Father’s Day Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Chapter Six

  As 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 a
nnouncing 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.

  Almost everyone was seated by now, filling all the tables except for number twenty, right next to twenty-one, where Lucy and Ted were sitting. The buzzing in the room quieted and there was an expectant hush, almost as if word had been received that the president’s helicopter had landed outside. Only this time the awaited guest was Luther Read, the Newspaperman of the Year.

  When he finally appeared in the doorway, followed by an entourage, there was a spontaneous outburst of applause. Many people got to their feet and greeted him as he passed, shaking hands and slapping him on the back. Several women embraced him, giving him air kisses.

  “This could take all night,” grumbled Herb. “When are they gonna start serving the food?”

  “Honestly, Herb,” said Harriet, rolling her eyes. “Can’t you think of anything except your stomach?”

  “It’s been, what, seven hours since lunch. My ulcer’s acting up.”

  “Well, take one of your pills and hush; here they come.”

  “He’s not the goddamn king of the world,” said Herb, as his wife popped out of her seat and reached for Luther’s hand.

  “Harriet! And Herb! Nice to see you!” boomed Luther. “Great to see you all.”

  Behind him, Junior and Catherine wore the bemused expressions of second-fiddle players, watching their father in action.

  “We’d better get to our table, Dad. They’re starting to serve. And we don’t want to hold things up.”

  “Right, right. I just want to say hi to all my friends. Do I see Ted Stillings over there? The Rupert Murdoch of Tinker’s Cove?”

  Ted laughed at the joke, standing up and reaching across the table to take first Luther’s hand and then Junior’s. While they were exchanging congratulations, Catherine greeted Lucy.

  “What was that all about?” asked Ted, when the Reads moved on to their table.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t know you’re friends with Catherine Read, that’s all.”

  “I just met her today, at one of the panels,” said Lucy. “We had lunch together.”

  “I heard she’s head-huntin
g,” said the glum woman. “Little Miss Perfect can’t keep staff. People are quitting right and left.”

  Ted gave her a sharp look.

  “Who’s that couple?” asked Lucy, eager to change the subject. “The man who’s about Luther’s age and the woman who looks like Ivana Trump?”

  She was especially curious about the man because he was sitting next to Sam Syrjala, of all people, and apparently sharing a joke with him. She would never have expected someone like Syrjala to be seated at the Reads’ table, much less acting as if he belonged there.

  Harriet chuckled merrily. “Ivana Trump, that’s good,” she said, as the waiter set a fruit cup in front of her.

  “Harold Read, publisher of the Manchester Republican, and his wife,” said Ted. “What’s her name?”

  “Inez,” said the glum woman. “But it ought to be Imelda, if anybody’s counting shoes.”

  “Like Imelda Marcos?” asked Lucy. “The wife of the deposed president of the Philippines?”

  The glum woman screwed up her face, as if she’d like to say more.

  “So let me get this. Harold is Luther’s brother and he publishes that conservative New Hampshire paper, the Republican?”

  “And the Republican is that conservative—” continued Lucy.

  “Reactionary,” said the glum woman, sounding like a teacher correcting a student.

  “’Course, that’ll all change if National Media takes over,” predicted Herb. “It’ll be as bleached and bland as Wonder bread, and heavy on the feel-good features.” He snorted. “It’s enough to make you puke. I for one hope Luther does tell those bastards to keep their money.” He paused, registering the fact that everyone at the table had their fruit cup except him. “Where the hell’s my fruit salad?”

  “The waiter ran out,” said Harriet. “Look, he’s bringing it now.”

  Conversation died down throughout the banquet room as the stuffed chicken breasts were served, and Lucy’s table was no exception, apart from the occasional complaint from Herb.