Father’s Day Murder (10 page)

“My sources in the BPD say Junior had it all: motive, means, and opportunity,” said Morgan. “Do you think this is just some sort of smoke screen?”

“Oldest trick in the book,” said Ed.

“The surer they are, the more likely it is that they're wrong,” said Eileen. “Remember that drive-by, when the little kid was killed in his bed? Bullet went right through his little beating heart.”

Lucy was horrified, but from the cool reaction of the others she judged the shooting must be old news.

“Yeah,” said Brad. “They got a conviction on that one, and it wasn't until some jailhouse snitch started talking that they realized they'd put the wrong guy away for twenty to life.”

“The bad news for Junior Read is that this case isn't sensational enough to generate much interest, not enough gore,” observed Ed. “Remember the female torso in the Dumpster? Now, that was a story. And who could forget the weirdo who dropped the radio in the tub while his mother was taking a bath?”

“It wasn't the radio that was so fascinating,” said Eileen. “It was the fact that he ate her for dinner afterward.”

Everybody groaned.

“And on that note,” said Brad, checking his watch, “we'll break for lunch.
Bon appetit!”

Lucy was gathering her things together when Morgan approached her.

“What did you think of the panel?” she asked.

“Pretty interesting, but I'm sure glad I cover crime in Tinker's Cove instead of Boston.”

Morgan grinned. “No cannibalism cases?”

“Not so far,” said Lucy.

“You do seem to have some pretty interesting neighbors, though. Why don't we have lunch together and you can tell me all about Junior Read?”

Lucy smiled. “So you're beginning to think he might be innocent?”

Morgan shrugged. “Who knows? But I'm looking for a story, and it'd be a lot more interesting read if the cops have the wrong guy, right?”

“Right,” agreed Lucy.

“So what do you say? Can I interest you in some lunch? My treat.”

The very idea of food made Lucy queasy. Besides, she was still stinging from Morgan's put-down of her cat-hair theory and didn't want to share her inside information about the Read family.

“Thanks, but I'm not very hungry. I think I need some fresh air.”

“Well, catch you later,” said Morgan, taking off down the hall after Brad.

Lucy shook her head. That girl was certainly determined to break a big story and didn't mind stepping on a few toes to get it. She'd better be careful, thought Lucy, because such tactics could backfire.

Lucy climbed up the stairs slowly, considering her options. She could take a walk, but the concrete sidewalks and busy streets weren't appealing. What she really wanted, what she longed for, was a patch of green where she could soak up some sun. At home she was surrounded by grass and trees and flowers, but here in the city they were in short supply, most often confined to decorative planters. She wanted to surround herself with growing things; she wanted to escape the constant roar of traffic and the smell of exhaust.

She asked the doorman for directions to the nearest park and he instructed her to follow Arlington Street to the Public Garden. She soon found herself standing on the corner of Arlington and Boylston, waiting for a red light to stop the constant stream of traffic so she could cross to the park on the opposite side. Once she was safely inside the ornate wrought-iron fence, however, the sound of traffic receded and she inhaled the fresh scent of newly cut grass. She followed a winding path bordering a pretty pond and discovered a delightful little bridge. She paused at the railing, amazed at the unexpected yet familiar sight of water in the city. Not water fit for swimming, admitted Lucy, staring at the green, murky surface, but people could pay a small fee and cruise aboard the quaint swan boats. These ungainly watercraft wouldn't do very well in Maine waters, she decided. They were little more than flat platforms for rows of seats, propelled by human pedal power. The driver sat in the rear, hidden between the molded halves of a large swan shape.

It was as if she'd seen this pond before, she thought, racking her brain. It finally came to her as she watched a little brown duck following one of the swan boats: it was the pond in Robert McCloskey's
Make Way for Ducklings,
a book she'd read hundreds of times to the kids.

The boat rides were a popular attraction, and many families were waiting in line. Lucy found a seat on a nearby bench and sat down, enjoying the slight breeze that blew across the water and watching the little children waiting with their parents. The very littlest were in strollers or backpacks, but the three- and four-year-olds were usually held firmly by the hand. That didn't stop them from jumping up and down, or stooping to examine the ground, or even attempting to pull each other's hair. That was what one little freckle-faced boy was doing, yanking at his sister's braids.

Siblings, thought Lucy, fingering the handkerchief she had tucked into her pocket. She couldn't help thinking that Harold, Luther's brother, was a far likelier murderer than Junior, his son. Having refereed countless squabbles among her own children, Lucy had no illusions about the power of sibling rivalry. Take Elizabeth, for example. She wouldn't hesitate to kill Toby, if she could be sure of getting his room.

Impulsively, Lucy reached for the cell phone in her purse, then dug around until she found Detective Sullivan's card. She dialed, only to be flooded with doubts when she heard his voice.

