Father’s Day Murder (7 page)

A
member of the hotel's cleaning staff was vacuuming the hallway when Lucy exited Ted's room. She smiled and said good morning, but Lucy brushed past without acknowledging her, stopping only when confronted with the closed elevator doors. She stabbed the call button furiously.

When the elevator arrived, Lucy instinctively pressed the button for her floor, but when the doors opened she decided she didn't want to go to her room. Too small. Too confining. She wanted to move, to work off some of this emotion. She hit the button for the lobby and soon found herself marching along the sidewalk.

How could Toby do something like this? How could he be so stupid? What if he'd been arrested? The days when the cops and courts winked at youthful indiscretion were long past. Now it was zero tolerance. He would have spent the night in jail and been hauled into court in the morning, where he would have certainly lost his driver's license and would probably have been put on probation, too. Compounding his offense, of course, was the fact that he'd involved Ted's son, Adam. Not only did he have no regard for his own future, but he didn't care much about how his behavior affected others, not even his own mother.

“Hey, lady. Watch it!”

Recalled from her thoughts, Lucy realized she'd been about to step in front of traffic. She waited for the light to change and crossed the street, resuming her train of thought when she was safely on the other side.

Toby might have escaped the law, but there was no way he was going to escape his father. Bill would be furious with him. There was no way he wouldn't find out. Toby didn't sleep at home and Bill would want to know why. It wasn't as if he could hide his condition; he'd be reeking of alcohol when he showed up for work. If he showed up for work. And if he didn't show up, Bill would be angry about that.

This was terrible. A real family crisis, and she wasn't there. Things seemed to be going to the dogs without her. Dogs. Kudo running loose. Toby out of control. Maybe she should leave the conference and go home. These things wouldn't happen if she were home.

Lucy stopped in her tracks and laughed at herself. What was she thinking? These things happened when she was home, too. The day she left the dog got into Mrs. Pratt's chickens, and Bill and Toby had a big fight. What did she think she could do? Toby wasn't the first kid who sowed some wild oats. Kudo wasn't the only dog who ever killed a chicken. Bill wasn't unique; plenty of fathers blew their tops now and then.

She could worry about them, but it wouldn't change anything. She looked around. It was a beautiful day; she was in the middle of Boston. On Newbury Street, in fact. Maybe it was time to stop and smell the roses that were arranged on the sidewalk in front of a florist's shop. Or check out the goodies displayed in the store windows.

The shops were dazzling: art galleries, jewelers, furniture stores, and exclusive European designer boutiques like Armani, Longchamps, and Rodier. Lucy strolled along, taking in the shop windows and the displays that oftentimes spilled right out onto the sidewalk, and admiring the other pedestrians, some of whom were elegantly dressed in designer clothes. Others were seated at outdoor café tables, engaged in lively conversations or simply sitting and watching the passing parade.

As she passed one café Lucy got a whiff of something delicious and she suddenly realized how hungry she was. She decided to try the very next restaurant and soon found herself in a Vietnamese place, where she was quickly seated at a tiny table, next to some people who had huge bowls of noodle soup.

“I'll have what they're having,” she told the waiter. He brought her chicken soup along with fresh mint leaves and other herbs to mix in. The scent of the mint was released when she tore the leaves and dropped them in the broth, and she inhaled deeply, feeling her tense muscles relax when she exhaled. She wasn't used to handling the large, squarish Chinese-style spoon or the chopsticks, and it took all her concentration to catch the slippery noodles and to eat her soup without slurping.

When she finished she noticed some people being served coffee in glass cups, with a layer of milk at the bottom. She asked for one when the waiter came to remove her bowl, and sat back against the wall, enjoying the sense of well-being that followed a satisfying meal. The coffee came and she stirred it, discovering the creamy layer on the bottom was thick condensed milk. The coffee was delicious; she'd never had anything like it before. When she paid her bill, she realized she'd had an adventure as well as a meal.

