by Leslie Meier
Hearing voices outside, she went back to the registration desk, where she discovered a short line had formed. Only one woman was staffing the desk, and she didn’t seem terribly familiar with the process.
“I’m not even supposed to be doing this,” she explained. “I can’t imagine what’s keeping Susan and Debbie.”
“They’re probably still in the Pioneer Press hospitality suite,” suggested one man, and the others chuckled.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said the clerk, who was flipping through a box of alphabetized registration packets.
Lucy was fourth in line, but at this rate she was going to be late. She sighed and looked down, only to be captivated by the shoes the woman in front of her was wearing. She’d never seen shoes like this before. They were witty and charming. Adorable, with tiny little curvy heels that reminded her of her very first pair of “high” heels. And the color, a wonderful coral, almost brick, that would go with absolutely anything. She shifted her position so she could see the toes and involuntarily gasped in pleasure. They were pointed, very pointed, and revealed a suggestive amount of toe cleavage.
Her gaze drifted upward, examining the rest of the woman’s outfit. Not surprisingly, she was the very picture of urban sophistication in a short black skirt topped with a nubby beige twinset. Neat gold earrings were clipped on each ear, and her salt-and-pepper hair was expertly cut in a crisp boyish bob. A designer tote hung from her shoulder with one of those ubiquitous water bottles that everyone seemed to carry tucked in an outside pocket.
Lucy couldn’t help thinking that she didn’t fare very well in comparison. She was wearing her best khakis and had dressed up her polo shirt by tying a cotton sweater around her shoulders. Her feet were sporting sandals, which along with sneakers and patent-leather pumps comprised her entire summer shoe wardrobe.
“Name? Name?”
Lucy snapped to attention and gave her name, receiving in exchange a folder and an official NNA badge that dangled from a blue-and-white lanyard. Oh, good, she thought as she hung it around her neck, just the touch my outfit needs.
She found Ted in the lobby, taking a catnap on one of the sofas.
“That was quick,” he said, blinking and yawning.
“Not really,” said Lucy. “It’s a quarter to nine. They didn’t even open until eight-thirty, and quite a few people were ahead of me.” She glanced at the Swan Court restaurant, where waiters were pouring deliciously fragrant coffee from silver pots. “Are we going to eat there?”
“At those prices? I don’t think so. Follow me.”
Lucy sighed regretfully as Ted led her out of the hotel and around the corner to a familiar franchise coffee shop. There was one just like it in Tinker’s Cove, at the interstate exit. They got in line and Lucy ordered juice, coffee, and a bagel sandwich. Ted stuck to black coffee.
“You seem a little bit under the weather,” she observed brightly, taking a big bite of the egg, cheese, and ham sandwich.
“Pam left last night, so I went out with some of the guys.” He stared into the depths of his coffee. “Big mistake. I shoulda gone to bed after the hospitality suite.”
“You were right—I didn’t need dinner. I never saw so much food.”
“Musta cost ’em a pretty penny,” continued Ted, taking a sip of coffee. “I guess they want to go out with a bang.”
Lucy put down her sandwich. “What do you mean?”
“Pioneer Press has been sold, you know. Everything but signing the papers and cashing the check.”
“The whole chain?” Lucy could hardly believe it. And why, she wondered, had no mention been made of the sale when she’d talked to the Reads the night before? “Who’s the buyer?”
“National Media. They’re buying everything they can. They want to be the premier national news outlet, maybe the only one, for that matter.” Ted stared into his coffee. “So what’s your first panel?”
Lucy opened the packet she’d been given at the registration table and studied it. “‘Interviewing Techniques, or Getting the Story They Don’t Want You to Print.’ Sounds interesting.”
“Don’t be late,” said Ted.
Lucy checked her watch and discovered it was already a quarter past nine, and she had no idea where the panel was meeting.
“I guess I’d better get going,” she said, crumpling up her paper wrapper and juice container and putting them in the trash. The coffee she took with her, just in case the panel wasn’t as stimulating as promised.
