing a finger at his chest.

Lucy gasped in shock at his behavior. It was the last thing she would have expected.

“Don't talk to me like that,” roared Luther, equally angry. “Who do you think you are, anyway? What gives you the right? I've put my lifeblood into this company for over forty years.”

The two men were surrounded by a small knot of people, all of whom were focused on their argument and unaware of her entrance.

Unaware, that is, until she dropped her beaded evening purse, which landed noisily on the polished parquet floor. Then all eyes were suddenly on her. Junior, Catherine, Luther, Monica, even Sam Syrjala, were all staring at her, as well as several others she didn't recognize. Her eyes darted around the room and she immediately realized her mistake. This was not the grand ballroom; it was a private function room set up for a small group of people.

“I'm so sorry,” she stammered. “I'm in the wrong room.”

Seconds later she was on the other side of the door, fanning her flushed face. What a faux pas, she realized, spotting the placard announcing
Pioneer Press Group: Private.
The Reads were obviously hosting a prebanquet cocktail party for invited guests, and she'd barged in like a gate crasher. How humiliating.

“Hi, Lucy! Where have you been hiding? I've been looking all over for you.”

It was Ted, and Lucy had never been so happy to see him.

“I was looking for you, too, but I couldn't find you in this crowd.”

“They're opening the doors, finally,” he said, pointing to the opposite end of the mezzanine. “Let's get our table, shall we?”

“Good idea,” agreed Lucy as the crowd surged forward.

 

The grand ballroom was indeed grand, thought Lucy as she surveyed the enormous cream-and-gilt-trimmed space. Scores of tables topped with spotless linen cloths and covered with glittering silver and stemmed goblets filled the lower level, which was ringed with a balcony, where even more tables were arranged behind an ornately curlicued black-and-gold railing. Enormous crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and smoked mirrors lined the walls. She had never seen anything so gorgeous in her life; she felt as if she'd stepped into the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. Not that she'd been there, of course, but this was how she imagined it must be.

“What number are we?”

Ted's voice brought her back to reality.

“Twenty-one, I think.”

They cruised around the room, checking the numbered cards set in metal holders on each table, and exchanging pleasantries with people Ted knew. It didn't take long for Lucy to realize her dress was all wrong; most of the women were wearing beaded cocktail dresses or long evening gowns. In fact, she realized when they finally found their table and sat down, every single woman at the banquet was dressed in some variation of black. Black silk, black chiffon, black with beads, black with rhinestones, short black cocktail dresses, black evening dresses, and even black pantsuits. All black. There was no way she was going to get lost in this crowd, not in her pink-and-orange poppy print. In fact, she couldn't have chosen a dress that would make her stand out more.

“Do you want something to drink?” asked Ted.

“I'd love it,” said Lucy, only to have her hopes dashed when Ted raised his arm and signaled a busboy holding a pitcher of water.

She sipped her water, trying not to feel self-conscious, and smiling at the others who joined them at their table. The room was noisy and she couldn't always catch the names, but Ted seemed to know everyone. There was a middle-aged couple from New Hampshire, a serious-looking man with glasses accompanied by two young fellows she guessed were rookie reporters, the glum-looking woman with a weight problem who had snubbed Lucy in the hospitality suite, and a pleasant older couple who sat next to Lucy.

“I'm Harriet Sims and this is my husband, Herb. We publish the Aroostook
Recorder,”
said the woman, who Lucy was relieved to see was wearing black with white polka dots. “Love your dress, dear. I don't know why everybody dresses as if they're going to a funeral.”

“I've been to livelier funerals,” grumbled Herb. “Five hours from now we'll be sitting here with nothing and Pioneer Press Group will grab all the awards.”

“Now, you know that's not true. Ted's getting an award, aren't you, Ted?”

“And so is Lucy,” added Ted.

“How wonderful!” enthused Harriet. “I bet it's for a human-interest story.”

“Actually, it's about the new fishing regulations and their impact on Maine fishermen.”

Harriet's eyes widened. “My goodness! Such a depressing topic.”

“Fishing's over,” said the serious man with glasses. “Times change. It's a different economy. Fishermen are going the way of the farmers and the lumberjacks and the railroad engineers.”

“We're next,” said Herb. “The independently owned small-town newspaper is fast going the way of the dodo.”

“It's not just the small papers,” said the overweight woman. “Look at Pioneer. Now they're gong to be part of National Media. It's the big fish swallowing the medium fish that swallowed the little fish.”

“I heard that might not happen,” said the man with glasses, capturing everyone's interest.

“Really? I thought it was a done deal,” said Ted.

“Me, too,” agreed Herb.

The man with glasses kept them waiting while he took a long drink of water. “Nope,” he finally said. “What I hear is that the old man is having second thoughts, now that Monica Underwood is in the picture. Seems she'd like nothing better than a friendly chain of newspapers for spouting her political views. Let's face it, the folks at National Media aren't going to be sympathetic to her tree-hugging, ‘takes a village to raise a child,' universal-health-care politics.”

“So you think Luther Read has changed his mind about the sale?' asked Lucy.

“That's what I hear—and the family's not too happy about it, especially Junior. He's wanted to cash out for years. Of course, it's good news for the lesbian daughter; she gets to keep her feminazi rag, and Luther's brother Harold keeps his lock on the Manchester
Republican.”

Lucy's ears were burning. She didn't like hearing people she admired spoken of so crudely, especially Catherine. The others seemed unfazed by his attitude, however.

“Can't blame Junior,” said Herb philosophically. “You can't make any money in newspapers anymore.”

While the conversation turned to the sorry state of the news industry, Lucy fell silent, remembering the scene she'd witnessed earlier. Had Junior and Luther been arguing about the sale to National Media? What had Luther said? Something about pouring out his lifeblood for forty years? Something like that. From what she was hearing, Junior was the odd man out. The others were probably relieved the sale was off. Especially Catherine. Lucy wondered if she really was a lesbian, or if the guy with glasses thought the word was an insult.