Back on the sidewalk, she checked her watch and discovered she had just enough time to get back to the hotel for the afternoon workshop: “Why Don't They Teach Grammar Anymore? Copyeditors to the Rescue!” Newbury Street beckoned, but the call of duty was stronger. Lucy began walking back to the hotel, pausing at the Armani boutique for one last look at the window.

She was admiring a beautifully cut jacket when she recognized Inez Read leaving the store with several shopping bags dangling from her arms. Maybe she needed something to wear to the funeral, thought Lucy, watching as a uniformed chauffeur hurried to assist her. In moments the packages were stowed in the trunk and Inez was seated in the back and whisked away.

Must be nice, thought Lucy. Imagine never having to wrestle bags and bags of groceries into the car, never having to worry about prices and whether you could afford something or not. And never having to fill up the gas tank yourself. Just leave the driving to the chauffeur. Wow. Kind of like being the queen of England or something.

Lucy's steps grew slower. The queen of England was reportedly the richest woman in the world. That kind of lifestyle took a lot of money. Even if Inez didn't have to maintain Buckingham Palace, her expenses had to be enormous. Just how much money were the Reads pulling out of Pioneer Press Group? And how could they do it when all the other newspapers were struggling to survive?

Lucy stopped and dug in her purse for the little map of Boston the hotel had provided. Just as she thought, she wasn't far from the Boston Public Library. The choice was clear: grammar lessons from nitpicky copyeditors or the opportunity to practice her Internet skills at the library researching Pioneer Press. The copyeditors never had a chance.

 

The Boston Public Library, with its cavernous ceiling and massive staircase, was a far cry from its cozy cousin in Tinker's Cove. The guard was helpful, however, and she soon found the reference department. A librarian there not only directed her to one of the newer computers—“Some of these older machines are awfully slow”—but gave her some helpful tips on the best search engines. She was soon clicking her way through pages and pages of information.

Some of it—like the fact that Pioneer Press Group was a chain of small- and mid-size newspapers located in the Northeast—she already knew. Of more interest was the company's corporate structure, especially who actually owned it and who had the power to make decisions.

Luther Senior, she was not surprised to learn, had been a major stockholder, with 25 percent of the shares, and was also the CEO. Harold, his younger brother, held a similar number of shares and was chief financial officer. Junior and Catherine together held another quarter; the remaining shares were held by a long list of stockholders including individuals, banks, and corporations. What this meant, Lucy concluded, was that Luther had not had free rein to do whatever he wanted with the corporation. Any big change, like a sale, would require agreement with other stockholders. Getting that agreement would require discussion, and discussion often led to arguments, especially in a family. Heated arguments, like the one she'd witnessed. If only she knew what it was about.

Of course, everything had changed now that Luther was dead. Lucy wanted to know who would inherit his shares, and found Luther had made no secret of his intentions. He'd been honored recently at a fund-raising roast, and when it was his turn to speak, he'd responded to Junior's mildly humorous speech by joking that Junior could have been a lot funnier but didn't want to risk being disinherited. Then he'd turned serious and said how gratifying it was to know that his son would carry on the business that he'd built.

Lucy paused, scratching her head. Did this mean that he'd left all his shares to Junior? That would give him more stock than anyone else, but was still just short of the fifty-one percent needed to make decisions single-handedly. But what about Catherine? Didn't she inherit anything? Perhaps Luther hadn't been quite as open-minded as he'd claimed and had been unhappy about Catherine's lifestyle choices.

Rather more surprising to Lucy was the discovery that the Pioneer Press Group was in deep financial trouble. Despite the lavish hospitality-suite spreads and the private cocktail parties and the carefully cultivated aura of success, the chain was steadily losing money. The proof was in the reorganizations and layoffs that followed every fourth quarter. Lucy wondered how long this pattern could continue without major cutbacks or even filing for Chapter 11 protection. Some of the papers appeared to be profitable, like Catherine's Northampton
News
and Harold's
Republican,
but the larger-city papers, Junior's Hartford
Gazette
and the Lowell
Times,
for example, were facing hard times.