A lot of other people had the same idea, she discovered when she found the meeting room, tucked down a flight of stairs underneath the lobby. Almost everyone seated at the rows of tables had either a covered takeout coffee cup or a bottle of water. One of the panelists seated at the front of the room, a young woman, was apparently expecting a drought—she had an enormous two-quart bottle of springwater.
The second panelist, an attractive woman in her thirties, arrived at nine-thirty, precisely on time.
“Our third panelist is running late,” she said, “but we’ll begin without him. I’m Catherine Read and, as most of you know, I’m the publisher of the Northampton News. That’s Northampton, Massachusetts. We’re a daily with a circulation that varies from twenty to thirty thousand, and we’re owned by the Pioneer Press Group.”
Lucy noticed that Catherine did indeed bear a resemblance to Luther and Junior Read, and guessed she must be Junior’s younger sister. She wondered if she had gotten her job through hard work and ability or family connections. Maybe both.
“My esteemed colleague here is Morgan Dodd, who is a reporter for the Framingham Tribune, a daily located right here in the Boston suburbs.”
Lucy recognized the name; she’d seen it on the byline of one of the other stories selected for a prize. The same prize she’d been chosen for. They were competitors. She listened closely as Catherine continued.
“I might add that Morgan won first prize last year for her profile of Robert Andrade, the man who went to work the day after Christmas and shot seven fellow employees at Rayotex Industries.”
Hearing this, Lucy’s spirits sank a notch. Her chances of winning first place weren’t as good as she thought.
The audience was impressed, however, and Morgan looked pleased at the buzz in the room. Her smile vanished, however, when the third panelist threw open the double doors at the rear of the room with a bang and staggered to the front. Lucy caught a definite whiff of alcohol as he passed, the same stale smell she associated with the district court on Monday morning, when the weekend catch of DUI’s were arraigned.
“Here’s our missing panelist,” said Catherine in a spritely voice. “Sam Syrjala, editor of the Hartford Gazette. That’s Hartford, Connecticut, and the Gazette, also owned by Pioneer Press Group, is a daily with a circulation of over a hundred thousand, making it one of the biggest papers in the group.”
Syrjala didn’t acknowledge this gracious introduction but collapsed into his chair. Unlike Morgan, who was neatly dressed in an edgy urban outfit complete with spiky hair and chunky shoes, and Catherine, neatly put together in a tan pantsuit and a silk camp shirt, he looked as if he’d slept in his rumpled seersucker suit. But even if he’d taken the trouble to dress in fresh clothes that morning, Lucy doubted it would have done much good. Seriously overweight and balding, with droopy jowls and bloodshot eyes, Syrjala was not a good-looking man.
“Well, let’s get started,” said Catherine. “Today’s topic is interviewing techniques, and instead of sitting here and patting ourselves on the back for our past successes, I’d like to turn this panel over to you—the folks who are out there every day getting the stories. Then, as panelists, we can add our two cents’ worth. How does that sound?”
It sounded pretty good to everyone except Morgan Dodd. Lucy noticed she was definitely miffed at losing a chance to talk about her prizewinning interview. Had it been an intentional slap in the face, or was Catherine simply trying to include as many people as possible in the discussion?
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br /> “Okay, let’s get started,” she said, adding an encouraging smile. “Would somebody, anybody, like to share an interviewing technique that really works—maybe something that puts the subject at ease?”
Nobody said a word. It was like being back in school, where everyone avoided making eye contact with the teacher. They examined their fingernails, they wrote in their notebooks, they tightened the lids on their coffee cups, they did anything except raise their hands.
Lucy couldn’t stand it. Her hand shot up.
“Great, we have a volunteer,” said Catherine, rewarding her with a big smile. “Would you mind introducing yourself?”
Lucy took a deep breath. “Well, I’m Lucy Stone, and I’m a reporter at the Tinker’s Cove Pennysaver; that’s in Maine.” Lucy was rushing, sliding the words together. “One thing I’ve found really helpful is to let the subject know right up front that I’ll be taking the photo at the end of the interview. A lot of people worry about having their picture taken, but if you tell them you’re not going to spring it on them it gives them a chance to relax a bit.”
“You take your own pictures?” asked a young fellow with a shaved head.
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“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 C
ollege. 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.