“This is Lucy Stone—you interviewed me Monday night.”

“I remember,” said Sullivan. “What's up?”

“I don't know if anything's really up,” she replied, “but I thought I'd better call. I know this probably sounds foolish, but it's better to speak up and be wrong than to be quiet and watch an innocent man be convicted, right?”

“Uh, right.”

Lucy studied the handkerchief. It was definitely covered with glistening white cat hair.

She took a deep breath.

“I happened to see Harold Read drop a handkerchief and I picked it up.” She paused. “It's absolutely covered with cat hair.”

There was a long silence. Finally Sullivan spoke.

“Cat hair?”

“Yeah. Luther Read died because of an asthma attack, right? Well, cat hair is a very common allergen. In fact, I happen to know that he was extremely allergic to cats. His daughter told me so.” Lucy paused to catch her breath. “So do you want the handkerchief? What should I do with it?”

“Give it back to Mr. Read, I guess.”

Lucy was stunned. “But it's evidence!”

“I don't think so,” said Sullivan. “I appreciate your call, but we're following a different line of investigation.”

“What do you mean? Wasn't asthma the cause of death?”

“Thank you for your concern,” said Sullivan. “Have a nice day.”

So much for trying to be a good citizen, thought Lucy, watching in fascination as the freckle-faced boy gave a particularly vicious yank and his sister reacted by pummeling his chest. The parents, unaware of their son's misbehavior, were scolding the little girl.

The father, a bearded fellow who also had a bouncing toddler in a backpack, reminded her of Bill. He also had toted all the kids, in turn, in the backpack.

The memory made her smile. Bill hadn't been much for changing diapers or coping with upset stomachs, but he'd been great at soothing colicky babies and could cajole a cranky two-year-old out of a temper tantrum. Somehow he'd always known when she had reached the end of her rope and came to the rescue. She wanted to get him something wonderful for Father's Day; the only problem was, she wasn't sure what it was. She'd know it when she saw it, she decided, wishing that she had time to go shopping. She didn't, she realized; she had just enough time to buy herself an ice-cream pop and get back to the hotel for her afternoon panel.

T
hree hours later, when the “Keeping Features Fresh” panel ended, Lucy was more convinced than ever that there were no new feature stories. They had all been written. Even worse, they'd all been written by her: the heartwarming reunion with long-lost relatives or pets, the lucky discovery of a priceless antique carelessly used for a humble purpose, and the always popular struggle of one courageous individual or family to overcome a cruel and debilitating disease—or the variation in which a courageous individual or family battles to raise money for an experimental but potentially lifesaving procedure that was not covered by medical insurance.

It was enough to make you a cynical sob sister, thought Lucy, as she closed her unused notebook and dropped her pen into her purse. In fact, one of the panelists had been an extreme example of what happened to a features editor who had lost all interest in human-interest stories. Lucy recognized her from the registration line, where she'd admired her shoes. Today she was wearing a different, equally fascinating pair. Her name was Carole Rose, and Lucy was interested to discover that she worked for the Pioneer Press Group's Hartford paper, one of the papers published by Junior and edited by Sam Syrjala.

“That was very interesting,” said Lucy, approaching Carole when the panel was over and introducing herself.

“I saw you yawning, you know,” said Carole, a trim, fiftyish woman dressed in a tailored pantsuit and sporting oversize eyeglasses with black rims. “Not that I blame you. I could hardly keep myself awake.”

“How about a reviving cup of tea at the Swan Court?” suggested Lucy.

“How about a stiff drink at the Whiskey Bar?” countered Carole.

It seemed a little early to Lucy, but she really wanted to talk to Carole. She was sure to have some insight into Junior's role in the company and his relationship with Sam Syrjala, the
Gazette
editor who had given the police evidence incriminating him.

“Sure,” she said. “I hear it's one of the trendiest bars in Boston.”

“Honey, I don't care if it's trendy or not as long as they don't water the booze.”

Lucy treated this as a joke and laughed, but she had a feeling Carole was absolutely serious. She struggled to keep up as Carole hurried through the lobby and into the candlelit lounge, where low banquettes were arranged around cube-shaped tables. It took Lucy's eyes a few moments to adjust to the darkness—all natural light was carefully excluded and the walls and furniture appeared to be black—and she stumbled as they sat down. Fortunately, the bar was virtually empty and no one saw her gaffe, not even Carole, who was busy lighting a cigarette.

“What can I get you ladies?” inquired a waiter, speaking down to them from a lofty height. It wasn't just the fact that he was quite tall and the banquettes were very low; Lucy was pretty sure he considered himself a superior being.

“Double martini,” growled Carole.