Considering the situation, she couldn't understand why Luther had decided against National Media's offer to buy the chain, if he had. The company was leaking capital and the sale was the only lifeboat in sight. Making it even more appealing was National Media's promise not to close any of the papers, but to increase profitability by “streamlining and eliminating duplication of effort.” Lucy took this to mean job cuts in departments like features, sports, business, and advertising. A single features department, for example, could provide material for all the papers, and a consolidated ad department could sell to regional, as well as local, customers.

Lucy was the first to admit she didn't know much about business, but the National Media deal sure looked good to her. Some people would lose their jobs, but there would be no jobs at all if the chain went out of business. Plus, the individual papers would continue to serve local communities. The sale seemed like the most responsible choice, and she found it hard to believe that someone with Luther's commitment to news would throw it away and risk his reputation and his family's fortune because of a woman. Even a woman with Monica Underwood's undeniable charisma.

Of course, admitted Lucy, it wouldn't be the first time a man had made a bad decision because of a woman, and maintaining control of the papers would certainly allow him to help advance her political career. Ideally, newspapers were supposed to be impartial and to present the truth, but her experience as a reporter had shown her how easy it was to give a twist to a story simply by choosing what quotes to include, what details to highlight, what adjectives to use. Knowing Luther's relationship with Monica, reporters and editors would behoove themselves to choose their words carefully when writing about her or the issues she favored.

When her eyes would no longer focus and her hand was stiff from clicking the mouse, Lucy finally decided she'd gotten enough information. She stretched after she logged off but she still felt stiff as she went back outside. Pausing on the library steps to consult her map, she decided Boylston Street was the most direct route to the hotel.

Her little map also informed her that the European-style square populated with many pigeons opposite the library was Copley Square, and the Romanesque-style church was the famous Trinity Church, where generations of Boston Brahmins had worshiped under Henry Hobson Richardson's soaring gilt ceilings and John LaFarge's stained-glass windows. She stepped inside and stood for a moment in the lobby, listening as the organist rehearsed and breathing in the old-church smell of candles and flowers. It was too late in the day for a tour, however, so she went on her way, past the controversial Saint-Gaudens's statue of Phillips Brooks, the legendary nineteenth-century minister of the church, with Jesus standing behind him, imparting his divine blessing. Even today, she decided, it seemed a bit presumptuous.

She continued on past the tall John Hancock Building, with its reflective glass walls, and made steady progress until the gilt-swan sign of the Women's Educational and Industrial Union caught her eye. Inside she found a fascinating mix of antiques, relatively reasonably priced designer clothing and accessories, and a display of unique Father's Day cards that were much more appealing than the mass-produced ones at the drugstore. She found one that was just right for Bill and bought it, resolving to head straight back to the hotel.

 

It was there that she literally bumped into Ted in the lobby.

“Lucy! There you are! I didn't see you at the workshop and I was worried about you. I called your room but there was no answer. Are you okay?”

“I'm fine now,” she said. “I did some sight-seeing.”

“Instead of the Copyeditor's Revenge?” asked Ted, eyes twinkling.

“I'm afraid so,” admitted Lucy as they walked together to the elevators.

They were standing there together, waiting, when the doors opened and a knot of men issued from the elevator, moving together and forcing everyone out of their way. This was certainly no group of conventioneers casually heading out for drinks before dinner, she realized, recognizing Detective Sullivan. These were police officers hustling someone out of the building. That someone was Junior Read.

“I don't believe it,” said Ted under his breath, following them.

Lucy went too, unable to believe what she was seeing. They stood on the sidewalk, watching as one of the officers placed a hand on Junior's head, preventing him from bumping it on the roof of the cruiser at the same time he was firmly shoved inside. Lucy caught a glimpse of his face, white and pale with shock behind the grimy window. He looked like a drowning man. Then the door slammed and the cruiser peeled away, followed by a second, unmarked car.