“White wine for me,” said Lucy.

“Which white wine would that be?” inquired the waiter.

“The house white.”

“We don't have a house wine,” he said, looking down his nose. “Perhaps you'd like to peruse the wine list.”

The waiter handed her a menu that was larger than the Tinker's Cove phone book. She flipped it open and scanned the prices, looking for the cheapest. Whatever she chose, she'd have to make it last. She certainly couldn't afford a second at these prices.

“The California pinot grigio,” she told him.

The waiter sighed and snatched the menu, as if to suggest that such a magnificent array of choices had been wasted on her. He vanished, presumably to get their drinks, and Lucy looked around. Her vision had cleared but she still couldn't make out much. It was like being in a cozy cave.

“This is very chic, and practical, too,” she said, resisting the urge to open the blinds and let the June sunlight stream in. “After all, black doesn't show the dirt.”

“Sounds like a feature story to me,” said Carole, inhaling slowly and deeply on her cigarette. “Bar decor for the home.”

Lucy smiled. “How come you're in features? You don't seem to have your heart in it, if you know what I mean.”

Carole snorted, expelling a cloud of swirling smoke. “That's a good question—it's the question I ask myself all the time.” She glanced around the empty lounge. “Where the hell is that waiter?”

“Pressing the grapes,” said Lucy.

Carole cocked an eyebrow and looked at Lucy.

“You're not quite the sweet young thing I took you for.”

“Not sweet, not young,” said Lucy. “But I don't mind admitting I feel a little bit like Dorothy when she woke up in Oz with Toto. I'm definitely not in Tinker's Cove anymore.”

“Tinker's Cove?” Carole squinted and blew smoke through her nostrils. “Isn't that where the late, lamented Luther Read had a summer home?”

Lucy nodded, watching as the waiter set down their glasses. “Junior's family is there now….”

“Without Junior.” Carole raised her glass. “I'll drink to that,” she said, and took a healthy swallow.

Lucy took a sip of wine. “You're not a fan of Junior's?”

“You could say that.” Carole promptly drained her glass and signaled the waiter for another. “And I'm not the only one. You can bet there was a collective sigh of relief across the board from everyone at Pioneer when they heard Luther was gone and Junior was in jail.”

“Really? I'm surprised. They're real popular in Tinker's Cove.”

“It's nothing personal.” She leaned forward and stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. “God, I've heard them use that phrase enough times. ‘It's nothing personal but there's a two-percent cap on raises this year.' ‘It's nothing personal but you're only allowed six sick days under the company policy.'” She paused to light up. “It's nothing personal, don't get me wrong. Luther and Junior are great guys. But now that Luther's gone to meet his maker and Junior's facing murder charges, I don't think anybody at Pioneer Press will be shedding any tears.”

“I guess the employees were in favor of the National Media sale, then.”

“Not exactly. A lot of people would have lost their jobs. There was even one of those time-management guys sniffing around the office a week or so ago.”

Lucy had finished her first glass of wine, so she asked for another when the waiter brought Carole's second double martini. Now that she was comfortably ensconced in the luxurious lounge, sticking to her budget no longer seemed a high priority.

“Better bring me one, too,” said Carole. “Save yourself a trip.”

“I heard rumors that the sale was on hold before Luther's death,” said Lucy. “Something about Monica Underwood wanting a platform for her views…”

Carole shook her head. “Luther was first and foremost a businessman. Anybody who thought different soon found they were wrong. Take Harold, for example. He loves that paper of his, gets to spout all his wacky right-wing politics, but Luther was determined to sell it out from under him. Do you think Luther would let him keep it? No way. It was all or nothin' with Luther.”

“How would that work? Would he have to buy it?” The wheels were turning in Lucy's head. If Harold had wanted more independence and more autonomy, and Luther had refused to allow it, it could have been a motive for murder.

“I don't know the details, but Sam told me that Harold was pretty upset about the whole thing.” She lifted her empty glass. “Here's to friendship.”

“So Sam and Harold are buddies?”

“They go way back,” said Carole. “Sam's first job was working for Harold at the
Republican.”

No wonder Syrjala had been seated with the Read family at the banquet, thought Lucy, taking a moment to digest this information. He was buddy-buddy with Harold. Was that why he told the police about Junior? Was he trying to protect Harold? Or was it simply jealousy of Junior's privileged position in the company? She wanted to ask Carole, but it didn't look as if she was going to get any more information from her.

She was sprawled on the banquette, nodding along to the music. Spotting the waiter approaching with their drinks, she gave a lopsided smile.

“This is a nice place,” she said, lifting her fresh drink. “I like it here.”

“Me, too,” said Lucy.

Carole knocked back most of her drink, then rose unsteadily to her feet. “Where do you think they keep the ladies' room?”

“Let's find it together,” suggested Lucy.

The waiter pointed them to a larger, similarly decorated room, where loud music was pounding even though there was no one to hear it, and down a curving staircase. They found themselves in a black hall, empty except for two curtains, pink and blue, that billowed from two identical doorways. Lucy made an intuitive leap.

“I say we go with the pink.”

She steered Carole inside and gasped in amazement at the illuminated pink Lucite sink that seemed to float in the darkness. Everything else was painted black, even the ceiling tile.

“That's cool,” she said.

“If you say so,” said Carole, heading for a stall.

They were standing in front of the mirror, refreshing their lipstick, when Lucy noticed one of Carole's simple pearl earrings was missing. Not that Carole minded.

“I probably forgot to put it on this morning,” she said. “Or maybe I only took one off last night.” The idea struck her as hilarious, and she laughed all the way up the stairs.

Back in the lounge, Lucy declined Carole's invitation to have another drink and tried to settle her bill. Carole refused her offer and insisted on paying. “Expense account,” she said, winking. “It's not like Sam's gonna ask any questions.”

After the quiet, dim bar the lobby seemed very bright and loud as Lucy crossed it and stood waiting for the elevator. When the doors opened she stepped inside, only to feel it shudder beneath her as it lurched upward. She felt a bit woozy and realized she'd been drinking on a virtually empty stomach, since all she'd had to eat since breakfast was an ice-cream bar.

When she got to her room she rinsed her face and drank a glass of water and immediately felt better. So good, in fact, that she decided to call home. She was dying to tell Bill about the illuminated Lucite sink in the ladies' room, but Zoe picked up on the first ring.

“It's Mom, honey. How are you doing?”

“You sound funny, Mom.”

“I'm just tired,” said Lucy. “Do you miss me?”

“Yes! Daddy's not a good cook. We've had pizza every night—
with
pepperoni. I
hate
pepperoni.”

“You can pick them off, you know.”

“I can still taste it, Mom. Yuck!”

Lucy had heard this complaint before.

“Only a few more days of school left—tomorrow and Friday, right?”

“Mom! You know what? I'm not getting the perfect-attendance award, and it's all Elizabeth's fault because I've been late three days in a row!”

Zoe's voice quavered with outrage.

“Really?” Lucy couldn't believe it. She knew the school wouldn't take away the award unless Zoe had been very late indeed.

“What time did you get there today?”

“Nine o'clock!”

That was more than an hour late.

“Wasn't Elizabeth late for work?”

“She says she doesn't care because she hates her job.”

“If she keeps on being late she might get fired.”

“I hope she does!”

“Zoe, that's not very nice. I'm surprised at you.”

“Elizabeth's mean. Sara says so, too.”

“Did Sara have a fight with Elizabeth?”

“Elizabeth told Sara she has to feed Kudo, and Sara says it's not fair because she's already doing the dishes and Dad makes her take out the garbage. Plus she didn't get to go horseback riding yesterday….”

Zoe was turning into a mother lode of information that was definitely worth mining. “Did Kudo run away?” she asked.

“A long time ago. He's back now. He's right here. Want to talk to him?”

“No, honey. Just give him a doggy cookie for me.”

Lucy heard a thud as Zoe dropped the phone and then the clink of the cover on the canister of dog treats.

“Mom?” Zoe was back on the line. “I didn't get to go to ballet because Dad was working late because Toby quit.”

She was about to ask if Toby had found a new job when she heard Zoe squeal in protest.

“Mom?” Sara had taken the phone from her younger sister.

“Hi, honey. How's it going?”

“Elizabeth is the biggest pig in the world and I hate her.”

“Zoe told me all about it,” said Lucy. “Don't you have any good news?”

“Let me think.” There was a long silence, and Lucy imagined she could hear the clock running on her call like a taxi meter. “Oh, I know! Sara and I are making a spectacular surprise for Dad for Father's Day.”

“That's great,” exclaimed Lucy. Then she had a dreadful thought. “You're not using power tools or anything dangerous, are you?”

“No, Mom. Just glue and scissors, but it's terrific, all the same. He'll love it.”

“That's great. I really miss you guys, but I'll be home soon.”

“We miss you, too, Mom.”

Lucy felt a little weepy when she said good-bye. Probably a mix of too much wine, anxiety, and general longing for her girls. The cure was distraction, so she flicked on the TV, intending to watch the evening news. What she got, however, was the title frame for the Alfred Hitchcock film
Notorious.

Enthralled, she sat at the foot of the bed as the credits rolled. Ingrid Bergman. Cary Grant. Claude Rains. It was one of her favorite films and she knew she wouldn't be able to turn it off. She'd have to watch, and she definitely needed some nourishment.